by Thomas Enger
“Super! Thanks so much,” Henning says and takes the sheet. He quickly skims the names, twenty-two in all. One of the cards he read the first day he visited the college pops into his head. Missing you, Henry. Missing you loads. Tore.
Tore Benjaminsen.
“Excuse me,” he says to his good Samaritan on the other side of the counter. Dreadlocks is just about to resume devouring what is left of his girlfriend, but he turns around at the sound of Henning’s voice.
“Yes?”
“Do you know Tore Benjaminsen.”
“Tore, yes. Sure do. I know him. Everybody knows Tore, he-he.”
“Is he here today? Have you seen him?”
“I saw him outside somewhere.”
Henning turns toward the exit.
“What does he look like?”
“Short hair, small, skinny. I think he was wearing a dark blue jacket. He usually does.”
“Thanks so much for your help!” Henning says, and smiles. Dreadlocks raises his hand and bows his head slightly. Henning goes outside and looks around. It takes only a second to spot Tore Benjaminsen. He is having a cigarette; he was one of the smokers Henning passed on his way in nearly an hour ago.
Tore and the young woman, who is also smoking, notice him before he reaches them. They realize that he wants something and stop talking.
“Are you Tore?” Henning asks. Tore Benjaminsen nods. Henning recognizes him now. Tore was interviewed by Petter Stanghelle a couple of days ago, in the light rain outside the college. Henning didn’t read what Tore said about his late friend, but he remembers the Björn Borg underpants.
“Henning Juul,” he says. “I work for 123news. I was wondering if we could have a chat?”
Tore looks at the girl.
“I’ll see you later,” he announces grandly. It won’t be difficult to massage Tore’s ego.
Tore’s hand feels like a child’s when Henning presses it, and they sit down on a nearby bench. Tore takes out his cigarettes, pulls out a white friend, and offers Henning one. Henning declines politely, but his eyes linger on his old acquaintance.
“I thought Henriette was yesterday’s news?”
“In a way, yes. In another, no.”
“I don’t suppose murder ever is,” Tore says and lights up.
“No.”
Tore returns his lighter to his jacket pocket and inhales deeply. Henning looks at him.
“Henry was a great girl. In many ways. Very fond of people. Perhaps a little too fond of them.”
“What do you mean?” Henning asks, just as it occurs to him that he ought to have switched on his Dictaphone. Too late now.
“She was extremely extroverted and—how shall I put it—almost excessively fond of people, if you know what I mean.”
Tore takes another drag and blows out the smoke, then he looks around. He nods to a girl who is passing them.
“Was she a flirt?”
He nods.
“I don’t think there was anyone here with something between his legs who didn’t, at one point or another, fancy—”
He stops and shakes his head.
“It’s really bad,” he continues. “That she is dead, like.”
Henning nods silently.
“Did you ever meet her boyfriend?”
“Mahmoud Marhoni?”
Tore spits out the name and hawks extra long on the h sound?
“Yes?”
“No idea what Henry saw in that jerk.”
“Was he a jerk?”
“He was a huge jerk. Drove around in a massive BMW and thought he was a big shot. Always throwing money around.”
“So he was a big spender?”
“Yes, but in a totally failed way. He left his credit card behind the bar and told Henry’s friends that drinks were on him. Like he was desperately trying to prove he was one hell of a guy. It wouldn’t surprise me if—”
He breaks off again.
“What wouldn’t surprise you?”
“I was about to say that it wouldn’t surprise me if he turned out to be a drug dealer, but I know that sounds racist.”
“Perhaps, but what if it’s true?”
“I don’t know anything about that. And just because I said it doesn’t mean I’m a racist.”
“I don’t think you are.”
“But he didn’t deserve her. He really was a loser.”
Tore has finished his cigarette and throws the stub on the ground without stepping on it. The small white friend lies there, gasping blue-gray smoke, right next to a puddle.
“What was their relationship like?”
“Stormy, I think we can say.”
“How?”
“It was very much on and off. And Mahmoud was the jealous type. Though given how Henry carried on, you could see why.”
Henning thinks about sharia again.
“Was she ever unfaithful?”
“Not that I know of, but it wouldn’t surprise me. She acted out a lot, enjoyed being the center of attention on the dance floor, to put it one way. Wore provocative clothes.”
He looks away with a sad expression in his eyes.
“Was there someone she flirted with more than others?”
“Many. There were, eh, lots.”
“Were you smitten, too?”
Henning looks up from his notepad and meets Tore’s eyes. Tore smiles and looks down. He sighs.
“There was never an empty seat at Henriette’s table. Practically everyone on the course wanted to work with her, too. I made friends with her early on. We had an awesome time together, Henry and I. We were always flirting. I had just ended a relationship when we got to know each other and we discussed it a lot. She was very supportive, compassionate, and warm. She was one of those people who know how to listen. And whenever I opened up to her, she always gave me a hug. A very long hug. I opened up quite a lot over those six months,” he says, laughing.
Henning can imagine it, can imagine her. Beautiful, gentle, open, social, flirtatious. Who wouldn’t want to be around such a ray of sunshine?
