by Thomas Enger
HARALD:
You don’t mean that, Caroline. What about Gustav?
CAROLINE:
So now you suddenly care about him? You weren’t worried when you—
Caroline cannot bear to complete the sentence. She breaks down and sobs. Harald puts down his knife and fork, resigned.
10. INT—A TENT ON EKEBERG COMMON—EVENING:
Close-up of the display on Mona’s mobile. We watch her text. “Please reply? Please? I’ll never do it again. I promise!” She presses “Send.”
11. INT—A FLAT IN GALGENBERG—EVENING:
Yashid wanders restlessly around the flat. He talks to his brother, FAROUK IQBAL, who is in the living room, drinking milk. They speak in broken Norwegian.
YASHID:
Whore.
FAROUK:
I tried telling you.
YASHID:
Fucking whore!
Yashid’s mobile beeps again. The brothers look at each other.
FAROUK:
Is that her?
YASHID:
Don’t know, you moron. I haven’t checked it yet.
FAROUK:
Then do it, you moron.
Yashid glares at his brother. Then he opens the text and reads it. He tosses the mobile onto the sofa.
YASHID:
Fucking whore!
It’s tempting to think the characters in the script are based on real people, Henning thinks. But it’s also a little too convenient.
The desire for coffee resurges. He orders one from the waiter behind the bar, who looks like he minds very much that Henning has bought just the one coffee in all the time he has been there. There are only two other people in the café. They are eating their salad in silence.
His coffee arrives just as he is about to start reading again.
12. INT—A TENT ON EKEBERG COMMON—LATE EVENING:
Close-up of the hole in the ground. Mona has jumped into it again. Merete is filling up the hole with earth.
MERETE:
You managed to sort out his computer?
MONA:
Oh yes. It was easy. He took a shower after we had sex, not a problem.
MERETE:
Have we remembered everything?
MONA:
I think so. Wait a moment—let me get my arms out.
MERETE:
Okay.
Mona pulls her arms out of the sandy soil.
MONA:
Right. Carry on.
Merete carries on filling the hole. Soon the sand reaches all the way up to Mona’s armpits. Merete puts down the spade, she is panting.
MERETE:
Anything you want to say before we begin?
Mona considers this. She clears her throat.
MONA:
(in a solemn voice):
This is for all the women in the world. But especially for us in Norway.
Merete smiles. The camera moves slowly from Merete’s face to the ground behind her. We see the spade. We see the bag Mona brought with her. It is open. Next to it lies a large heavy stone.
Henriette can’t possibly have subjected herself to this, Henning thinks, and looks up. She can’t possibly have acted out a role, used her own script and let herself be stoned to death to promote a political message!?
It’s only a movie, Henning. He hears his mother’s voice and remembers how he used to climb into her lap when Detective Derrick solved murder mysteries every Friday evening. Someone must have used Henriette’s script against her. To mock her? To point the finger at someone?
He reads on:
Caption against a black background: Two weeks later
13. INT—AN INTERVIEW ROOM AT THE POLICE STATION—LATE MORNING:
Yashid Iqbal sits at a table. Police officers sit opposite. The officers look grave.
OFFICER 1:
What did you do after you received the text messages, Yashid? Did you go over to confront her?
Yashid doesn’t reply.
OFFICER 2:
We know that you tried to call her. We also know that you left your flat just after eight o’clock that night.
OFFICER 1:
There’s evidence of a brutal sexual assault, Yashid.
OFFICER 2:
And we have your laptop. You checked her email that afternoon. Why did you do that?
OFFICER 1:
We get it, Yashid. You got angry. It’s understandable. She was screwing around, you got angry and you taught her a lesson.
OFFICER 2:
You can make it much easier for yourself by talking, Yashid. Tell us what happened. You’ll feel better for it.
Yashid says nothing.
OFFICER 1:
After you got the text messages, you went to the place where she was filming. You raped her and buried her in a hole in the ground. Afterward you picked up some heavy stones and threw them at her until she died. That’s the appropriate punishment, isn’t it? For being unfaithful?
Yashid looks at the police officers. Yashid’s lawyer leans toward him and whispers into his ear. Yashid leans forward.
YASHID:
I love Mona. I’m innocent.
The police officers look at each other and sigh.
Caption against a black background: Five months later
14. INT—OSLO COURTHOUSE—NOON:
Yashid sits next to his lawyer. Harald Gaarder sits some rows behind him. He looks depressed and gloomy. Farouk Iqbal is there, too. He looks anxious. The judge enters. Everyone stands up.
JUDGE:
Sit down, please.
Everyone sits down. The judge looks at the jury.
JUDGE:
Has the jury reached a verdict?
FOREMAN OF THE JURY:
We have.
15. INT—OSLO COURTHOUSE—NOON:
Close-up of Yashid. He looks down. He is visibly nervous. The camera zooms out. Merete sits at the back of the courtroom. The picture of her grows sharper. She remains in focus while the foreman of the jury reads out the verdict.
FOREMAN OF THE JURY:
In the case against Yashid Iqbal, we, the jury, find the defendant guilty of all charges.
