Burned (6 page)

Henning nods, he sees that Gundersen is still uncomfortable, that there is something he feels the urge to say. He inhales, but Henning beats him to it.

‘Great,’ he says and leaves. He walks as fast as his damaged legs can carry him, straight past Nora, without looking at her.

Well done, Henning, he tells himself. You had the shit kicked out of you in round one, but you got back on your feet and you won round two. That’s the inherent problem with boxing. Winning a round gets you nowhere, unless you also win the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that. And most important of all, the last one.

The battle has already been lost, Henning thinks. The judges have already decided. But, at least, he can try for a personal best.

He can avoid being knocked out again.

Chapter 11

It takes several minutes before his heart rate returns to normal. He crosses Borggata, trying to forget what he has just seen and heard, but is haunted by Nora’s eyes and icy breath. He imagines the conversation between Nora and Iver, after his exit:

Iver: Well, that went all right.

Nora: Had you expected anything else?

Iver: I don’t know. Poor guy.

Nora: It’s not easy for him, Iver. Please don’t make it harder for him than it already is.

Iver: What do you mean?

Nora: Exactly what I’ve just said. Do you think it was easy for him to see me here? See me with you? I think it was very brave of him to go up to you the way he did.

Stop it, Henning. You know that wasn’t what she said. More likely, it went:

Nora: Ignore him, Iver. That’s just the way he is. He has always done his own thing. Sod him. I’m starving. Let’s have some lunch.

Yep, that’s it. Much more authentic.

He decides he needs to clear his head. Forget Nora and concentrate on the job in hand. As he waits for the lights to change at the junction with Tøyengata, it occurs to him that he will need his camera.

He goes home to get it.

*

Detective Inspector Brogeland slows down. The car, one of the many new Passats the police have purchased, comes to a smooth halt outside 37 Oslogate. He puts the selector into ‘P’ and looks at his colleague, Sergeant Ella Sandland.

Jesus, she’s hot, he thinks, taking in the masculine uniform and everything it conceals. He fantasises about her constantly, pictures her without the leather jacket, the light blue shirt, the tie, stripped of everything except her handcuffs. Countless times, he has imagined her shameless, lascivious, giving herself completely to him.

Women think men in uniform are sexy. It’s a well-known fact. Brogeland, however, thinks that’s nothing compared to the other way round: women in clothes that radiate authority.

Damn, that’s hot.

Ella Sandland is 1.75 metres tall. She is extremely fit, her stomach is flatter than a pancake, her bottom stretches her trousers perfectly when she walks; she is a little under-endowed in the breast department, a touch rough and masculine in an ‘are-you-bi-or-straight’ way, but it turns him on. He looks at her hair. Her fringe just brushes her eyebrows. Her skin fits snugly under her chin, over her cheekbones; it is smooth, with no blemishes or marks and not a hint of facial hair – thank God. She moves gracefully, she has one of the straightest backs Brogeland has ever seen; and she pushes her chest slightly forward, even when she is sitting, like women tend to do to create the illusion that their breasts are bigger than they really are. But when Sandland does it, it’s just so sexy.

Damn, that’s so sexy.

And she is from West Norway. Ulsteinvik, he thinks, though she has lost her accent over the years.

He tries to suppress the images that increasingly clutter his head these days. They are outside the home of Mahmoud Marhoni, Henriette Hagerup’s boyfriend.

It is a standard home visit. In 2007, out of thirty-two murders thirty were committed by someone the victim knew or was in a relationship with. Statistically, the killer is likely to be someone close. A rejected spouse, a relative. Or a boyfriend. This makes the visit Brogeland and Sandland are about to make of the utmost importance.

‘Ready?’ he says. Sandland nods. They open their car doors simultaneously and get out.

Christ, just look at the way she gets out.

*

Brogeland has been to Oslogate before. Mahmoud Marhoni has even appeared on his radar earlier, in connection with a case Brogeland worked on when he was a plain-clothes detective. As far as they could establish at the time, Marhoni wasn’t mixed up in anything illegal.

