***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2017 Samuel Bjork The little girl lay as still as she could on the sofa under the blanket while she waited for the other children to fall asleep. She had made up her mind. She would do it tonight. She would be scared no longer. Wait no longer. She was seven years old and very grown up. She would leave once it started to get dark. She had not swallowed tonight's sleeping pill. Just pushed it under her tongue, where she had kept it when she showed Aunt Julia what a good girl she' d been. "Show me." Tongue out. "Good girl. Next." Her brother had been doing it for a long time. Ever since they' d locked him in the beaten-earth cellar. Every night he would hide the pill under his tongue without swallowing it. "Show me." Tongue out. "Good boy. Next." Three weeks in the dark for refusing to say sorry. All the children knew that he had done nothing wrong, but the grown-ups had put him in the cellar just the same. Since that time he had changed. Every night he would slip the pill under his tongue without swallowing it, and as her own pill started to take effect and she grew sleepy, she would see his shadow tiptoe out of the room and disappear. The little girl waited until she could hear that the other children were asleep before she sneaked out of the house. It was winter now and still warm, though the twilight had settled softly between the trees. The little girl walked barefoot across the yard, keeping to the shadows until she was hidden by the trees. Having made sure that she hadn't been spotted, she' d run along the track between the big trees down toward the gate that bore the warning "Trespassers will be prosecuted." This was where she' d decided to start her search. She had heard her brother and one of the other boys whisper about 6 Samuel Bjork this. An old, ramshackle shed, a small, forgotten cabin on the far side of the estate, but she had never seen it herself. They were awakened at six o'clock in the morning every day and went to bed at nine o'clock every night. Always the exact same routine, no variations, with only two fifteen-minute breaks from lessons, homework, yoga, laundry, and all the chores that had to be done. The little girl smiled at the sound of the crickets, and she felt the soft grass tickle her feet as she veered from the path and moved cautiously along the fence toward the place that she, in her mind's eye, had decided must be the likely location of the cabin. For some reason she was not scared. She felt almost light; the terror would not set in until later, but right now she felt happy, free as a bird, all alone with her thoughts in the beautiful forest that smelled so good. She smiled broadly and trailed her fingers over a plant that resembled a star; it was almost like being in one of the dreams she often had when the pills they were given weren't very strong. She ducked under a branch and didn't even jump when she heard rustling in the nearby bushes. Perhaps a ko- ala bear had ventured down from the trees. She giggled to herself and wondered what it would be like to pet a koala. She knew that they had sharp claws and that they were not cuddly at all, but she tried to imag- ine what it must feel like anyway, the fluffy warm fur between her fin- gers, the soft nose tickling her neck--she almost forgot why she' d come outside before she suddenly remembered and stopped in her tracks when the wall of the cabin came into view only a short distance ahead of her. The little girl tilted her head and studied the gray wooden boards. So it was true. There was a place in the forest. A place where you could hide. Be on your own. She crept cautiously closer to the hut and felt a delight- ful tingling under her skin as she approached the door. The little girl did not know that the sight awaiting her would change her forever, that it would haunt her every single night for years to come, under the blanket on the hard sofa, on the plane crossing the globe after the police discovered the crying children, under the duvet in the soft bed in a new country where the sounds were different. She knew nothing about this as she reached out her hand toward the wooden handle and slowly opened the creaking door. It was dark inside. It took a few seconds before her eyes allowed her The Owl Always Hunts at Night 7 to see properly, but there was no doubt. At first just an outline, and then everything came into focus; he was inside. Her brother. He wore no clothes. He was completely naked. Completely naked, and yet his body was covered by . . . feathers? He was curled up in a cor- ner, a birdlike, crooked creature from another world with something in his mouth. A small animal. A mouse? Her brother was covered in feath- ers and held a dead mouse between his teeth. This was the image that would change her life. Her brother turned slowly and looked at her, his eyes filled with wonder as if they did not know who she was. The light fell through the filthy window across his feather-clad hand, which was