Burned

by Thomas Enger

  Brogeland throws up his hands.

  “But Marhoni had a look at Henriette’s emails and he saw the picture?”

  “Yes. He denies it, but he has also stated that he’s the only person who uses his computer.”

  “And that was the only thing he looked at?”

  Brogeland shakes his head.

  “He checked his own emails as well and he visited a couple of other websites that day. Nothing special or compromising.”

  “In the script, Merete asks Mona if she has “sorted out his computer.” Here, do you see?”

  Brogeland can see it.

  “Yashid took a shower after they had sex and that’s obviously when Mona did it. Sorted out his laptop.”

  Brogeland nods and swallows the last of his club soda. He puts the glass down with a bang and suppresses a burp discreetly.

  “Henriette might have done the same,” he says eagerly. “She was with Marhoni the day she was killed. And there were clear signs that she had been given a good seeing to.”

  “I don’t know,” Henning hesitates.

  “What is it?”

  “This would suggest that Henriette is doing this with her eyes open. That she deliberately goes to see Mahmoud, has it off with him, makes sure she fiddles with his computer while he’s not looking, and goes out later that night to be stoned to death. That doesn’t make sense.”

  Brogeland hesitates, then he nods.

  “No one willingly lets themselves be stoned to death, no matter how messed up they might be,” Henning continues. “I can’t imagine that Henriette would do something like this to get a message across. The film was supposed to be her message. It might be a coincidence that she checked her mail that very day. At Marhoni’s. Or somebody wanted her to do it, to make it look bad for Marhoni. What does her phone records show around the time in question?”

  “We haven’t managed to cross-reference the records yet, but she probably made some calls.”

  Henning explains there is no mention of a flogging, a stun gun, or a severed hand in the script. Brogeland digests it all.

  “How do you know all that? That information hasn’t been released to the press yet.”

  Henning smiles.

  “Oh, come on, Bjarne.”

  “Gjerstad is furious because someone’s leaking to NRK.”

  “And it wasn’t you?”

  “Dear Lord, no!”

  “And it wasn’t that blonde you can’t keep your eyes off?”

  “Out of the question.”

  Then Brogeland realizes what Henning has said.

  “What do you—”

  “We never reveal our sources,” Henning says. “You know that. I’ll never disclose your identity, either. Likewise, I expect you to keep my name out of this.”

  “I can’t promise that!”

  “Is that right? I’ve no intention of wasting the next few days in an interview room at the police station. If you want my continued cooperation, I’m prepared to talk to you and no one else. Okay?”

  Brogeland debates this. Up until now, Henning has viewed him with the same suspicious eyes as when he was a child. This might be about to change.

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Tariq, incidentally, also features in the script,” Henning continues. “But he only plays a minor role.”

  “He doesn’t get killed?”

  “No.”

  “So someone is taking liberties with the script.”

  “Yes, or they’re adapting it. Or making sure that anyone who knows what happened is removed.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think there must be more than one killer.”

  “Why?”

  “You think Yasser Shah killed Henriette Hagerup and Tariq Marhoni? That doesn’t sound likely.”

  “He might have killed them both to hurt Mahmoud?”

  “Possibly, but I’m not buying it. Why go to so much trouble to kill Henriette when two shots to the chest and one to the head does exactly the same job for Tariq?”

  “Perhaps Tariq knew who the killer was? What if he was killed as part of a cleanup operation?”

  “In which case Tariq knew a lot more than we first assumed. It also means that both he and his brother were mixed up in something nasty.”

  “Tariq didn’t strike me as the type. He took photographs. Besides, he seemed like a decent guy.”

  “Well, you would know better than I. After all, you interviewed him just before he was killed.”

  “Yes, and I don’t remember him saying anything which might suggest that someone would want to silence him. But he was reluctant to tell me what his brother did for a living, and that struck me as a little odd.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And you haven’t found Yasser Shah yet?”

  “No. He’s not at home, not at work or in any of the places he usually hangs out, nor has there been any activity on his credit card in the last few days. He hasn’t crossed any borders, either.”

  “Do you think he’s still alive?”

  “Are you saying someone might have killed him?”

  “Yes. It’s not improbable, given that I identified him and You’re looking for him. Yasser Shah was, as far as I could tell from his criminal record, a small fish. He only had petty-crime convictions. His disappearance suggests he was paid for the hit or that someone ordered him to do it. And if that someone is trying to cover their tracks, then Shah is potentially a huge problem. He knows too much. He might even know why Hagerup and Tariq were killed.”

  “Yes, but gangs look after their members. They’re prepared to keep their people hidden, if they get into trouble.”

  “Perhaps. But do you think they’re ready to run that big a risk? We’re talking about a murder here.”

  “Possibly. I don’t know a lot about BBB. They came to our attention after I finished working as a plainclothes officer, after Operation Gangbuster was set up.”

  Henning ponders this for a while. The more he bats the arguments back and forth, the more he agrees with Brogeland. The murder of Tariq is unrelated to the murder of Henriette Hagerup. Tariq was collateral damage. He was no player. All he did was take photographs.