Brogeland has been a cop long enough to know that means nothing. That’s why he experiences a heightened sense of excitement as they walk towards number 37, locate the doorbells and find the name of Henriette Hagerup’s boyfriend to the left.

There is no sound when Sandland presses the button. At that moment, a teenage girl in a hijab opens the door to the backyard. She looks at them; she isn’t startled as Brogeland had expected, but holds the door open for them. Sandland thanks her and smiles at the girl. Brogeland nods briefly by way of a thank you. He makes sure he enters last, so he can gorge himself on the sight of his female colleague’s backside.

I bet she knows, Brogeland thinks. She knows that men love to stare at her. And the uniform doubles her power. She appears unobtainable because she is a policewoman, and because she is so desirable, she can take her pick of anyone she wants – from both sides of the fence, probably. She is in control. And that’s irresistible, a huge turn-on.

They find themselves in a backyard which shows every sign of neglect. There are weeds between the paving slabs, bushes have been left to grow wild and tangled. The flowerbeds, if they can still be called that, are a jungle of compacted soil and dusty roots. The black paint on the bicycle stand is peeling and the few bicycles parked there have rusty chains and flat tyres.

There are three stairwells to choose from. Brogeland knows that Marhoni lives in stairwell B. Sandland gets there first, finds the button in the square box on the wall and presses it. No sound.

Brogeland forces himself to take his eyes off Sandland’s rear and looks up at the sky. Clouds are gathering over Gamlebyen. There will be rain soon. A swallow shrieks as it flies from one rooftop to another. He hears a jet plane pass, but he can’t see it through the clouds.

Marhoni lives in the upper ground floor flat, but the window is too high for Brogeland to be able to look in. Sandland rings the bell again. This time she gets a response.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. This is the police. Open the door, please.’

Brogeland relishes Sandland’s juicy accent.

‘Police?’

Brogeland registers a hint of reluctance and fear in the voice. That’s not Marhoni, he thinks, Marhoni is a tough nut.

‘Yes, the police.’

Sandland’s sexy voice is more authoritative now.

‘W-why?’

‘Police? Don’t let them in.’

The voice in the background is loud enough for Brogeland and Sandland to hear it.

‘Open up.’

Sandland raises her voice. Brogeland snaps out of his fantasy and pushes down the door handle. He has noticed that the lock has been vandalised, and he stomps inside with Sandland right behind him. They race up the stairs to the elevated ground floor. Brogeland can hear someone fiddling with the lock, but he gets there first, his superb physical fitness pays off, and he tears open the door.

A man he instantly guesses must be Marhoni’s brother gives him a frightened look; Brogeland ignores him, thinking that at any moment, he could be staring straight into the mouth of a pistol. He moves swiftly and noiselessly, he checks the flat, there is a smell of herbs, of cannabis, he opens a door, a kitchen, it’s empty, he continues, a bedroom, no, no one there either, he is in the living room, and that’s when he sees it, the fireplace, someone has lit a fire; however, it’s not the flames that disconcert him, but what the flames are consuming with such greed, and he is taken aback for a moment, it’s a computer, a laptop, he calls out to Sandland to save it and he will go after Marhoni, he hears how his voice is rich with power, with experience, knowledge, guts, authority, everything you need to make on-the-spot decisions. Sandland responds just as Brogeland spots Marhoni trying to escape out of a window in one of the rooms accessible through the living room. Marhoni gets ready, then he jumps. Brogeland soon reaches the window, looks down before he climbs up, realises the drop is less than two metres, jumps, lands softly and looks around, spots Marhoni and chases after him. You’ll be sorry you did that, he thinks, you prat, absconding from your flat the very day your girlfriend is found murdered, how do you think it’s going to look, you moron?

