by Thomas Enger
“Yes, one of them. But not about the contents, only that she would send him the script when she had finished it.”
“Do you remember roughly when that was?”
“A while ago. I don’t remember the exact date.”
“How about text messages? Have you found out who texted Henriette on the day she was killed? About the time she was with Marhoni?”
“She received two or three texts during that period. One of them said ‘check your email.’ ”
“Who sent it?”
“We don’t know. But we know that the text, like the email with the photo, was also sent from Mozambique, from one of those anonymous sites.”
“Right. Okay. Thank you.”
“By the way, you need to come in for an interview today. Gjerstad lost his rag last night when I told him we had only spoken on the telephone.”
“When?”
“We’ll be interviewing Mahmoud Marhoni again at ten o’clock. Sometime after that. Why don’t we say eleven AM, and see how the land lies around that time?”
“I’ll try and make it.”
“You have to.”
“You said ‘the crime scene’ a minute ago. Does that mean you’re treating Stefan’s death as suspicious?”
Brogeland groans.
“I haven’t got time to talk to you. I’ve got to go. We can talk later.”
“So you are treating his death as suspicious.”
“I didn’t say that. And don’t you dare speculate about it in your newspaper, either.”
“I never speculate about suicide.”
“No, okay. Talk to you later.”
Click. Henning stares into the distance. The police have found something, he thinks, or the absence of something is enough to make them suspicious. If not, Brogeland would have dismissed it categorically.
58
Brogeland happens to meet Ella Sandland at the coffee machine.
“Good morning,” she says, without turning around.
Damn, she’s hot!
“Good morning.”
Her hair looks as if she has just washed it. She smells discreetly of lavender. Or is it jasmine? He doesn’t remember her smelling of creams or soaps before. Scents suit her. Damn, how they suit her! He feels like eating her up, savoring her, slowly, with a spoon and sugar and whipped cream.
Brogeland is reminded of something Henning Juul said, when they met at Lompa. And it wasn’t that blonde you can’t keep your eyes off?
Is he really that obvious? And if Juul can see it, then surely Sandland can, too? He hopes so and, at the same time, doesn’t. Whether she has noticed or not, she is doing disappointingly little about it. Perhaps she’s just waiting for me to make the first move, he thinks. Perhaps she’s one of those.
“Sleep well?” she asks and pours herself a cup of coffee.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
She smiles briefly and offers him a cup. He nods.
“Are Gjerstad and Nøkleby here?”
“No, they’ll be in later. Gjerstad said to start without him. The more theories we can examine before they get here, the better.”
“Okay.”
They take their coffee cups and go to the meeting room. Emil Hagen and Fredrik Stang are already there. Hagen is flicking through Aftenposten, while Stang is staring at a board displaying the names of the victims and the people connected to them. It looks like one big muddle of names, lines, times, dates, arrows, bold lines, and more arrows going back and forth. There is a timeline beginning with the murder of Henriette Hagerup.
Sandland and Brogeland sit down.
“Good morning,” they say in unison. Hagen and Stang straighten up.
“So, where are we?” Brogeland says. There is a tacit agreement that Brogeland is boss when the Boss isn’t there.
“Anette Skoppum never showed up at the party yesterday,” Hagen begins and yawns. “I was there till just after one o’clock this morning.”
Brogeland picks up a pen and makes a note.
“Any credit card or mobile activities?”
“No. None. Her mobile has been switched off since yesterday afternoon.”
Brogeland nods, but doesn’t make a note.
“Fredrik, you’re in touch with Operation Gangbuster. Any news about BBB?”
“They know what the leader and some of the members are up to, but there are a lot of them. Something may be happening further down the food chain.”
“Something always is.”
“Yes, unfortunately they don’t have the resources to watch every gang member. Even the ones we know about. And there are other gangs in Oslo they need to keep an eye on as well. Nevertheless, I doubt that BBB would get up anything, now that they know we’re watching them.”
“No trace of Yasser Shah?”
