by Thomas Enger
Bjarne laughs briefly. Henning tries to laugh, too, but it sounds forced, so he stops and carries on looking. Faces, faces, and more faces. They reek of crime. Angry eyes, embittered mouths. But no killer.
He must have been looking for around fifteen minutes, when Brogeland says:
“Do you think the killer got a look at you?”
Henning lifts his eyes from the screen and looks at the inspector. Funny how that never occurred to me, he thinks.
“I don’t know,” he replies and visualizes his own flight. The killer mostly saw his back, but there was a moment when their eyes met. And it’s not easy to forget Henning’s face.
Yes, he saw me, he concludes. He must have.
He looks at Brogeland and knows what he is thinking. If Forensics doesn’t find any evidence that proves the killer was at the crime scene, then only Henning can place him there. In a subsequent trial, Henning’s testimony makes it a penalty kick into an open goal.
Only one thing is required.
That Henning stay alive.
27
Forty-five minutes later, he taps the screen eagerly with his index finger. Brogeland gets up and comes round to his side of the table.
“Are you sure?”
Henning looks at the man’s crooked upper lip.
“Yes.”
Brogeland’s eyes light up. He takes over the computer, turns it away from Henning, sits down, types, and clicks.
“Who is he?” Henning asks. Brogeland looks up over the screen, his eyes flickering slightly.
“His name’s Yasser Shah,” he says reluctantly. “But don’t you dare put that in your paper.”
Henning holds up his hands.
“What’s he done?”
“Nothing much. He has a couple of convictions for possession. Petty crime, small stuff, really.”
“So he has gone from small-time dealing to hired killer?”
“Looks like it.”
“Hm.”
“He belongs to a gang that calls itself BBB. Bad Boys Burning.”
Henning wrinkles his nose.
“What kind of gang is that? I’ve never heard of them.”
“One which has come to our attention in the last year. It’s involved in a range of criminal activities. Smuggling, drugs, debt collection using fists and weapons such as, eh, well, weapons. Colleagues working directly with organized crime know a lot about them, I believe.”
“Did the Marhoni brothers have anything to do with BBB?”
Brogeland is about to reply, but he stops and looks at Henning. And, again, he knows exactly what Brogeland is thinking.
Henning, You’re probably a decent guy, but I don’t know you well enough yet.
“This is really good,” Brogeland says instead. “Thank you so much. You’ve been a great help.”
They get up. Brogeland holds out his hand. Another firm handshake. Henning leaves the police station with a feeling that the person he helped the most was probably himself.
Outside in the street, the headline comes to him. Tariq’s last words. It will be a great story, he thinks. Tourette Kåre will click. Literally.
He switches on his mobile as he turns into Grønlandsleiret. Thirty seconds later, the text messages flood in. Several people have left messages on his voice mail. Iver Gundersen is one of them. Henning knows why they are calling, obviously, of course he does, but he hasn’t got the energy to respond and he is about to hit the delete button when Gundersen calls again. Henning sighs and replies with a curt “hi.”
“Where are you?”
“At the police station.”
“Why haven’t you called us? It’s a huge story and we would have been the first to break it!”
“I was a bit busy saving my life. What’s left of it.”
“For God’s sake, I’ve been trying to get hold of you for three and a half hours.”
“Three and a half hours?”
“Yes!”
“You timed it?”
Gundersen takes a deep breath and exhales so hard that it roars in Henning’s ear.
“It’s totally unacceptable that NRK gets to break the news that a 123news reporter witnessed a murder and was shot at himself.”
“Is that Jørn Bendiksen again?”
“Yes!”
“His sources must be very good.”
Henning says it in a way which can’t be misinterpreted. He knows that Gundersen will regard it as a personal insult.
“At the very least I need an interview with you now, so you can tell me what happened. We have omitted quoting NRK and given our readers the impression that we have spoken to you, but I feel sick to my stomach. An eyewitness report from you would put a lot of things right.”
“You haven’t faked any quotes, have you?”
“No, no. You can check for yourself when you get in, or you can read it on your mobile. Do you want to do it in the office, or over the phone?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“No, no,” Henning says, mimicking Gundersen’s voice. “There’ll be no interview.”
Total silence.
“Is this a joke?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because a couple of bullets whizzed past my ears roughly three and a half hours ago. I’ve no intention of making it easy for the killer to find me, in case he fancies having another go. He knows that I saw him. Or, if he doesn’t, he soon will.”
Gundersen heaves a sigh.
“I’m going home now to write up the interview with Tariq. When that’s done, that’s me out of the picture for a couple of days,” Henning continues. He just manages to complete the last sentence, before Gundersen hangs up on him. Henning gloats.
He is about to stop off at Meny Supermarket when his mobile rings again. He doesn’t recognize the number. Perhaps it’s Gundersen pretending to sell subscriptions? He switches off his mobile and dreams of one, maybe two, three, or four warm fish cakes.