The courtroom erupts with jubilation. Merete looks at Harald Gaarder. She smiles to him. Gaarder looks away and leaves. Merete takes out a mobile. She writes a text message. We see what she writes.
One down. Plenty more to go.
She scrolls through her contacts, finds Mona, and presses “Send.”
THE END
He puts down the script, slightly disappointed, and rubs his eyes. The trailer promised a blood-dripping thriller and all he got was a mediocre drama. The script was supposed to be his Pandora’s Box, but there was no mention of stun guns, floggings, or severed hands. He begins to wonder if other, more brutal, versions of the script exists.
The initial premise was fine: two women stage a “murder” and make sure that one woman’s boyfriend is arrested and convicted of the murder, even though he is innocent. It is only a flight of fancy, Henning reasons, wishful thinking. Translated into real life, Mona and Merete will respectively be Henriette and Anette, while Mahmoud Marhoni is Yashid Iqbal. And Tariq is Farouk.
So far so good. And, so far, most of it matches Henning’s own theories. Mahmoud Marhoni is innocent, and someone is trying to set him up. Text messages, hinted infidelity, a last rough fuck which borders on rape. It won’t be easy for a suspect to distance himself from that kind of evidence, especially not if the suspect stays silent during interview.
But who is Harald Gaarder? His family and its fate were given so much space in the script that they must be important. But are they important in real life, too? As his mother said, it’s only a film. Not everything has to mirror reality.
He explores the possibility, anyway. Harald Gaarder had an affair with Mona—who else could it have been—and the infidelity is punished by stoning. But then why do Gaarder and Merete look at each other at the end? Why was she smiling?
The real-life Gaarde
r character must know Anette. The man who had an affair with Henriette must be known to both women. The only one, Henning can think of, based on the people he has met so far, is Yngve Foldvik. But Foldvik hasn’t read the script, so it can’t be him. Unless Foldvik is lying? But why would he lie about that? He must be aware that this kind of allegation is easy to check, if the police can be bothered. Evidence on his computer, copies of the script somewhere, in his office, at home. If he is caught out in such a simple lie, it’s handcuffs straight away and welcome to Ullersmo Prison. There must be other adults, he thinks, another family. Anette’s, perhaps? Or Henriette’s?
He thinks about Henriette. Beautiful, gentle, extrovert Henriette. What sort of person were you really? Foldvik described your work as “provocations with substance.” Henning can see what he meant, even though the issue of sharia is examined in a narrow and very simplistic manner. The message seems to be that idiots who promote sharia need to be got rid of, and that we—for our own sake—mustn’t shy away from any means in the fight to protect ourselves and our culture, women the world over unite—and don’t put up with it!
But where is the gunpowder? When is the explosion? Where are the incriminating lines, the ammunition, which caused someone to act out what was a fantasy? Hagerup isn’t exactly Theo van Gogh, the Dutch director who made films critical of Islam and who was killed with eight pistol shots in Amsterdam in 2004. The killer went on to cut Van Gogh’s throat, insert two knives into his chest, and attach a long threatening letter to them. As far as Henning knows, Hagerup wasn’t Islamophobic. And her boyfriend was a Muslim.
The more Henning thinks about it, the more convinced he is that someone close to Anette and Henriette must be behind this. I have to find out who was involved in the filming, he thinks, who had access to the script, and if any outsiders read it. The killer, or the killers, must be among them.
43
He fights the urge to call Anette. It’s too soon. She made it clear that he mustn’t try to help her, and besides, he wants more control over the story before he contacts her again.
Instead he calls Bjarne Brogeland. Henning got his mobile number after his interview at the police station. Brogeland replies almost instantly.
“Hi, Bjarne, it’s Henning.”
“Hi, Henning! How you?”
“Eh, all right. Listen . . . can we meet?”
A few seconds of silence follow.
“Now?”
“Yes. Straightaway, if you can, and some place neutral, preferably. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“In your capacity as a journalist?”
“Of that I’m not entirely sure.”
“Does this have anything to do with Tariq Marhoni?”
“No. His brother. And Henriette Hagerup. In the light of that, it might have something to do with Tariq. Like I said, I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?”
“No. But I guarantee that you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say and see what I’ve found. I just don’t want to do it over the telephone.”
A thinking pause follows.
“Okay. Where do you want to meet?”
“Lompa.”
“Good. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Great. See you there.”
He decides to take a cab from the Gode Café, no matter how risky it might be. He waits in Fredensborgvei until he sees a free taxi, one that isn’t silver. Nor was it made in Germany or have the number A2052 on its roof, either. The driver is an older man with gray hair, steel spectacles, and he smells of Old Spice. He doesn’t say much during the trip.
This suits Henning fine. It means he can think in peace while they drive past buildings, people, and cars. He always feels a sense of calm when he is on his way somewhere and he isn’t responsible for the transport. It’s like pressing the pause button on yourself while the rest of the world moves on.