“No. He has gone underground. I spoke to an officer from Operation Gangbuster yesterday who said he thought Yasser could have gone back to Pakistan.”
“What about Hassan?”
“He goes to work and then he goes home. Or rather to his homes, he has several, so it depends on which girlfriend he wants to screw.”
Stang looks at Sandland and reddens. She looks back at him with no signs of embarrassment.
“Er, that’s all, really.”
Brogeland sighs. The investigation is making slow progress. He is just about to start briefing them on Stefan Foldvik, when Sandland’s mobile vibrates. She apologizes. Then Brogeland’s own mobile buzzes. Beeps come from Hagen’s. Stang looks at the others. His mobile stays silent.
“What’s happening?” he says. Brogeland opens the text message, he has just received. He types in a number and waits for a reply. It follows promptly.
“Hello, this is DI Brogeland.”
He looks at Sandland while he listens to the voice down the other end.
“Are you sure? You’ve checked everywhere, spoken to neighbors, friends, relatives, everyone?”
Brogeland listens, nods, and hangs up.
“Damn,” he says and shoots out of his chair, as quick as lightning.
59
Iver Gundersen manages to look even more tired than Henning feels. Henning crosses his fingers and hopes that Gundersen’s lack of sleep is the result of a blazing row with Nora. Gundersen joins the national news crowd and says hi, his breath reeking of garlic and alcohol. He sets down his cup of coffee.
“Late night?” Henning asks.
“Later than I had planned,” Gundersen says, bending down to switch on his computer. He straightens up, pulls a face, and starts to massage his temples with his fingertips.
“They cook bloody good food at Delicatessen,” he says. “One beer soon leads to another, when you’re enjoying yourself.”
Enjoying yourself, Henning fumes. Dammit! He was going to tell him about yesterday, but given that Iver is preoccupied with enjoying himself, he drops the idea.
“What’s up?” Gundersen asks and takes a seat. His body wobbles on the chair. He runs his fingers through his hair. Henning suspects Gundersen didn’t even shower before going to work, that it is all a part of his image: a rough diamond.
What does she see in him?
“Nothing much,” Henning says. “Any excitement your end?”
“Maybe,” Gundersen says, moving the mouse. “I’ve a twelve o’clock appointment with Mahmoud Marhoni’s lawyer. The police are interviewing him again this morning, and I hope to get a detailed update of recent developments. I’ve got a good relationship with Indrehaug. Heidi mentioned that you thought the police were about to eliminate Marhoni?”
Henning swears silently, while Gundersen opens his browser.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Based on what?”
“Facts and evidence,” he snaps. It is clearly too early for a serious discussion, maybe Gundersen can only do one thing at a time: read the newspaper, drink coffee, then read the other newspapers, drink more coffee, gradually get his head in gear.
“And that
means?” Gundersen says, slurping his scalding hot coffee. Henning exhales and wonders where to begin. He is saved when Gundersen’s mobile beeps. Gundersen reads the message and frowns.
“Do you know who Foldvik is?” he asks.
“Foldvik?”
“Yes. Yngve and Ingvild Foldvik?”
“Yes, I know who they are,” Henning says, barely managing to control his breathing. “They work at the college, where Henriette Hagerup was a student. What’s this about?”
“I’ve got a tip off that the police are looking for them.”
“What do you mean ‘looking for them’? Have they disappeared?”
“Seems like it.”
“Are you sure?”
He has already risen from his chair. Gundersen snorts.
“I’m only reading what it says here.”
Henning squeezes past him as fast as his legs will allow him.
“What’s wrong?” Gunderson calls out. The bewilderment in his voice is audible, but Henning ignores it. He doesn’t have time. He rushes outside, gets on his Vespa, and zooms off in the direction of Westerdals School of Communication.
60
There might be a perfectly natural explanation, Henning thinks as he drives down Urtegata. Perhaps the Foldviks needed to get away, just the two of them, process their grief in private. Create some distance to their tragedy, reduce the noise.