  Then a thought occurs to him. And after that first one, the ideas start to flood in: Tariq Marhoni was killed to send a message to Mahmoud. That’s why Mahmoud isn’t talking, that’s why he set fire to his laptop. There is something on his computer which implicates other people. People who are prepared to kill to keep that information hidden. And Henning doesn’t think for one moment that information is a picture of Henriette hugging an unidentified man.

  He shares his thoughts with Brogeland, who is silent for a long time. When he does start talking again, he does so quietly. And he is very serious:

  “If what you’re saying is true, we need to put the pressure on BBB. And this will have consequences for you, Henning,” he says, boring his eyes into him. “You’ll need to tread carefully from now on.”

  “What you mean?”

  “If these guys are anything like the other gangs operating in Oslo, then we’re talking about hardcore bastards. They’ve no conscience. If you’re the only person who can put Yasser Shah at the crime scene, you are—in their eyes—a dead man. Like I said, they look out for each other. But worse, you have helped put a spotlight on them and their activities, which could ruin their source of income. Or reduce it significantly. These guys are very concerned about profit. Mix it all together and you have a lethal cocktail.”

  “You’re saying they want me dead?”

  Brogeland looks at him gravely.

  “There’s a good chance, certainly.”

  “Perhaps,” Henning says and looks out of the window. A man is smoking across the street. Henning looks at him. The man looks at Henning. For a long time.

  He considers what Brogeland has said. Henning’s face is plastered all over today’s newspapers. It won’t take long to find out where he works, where he live
s, or get to his relatives.

  Damn, he says to himself.

  Mum.

  45

  Henning can no longer see the man across the street. He didn’t get a proper look at him, but he noticed that the man was short and compact. He was bald, too, not ethnic Norwegian bald, a little more dark-skinned. He wore shorts and a white, open-necked, short-sleeved shirt with some sort of print on it, but it was hard to take everything in during the brief moment he looked at him. And now the man has gone.

  Henning calls his mother as he walks. Her telephone rings. It rings for a long time. He starts to worry. He tells himself that her mobility isn’t that bad, only that she needs time to move from one point to another if she gets a coughing fit.

  He lets the telephone ring and ring. Perhaps she is cross and is leaving it to ring deliberately because she wants him to feel bad. That usually works. And it’s working now. For God’s sake, Mum, he says to itself. Pick up, please!

  He crosses the road at the top of Tøyengata. He stares at the pavement, trying to look inconspicuous. He can feel his heart beat faster and faster under his shirt. For God’s sake, Mum, he thinks again and speeds up. His legs protest, but he has already made up his mind to visit her. If she isn’t answering her telephone, he needs to hurry up. He looks around as he walks, but it is chaos, there are people everywhere, cars, taxis; he sees them, but he doesn’t see them. He has a constant feeling that someone is watching him, following him. He smells something sharp and spicy. He passes a video shop at the entrance to Grønland Underground Station and just as he is about to hang up, the telephone is answered. But there is no reply.

  “Mum?” he whispers. He doubts that his voice can be heard through the noise from the station, but he can hear her breathing, or her attempts to breathe.

  Nothing is wrong. No new disasters at any rate. He can hear that she is angry—without her saying anything. That’s the strange thing about her. She can give a whole lecture without uttering a single word. A glance, a sigh, a grunt, or a turn of her head is enough. Christine Juul has a whole arsenal of feelings or opinions which are never spoken. She is like Streken, the children’s television character, whose background changes color depending on what mood he is in.

  Nothing good ever happens to Streken.

  “Are you there?” he continues.

  A snort.

  Precisely.

  “How are you, Mum?” he says, realizing the pointlessness of his question immediately.

  “Why are you calling?” she grunts.

  “I just wanted to—”

  “I’m out of milk.”

  “Eh—”

  “And I need more cigarettes.”

  He doesn’t know why he waits for her to tell him that he needs to go to the off-license as well, because she never does, she just lets it hang like an invisible bridge between his telephone and hers, as if she expects him to understand without the need for her to say so. And he does. Perhaps that’s why.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll come and see you soon. I don’t know if I can manage it today, because I’ve a lot on, but it won’t be long. And another thing, Mum. Don’t open your door to strangers. Okay?”

  “Why would I want to open the door? I never get any visitors.”

  “But if someone were to ring the bell, and it isn’t me or Trine, then don’t open the door.”

  “You both have keys.”

  “Yes, but you—”

  “And I need a new magazine.”

  “I—”

  “And some sugar. I’m out of sugar.”

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  Click.

  46

  Zaheerullah Hassan Mintroza is having dinner. Today, as yesterday, it is chicken biryani with chapatti, but it doesn’t taste like it does in Karachi. It rarely does. Hassan doesn’t know why, because the ingredients are the same, they are flown to Oslo almost daily and the food is cooked in Norway by Pakistanis. Perhaps it has to do with the cooking utensils, the air temperature, the humidity, the love with which the food is prepared.

  Hassan remembers when Julie, the finest mistress he had some years ago, surprised him by cooking Pakistani lamb casserole with mint chutney and naan when he visited her one evening. She had got the recipe from Wenche Andersen on Good Morning, Norway. She had even tried to bake naan from scratch.

