by Thomas Enger
Too much, possibly, to draw such conclusions after only a brief meeting, but he is good at reading people: who is grumpy, who is a soft touch, who is real and not a fake, who beats up his wife, who might be tempted to drink a glass or three too many when the occasion presents itself, who couldn’t care less, and who tries. He is quite sure that Anette tries, and he thinks she has been trying for a long time. That’s why he is starting to feel a little anxious.
But then the door to the Gode Café is opened. He jumps when he realizes that it is Anette. She looks different from two days ago. The fear is still there, in her eyes, but she is even more introverted now. She has pulled her hood over her head. She isn’t wearing makeup and she looks scruffy. She stoops a little. She carries a backpack. A small gray backpack with no label, but many stickers.
She spots him, looks around the room, and heads toward him. In nine out of ten cases, he would have been yelled at. Bloody journalists who can’t leave decent people alone, who have no sense of shame. He has heard it all before. And it has hit home in the past, but not now.
Anette stops at the table. She doesn’t sit down. She looks at him while she takes off her backpack. Judging from the stickers, she has traveled widely. He sees names of exotic cities from faraway countries. Assab (Eritrea), Nzerekore (Guinea), Osh (Kirgistan), Blantyre (Malawi). She plonks the backpack on the chair.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m not staying.”
She takes a pile of paper from her backpack, throws it in front of him, and closes the bag with a swift movement. She puts the backpack back on, spins on her heel, and is about to leave.
“Anette, wait!”
His voice is louder than he intended. People stare. Anette stops and turns around again. I hope she sees the urgency in my eyes, Henning thinks, the kindness, the sincerity.
“Please, have a coffee with me.”
Anette does nothing, she just looks at him.
“Okay, not coffee, it tastes like shit, but a latte? A cup of tea? Chai? Eins, zwei, chai?”
Anette takes a step toward him.
“Comedian, aren’t we?”
He feels like a twelve-year-old who has been caught cheating on a test.
“Like I said: I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“So why give me this?” he asks, pointing to the pile of paper in front of him. On the front page, it says:
A Sharia Caste
Written by Henriette Hagerup
Directed by Anette Skoppum
He struggles to control himself. He wants to read it right there and then.
“So you’ll understand.”
“But—”
“Please—don’t try to help me.”
“But Anette—”
She has already begun to leave. He is about to get up but realizes the hopelessness and the desperation of such an act. Instead he calls out after her:
“Who are you scared of, Anette?”
She pushes down the door handle without looking at him or replying. She just leaves. He looks in the direction, he thinks she might be walking, alone, with her backpack. He catches himself wondering if there was something else in it. An extra item of clothing? A film or book?
Or a stun gun perhaps?
The thought appears out of nowhere. But he tastes it now that it is here. It’s a rather interesting thought. After all, who knows the script better than Anette?
No, he says to himself. If Anette had anything to do with her friend’s murder, why would she let me read the script? Why would she help me to understand? He dismisses the idea. A stupid notion. I need to read the script, see if it gives me any clues.
There has to be something.
41
Lars Indrehaug, the solicitor, runs his fingers through his fringe and sweeps across his temples, away from his eyes. Arsehole, Brogeland thinks. What I wouldn’t like to do to you in a soundproof room one day, when the cameras are turned off.
Dreams and reality. Two completely different concepts, sadly. The thought grows even more frustrating because Sergeant Sandland is sitting next to him. Brogeland looks at the papers on the table, flicks a switch, then another. They have prepared the interview carefully, gone through the evidence and agreed on how to present it. Even though Sandland still doubts that Marhoni is guilty, he needs to come up with some convincing answers to the questions they are about to ask.
Brogeland loves talking shop to Sandland, gets off on seeing her lips when she is serious, dogged, consumed by indignation on society’s behalf. He looks forward to seeing the satisfaction in her eyes when she crosses the finishing line. If only she would take out that satisfaction on him.
Wrong switch, Bjarne.
Mahmoud Marhoni sits next to Indrehaug. Marhoni is upset, Brogeland thinks. Distraught at the murder of his brother, rattled by being remanded in custody. There are definite cracks in his tough shell. He looks scruffier. A couple of days without a razor do that to a face accustomed to warm flannels every night.
They aren’t the only things you’ll have to get used to now, Mahmoud, Brogeland thinks. He signals to Sandland to begin the formal part of the interview: the introduction of those present and the reasons for their presence. Then she looks at Marhoni.
“My condolences,” she says, her voice all creamy. Marhoni gives his lawyer a quizzical look.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” she adds. Marhoni nods.
“Thank you,” he says.
“We’re doing everything we can to find out who did it. But perhaps you already know?”
Marhoni looks at her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Are you involved with Bad Boys Burning, Mahmoud?”
“No.”
“Yasser Shah?”
Marhoni shakes his head.
“Answer the question.”
“No.”
“Did your brother know any of them?”
“If I don’t know who they are, then how can I know if my brother had anything to do with them?”
Well done, Marhoni, Brogeland thinks. You avoided the trap.