moving slowly through the air. His mouth turned into a grin over glistening white teeth as he took out the mouse and locked his dead eyes onto hers and said: "I'm the owl." 1 Tom Petterson, a botanist, took the camera bag from his car and paused to enjoy the view across the calm fjord before heading up to the woods. It was early October, and the cool Saturday sunshine bathed the land- scape around him in a pretty glow, soft rays falling across the red and yellow autumn leaves that would soon be shed to make way for winter. Tom Petterson loved his job. Especially when he was able to work outdoors. He had been hired by Oslo and Akershus County to register findings of Dracocephalum-- or dragonhead, as it was also known--a plant threatened by extinction but which grew in the woodlands around Oslofjord. He had received a fresh tip-off about the location of some via his blog, and that was his task for today: log the number and exact location of newly discovered specimens of this very rare plant. Dragonhead grew to a height of ten to fifteen centimeters and had blue, dark blue, or purple flowers, which would wither in the autumn, leaving behind a cluster of brown seeds reminiscent of a cereal grass. Not only was the plant rare, it was also home to the even rarer dragonhead sap beetle, a tiny metallic blue beetle that fed only on these flowers. The miracles of nature, Tom Petterson thought, and he could not help smiling as he left the path and followed the route along which an observant ama- teur biologist had sent him. Sometimes--he never said it out loud, be- cause he'd been brought up to believe that there was absolutely no God, his parents had been insistent on that, but even so--he could not help but marvel at it: the wonder of creation. The delicate relationship between all things, from the smallest to the biggest. Birds flying south every autumn to nest, vast distances to the same place every year. The leaves changing color every autumn, turning the trees and the ground into a living work of art. No, he would never say it out loud, but the thought would often cross his mind. He turned right between two tall spruces and followed a brook up toward the location where the plants were supposed to be, smiling to himself again. 12 Samuel Bjork He crossed the brook and came to a complete standstill when he heard rustling in the shrub in front of him. Petterson raised his cam- era, ready to shoot. A badger? Was that what he'd heard? This shy ani- mal was nowhere near as common as people thought. A good picture of a badger would be great for his blog, and it would make a nice story--some dragonheads and a badger, the perfect Saturday trip. He followed the noise and soon found himself in a small clearing but was disappointed at not seeing any animals. Yet there was something in the middle of the clearing. A naked body. A girl. A teenager? Tom Petterson was so shocked that he dropped his camera and never noticed it falling into the heather. There was a dead girl in the clearing. Feathers? Dear Lord. There was a naked teenage girl in the forest. Surrounded by feathers. A white lily in her mouth. Tom Petterson spun around, stumbled through the dense vegeta- tion, found the path, ran as fast as he could back down to his car, and called the police. 2 Homicide investigator Holger Munch was sitting in his car outside his former home in Røa, deeply regretting having agreed to come over. He had lived in the white house with his then wife, Marianne, until ten years ago, and he had not been inside since. The portly investigator lit a cigarette and rolled down the window of the car. He'd had his an- nual health check a few days ago, and the doctor had recommended, yet again, that he cut down on fatty foods and quit smoking, but the The Owl Always Hunts at Night 13 fifty-four-year-old police officer had absolutely no intention of doing so, especially not the latter. Holger Munch needed cigarettes in order to think, and thinking was what he enjoyed more than anything. Munch loved chess, crossword puzzles, math conundrums-- anything to stimulate his brain cells. He would often sit in front of his laptop, chatting online to friends about chess games or solving brain teasers. Just now he had received an email from his friend Yuri, a pro- fessor from Minsk whom he'd met online some years ago. There is a metal pole in a lake. Half the pole is in the seabed. A third of it is underwater. Eight meters of the pole protrude above the water. What's the total length of the pole? Best wishes, Y. Munch pondered the answer and was about to reply to the email when he was interrupted by his cell phone ringing. He checked the dis- play. Mikkelson. His boss at Oslo Police Headquarters in Grønland. Munch let the phone ring for a few seconds; he considered taking the call but ultimately decided to ignore it. He pressed the red button and re- turned the phone to his pocket. Family time now. That was the mistake he'd made a decade ago. He had not spent enough time with his family. He