The snow came almost as if the church bells had announced it. It was the twenty-second of December, and the newspapers had written about little else for days. No white Christmas this year? But then it came, big, light flakes falling in time with the heavy toll of the funeral bells in Gamle Aker church. A funeral so near to Christmas. Mia Krüger could hardly have felt worse as she tightened her jacket around her and hurried between the gravestones towards the big church door.
They were all here. Kim. Curry. Mikkelson. Anette. Ludvig Grønlie. Dark suits. Dark coats. Dark faces. Bowed heads, small nods. She could not see Munch anywhere. He must be inside already. After all, he had been closest. He had arranged everything. The coffin. The flowers. RIP. A last farewell from friends and colleagues. Mia had not spoken to Munch for almost two months, but she presumed that he had made the arrangements, and as the rusty red church door opened and the mourners slowly started filing into the church, she had it confirmed. She could see his back at the front, his head bowed, right next to the white coffin covered in flowers.
The ceremony was simple, but moving. Mia had never been religious. She could not understand why anyone might need to believe in anything outside themselves, why they would come together in an old building, sit on uncomfortable seats, while a vicar spoke about how God took care of his own and welcomed everyone to His Kingdom, yet, during the short ceremony, she could not help but be moved by the beauty of the ritual. United in grief. A last farewell.
Organ music. A few words from the vicar. A eulogy from Munch, who seemed upset but looked better than she had feared.
It could have been so much worse.
She caught herself thinking this as the coffin was carried out of the church. Six men as pallbearers, Munch and Mikkelson among them.
It could have been Miriam.
She felt a little heartless as the coffin was lowered into the ground. A small gathering, mostly old colleagues, the odd face she did not recognize, but not many; he had been like that, Per Lindkvist: it was the life he had chosen. Investigator first, human being second. Seventy-five years; almost like a father to Munch. A good police officer who had sacrificed everything for the job and had found it hard to adjust to retirement, but at least he had lived the life he wanted.
It could have been much worse.
Handshakes and nods as the crowd slowly dispersed. There would be a reception later, beers and some singing at Justisen, like Lindkvist would have wanted, but Mia did not have the energy to join in.
She had known him, but not well.
A legendary police officer.
A good friend to older members of the unit.
But she was not up to it. She just wanted to go home. It was three days before Christmas. She would try to survive, try to get through it. She was here to pay her respects, but she had an ulterior motive.
Talk to Holger.
Her boss had asked for privacy after what had happened to Miriam two months earlier, and Mia, along with everyone else, had obviously respected that.
She stepped aside and did not go up to him until he was standing alone under a snow-covered tree near the coffin they had just accompanied to its final resting place.
‘Hello, Holger,’ she said cautiously, keeping her distance, a physical gesture as if to ask whether it would be OK if they had a few words.
‘Hello, Mia.’ Munch smiled, a little wearily, nodding to indicate that her presence was welcome.
‘How are things?’ The words coming out of her mouth felt strange, but she did not know what else to say.
‘Better.’
‘And Miriam?’ Mia ventured tentatively.
Munch disappeared for a moment, heavy lids above red skin.
‘She’ll make it, but they can’t say much else.’
‘About what?’
Munch thought about it before he opened his mouth again.
‘She can’t walk yet, and they don’t know if she ever will. But she has started to speak, a few words. And she recognized me yesterday.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ Mia said, not sure if it was the right thing to say.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
A period of silence followed. Delicate snowflakes fell around them.
‘We’ve been working with Interpol, and they have caught all five of them,’ Mia said. ‘Everyone who bought access to the live feed. One French national. One wealthy Swiss. It ended up being a high-profile case. I don’t know if you saw it – it was on CNN, prime-time in the USA. We caught everyone involved.’
‘Did you now? Well, that’s good,’ Munch said, without appearing to have heard her.
‘And Simonsen, the billionaire,’ Mia went on, not sure if she should. ‘I interviewed him, too. The old case from Sandefjord. When they sent the children – Helene Eriksen and her brother – to Australia. It turned out the vicar was telling the truth. Their mother seems to have been ill – mental-health issues. It was she who persuaded Simonsen to send the children away; she only wanted him for his money, you see. She died in an accident, and I’ve checked with Sandefjord police, but they didn’t have much about it, other than …’
Munch was not looking at her now. He let the cigarette burn between his fingers without smoking it, his gaze turned only inwards.
‘Well, according to Simonsen, when he found out that the children weren’t safe, that they had been sent to live with this sect, then he helped them with money. The Nurseries for her, a shop for him, so – well, at least the two of them were telling the truth …’
Munch looked down between his fingers and saw that the cigarette had burned itself out. He threw it away, fumbled in his duffel-coat pocket and placed a new cigarette between his lips.
‘We won’t know for a long time,’ Munch said. ‘But Marianne and I are hoping for the best. That’s all we can do.’
He was smiling at her now, with eyes that were not quite present.
‘If she can walk again?’
‘I have faith. That’s important, don’t you think?’ Munch turned to her. ‘Thinking positively, I mean?’
‘Of course.’ Mia nodded, feeling queasy now.
‘I have faith,’ Munch said again.
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ Mia said, tightening her jacket around her. ‘And give her my love. Tell her that I’ll be happy to visit.’
It took a few seconds. The lighter approached the tip of the cigarette without them meeting. Big fingers hanging in the air.
‘I will. That’s kind, Mia. Thank you for coming.’
She felt in need of a hug, but there was only a clumsy handshake for goodbye. In any case, he was no longer here. Mia pulled her hat down over her ears, tightened her jacket even more and ignored the looks she got on her way to the church gate. She had no intention of staying here a moment longer. She found the road leading to Bislett as the snow started to fall more densely.
Three days until Christmas. She had promised herself to try, but now she did not know if she could manage it. Christmas Eve. In a cold flat. Alone. Yet again. But she could not disappear. Miriam was in a bed up at Ullevål Hospital. Unable to move. Barely able to speak. She could not do that to Munch. Kill herself. Not now.
Mia crossed the street, shielding her face against the snow falling heavily now: a white Oslo, a Christmas everyone would love. With heavy footsteps, she walked down Sofiesgate and found the keys in her pocket.
Mia barely noticed her, the woman in the red puffa jacket on her doorstep, looking as if she had been standing there for a long time, just waiting for Mia to turn up, eager hands attaching something to the door handle, before she disappeared down the steps.
And was lost in the snow.