Yum.
28
His supply of batteries is starting to run out, but he has enough to replace the batteries in all eight smoke alarms as he gets home. He goes into his living room. No killers lying in wait for him. He hadn’t really thought so, but you never know.
He takes a shower while his computer boots up at a snail’s pace. Fifteen minutes later, he is cleaner than a Johnson baby and he loads FireCracker 2.0. He has a question for 6tiermes7. This time Deep Throat is already logged on:
MakkaPakka:
Turbo.
6tiermes7:
Negro.
It didn’t take you long to become a target?
MakkaPakka:
In that particular respect, I’m not out of practice.
6tiermes7:
Still in one piece?
MakkaPakka:
Oh, yes. Just as well I don’t need to sleep at night.
6tiermes7:
Count sheep. Have a jerk-off.
MakkaPakka:
Too much effort.
6tiermes7:
:-)
MakkaPakka:
I’m thinking of taking a couple of days off, but I’m curious about something.
6tiermes7:
Time off? You?
MakkaPakka:
Do the Marhoni brothers have anything to do with BBB? Are they members?
6tiermes7:
No. We are struggling to find the link.
MakkaPakka:
But there is one?
6tiermes7:
Don’t you think so?
MakkaPakka:
I don’t know. They may just have known each other socially.
6tiermes7:
Yeah, right.
MakkaPakka:
Will you be carrying out a raid against them soon?
6tiermes7:
I don’t know anything about that yet. But I’m guessing they’ll try Yasser Shah’s home first.
MakkaPakka:
He has p
robably gone underground.
6tiermes7:
You don’t think he’ll have another go at you?
MakkaPakka:
Would you? When all eyes are on him?
6tiermes7:
No. Did they offer you protection?
MakkaPakka:
Yes.
6tiermes7:
Good. But you never know, someone else might want to finish the job.
MakkaPakka:
I declined.
6tiermes7:
Oh. Did you?
MakkaPakka:
Very funny.
6tiermes7:
So what happens now?
MakkaPakka:
I’m thinking of lying low for a couple of days.
6tiermes7:
At least.
MakkaPakka:
OK. I might work from home. I’ll see what happens.
6tiermes7:
OK.
MakkaPakka:
Any developments in the investigation?
6tiermes7:
A few. They’re hunting high and low for links and clues. Many interviews.
MakkaPakka:
Any details you can feed to me?
6tiermes7:
Well, they’ve given up on the honor-killing theory.
MakkaPakka:
Any other excitement?
6tiermes7:
Not quite sure. I don’t know if this means anything, but a film company had taken out an option on a screenplay written by Hagerup.
MakkaPakka:
How recently?
6tiermes7:
Awhile ago, I think.
MakkaPakka:
Student rivalry, perhaps?
6tiermes7:
No idea. But they’re talking to all her friends and tutors.
MakkaPakka:
Did Hagerup have a tutor?
6tiermes7:
Yes. A chap called Yngve Foldvik.
MakkaPakka:
That name sounds familiar.
6tiermes7:
Means nothing to me.
MakkaPakka:
Do you know anything about the tent on Ekeberg Common?
6tiermes7:
The college had put it up. They were in the middle of filming.
MakkaPakka:
Do you suspect any of her fellow students?
6tiermes7:
Not at the moment. I think Mahmoud Marhoni is their prime suspect. They’ve evidence which implicates him.
MakkaPakka:
Has he been questioned following the murder of his brother?
6tiermes7:
No. His lawyer threw his weight around.
MakkaPakka:
OK. Thank you. See you later.
6tiermes7:
Stay healthy.
Stay healthy.
The quote is from the film Heat with Robert De Niro and Al Pacino. Jon Voight’s character sits in the car with De Niro, planning a break-in, and as De Niro gets out of the car, Voight tells him to stay healthy.
Apparently 6tiermes7 likes Heat. And Voight is on to something. It’s important to stay healthy. And it’s good to know that someone cares about you, even if Henning doesn’t know who that someone is.
29
As it turns out, 6tiermes7 was right. It won’t be easy to lie low. Too many questions are buzzing around his head, and the more he thinks about it, the more convinced he is that Henriette Hagerup’s college and its students hold many of the answers.
He visits Westerdals’s homepage and switches on his mobile again. Just like the last time, the messages pile up. And just like the last time, he deletes them without checking them first. He clicks on the college’s film section, finds a staff list, and locates Yngve Foldvik after some quick scrolling and clicking. A photograph with a CV and contact details pop up. Henning studies him.
Where does he know him from? Dark hair, side parting to the left. Narrow nose. Sallow skin, not brown, the kind that tans easily. Light stubble with streaks of gray. He looks to be in his late forties, but he is still a handsome man. Henning suspects some of the students have secret crushes on him.