had worked around the clock, and even when he was at home, his mind had been on other things. Because of that he found himself out- side the house where Marianne now lived with another man. Holger Munch scratched his beard and looked up in the rearview mirror at the big pink present with golden ribbons in the backseat. It was his granddaughter Marion's birthday. The six-year-old apple of his eye. The real reason he had agreed to drive up to Røa, although he'd sworn never to set foot in the house ever again. Munch took a deep drag on his cigarette and realized he was rubbing his finger where his wedding ring used to be. He had worn it for ten years after the breakup, unable to make himself take it off. Marianne. She'd been the love of his life. He had imagined that they would always be together, and he'd not gone on a single date since the divorce. There were opportunities. It had never felt right. But he'd done it now. Removed his wedding ring. It was in the medicine cabinet at home. He still couldn't throw it away. Holger Munch heaved a sigh, took another drag on his cigarette, 14 Samuel Bjork and stole another quick look at the pink present. He had probably gone overboard--again. His daughter, Miriam, constantly reproached him for spoiling little Marion. Giving her anything she wanted. He'd bought her a present that he knew Miriam would disapprove of, but it was something his granddaughter had set her heart on. A Barbie doll with a massive Barbie house and her own Barbie car. He could already hear the lecture. About spoiled children. About the female body and role models and unattainable ideals, but for Christ's sake, it was only a doll! What harm could it do if it was what the little girl wanted? His cell rang again--Mikkelson for the second time--and again Munch pressed the red button. When it rang a third time, he was tempted to pick up, because the caller was Mia Krüger. He was ex- tremely fond of his younger colleague, yet still he did not take the call. He had to put his family first. He would call her back later. Perhaps they could have a cup of tea at Justisen sometime tonight? A good talk with Mia after the family reunion would probably do him good. He had not spoken to her for ages, and he only now realized how much he missed her. Six months ago he went to bring Mia back from an island off the coast of Trøndelag. She had isolated herself from the world, no tele- phone. He'd had to fly all the way up to Værnes, rent a car, and get the local police to sail him to the island to find her. He'd brought with him a case file. It had persuaded her to return with him to the capital. Holger Munch prided himself on the strength of his team, but Mia Krüger was unique. He had hired her while she was at the police acad- emy, still in her early twenties, after a tip from the dean, an old col- league. Holger Munch had met her in a café, an informal meeting away from police headquarters. Mia Krüger. A young woman in a white sweater and tight black pants, with long dark hair and the brightest blue eyes he'd ever seen. Intelligent, self-assured, and poised. He was taken with her at once. She seemed to have guessed that he was there to test her, and yet she had answered his questions politely, with a glint in her eye: Do you think I'm dumb or something? Mia Krüger had lost her twin sister, Sigrid, many years ago. She was found dead from a heroin overdose in a basement in Tøyen. Mia The Owl Always Hunts at Night 15 had blamed Sigrid's boyfriend for her death, and during a routine search of a camper van by Try vann some years later they had hap- pened to bump into him, now with another victim by his side. Mia Krüger had killed the boyfriend with two shots to the chest, a crime of passion. Holger Munch had witnessed the shooting and knew that it could be justified as self-defense on Mia's part, but as a result of his backing her he was transferred out of the city as punishment and Mia had been hospitalized. After two years in the sticks, Munch had finally been reinstated as head of the investigative unit in Mariboesgate in Oslo. In turn he had reinstated Mia. However, after that first case back on the job, Mikkelson still had concerns. He'd suspended Mia for a second time, with orders that she not set foot inside the building until she had seen a psychologist willing to declare her fit for duty. Munch rejected yet another call from his boss in Grønland and continued to look at himself in the mirror. What was he really doing here? It had been ten years. You're an idiot, Holger Munch. Mia's not the only one who should be seeing a therapist. Munch sighed again and got out of the car. It had grown colder. Summer was definitely over. Autumn, too, it would appear, though October had barely begun. He pulled his duffel coat across his stom- ach, took out his cell phone, and replied to Yuri. 48 meters ;) HM He finished his cigarette, picked up the extravagant present from the back of the car, took two deep breaths, and slowly made his way up the gravel path. 