He wonders what must have gone through Henriette Hagerup’s head when it dawned on her that her own script was about to be played out for real and she had the starring role. Perhaps she never saw it coming, he thinks. Perhaps she didn’t have time to react before she was stunned by the gun, and the stoning began before she regained consciousness.
He hopes so. And he hopes that Anette lies low. If Henriette was killed because of the script, Anette is likely to be the next victim.
44
Lompa, or The Olympen Restaurant, to give it its proper name, was closed at the start of October 2006 for refurbishment and reopened the following year. Henning was a regular at Lompa before That Which He Doesn’t Think About. It was a great place to grab a bite to eat and a beer; unpretentious clientele and friendly service.
The moment he enters, he realizes that the atmosphere has changed. It is missing the magic ingredient that creates the buzz, the charming chaos, the relaxed crowd. If you remove that one ingredient from the recipe, the sauce will never be the same again. The place looks great after the renovation, but it’s not the same.
He finds Brogeland in the bar. He isn’t in uniform now. Bubbles sparkle in a shiny glass next to him. They shake hands.
“Do you mind if we sit down?” Henning says. “Preferably near the exit?”
He doesn’t feel like explaining why, so he makes up an excuse:
“Standing up gives me a backache.”
“Of course.”
They go to an empty table by the window. They have a view of Grønlandsleiret. Cars zoom past. All of them appear to be silver. An effusive woman in a waitress’s uniform comes over to them.
“Would you like to see the menu?”
“No thank you. Just coffee, please.”
Brogeland gestures to indicate that he is happy with his effervescent drink. He follows the waitress with his eyes as she leaves and disappears behind the bar. When he turns around, the expression in his eyes has changed. He doesn’t say anything, he just gives Henning the “start talking” look. Henning takes it as a sign that Brogeland has no interest in swapping stories about what has happened in their lives between school and work.
He takes out the script and slams it on the table.
“The text messages which Henriette Hagerup sent to Mahmoud Marhoni the night she was killed, they wouldn’t happen to look like these?”
He shows him the page with the first text message and studies Brogeland’s reaction. It’s not a difficult task. Brogeland recoils.
“What the—”
“This screenplay was written by Henriette Hagerup and one of her fellow students.”
Henning shows him the next two text messages. Brogeland skims them.
“But these are word for word! How did you get hold of them?”
“Anette Skoppum,” Henning says, pointing to her name on the cover. Brogeland leans forward. Henning continues: “The script tells the story of a woman who is stoned to death in a hole in the ground, in a tent on Ekeberg Common. At the end, an innocent man is jailed for her murder.”
“Marhoni,” Brogeland says, softly. Henning nods. He decides to share most of his thoughts and findings from the last few days. He holds a monologue that lasts almost five minutes. It is a deliberate strategy. First, it is always good to discuss your ideas with someone. Your thoughts and opinions may change when you voice them. Writing sentences is similar: it may look fine on paper, but you never really know if a sentence works until you say it out loud.
Second, he wants Brogeland to owe him. Now that he is absolutely sure that Brogeland didn’t know about the script when he entered Lompa, Henning is owed at least one favor in return. It is the ultimate way to foster a relationship with a source.
“Where is Anette now?” Brogeland asks when Henning has finished.
“Don’t know.”
“We need to find her.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be very easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“She knows Henriette was killed because of the script, and if I were Anette, I would be terrifie
d of being the next person buried in that hole.”
“You think she has gone into hiding?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Brogeland doesn’t reply, but Henning can see that he agrees with him.
“I’ll need to take that script with me.”
Henning is about to refuse, but he knows that would be obstructing an ongoing investigation. And that’s a criminal offense.
He would prefer not to have a criminal record.
“If you could make me a copy, that would be great,” he says.
“I’ll do that. Bloody hell, Henning. This is—”
He shakes his head.
“I know. I bet Gjerstad’s eyes will pop out, when you pull this out at the next meeting.”
Brogeland smiles. Most people harbor negative feelings about their boss. It could be body odor, dress sense, accent, or eating habits—trivial things, or simply the way they do their job. There are a lot of bad managers out there.
And a joke at the expense of Brogeland’s boss is an effective weapon for someone like Henning, who is trying to build a relationship with a source—if the source responds to it, that is. The source might like his boss or might even be having an affair with the person in question. In other words, tread softly, take your time. But Henning is good at taking his time. And he can see that Brogeland gets an image of Gjerstad in his head.
Brogeland takes a sip of mineral water and coughs.
“The day Henriette was killed,” he says, putting his glass down, “Marhoni saw a photo that had been emailed to Henriette.”
Henning looks up at him.
“A photo?”
“Yes.”
“What of?”
“Of Hagerup and an unidentified man. They’re embracing each other.”
“One of those “hi great to see you” hugs, or something more incriminating?”
“A little more incriminating. It looks like she’s throwing herself at him.”
“And you don’t know who he is?”
“No. But he looks mature. Over forty.”
“And this picture was emailed to Henriette?”
“Yes.”
“Who sent it?”
“We don’t know. Not yet, anyway. The sender is an anonymous email account. The computer it was sent from has an IP address belonging to an Internet café in Mozambique.”