Brogeland knows it will be an easy race to win. Marhoni keeps looking over his shoulder and every time Brogeland gains a few metres on him. Marhoni runs across the junction where Bispegata crosses Oslovei, without waiting for a green light. A car brakes right in front of him and sounds its horn. Brogeland pursues him. In the background, he can hear the tram, dring-dring; there are cars in the street, people behind windows following the chase with interest, probably wondering what on earth is going on, is someone making a film or is it the real thing? Marhoni turns around, then he runs straight ahead. Brogeland thinks Marhoni must want an audience or he would have fled in the direction of Aker Church. Brogeland is only ten metres behind Marhoni now and he is constantly gaining on him. He catches up with him and throws himself at him. They land on the tarmac outside Ruinen Bar & Café.

Marhoni breaks his fall and Brogeland is unhurt. There is a man sitting outside the café, smoking. He watches as Brogeland sits on Marhoni’s back, pinning back his arms, before he calls in for assistance.

‘19, this is Fox 43 Bravo, over.’

He gets his breath back, while he waits for a response.

‘19 responding, over.’

‘This is Fox 43 Bravo, I’m in St Hallvard’s Square, I’ve arrested a suspect and I require assistance. Over.’

He breathes out, looks at Marhoni who is gasping for air. Brogeland shakes his head.

‘Bloody idiot,’ he mutters to himself.

Chapter 12

Westerdal School of Communication is situated on Fredensborgvei, close to St Hanshaugen. As always, when he finds himself in this part of Oslo, he thinks someone made a complete hash of urban planning: 1950s tenements painted a shade of grey that can best be described as concrete, and tiny, charming houses in vibrant colours, lie a hair’s breadth from each other. The incline of Damstredet reminds him of the narrow lanes of Bergen, while the buildings along the road leading to the city centre evoke local government. There is a constant buzz and a permanent cloud of dust and pollution in the streets and the neighbourhood’s few gardens.

But right now, Henning couldn’t care less.

It is packed with people under the big tree outside the entrance to the college. Friends huddle together, hugging each other. There is crying. And sobbing. He walks nearer, sees others plying the same trade as him, but ignores them. He knows what tomorrow’s newspapers will show. Photos of mourners, plenty of photos, but not very much text. Now is the time to wallow in grief, let the readers have their share of evil, the bereavement, the emotions; get to know the victim and her friends.

It is a standard package he is putting together. He could almost have written the story before coming here, but it has been a while since he wrote anything, so he decides to start from scratch and think of some questions that might make the package a little less predictable.

He opts for a slow and soft approach, quietly observing before identifying someone to interview. He has an eye for such people. Soon, he is caught up in a river of tears and finds himself overcome by an unexpected reaction:

Anger. Anger, because only a few people here know what real grief is, know how much it hurts to lose someone you care about, someone you love, someone you would willingly throw yourself in front of a bus for. He sees that many of the bystanders don’t grieve properly, they exaggerate, they pose, relishing the opportunity to show how sensitive they are. But it’s all fake.

He tries to shake off his rage. He takes out his camera and shoots some pictures, moves around, focussing on faces, on eyes. He likes eyes. They are said to be the mirror of the soul, but Henning likes eyes because they reveal the truth.

He zooms in on the impromptu shrine the victim’s friends have built under the huge tree to the right of the entrance. Three thick trunks have intertwined and created an enormous broccoli-shaped growth. The branches sag with the weight of the leaves. The roots of the tree are encircled by a low cobblestone wall.

A framed photograph of Henriette Hagerup is leaning against one of the tree trunks. The photograph is surrounded by flowers, handwritten cards and messages. Tea lights flicker in the gentle wind which has found its way here. There are photographs of her with her fellow students, with friends, at parties, on location, behind a camera. It’s grief. It’s condensed grief, but it’s still fake. A textbook example, no doubt about it.

He looks up from the camera and concludes that Henriette Hagerup was a strikingly attractive woman. Or perhaps a mere child. There was something innocent about her: blonde curly hair, not too long, a brilliant broad smile and fair skin. He sees charm. And something more important, something better. Intelligence. He sees that Henriette Hagerup was an intelligent young woman.

Who could have hated you so much?

He reads some of the cards:

We will never forget you, Henriette

Rest in peace

Johanne, Turid and Susanne.