3 The lips of the man with the thin mustache were moving, but Mia Krüger could not be bothered to listen to him. His words failed to reach her ears. She missed the seagulls. The smell of the sea as the 16 Samuel Bjork waves crashed against the rocks. The silence. Yet again she wondered why she was putting herself through this. Seeing a therapist. Talking about herself. What good would that do? She took another throat loz- enge from her pocket, and regretted for the umpteenth time ever agreeing to therapy in the first place. She should have quit on the spot. Unstable and unfit for duty. Bloody Mikkelson. He didn't know which way was up. He'd never worked a case. He'd gotten the job only because he knew how to suck up to politicians. Mia sighed and tried to work out what the man behind the desk had said. She was clearly supposed to respond, but she hadn't heard his question. "What do you think?" she said as she remembered the waiting room filled with magazines whose covers made no sense to her. Mind- fulness and Wellness. Easy Ways to Fitness. "The pills?" the therapist said, possibly for the third time, as he leaned back in his chair and took off his glasses. It was a sign of intimacy. A signal that she was safe here. Mia sighed and placed the lozenge on her tongue. He really had no clue as to who he was dealing with, did he? Ever since she was a little girl, she'd been able to look inside people's heads. It was the reason she was missing the seagulls. No evil to be found in them. Only nature. Waves crash- ing against rocks. The sound of silence and nothing else. "Good," Mia said, hoping it was the right answer. "So you've stopped taking them?" the therapist said, putting his glasses back on. "Haven't been taking them for weeks." "And the drinking?" "Haven't touched a drop for ages," Mia said, lying again. She looked at the clock above his head, at the hands moving far too slowly, telling her she was doomed to stay here awhile longer. She loathed Mikkelson. And this psychologist. But she couldn't blame him. He was only trying to help. And he was said to be one of the good ones. Mattias Wang. She'd been incredibly lucky--she had picked a The Owl Always Hunts at Night 17 name from the Internet after agreeing to give therapy a try. No way was she going to see one of the people available through the police force. Patient confidentiality at police HQ? Not likely, not for her, not for Mia Krüger. "I guess we ought to talk about Sigrid?" Mia had dropped her guard slightly, but now the armor was back on. No matter how nice and empathetic he was, Mia was not here to talk about her feelings. She was here to get back to work. Have the re- quired sessions with a psychologist. Get the piece of paper she needed. She seems in good health, conversations are meaning ful, she's working on her issues. I recommend that she be reinstated to full duties, effective immediately. She smiled to herself, and in her mind she gave Mikkelson the finger. Unfit for duty. Screw you , had been her first thought, but after five weeks alone in the new apartment she'd bought in Bislett, surrounded by moving boxes she didn't have the energy to open, trapped in a body still scream- ing for the pills she'd drugged it with for so long, she finally backed down. She had lost everyone she loved. Sigrid. Her mother. Her father. Her grandmother. The only person missing from the cemetery outside Åsgårdstrand was her. All she had wanted was to leave this world. Say good-bye to all this misery. But then Mia began to realize that she had grown fond of her colleagues. Being back at work after her solitary ex- istence on the island had made her believe that it might be possible to go on, that life might be worthwhile after all. At least she was prepared to give it a go. For a while. Her colleagues were fine people. Good peo- ple. People she actually cared about. Munch. Curry. Kim. Anette. Ludvig Grønlie. Gabriel Mørk. "Sigrid," the man behind the desk prompted her. "Yes?" Mia said, as her thoughts wandered back to the girl she had seen leave the consulting room, the appointment before her, probably fifteen years separating them but equally ashamed. That's right, me, too. I'm not normal either. "We need to, don't we?" 18 Samuel Bjork Sigrid Krüger Sister, friend, and daughter Born November 11, 1979. Died April 18, 2002. Much loved. Deeply missed. The therapist took off his glasses again and leaned back in his chair once more. "We ought to talk about her soon, don't you think?" Mia zipped up her leather jacket as she pointed to the clock on the wall. "Definitely." She nodded with a small smile. "But it'll have to wait until next time." Mattias Wang looked almost disappointed when he realized that the hands of the clock were telling him the appointment was over. "Yes, of course," he said, putting down his pen on the notepad on the desk in front of him. "Same time next week?" "Okay." "Because it's important that--" he started, but Mia was already gone. 4 Holger Munch felt irritable but also