He pushes the Vespa hard, turns into Hausmannsgate and crosses the junction just as the lights change from green to amber. A dark-haired woman pushing a pram shakes her fist at him and shouts something, he doesn’t hear. He can see her outrage clearly in his wing mirror as he passes a dirty, oyster-gray Opel Vectra.
And he spots something else, too. A minicab. Even in the small wing mirror, he can see a letter and four numbers.
A2052.
Omar Rabia Rashid, or someone driving for him, accelerates. The silver Mercedes receives the same angry hand gesture from the dark-haired woman, but the minicab crosses without anyone getting hurt.
On impulse, Henning turns left into Calmeyersgate, speeds up, and passes a lorry left with its engine running outside a Thai supermarket. Henning ignores the Give Way sign as he comes up to the next street, but he can’t turn into it because it is one way and then he thinks why not, there are no cars around, so he does it, he turns right, someone on the pavement shouts after him, but he doesn’t care. If the police happen to be in the vicinity and notice his careless or dangerous driving, they are welcome to pull him over. It would give him a chance to point out the guys who are following him.
He soon finds himself in Torggate, where the cars are bumper to bumper. One of them is yellow, even now he can’t ignore yellow cars. He sees that the bicycle lane is clear and pulls into it, speeds up again, nearly running over a seagull, which flaps up right in front of him. He checks his mirror to see if the Mercedes is following, but it isn’t in his field of vision. Suddenly, he has to brake, bloody pedestrian crossing, why doesn’t anyone look where they are going, he thinks, people just walk straight out into the road, he wants to beep his horn but realizes what a self-defeating gesture it would be. He presses the accelerator and gains speed before he has to stop again, this time for a red light.
He is tempted to jump the lights, which are painfully slow to change. He checks his mirror, no silver Mercedes; he looks up, cars are zooming back and forth in both directions, but then they start to slow down. The lights change from green to amber, he twists the throttle open full force, turns to the left, and manages to get across the pedestrian crossing before the pedestrians are halfway across the road. Back in Hausmannsgate, he checks his mirror again, no sign of A2052, he drives on, aware that several cars are having to slow down, but he has no intention of letting them pass. Another pedestrian crossing, he sweeps across it, passes Elvebakken School to his right, some students are outside smoking. He soon reaches the bottom of Rostedsgate, another red light, damn! He positions himself as far ahead as he can, turns to see where the minicab is. He can see other minicabs, but not A2052, not yet, but it might be only seconds before it catches up with him, what will happen then? They’re bound to know where I’m heading, he thinks, they know where Westerdals is, they’re cabdrivers, for crying out loud! He drives onto the pedestrian crossing, registers that a pedestrian glares at him, but he doesn’t care, he pulls up on the pavement, speeds up, carries on driving down the pavement until he can pull out into the street again. When he looks to the left, all he sees are buildings and concrete. The minicab can’t possibly see him now. Oh, you lovely Vespa!
He accelerates down the street until he reaches Fredensborgvei and turns into the college car park. He sees a substation and parks his Vespa behind it, out of sight to anyone driving past. He removes his helmet and looks around. No A2052. Though they can’t be far away. He hurries onto the college grounds.
He spots Tore Benjaminsen straightaway. He is tempted to go over to him, but there are too many people around. And what would he say? “Have you seen Yngve Foldvik? Did you know that he has gone missing?” It occurs to him that he isn’t entirely sure why he has come. What did I think I would see or understand once I got here? he asks himself. It’s not like the Foldviks might be hiding out at the college. Was he hoping that the students or the staff would know where the Foldviks go when they want a little time to themselves? He can’t even be sure that anyone here knows what has happened.
He shakes his head at his own impetuousness. Then he turns around and jumps. He is looking right into the eyes of Anette Skoppum.