“We’ve managed to save the contents of your laptop,” Brogeland continues and waits for a reply. Marhoni tries to appear unconcerned, but Brogeland can see that he is boiling on the inside. Though we don’t have everything, Brogeland remembers. Not yet, anyway.
But Marhoni doesn’t know that.
“Are you sure you don’t want to change the replies that you just gave my colleague?” Brogeland asks.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“To avoid lying.”
“I never lie.”
“Oh, no?” Brogeland quips.
“Perhaps you would like to confront my client directly rather than pussyfoot around?” Indrehaug says. Brogeland sends him an evil stare, before he addresses Marhoni again.
“How many people, apart from you, use your laptop, Mahmoud?”
“No one.”
“You haven’t ever lent it to anyone?”
“No.”
“Not with you watching, either?”
“No.”
“And you’re quite sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Inspector—”
Indrehaug throws up his hands and sighs wearily. Brogeland smiles and nods to himself.
“What were you were doing on Henriette Hagerup’s email account on the day that she was killed?”
Marhoni looks up.
“What?”
“Why were you reading your girlfriend’s emails?”
Brogeland registers that Marhoni looks surprised.
“Was it to sneak a peek at this?”
Brogeland pushes a sheet of paper across the table. It’s a photograph of Henriette Hagerup draped around a man. The man’s face can’t be seen, only the back of his head. His hair is dark and thin. Marhoni looks at the picture.
“Who is this, Mahmoud?”
He doesn’t reply.
“This picture was found in your late girlfriend’s email account, which was read from your laptop on the day she died. Do you want to comment on that?”
Marhoni looks at the photograph again.
“Who sent the email?” he asks.
“Let us worry about that. I’m asking you again, do you know the man in the picture?”
He shakes his head.
“You understand that this doesn’t look good for you, Mahmoud?”
Marhoni still has nothing to tell them. Brogeland sighs. Indrehaug looks at his client. Marhoni rubs his thumb against the palm of his other hand. Neither Sandland nor Brogeland says anything for a while, they wait for him to crack.
“I didn’t do it,” he suddenly whispers.
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t check her emails.”
Brogeland rolls his eyes as if he has just suffered the world’s greatest injustice.
“You’ve just said that you’re the only one to use your laptop. Is that no longer the case?”
Marhoni shakes his head.
“It can’t be.”
“So someone else used your laptop—without your knowledge—to look at a photograph of your girlfriend in the arms of another man? Is that what you’re telling us?”
Marhoni nods cautiously.
“Who could have done it? Your brother? Henriette?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is that why they’re both dead, Mahmoud?”
“I don’t know.”
“No, you don’t know.”
Brogeland sighs and looks at Sandland. She scans Marhoni’s face for any giveaway signs or expressions.
“What do you think about sharia?” Brogeland continues.
“Sharia?”
“Yes. Pakistani band. Played at the Mela Festival about a year ago.”
“Inspector—”
“Bad joke, I know. But answer the question, what do you think about sharia? Sharia laws. Do sharia laws represent a view of women which you agree with, Mahmoud?”
“No.”
“You don’t think that stoning a woman—for example—is a suitable punishment for infidelity? Or chopping off someone’s hands for stealing?”
Brogeland doesn’t wait for a reply. Marhoni looks baffled.
“Who did Henriette had an affair with, Mahmoud?”
“If you’re innocent and want to help yourself, I strongly recommend that you start talking now.”
“Who’s the man in the photograph?”
Brogeland and Sandland speak simultaneously. Marhoni sighs.
“The longer you drag this out, the worse it will look.”
“Who was the man she had an affair with?”
“Was that why you killed her?”
“Who are you protecting?”
Marhoni raises a hand.
“You don’t understand anything!”
He looks down, shaking his head.
“Then help us!” Brogeland says. He looks at Marhoni, waiting for him to explain.
“Henriette was never unfaithful,” Marhoni says, having thought about it for a long time.
“What did you say?”
“Henriette was never unfaithful to me.”
“Then how do you explain these text messages? Sorry. It means nothing. HE means nothing. You’re the one I love. Can we talk about it? Please?”
Brogeland stares hard at Marhoni.
“And you’re telling me she was never unfaithful?”
“Yes, or, I don’t know.”
“No, you don’t. If you can’t come up with a better answer than this, then—”
“She never mentioned anyone else to me.”
“So the contents of the text messages made no sense to you?”
“No.”
“You’ve never discussed anything like this before?”
“No.”
“Sorry, but you’re going to have a big problem convincing a jury of this. And you know it, Mr. Indrehaug.”
Brogeland eyeballs the lawyer. Indrehaug gulps. Then he runs his fingers through his hair one more time.
42
Before Henning starts to read it, he spends a little time staring at the first page of the screenplay. He feels apprehensive. A little nervous, too, when he thinks about it, though he can’t quite explain why. Perhaps because the answer to why and how Henriette Hagerup was killed is lying right in front of him?