relieved when he entered his for- mer marital home. Irritation at having agreed to this, celebrating Mar- ion's birthday here. Relief because he had dreaded being surrounded by old memories; he could not have known how he would react, but the house he was inside now bore little resemblance to the one he remem- bered. They had renovated. Knocked down walls. Painted different col- ors. To his surprise, Munch found his old home very attractive, and the more he looked around, the calmer he grew. Nor could he see any signs of Rolf, the teacher from Hurum. Perhaps the afternoon would not be so bad after all? Marianne had met him in the doorway with the same facial ex- The Owl Always Hunts at Night 19 pression as on every other occasion they were forced to spend time together, be it confirmations, birthdays, or funerals, with a polite and pleasant hello. No hugging or signs of affection, but nor had there been any signs of bitterness, disappointment, or hatred in her eyes, emotions that had certainly characterized the early days of their di- vorce. Just a measured yet pleasant smile: Welcome, Holger. Why don't you take a seat in the living room. I'm just decorating Marion's cake, six candles. Can you believe she's growing up so fast? Munch hung up his duffel coat in the hallway and was about to carry the present into the living room when he heard a high-pitched squeal followed by eager little footsteps coming down the stairs. "Granddad!" Marion raced toward him and gave him a big hug. "Is that for me?" the little girl exclaimed, her eyes widening as she gaped at the present. "Happy birthday." Munch smiled and stroked his granddaughter's hair. "So what's it like to be six years old?" "Not very different. Actually, it's almost like yesterday, when I was five." Marion smiled precociously, never once taking her eyes off the present. "Can I open it now, Granddad, right now? Oh, please may I?" "We should probably wait until we've sung 'Happy Birthday,'" said Miriam, who had also come downstairs with Marion. His daughter came over to Munch and hugged him. "I'm glad you could come, Dad. How are you?" "I'm well," Munch said, helping her carry the big present into the living room, to a table holding several other boxes. "Oh, they're all for me, please, please can we open them soon?" the little girl pleaded. It was clear she felt she had already been made to wait far too long. Munch looked at his daughter, who returned his smile. The warmth in her eyes did him good. After the divorce their relationship had been far from easy, but the hatred his daughter had felt for him all those years was slowly fading. Ten years. A frosty relationship between father and daughter. Because 20 Samuel Bjork of the divorce. Because he had been working too hard. And yet, oddly, it was his job that had brought them closer to each other again, almost as if there were some kind of justice in the world. A major case less than six months ago, possibly the most serious his unit had ever inves- tigated, where Miriam and Marion had been directly involved. The five-year-old girl had been abducted; Munch had feared that it would only widen the gap between them, that his daughter would hold him accountable for this as with everything else, but the opposite had happened. Miriam had not blamed him once; she was only grateful that the unit had solved the case. A newfound respect. He thought he could see it in her eyes, the way she looked at him. Things were differ- ent now. She finally understood how important his job was. They had had therapy, both of them, Miriam and Marion, with a skilled police psychologist, to help them process the terrible events, but fortu- nately Marion's ordeal seemed not to have left deep scars in the little girl. Too young to understand how badly things could have ended, perhaps. Yes, there'd been some troubled nights, Marion crying after waking from distressing nightmares, but they'd quickly passed. It had been worse for her mother, of course, and Miriam had continued with the sessions on her own for a while. Perhaps she still went--he wasn't sure, since they were not so close that she told him absolutely everything, but at least they were heading in that direction. One step at a time. "Where is Johannes?" Munch asked when they had sat down on the sofa. "Oh, he was on duty, and they called from Ullevål Hospital, so he had to go in. He'll try to get back if he can. It's not easy when you're an important person, you know," his daughter said with a wink. Munch thanked her with a friendly smile. "The cake is ready," Marianne announced, entering the living room with a smile on her lips as well. Holger Munch watched her furtively. He did not want to stare, but neither was he able to take his eyes off her completely. She made eye contact with him for a moment, and Munch was overcome by the de- sire to drag her to the kitchen and hold her tight, just like in the old The Owl Always Hunts at Night 21 days, but he managed to restrain himself. Marion, who also had trou- ble