“It was easy to mistake her warmth for something else, as an invitation, and one day I went too far. I tried to kiss her and—”
He shakes his head again.
“Well, it turned out I had misread the signals. At first I was furious, I felt she had led me on, trapped me in her net, only to reject me. As though that was her game, like. Cat and mouse, a prick teaser. And I spent a couple of weeks being angry with her, but I got over it. One night, when we had gone out, a group of us, we talked about it. She wanted to be my friend, she said, but nothing more. I decided I would much rather be her friend than waste a lot of energy feeling rejected, and from then on we were great friends.”
“Did you feel bad when she got together with Mahmoud?”
“No, not really. I knew she didn’t fancy me. But—there’s no law against envy, is there?”
Henning nods. Tore takes a big, greedy drag of his next cigarette.
“Do you have any idea who might have killed her?”
Tore stares at him.
“You don’t think Mahmoud did it?”
Henning stops for a moment, unsure of how frank he should be; something tells him Tore is a bit of a gossip. So he says:
“Well, he has been arrested, but you never know.”
“If it wasn’t Mahmoud, then I don’t know who might have done it.”
“Do you know if she had other Muslim friends, apart from Mahmoud?”
“Plenty. Henriette was everyone’s friend. And everyone wanted to be friends with her.”
“What about Anette Skoppum?”
“What about her?”
“She worked with Henriette sometimes—from what I’ve been told?”
Tore nods.
“Do you know her well?”
“No, hardly at all. She’s the total opposite of Henriette. Never says very much. I’ve heard she suffers from epilepsy but I’ve never seen her have a seizure. Rarely puts herself about
. At least, not while she’s sober. But when she’s drunk—”
“Then she loosens up?”
“Well, That’s one way of putting it. Do you know what she always says when she’s pissed?”
“No?”
“ ‘What’s the point of being a genius if nobody knows?’” Tore mimics her voice and smiles.
“If anyone ever had a good reason for low self-esteem, then it’s her. She’s not particularly talented. And I know at least three guys who got into her knickers when she was drunk. I think she must be a lesbian.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m probably being stupid. It’s just a gut feeling I have. Hasn’t that ever happened to you? You feel you intuitively know things about people?”
“Happens all the time,” Henning replies and flashes a smile.
“She was certainly a big fan of Henriette, that was plain to see. But then everyone was. What a waste,” Tore says and shakes his head again.
“I would like to talk to Anette as well. Would you happen to have her mobile number, by any chance?”
Tore takes out his mobile. It is a shiny dark blue Sony Ericsson.
“I think so.”
He presses some buttons and turns the mobile to Henning, who reads the eight digits and notes them down.
“Thank you,” he says. “I don’t have any more questions. Anything you would like to add?”
Tore gets up from the bench.
“No. But I hope the police have got the right guy. I would like to—”
He stops.
“You would like to what?”
“Forget it. It’s too late now, anyway.”
Tore Benjaminsen holds up a hand to Henning and starts walking toward the entrance.
“Thanks for the chat.”
“Likewise.”
Henning sits there and looks after him. Tore tries to look tough as he walks with his trousers hanging low. Björn Borg is in place today as well.
38
He sits on the bench for a while after Tore has gone. He spends a lot of time hanging around, wearing benches out these days. And that’s fine. Very nice. No deadly nightshade here. He can’t see Anette. People come and go. And every time Henning’s eyes seek out the red entrance steps. And every time he is disappointed.
He decides to call her. Before he types in the number, he registered that the time is 1:30 PM already. He wonders what reprisals might await him if he fails to show for the fabled staff meeting, but he bets that Sture, for old times’ sake, will give him the abbreviated version later. Besides, Henning has a pretty good idea of what his boss is going to say:
Due to unforeseen fluctuations in the advertising market, we are forced to reduce costs. In the short term this won’t impact on staff, but it might well do in the long term if we don’t produce more pages. The more pages are read, the faster we can re-sell the space to new advertisers. However, as we have sold all available advertising space, we need to generate more pages. This means we need to make decisions about the stories we write. We need to be more critical in our selection of material. And blah-blah-blah . . .
Some people are bound to make noises about integrity, and “how about importance and relevance,” and Henning knows that Sture will declare that he agrees with most of it, and yet demand a tighter ship. And a tighter ship for online newspapers that want to survive means more sex, more tits, and more porn. That’s what most people want. They may say that they don’t, but they still click on it when they have a minute or two to spare, wanting to get a closer look at the tits or the arse used as bait. Online newspapers know this, they have the figures and statistics to prove that such stories generate hits, and based on that criterion, the choice is simple.
It’ll probably vex Heidi, Henning thinks, but she is middle management and has no choice other than to carry out executive orders. And she will never say anything negative in public about the top management or the mindless decisions they take. She learned that at her middle-management course.
Henning rings Anette and waits for her to reply. Her mobile rings eleven times before she picks up.
“Hello?”
Anette’s voice is frail and guarded.
