The Owl always Hunts at Night EXPORT - Softcover

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 ...