controlling herself, though for different reasons, provided a wel- come distraction. "Please let me open it? Presents are more important than some silly song." "We have to sing 'Happy Birthday' and blow out the candles first, you know that," Marianne said, stroking her granddaughter's hair. "Besides, we need to wait until everyone is here, so we can all see the nice things you'll be getting." Marianne, Miriam, Marion, and him. Holger Munch could not have wished for a better setting for a more pleasant afternoon. How- ever, his ex-wife's words, that they needed to wait for everyone , were like a line from a play, a cue for someone to make an entrance. And at that instant the front door duly opened, and there was Rolf, the teacher from Hurum, holding a huge bouquet of flowers in his hands and grinning from ear to ear. "Hi, Rolf!" Marion chirped as she raced to the door and threw her arms around him. Munch felt a pang of jealousy as he saw his granddaughter's small arms embrace the man he absolutely loathed. He prized the little girl more than anything in the world, and as far as she was concerned, it had always been like this: Granddad on his own. Granny and Rolf to- gether. "Look how many presents I've got!" She dragged Rolf into the living room so that he could admire the display. "How nice," he said, stroking her hair. "Are they also for me?" Marion smiled, pointing to the big bouquet of flowers in his hand. "No, they're for Granny," Rolf said, looking over his shoulder at a blushing Marianne, who was watching them from the doorway. Munch saw how his ex-wife looked at Rolf. And it was all over. The good feeling. Playing happy families. He stood up to shake Rolf 's hand and watched as the man he despised gave his ex-wife the extravagant flowers and kissed her cheek. 22 Samuel Bjork Fortunately, Marion came to his rescue for the second time. Her face now red with excitement, she refused to wait any longer. "Oh, please can we get that singing over with?" the little girl im- plored them. They sang hurriedly, Marion was not paying attention in any case. She blew out the candles on her cake and attacked her presents. Less than thirty minutes later, the little girl was done and was sitting quite exhausted in front of her spoils. The Barbie doll had been a big hit. Marion had flung her arms around Munch's neck, and though he'd expected a reproachful look from Miriam for ignoring her wishes-- again--it never came. His daughter had merely smiled, almost as a thank-you, and made him feel that everything was all right. There was one awkward moment after the presents had been opened. Marianne and Rolf were sitting on the sofa across the coffee table, and there was pressure to engage in conversation that none of them really wanted, but Munch was saved by his cell phone. It was Mikkelson, and for once his timing was perfect. Munch made his ex- cuses and went outside, lit a much-needed cigarette, and took the call. "Yes?" "Have you stopped answering your phone?" an irritable voice grunted on the other end. "Family time," Munch replied. "How nice," Mikkelson quipped. "However, I'm afraid I'll have to wreck your family time. I need you." "What's happened?" Munch asked, now curious. "A 233. Teenage girl," Mikkelson continued, less acerbic now. "Where?" Munch said. "On the outskirts of Hurum. A scientist found her earlier today." Munch took a deep drag on his cigarette. He could hear little Mar- ion laugh on the other side of the door. Someone was chasing her around the house, probably that idiot who'd usurped his place. Munch shook his head irritably. Celebrate Marion's birthday in his former marital house. What had he been thinking? "I need you to go there at once," Mikkelson said. The Owl Always Hunts at Night 23 "Okay, I'm on my way," Munch said, ending the call. He discarded his cigarette and was about to go back inside when the door opened and Miriam appeared. "Is everything all right, Dad?" his daughter said, looking at him with a frown. "What? Oh, yes . . . It's just . . . work." "Okay," Miriam said. "I thought I would just--" "What, Miriam?" Munch said impatiently, but he checked himself and patted her shoulder affectionately. "Prepare you for the big announcement," his daughter said, avoid- ing eye contact. "What announcement?" "They're getting married," Miriam said swiftly, still evading him. "Who?" "Mom and Rolf. I tried telling her that now might not be the best time to announce it, but . . ." Miriam was looking at him now, clearly worried. "So are you coming inside?" "I got a case," Munch said abruptly, not knowing what else to say. Getting married? The afternoon had started out with such promise and he'd . . . well, what had he really been hoping for? He got annoyed with himself. What was he thinking? There clearly was no fool like an old fool. But now he had something else to focus on. "So you're off ?" Miriam said. "Yes." Munch nodded. "Hang on, I'll go get your coat," Miriam said, returning with his duffel coat shortly afterward. "You'll have to pass on my congratulations," Munch mumbled, making a beeline for his car. "Phone me, won't you? I want to talk to you about something. It's important to me. When it's convenient for you, promise?" Miriam called out after him. "Of course, Miriam. I'll phone," Munch said as he quickly got into the black Audi and started the engine. 