He takes a deep breath and begins:
1. INT—A TENT ON EKEBERG COMMON—EVENING:
A woman, MERETE WIIK (21), stands with her back to the camera. The light reflects off the spade she holds in her hand. She is breathing heavily, she is exhausted. She wipes the sweat off her brow. Then she sinks the spade into the ground.
2. EXT—OUTSIDE THE TENT ON EKEBERG COMMON—EVENING:
A car drives up beside the tent. The driver turns off the engine. We see the boot open. MONA KALVIG (23) gets out. She goes to the boot.
3. INT—A TENT ON EKEBERG COMMON—EVENING:
MONA KALVIG opens the tent and enters. She is carrying a heavy bag. She stops in front of a hole in the ground.
MONA:
You’ve done a lot of digging!
Merete wipes away sweat and smiles.
MERETE:
It’s good exercise.
MONA:
Have you tried it?
MERETE:
No, it’s your hole, so I thought you should do the honors.
4. INT—A TENT ON EKEBERG COMMON—EVENING:
Close-up of the hole. Mona jumps into it and checks it out. It comes up above her waist.
MONA:
It’s perfect.
MERETE:
Great. Did you bring your mobile?
MONA:
Yep.
MERETE:
Time to send the first one?
Mona climbs out of the hole and brushes off moist sand. She takes a mobile out of her pocket and checks the time. Then she flashes Merete a conspiratorial smile.
5. INT—A FLAT IN GALGENBERG:
A man, YASHID IQBAL (28), is watching Hotel Cæsar on TV2. His mobile beeps. He picks it up and checks his messages. He frowns as he reads it. The sender is “Mona mobile.” We see what it says:
Sorry. It means nothing. HE means nothing. You are the one I love. Can we talk about it? Please?
6. INT—A TENT ON EKEBERG COMMON—EARLY EVENING:
The women are sitting next to each other. They share a cup from a flask. Steam is coming from the cup.
MERETE:
Was it good?
Mona slurps the hot tea.
MONA:
Mm.
MERETE:
I didn’t mean the tea.
MONA:
Then what did you—
Mona realizes what Merete was referring to. Mona smiles.
MONA:
It was especially good today. I like it when he’s rough.
MERETE:
Perhaps it was extra good because you knew it was the last time.
MONA:
Perhaps.
MERETE:
Will you miss it?
Mona shrugs. She passes the cup to Merete. They are quiet for a while.
MERETE:
Time to send the next one?
MONA:
We’ll wait. Give him a little more time.
MERETE:
Okay.
End of credit sequence and logo.
So far it reads like the introduction to a snuff movie, Henning thinks. He reads on:
7. INT—A FLAT IN GALGENBERG—EVENING:
Yashid Iqbal is in his kitchen. He opens the fridge and takes out a carton of skimmed milk. He is about to get a glass from a cupboard when his mobile beeps again. He takes his mobile out of his pocket. It is another message from “Mona mobile.” He reads it:
I promise to make it up to you. Please, give me another chance?
Yashid Iqbal shakes his head, mutters “what the hell is she—?” then he p
resses “call sender.” He is irritated as he walks around the kitchen. But he doesn’t get a reply. He tosses his mobile aside in anger.
8. INT—A TENT ON EKEBERG COMMON—EVENING:
Mona and Merete are still sitting beside the hole.
MERETE:
Do you think it’s going to work?
MONA:
It has to.
Mona’s mobile vibrates. The display says YASHID.
MERETE:
That’s him calling.
MERETE:
Aren’t you going to answer it?
MONA:
No.
Merete looks at Mona. It is clear that Mona is the boss.
9. INT—A FLAT IN ST. HANSHAUGEN—EVENING:
The GAARDER family is having dinner. The mood is tense. The son, GUSTAV, is sullen and picking at his food. The wife, CAROLINE, looks at her husband, HARALD. He is eating, but he is uncomfortable.
GUSTAV:
Please, may I leave the table?
CAROLINE:
But you’ve hardly eaten a thing!
GUSTAV:
Not hungry. Please, may I leave?
Caroline sighs, nods to her son, and watches him leave the room. She looks at her husband.
CAROLINE:
We are pushing him away. You are pushing him away!
Harald looks up from his plate.
HARALD:
Me?
CAROLINE:
Yes, who else?
Harald sighs.
HARALD:
Are you going to bring that up again? I thought we were done with all that?
CAROLINE:
Easy for you to say. Oh, it’s so easy for you to be “done with all that.”
Caroline mimics him. Harald flares up.
HARALD:
I don’t know what else you want me to do! I’ve told you that I won’t be seeing her again. What more do you expect?
CAROLINE:
That you actually mean it, possibly? That you stop thinking about her day in and day out, like you are now?
Harald looks away, realizes that he cannot bluff.
HARALD:
I can’t help it.
CAROLINE:
(mimics her husband)
I can’t help it.
Caroline sighs. Harald doesn’t reply. A long pause ensues.
CAROLINE:
I think we should get a divorce.
HARALD:
What?!
CAROLINE:
Why not? It’s not like we’ve a life together.