61
Bjarne Brogeland is pacing up and down his office. The tired, Lapp face of Ann-Mari Sara, the crime scene technician, has just popped up on his screen again to report on the most recent findings from Marhoni’s laptop. Interrogating Marhoni will be more interesting now. But that’s not where I want to be, Brogeland groans. What the hell is going on with Yngve and Ingvild Foldvik? Why can’t anyone find them?
Brogeland is swearing silently when Sandland knocks on his door and asks him if he is ready. I’m ready, Brogeland thinks, I’ve never been more ready in my life.
As usual, Lars Indrehaug is indignant on his client’s behalf when Sandland and Brogeland welcome them back to the interview room and go through the formalities.
“So what’s today’s theme?” Indrehaug snarls when Brogeland has finished. “My client’s favorite color? Favorite car?”
Indrehaug nods to Marhoni. Brogeland smiles. He is anything but tired now, and the sight of the slimy lawyer makes his blood boil. He slides a sheet across the table, placing it halfway between them, so both can study it. Marhoni leans forward and glances at the sheet before looking away. He shakes his head, faintly. Brogeland registers it.
“What’s this?” Indrehaug asks.
“I would have thought that was obvious,” Brogeland says. “But perhaps you could explain it to us all the same, Mr. Marhoni?”
Marhoni stares at the wall.
“Okay, then I’ll do it for you,” Brogeland says, addressing Indrehaug. “Your client has, believe it or not, a highly developed sense of order. He likes to know where everything is. Perhaps you’ve been to his flat? Neat and tidy. The document in front of you is a printout of an Excel spreadsheet we found on your client’s laptop, the one he tried to burn. Perhaps you can see why?”
Indrehaug studies the document closely. He sees names, telephone numbers, and email addresses.
“A quick check, not that you need to look very hard, will tell you that these are very bad people. Very bad indeed. People who make sure that our streets are flooded with drugs, which our children take, and which turn them into very bad people, too.”
Indrehaug shoves the document back to Brogeland and snorts.
“This proves nothing. There could be any number of legitimate reasons why my client might chose to keep this information on his computer. Just because you bookmark the home page of Rema 1000, it doesn’t follow that you shop there. The names you have found on my client’s compu
ter certainly don’t prove that he killed someone.”
“No, you’re right about that,” Brogeland replies, smiling. “But how would you explain this?”
He slides another sheet toward Indrehaug and Marhoni.
“This photograph was also found on your client’s computer. In fact, we found several very interesting pictures.”
Indrehaug pulls the sheet toward him. Marhoni doesn’t look at the printout, which shows him with a man in a black leather jacket. The jacket has an emblem of flames on its back. The man’s face is clearly visible.
“This is your client in the company of a man called Abdul Sebrani. If you check the list we’ve just shown you, you’ll see that his name appears on it. The photograph was taken during the delivery of a batch of cocaine from BBB—Bad Boys Burning—to your client earlier this spring. It was taken down at Vippetangen. Can you see the water in the background?”
Indrehaug studies the photograph. The image is sharp and shot with a telephoto lens from some distance.
“Do you remember where you were supposed to take the drugs, Mr. Marhoni?” Brogeland asks. There is no reply.
“We have more pictures like this. Your client—and I’m only guessing here—wanted some sort of insurance against his business associates, just in case they started to play hardball. Or perhaps they had already started threatening you, Mr. Marhoni?”
Marhoni ignores Brogeland’s hard stare.
“Your client kept his head down. But when his girlfriend was killed and we came knocking on his door, he realized that his laptop might incriminate him. And BBB. That’s why he tried to burn it, to destroy the evidence.”
Brogeland looks at both Marhoni and Indrehaug. Indrehaug blanks him and leans toward Marhoni instead. Whisper, whisper.
Slam dunk! Brogeland thinks. He looks at Sandland, hoping that she is thinking the same, but she is always difficult to read.
“Your brother was a photographer, wasn’t he?” she asks. Marhoni turns to her, but doesn’t reply.
“He took these pictures, didn’t he? He uploaded them to your laptop.”