24 Samuel Bjork 5 It was barely five o'clock in the afternoon, and yet it was nearly pitch- black when Holger Munch reached the police tapes on the far side of Hurumlandet. He pressed his ID card against the windshield and was quickly waved on by a young officer, who looked a little embarrassed at having stopped him. Munch parked his car on the shoulder a few hundred meters inside the tape and stepped out into the cold autumn air. He lit a cigarette and tightened his duffel coat around him. "Munch?" "Yes?" "I'm Olsen. I'm the head of operations." Munch shook the glove-clad hand that belonged to a tall, broad, middle-aged police officer he did not recognize. "Status update, please?" "The victim was found approximately six hundred meters from the road in a north-northwesterly direction," Olsen said, pointing through the dark forest. "Who's up there now?" "Forensics. Pathology. One of yours . . . Kolstad, is it?" "Kolsø." Munch opened the trunk of his Audi, took out his boots, and was about to put them on when his cell rang. "Munch." "It's Kim. Are you here?" "Yes, I'm down by the road. Where are you?" "I'm up by the tent. Vik has finished and is getting impatient, but I've told them not to move her until you get here. I'll come down to meet you." "Great. What does it look like?" "We won't be getting much sleep for a while. This is one sick bastard." "What do you mean?" Munch said as a sudden uneasy feeling crept over him. The Owl Always Hunts at Night 25 Holger Munch had nearly thirty years' experience as a homicide investigator under his belt; by now he'd seen most things. He could usually keep a professional distance from the scenes he encountered, and if the statement had been made by anyone other than Kim Kolsø, he would not have worried. Had it been Mia, who allowed herself to get emotionally caught up in every single case, or Curry, who was up and down like a yo-yo all the time, he would have brushed it off, but Kim? This did not bode well. "Do you want me to tell you, or would you rather see for yourself ?" Kolsø went on. "Give me a brief summary," Munch said, sticking a finger into his ear as a patrol car from the crime scene suddenly turned on its siren and passed by him closely. "Are you still there?" he heard Kolsø say. "Yes, yes, please repeat what you just said." "Teenage girl, sixteen or seventeen, we think," Kolsø continued. "Naked. It looks like a kind of . . . how can I put it . . . ritual? Feathers all around her. And candles . . ." Munch stuck the finger back into his ear when yet another patrol car with flashing blue lights followed its predecessor. ". . . arranged as a kind of symbol . . ." Kolsø's voice cut out once more. Munch glared at Olsen, who was talking on his cell phone while gesturing toward something that was happening near the crime-scene tape. "I can't hear you," Munch said. "Some kind of pentagram formation," Kolsø continued. "What?" "Naked teenage girl. Her body twisted into a strange position. Her eyes are wide open. Feathers all over the place . . ." More static. "I've lost you!" Munch shouted, sticking his finger into his ear again. ". . . a flower." "What?" "Someone stuck a flower in her mouth." "A what?" 26 Samuel Bjork "You're breaking up," Kim crackled. "I'm coming to get you." "Okay, I'm by the--" Munch yelled into his phone, but Kolsø had already disconnected. Munch shook his head and took another deep drag on his cigarette as Olsen came up to him again. "A couple of nosy reporters got a little too close at first, but I think we've finally managed to cordon off the whole area now." "Good." Munch nodded. "Have you started door-to-door inqui- ries? The houses up there?" "Yes," Olsen told him. "Anyone seen anything?" "Not as far as I've been told yet." "Right. Make sure to include the camping site farther up the road. I imagine it's closed down for the winter, but the trailers are still there. You never know, we might be lucky." Olsen nodded and disappeared. Munch put on his boots and found a woolly hat in his coat pocket. He chucked aside the cigarette and lit a fresh one with raw, cold fingers that were barely able to flick the lighter. Good God, surely it had been summer just the other day? It was only late afternoon, and already it was as cold and dark as a winter's night. Kim came toward him, appearing from between the trees, his face in darkness behind a large flashlight. "Are you ready for this?" Ready for this? "Stay close behind me. The path is a trip hazard." Munch nodded and followed his colleague toward the path that led up through the woods. Excerpted from The Owl Always Hunts at Night by Samuel Bjork All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