  It tasted good, but that was all. Real naan is baked in a tandoori oven, at the far end, and it must cook for no more than fifteen to twenty seconds. The lamb casserole contained far too much coriander and ginger, and not enough chili.

  He dumped her a month later. None of his other mistresses has ever been allowed to cook for him. They know what he expects from them, and dinner on the table when he visits isn’t the reason he pays their rent.

  In Pakistan all chefs are men. Women don’t measure up. That’s just the way it is.

  Hassan is watching an episode of MacGyver when his mobile, which is lying next to his plate, starts to vibrate. He swallows a large chunk of chicken, slightly too large, and has to force it down. He washes it down with Coke, before he answers the call. When he finally does, it is with a brusque “yes” and still with food somewhere in his throat.

  “It’s Mohammed. We’ve found him.”

  Hassan swallows again.

  “Good. Where is he?”

  More Coke.

  “Walking down the street. He’s in Grønlandsleiret right now. Do you want us to take him out right away?”

  Hassan prods the food on his plate with his fork.

  “In the middle of the afternoon? Are you stupid or something? We’ve attracted enough attention as it is.”

  “Okay.”

  Hassan takes another bite.

  “By the way, I want a word with him before he dies. I want to know how he got those horrendous scars,” he says, still eating. He puts down his fork and wipes his mouth.

  “Okay.”

  “I want to know where he spends the rest of the day. Don’t do anything until you’ve spoken to me.”

  Another okay.

  “And put a car outside his place of work and his flat.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Hassan hangs up and finishes his dinner. Definitely not chicken biryani tomorrow. No, he fancies dhal, perhaps a kebab of grilled tandoori king prawns with onion and paprika. Yes. Definitely king prawns. A royal meal fit for a king.

  47

  It is almost four o’clock, but Henning decides to stop by the office, anyway. He has no articles to file, because he hasn’t found out anything he feels he can write about yet, but he is working. And he hasn’t shown his face since this morning. I ought to report to Heidi or Tourette Kåre, he thinks. Have a chat with Gundersen, perhaps, if he’s around.

  He takes a risk and crosses the street at Vaterland Park. He is dragging his legs across the road, some distance away from the pedestrian crossing, dodging the worst of the rush-hour traffic, when he becomes aware of a car on the far side of the lights. It’s not a silver Mercedes, it’s a Volvo too far away for him to make out the model, but it accelerates as the lights change from green to amber. It is forced to brake when the car in front blocks him. Tires screech. Horns beep. Horns beep all over Oslo. All day long.

  The Volvo gets a response from the car in front. Henning is half expecting a confrontation, that the Volvo driver will get out and have a go at the driver of the car in front, but it doesn’t happen. Instead the man in the passenger seat rolls down his window and sticks his head out. Henning can’t make out his face properly, all he can see is a pair of gleaming, gold-framed sunglasses, even though there isn’t a single ray of sunshine for miles around.

  He registers this because he instantly gets the feeling that the man is looking for him. If they are all like Ray-Ban Man, Henning thinks, perhaps he doesn’t have much to fear. But some idiots carry guns and if you give a moron a gun, you can get him to do almost anything.

  The thought makes him speed up and he decides to make a detour on his way to the o
ffice. The area between Grønlansleiret and Urtegata can seem a little inhospitable regardless of the time of day, so he walks up Brugata, mingles with people at the bus station, and jumps on the number 17 tram when it arrives a few minutes later. He rides it up Trondheimsvei and gets off at the Rimi shop, follows Herslebsgate until the large yellow building at the top of Urtegata is once more in sight. Cars zoom past him in both directions; it is the height of the rush hour, and if anyone wants to kill him or kidnap him, it would be impossible to do it here. With one million witnesses and no clear escape routes, Henning can feel safe. Or relatively safe.

  Perhaps I’m just paranoid, he thinks, perhaps I’ve been out of the game too long to know that this is completely normal, that nothing is going to happen? But there was something about the way Brogeland spoke which got his attention. Brogeland was worried. He knows about this gang. And as Nora said: they’re not nice people.

  He catches himself wondering how this is all going to end. If they are trying to kill him—as Brogeland hinted—because he can place Yasser Shah in Tariq Marhoni’s flat, they won’t stop until they have succeeded.

  48

  Henning needs to check a couple of things. When he arrives at the office, he is thinking about them and practically collides with Kåre Hjeltland at the coffee machine. Kåre is about to step aside, when he sees who it is.

  “Henning!”

  “Hi, Kåre,” Henning replies. Kåre gazes at him as if he were Elvis.

  “How are you? Bloody hell! Bloody hell, you must have been scared shitless?”

  Henning reluctantly agrees that he was a little scared, yes, he probably was.

  “What the hell happened!?”

  Henning takes a step back and hopes that Kåre won’t notice. While he gives him the abbreviated version, he checks the room. Gundersen isn’t there. But he spots Heidi. And he can see that Heidi has spotted him.

  “Listen, I didn’t manage to get back to the staff meeting,” he says. “I heard Sture was going to say a few words?”