Munch took another deep drag on his cigarette; he was finding it hard to think straight. The headache. The nail going into his brain. He had swallowed painkillers throughout the day, but it refused to shift. Yesterday had been bad enough, with Mia’s performance in the interview room, and Anette Goli, who had been after him about all the rules they had broken, bringing in and keeping Skunk purely on a hunch of Mia’s. He had seen it in Anette’s eyes. The accusations.
He was a crap boss.
He pulled the hood of his duffel coat over his head and lit another cigarette with the tip from the first as he felt another dart of pain to his temple; he was forced to close his eyes and breathe deeply while he waited for it to subside. What the hell was this? He knew he was not the fittest person on the planet, but he had never felt pain like this before. Well, once before, but that was more than fifteen years ago. When he had lost his father. The days leading up to it. An articulated lorry on the other side of the road, and an intoxicated driver. The same nail into his brain, a physical manifestation that something terrible was about to happen. He did not believe in omens, though, obviously.
Munch closed his eyes until the pain began to fade away, and took a fresh drag on his cigarette as Mia emerged from the imposing front door of the grand building. A private hospital for the rich, some of whom clearly thought that there was a world after this one and that they had the right to make up any stories they liked, as long it enabled them to meet their fictitious creator with a clean slate.
‘Are you all right?’ Mia asked, tightening her jacket around her.
‘Eh? Yes, yes.’
Mia had a smile on her lips and could barely stand still. ‘So?’
‘So what?’ Munch grunted. ‘Was he telling the truth?’
There had been no need to ask.
It was clear that Mia, in contrast to Munch, was absolutely convinced that the story they had heard was true.
Mia pulled her woolly hat further down her ears and looked anxiously at him.
‘Are you really OK?’
‘What? Yes, of course.’ The fat investigator nodded, and chucked his cigarette on the ground.
It started to ease off. The pain from the nail in his brain. He found another cigarette, lit it and snapped out of the dark place he had been in his mind. The articulated lorry on the wrong side of the road. The look in Anette Goli’s eyes in the corridor last night.
‘So what are we waiting for?’
‘You really believe him?’
‘Why wouldn’t we?’
‘I don’t want to play devil’s advocate here.’ Munch sighed. ‘But it’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, Holger, don’t go all negative on me. I thought that was my job?’
Munch took another drag on his cigarette and smiled.
‘A couple visit a vicar in the early 1970s in order to get married. Only they can’t because she already has children, and he’s the heir to a shipping empire, and his father doesn’t want impure blood in the family.’
‘Yes.’ Mia nodded.
‘So they send the children to Australia and get married.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Seriously, Mia? The mother then dies in a mysterious car accident. The vicar is paid off to keep his mouth shut. Years later, the children are brought back, and this millionaire—’
‘Billionaire,’ Mia corrected him. ‘Carl-Sigvard Simonsen.’
‘OK.’ Munch sighed again. ‘This billionaire gives them money as compensation for their suffering? The girl buys a place where she can help other children who have had a rough childhood, just like she has. The boy buys a grocery shop? I mean, pull the other one, Mia!’
‘Why not?’
‘This is just another Fuglesang.’
‘For God’s sake, Holger.’
‘Did you see him? That vicar has practically left this world already. He went to cloud cuckoo land a long time ago. We should drop this. Follow other leads.’
‘Like what?’ Mia demanded.
He could see that she was annoyed with him now.
‘The wig,’ Munch said. ‘This hacker, Skunk. I don’t agree with Anette. I think there might still be something there. The film. It must have come from somewhere. The tattoo. The Animal Liberation Front. This is a dead end, Mia, I mean it.’
‘I’ve seen him,’ Mia said, looking sternly at him.
‘Who?’
‘The brother?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘I met him. Out at Jim Fuglesang’s place.’
‘The bicycle-helmet guy?’
Mia nodded.
‘I thought he was being pumped full of drugs at Dikemark?’
‘Yes, but I went to his house anyway.’
‘When?’
‘Doesn’t matter when,’ Mia snapped. ‘But he was there.’
‘Who?’
Munch threw his cigarette on the ground, and was about to light yet another one when the front door opened and Curry popped his head out.
‘He’s awake again. Singing like a canary. I think you need to hear this.’
Munch looked at Mia. ‘No, let’s call it a day,’ he said.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Mia said, despairing now.
‘No,’ Munch insisted, taking out his cigarettes again. ‘We’ll work with what we have. Team briefing at six this evening. This is a wild-goose chase.’
‘Come on,’ Curry urged them from the doorway. ‘You’ve got to listen to this.’
‘No,’ Munch said, finding his car keys in his pocket.
‘He says the brother liked dressing up as an owl,’ Curry persisted.
Munch stopped in his tracks and saw Mia look at him.
‘Feathers on his body. I mean, why the hell would he say that if he’s just talking nonsense?’
‘Holger?’ Mia said.
Munch looked at her, put his car keys back in his pocket and quickly followed her up the steps.