Mia could not say where the hunch had come from, but there had been something odd about the white cottage in the middle of nowhere. Ever since her previous trip out here, she had felt it beckoning her. Jim Fuglesang’s house. All alone, surrounded by nothing. Frozen trees. Silence. Not the kind of silence that made her feel serene, like the peace on Hitra. Being by the sea. The cries of seagulls. This was different. Another kind of silence which made her sharpen her senses. She looked around warily as she walked from the car and up towards the white cottage. She was armed this time, and it made her more confident. She had felt naked the last time, a little frightened, and that was out of character. When she got back, she had not been able to work out what had triggered this reaction, and it had intrigued her; she knew that she had to go back, but with everything else that was going on, she had only made time for it now. Perhaps it was still not a priority, but a few hours could not hurt, and she wanted to get it done while it was still daylight.
Mia was walking towards the cottage but stopped and changed her mind; instead, she chose a small footpath leading down towards the woods. She had already been inside the house. It was not there. Whatever she was looking for.
Fourteen minutes on a good day.
Jim Fuglesang had taken pictures many years ago. Glued them into an album. A cat. And a dog. Posed in a pentagram of candles, on feather beds.
And yes, Mia was not like most people; she could not articulate her strange fascination with this place in the back of beyond, but it was there, and it made it simpler for her. She could set aside her feelings. Whether or not she could explain them was irrelevant. Because Jim Fuglesang had taken pictures of crime scenes involving animals, and they were directly linked to the murder of Camilla Green. And those pictures had been taken somewhere nearby.
Sixteen minutes back.
She had formed an impression of the landscape on her last visit. There was only one road to the house, and then a path that led down towards the forest. He could have taken the pictures elsewhere, of course. Anywhere, in fact; but it was less likely. Fourteen minutes on a good day, sixteen minutes back. Mia was convinced that this description must fit a place familiar to the man in the white bicycle helmet. On a good day. He was used to the route. Back. Back had to mean home, didn’t it? Fourteen minutes one way. Two minutes more the other. So downhill there. Uphill home. Mia pulled her woolly hat further down over her ears, convinced that this footpath must have been the one Fuglesang had talked about.
A path leading to a lake.
Damn it, why was she so jittery?
She was normally never scared of anything.
Four white rocks.
Mia nearly jumped when she reached a clearing among the trees and saw them at the edge of a dark lake. Four white stones, neatly positioned in front of something which might once have been a jetty, and her heart beat even faster when she saw the boat which had once been new but now lay rotting, partly submerged at the edge of the lake.
A red, wooden dinghy. With white letters at the top by the rotting gunwale.
Maria Theresa.
Mia Krüger looked up and spotted a small building a few hundred metres away. On the far side of the lake. A small house. Grey, as if all colour had been erased from its walls, its windows boarded up, uninhabited, abandoned, but even so …
Mia fumbled to get her mobile out of the pocket of her leather jacket.
There was smoke rising from the chimney.
Fourteen minutes on a good day.
Sixteen minutes back.
Four white rocks.
Maria Theresa.
Bingo.
Mia found Munch’s number on her mobile with trembling fingers, but the small gadget refused to obey her.
No signal.
Shit.
She tried again, waving the phone in the air, walking up and down, away from the lake, then down towards the old jetty again. Still no signal. Mia muttered curses under her breath, put the phone back in her pocket, stopped and assessed the landscape, before deciding on the path to the left around the dark lake.
The abandoned house had grey, wooden walls.
Smoke rising from the chimney.
Trees refusing to let her pass.
The path ending.
Uneven terrain.
She took out her mobile again.
Still no signal.
Branches swiping her face.
Shit shit shit.
Her heart was pounding under her jacket when Mia reached the abandoned house on the far side of the lake.
Boarded-up windows.
Shut.
An old, green Volvo.
Mia crept across the small yard and peered carefully through the windows of the car. A Thermos flask. Cans of fizzy pop. A black bag. Mia carefully opened the car door, climbed across to the passenger seat. A handbag containing Kleenex, lipstick, and a purse with a driver’s licence.
Mia nearly had a heart attack when she saw the face staring back at her from the driver’s licence.
Miriam?
What the hell was she doing here?