“Anette, my name’s Henning Juul. I work for 123news. We met briefly last Monday.”
“I’ve nothing to say to you.”
“Wait, don’t hang—”
The phone goes dead. He swears to himself, looks around. A man in coveralls arrives. He is carrying a bucket.
I’m going to do it, Henning tells himself. I’ll call her again, even though it’s a high-risk strategy. I might alienate her even further. Pestering people rarely pays off, but she hasn’t given me anything yet.
At first, he gets a ring tone, but it changes to an engaged signal after a few seconds. Damn, she’s blocking my call, he thinks, and sees another man in coveralls. He decides to send her a text instead:
I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I’m not looking for an interview. I think Henriette was killed because of the film you were making. I would like to talk to you about it. Can we meet?
He presses “Send” and waits. He waits. And he waits. No reply. He swears again. Now what?
No, he thinks. No bloody way. He writes her another text message:
I know you’re scared, Anette. I can tell. But I think I can help you. Please let me help you?
“Send” again. He knows that he is starting to sound desperate and it isn’t far from the truth. He jumps when his mobile bleeps a few seconds later. He opens the text.
No one can help me.
His blood tingles. Things are getting seriously interesting. He replies:
You don’t know that, Anette. If you let me see the script, perhaps we can take it from there? I promise to be discreet. If you don’t want to meet—perhaps you can email it to me? My email address is [email protected].
“Send.”
Eternity compressed in seconds. He hears them tick.
No, he thinks. It’s no use. Anette is gone. She doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to be a source, not even a confidential one. He derives some comfort from the fact that he made a serious attempt. But he has no room for cold comfort. He gets up and starts to walk.
His mobile bleeps again. Four quick beeps.
The Gode Café. In an hour.
39
Bjarne Brogeland sighs. He is reading a document on his screen, but having to squint for so long is giving him a headache. I need a break, he says to himself. A long one. Perhaps I should ask Sandland if she fancies a late lunch somewhere, talk a little shop, discuss the case, a little sex. Bloody little prick teaser. I’ll have to tie a knot in it soon if I don’t get to . . .
Brogeland’s thoughts are interrupted by a window popping open on his screen. The face of Ann-Mari Sara, a forensic scientist, fills the screen via a webcam. Brogeland leaves forward and turns up the volume.
“We’ve made some progress with the laptop,” she says.
“Marhoni’s laptop?”
“No. Mahatma Gandhi’s. Who else?”
“Have you found anything?”
“Oh, I think we can safely say that.”
“Okay, hold on. I just want to get Sandland.”
“No need. I’ll email my findings to you. I just wanted to check if you were around.”
“Okay.”
Brogeland gets up and goes out into the corridor. Any excuse for knocking on Sandland’s door must be exploited. He opens it. She’s on the telephone. All the same, Brogeland whispers with exaggerated diction:
“Marhoni’s laptop.”
He gestures toward his own office, even though there is no need. She will get her own copy of the email. Sandland mimes that she will come down to his office shortly.
Oh, how I want you to come, Brogeland thinks as he closes the door behind him. He returns to his own office and lets himself fall into his chair. He opens his in-box and sees that an email has arrived from Ann-Mari Sara. He clicks on it and downloads the att
achment.
At that very moment, Sandland enters the room.
“Perfect timing,” Brogeland says. Sandland stands right behind him and leans over his shoulder. Brogeland can barely control himself. She has never been this close to him. He can smell her, her—
No! Don’t even think about it!
He reads the message from Ann-Mari Sara aloud:
The hard disk was severely damaged and there is a lot of information we have yet to retrieve. However, I think we may already have got the most important stuff. Click on the attachment and you will know what I mean.
Brogeland clicks on the attachment and watches the screen with excitement. When the image appears, he turns and looks up at Sandland. They both smile. Brogeland turns his attention back on the computer, clicks “Reply” and writes:
Good job, AMS. But carry on working on the hard drive. There may be more information that we might need.
Brogeland rubs his hands and thinks he is moving into the final lap.
The lap of honor.
40
Coffee usually does the trick, but not when he’s tense. Not when he’s waiting for someone. Not when the hour Anette suggested passed long ago.
He has chosen a window table in the Gode Café so he can keep an eye on passing traffic and people walking along the pavement, just an arm’s length away. Another reason for sitting here is that it is near the exit—should anything happen.
What’s keeping you, Anette? He frets and thinks that if this had been a film, then Anette never would arrive. Someone would get to her, take whatever Henning is looking for, and make sure that her body is never found. Or perhaps they wouldn’t even bother hiding it?
He shakes his head at himself, but it is tempting to entertain such thoughts given that she is now more than thirty minutes late. He tries to imagine what could have happened. She might have had an unexpected visitor, maybe her mother called, or she was waiting for the washing machine to finish, or that delivery guy from Peppes Pizza was a fashionable half hour late?
No. Unlikely at this time of day. Perhaps she is quite simply unreliable? There are people like that, but he didn’t get the impression that Anette was one of them. She is one of those who try—try to make something of themselves, do something with their lives, realize their ambitions.