Gabriel sighed.
‘Of course. What is it?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, only, it’s a lot to get your head round. And besides…’
‘And besides what?’
‘No, it’s nothing. My girlfriend is pregnant.’
‘Is she? Congratulations.’
‘Er, thank you… What did you want me to look up for you?’
‘I’m not quite sure, it’s just a hunch I have. I would like access to Høvikveien Care Home’s Ö now, what do you call it…?’
‘Waiting list? Are you thinking of moving in?’
‘Good God, it didn’t take you long to settle in.’ Mia laughed.
‘Sorry,’ Gabriel said. ‘I’m having a bit of a crap day.’
‘Well, don’t take it out on me. It’s not my fault that your girlfriend is pregnant,’ Mia teased him. ‘You only have yourself to blame for that.’
‘Yes, I guess so. Is it normal to want things in the middle of the night?’
‘What things?’
‘Soft ice.’
‘I’ve heard rumours that pregnant women get bizarre cravings,’ Mia said.
‘Have you any idea just how difficult it is to find soft ice in the middle of the night?’
Mia laughed.
‘That’s right, ha-bloody-ha,’ Gabriel said.
The young man was clearly not in the best of moods.
‘No, I mean a list of staff. And guests.’
‘Guests?’
‘Or whatever you call people who live in a care home. Inmates? Residents?’
‘I know what you mean. I think we refer to them as staff and clients.’
‘Great, can you get it for me?’
‘Legally?’
‘No.’
‘If I get into trouble for this, I expect you to cover my back.’
‘You’ve been on that course with Hat-trick, I can tell.’
‘Yes, indeed I have.’ Gabriel sighed.
‘Of course I’ll take responsibility,’ Mia said. ‘Høvikveien Care Home. Do you need the address?’
‘No, I can look it up. Am I looking for anything in particular?’
‘No idea. Like I said, it was just a hunch. Munch’s mother and Veronica Bache lived at the same care home. I mean, it’s worth checking out.’
‘Munch’s mother?’
‘Did I say that out loud?’
‘Damn, am I going to have to lie to Munch now?’ Gabriel sighed. ‘I don’t suppose he’s meant to know anything about this.’
‘Good boy,’ Mia said. ‘I’ve got to run. When’s our next full briefing?’
‘Three o’clock.’
‘Good, talk to you later.’
Mia ended the call just as Munch appeared on the steps. She was about to join him, but stopped when she noticed that he wasn’t alone. A female carer in the same white uniform as the girl with the blue eyes was standing next to him. Pretty and slim with long, wavy, strawberry blonde hair. She laughed out loud and touched Munch, who, for his part, acted like a teenager, his cheeks flushed and his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. Mia popped a lozenge into her mouth and wandered to one side. Munch and the carer with the strawberry blonde hair exchanged a few comments, then she touched him again before disappearing back inside with a smile.
‘How did it go?’ Mia asked when Munch came down to the car.
‘Don’t ask,’ Munch said, and lit a cigarette.
‘Who was she?’
‘Who?’ Munch asked.
‘Who do you think?’
Munch got into the car without putting out his cigarette.
‘Oh, her. That’s… I think she’s called Karen. She looks after my mother. I just had to…’
Munch started the car and pulled out on Høvikveien.
‘Yes? You just had to what?’
‘Any news?’ Munch said, changing the subject.
‘The press conference is on now.’
Munch turned on the radio. Mia heard Anette’s voice: ‘No news, we’re still looking. We would welcome any information.’ They had nothing new to announce. Even so, the world demanded a press conference. Mia glanced at Munch, who was still lost in a world of his own. She wondered if she should tell him that Veronica Bache had shared a care home with his mother, but decided to let it lie for now. Gabriel was on the case and Munch looked as if he had enough on his plate.
‘You have to see a psychologist,’ Munch said out of the blue when they were back on Drammensveien.
‘What do you mean?’
Munch took out the business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
‘You have to see a psychologist.’
‘Says who?’
‘Mikkelson.’
‘Screw that.’
‘Don’t look at me. They heard your call last night. They don’t think you’re all there.’
‘Well, they can forget about that,’ Mia snarled.
‘That’s exactly what I told them.’
‘Then we agree.’
Mia opened the glove compartment and chucked the business card in it without looking at it.
‘Bloody cheek.’
‘What had you expected?’
‘How about a bit of respect?’
‘Good luck with that.’ Munch sighed. ‘Why don’t we stop for a burger on the way back?’
‘Fine by me,’ Mia said.
Munch found an exit and pulled up at a petrol station, just as it started to rain.
Chapter 40
The rain was tipping down outside the windows of Aftenposten’s editorial offices at Postgirobygget. They had gathered in Grung’s office to watch the press conference, which had been scheduled for noon but been postponed for ten minutes. Present were Mikkel Wold, Silje Olsen, Erik Rønning and Grung, their editor, and although Mikkel did not like to think of it in such terms, for once he had been given the VIP seat, a leather chair next to Grung. There had been a shift since that phone call at Skullerud. He had moved up the ranks. Suddenly, he was at the centre of events. Grung turned down the TV volume and opened the meeting.
They had kept it in house that the killer had contacted them. They had not run a story on it. Not yet. This was the agenda for the meeting. Should they use it? And, if they did, then how?
‘I say we wait,’ Silje said, taking a bite of her apple.
‘Why?’ Grung said.
‘Because we don’t know if he or she will go underground if we go public with it.’
‘I say we run it. Why the hell not?’ Erik said.
The twenty-six-year-old, highly talented journalist had been the apple of Grung’s eye ever since he first hired him, and he usually got the chair which Mikkel was now occupying. If the young lad was jealous or envious, he was hiding it well. He sat relaxed, his legs apart, but he was playing with a rubber stress ball.
‘What’s to stop her from calling VG tomorrow? Or Dagbladet tonight?’ he went on. ‘We have the chance of a scoop, but we have to act now.’
Mikkel Wold rolled his eyes. Erik had started using the word ‘scoop’ quite a lot after winning the Scoop Prize last year for a series of features about the homeless in Oslo.
‘So why hasn’t she called them already?’ Silje sparred.
Silje and Erik were like day and night. She: twenty-something, loud, pierced lip and vociferous, left-wing liberal views, certainly for someone working for Aftenposten. He: calm, level-headed, usually dressed in a suit, water combed hair, every mother-in-law’s dream, with a pleasing smile and a twinkle in his eye. Whenever there was a discussion at the office, the two of them were usually on opposite sides of the argument.
Mikkel Wold was more a journalist of the old school. Notepad and paper and close to his sources; he had never written about anything or anyone he had not met in person or at least been in contact with. These days, it was mostly in the form of a press release and a quick phone call; sometimes not even a quick phone call. In terms of dress style, he sided neither with Silje nor Erik. He was halfway between the two and perhaps he was a little dull. He wondered about it sometimes. If he should make the effort to buy some smarter clothes, which would – now, what was it the magazine his sister always had on display – ‘bring out his personality’. But he never had. The clothes in his wardrobe had been there for almost ten years. It was because – he didn’t quite know how to put it – well, because a vain, self-obsessed appearance, whatever your style of choice, just didn’t fit in with a serious job like his. And he had been proved right. The killer had called him. Not one of the others.