Thomas Enger: Burned

‘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 amp; Cafe.

Marhoni breaks his fall and Brogeland is unhurt. There is a man sitting outside the cafe, 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.

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. Missing you, Henry. Missing you loads. Tore.

There are between ten and twenty cards or notes about absence and grief, and all the messages have similar wording. He is scanning them absent-mindedly, when his mobile starts to vibrate in his pocket. He takes it out, but doesn’t recognise the caller’s number. He is supposed to be working, but decides to answer it nevertheless.

‘Hello?’

He moves away from the crowd.

‘Hi, Henning, it’s Iver. Iver Gundersen.’

Before he has time to say anything, a blast of jealousy hits him right in the solar plexus. Mister Super Fucking Corduroy. He manages a flustered ‘hi’.