He checks the time—5:30 PM. Tariq’s last words will have to wait. He rings Foldvik’s mobile instead. Three rings later, he gets lucky. Henning introduces himself. Foldvik says “hi” in a voice that Henning instantly recognizes as the “oh shit” tone.
“I don’t have much to say to you,” he begins. His voice is high.
“I don’t want you to, either,” Henning counters. Silence follows. He knows that Foldvik hasn’t quite understood what he meant. And that’s the idea. He lets Foldvik wait until he grows sufficiently curious and simply has to ask:
“What do you mean?”
“If I could meet you tomorrow morning, at a time convenient to you, then I can explain what I want to talk to you about. But I would be lying if I said it didn’t have anything to do with your late student.”
“I don’t know if I have—”
“It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Like I said, then—”
“I want people who read about Henriette to get as accurate a picture of her as possible. I think you might be the most suitable person to paint that. You knew her in a different way than her fellow students, and, to be honest, they have a tendency to say some strange stuff.
Another silence. He can hear Foldvik mull it over. And that’s part of the technique. Massage the ego of those you want to interview to such an extent that it becomes harder and harder for them to say no.
“Okay, two minutes. Ten o’clock tomorrow?”
A broad smile forms around his lips.
“Ten o’clock would be fine.”
It is a straightforward matter to write out an interview when you have everything on tape. To begin with, he decides to use everything Tariq said, word for word, since they were the man’s last, but he abandons that idea as soon as the interview takes shape on his computer. Too much irrelevant information. And he doesn’t want people to know everything Tariq said about his brother. After all, Mahmoud is still in custody and it very much remains an open investigation.
It takes him half an hour to type up everything Tariq Marhoni said. He starts to edit and decides to focus on the fine description Tariq gave of his brother.
My brother is a good man.
It borders on the dull, but it’s a start. He types on:
Tariq Marhoni spent his last moments praising his brother, who is suspected of murder. Read the exclusive interview here.
He knows that people will read this story, even though it is not very exciting. There is something about a man’s last words. They appeal, no matter what he said. And when it is as exclusive as this, everyone with even a vague interest in the story will click on it. Other media will trawl the story for quotes they can use. This means “said Tariq Marhoni to 123news, only minutes before he died.”
Quotes. Apart from advertising revenue and profit, being quoted in rival media is what matters to many newspapers. At the same time, it is possibly also the greatest source of irritation, especially among smaller publications, when the big fish use a quote from someone else’s story and fail to credit them.
This happens every day. The big fish are so afraid of the little fish growing bigger that they sacrifice both good manners and press ethics in the process. If it isn’t a case of downright theft, they will often contact the source and obtain the same quotes, which enables them to insist—often with a large portion of indignation—that “we just happened to have the same idea.” NRK, for example, has a standard policy that if a story appears in two media, at least, there is no reason to credit either of them.
He doesn’t know if this policy has changed during the two years he has been out of the game, but it’s impossible not to quote the Tariq story. He guesses that Heidi Kjus will be particularly pleased about it. Possibly Iver Gundersen, too.
No, on second thought, no. Not Gundersen.
He thinks about BBB. Bad Boys Burnin
g. What a name for a gang! Some gangs have a great need to send out warnings. Bandidos. Hell’s Angels. And yet, Henning can feel himself growing curious about BBB. He Googles the full name and gets thousands of hits, many of which are irrelevant and inaccurate. Reviews of the film Bad Boys, articles about a Swedish crooner who had a hit with a song called “Burning” a couple of years ago, people who are described as “bad boys,” and a gang from the Furuset area of Oslo who also calls themselves that. Little of relevance.
However, he finds an article from Aftenposten from six months ago about a gang confrontation, in Furuset coincidentally. The Google text doesn’t mention BBB in the link, but he clicks on it anyway.
He gasps for air. Nora wrote this story. She has ventured into dangerous territory. Gangs are usually associated with drugs and debt collecting. Its members are wannabe criminals, people searching for an identity, usually. That’s one of the reasons they become hooligans. To have a place to belong.
Nora’s headline is “Brutal gang clash in Furuset.” He looks at the story. No photos from the crime scene. Only an archive photo of an ax against a baseball bat. He guesses that Nora worked the night shift and that Aftenposten wasn’t prepared to fork out on a new picture from Scanpix. Or Scanpix has had to make cuts, too.
Nevertheless, he can see that Nora did a good job. She interviewed the officer in charge of the investigation, the head of Oslo’s Operation Gangbuster, got hold of two eyewitnesses, spoke to a high-profile ex–gang member who knows what this kind of confrontation is about, and delivered fifty lines on a subject which normally only gets a mention in most newspapers.
People don’t usually care about gang fights. They think: “Great, let them kill each other, get a few idiots off our streets.” He isn’t sure why he does it, but he decides to call her. It is possible she has fresh information about these morons, but he suspects he might have an ulterior motive.
He wants to know where she is.