Thomas Enger - Burned

And that’s when he sees her. Quickly, he takes her picture. She stands in front of the tree, she wasn’t there a few minutes ago; she alternates between reading the messages and staring at the ground, shaking her head imperceptibly before looking up again. More Canon shots. Though he doubts he’ll use a single one of them.

The young woman has dark, shoulder-length hair. He takes more pictures. She has an expression on her face he can’t quite decipher. She just stands there, in a world of her own. But there is something about her eyes. He moves closer and closer, until he is practically standing next to her. He pretends to be reading the mawkish cards.

‘Sad,’ he says, just loud enough for her to hear. It could be a statement or an invitation to a conversation. The young woman doesn’t reply. Without her noticing, he moves a step nearer. He stands there for a long time. His hair is starting to feel wet. He shields the camera to prevent it getting wet, too.

‘Did you know her well?’ Henning asks, addressing her directly for the first time. She nods briefly.

‘Were you on the same course?’

At last, she looks at him. He expects her to flinch at the sight of his face, but she doesn’t. She merely says:

‘Yes.’

He lets more time pass. He can see that she isn’t ready to talk, but she isn’t crying, either.

‘Are you Anette?’ he asks, eventually.

She is startled. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No.’

He pauses, giving her time to assess the situation. He doesn’t want to frighten her, he wants to arouse her curiosity. He can see she is studying him. A shiver of fear goes through her, as if she is bracing herself for what he might say.

‘How do you know my name?’

Her voice is anxious. He turns to her. For the first time, she sees his whole face, scars and all. Yet, she still doesn’t seem to really see him. He decides to put his cards on the table, before her fear gets the better of her.

‘My name’s Henning Juul.’

Her face remains unchanged.

‘I work for 123news.’

Her open face hardens instantly.

‘Can I ask you some questions, please? Not intrusive, nosy, insensitive ones, just a few questions about Henriette?’

The apathetic stare she gave the flickering tea lights is gone.

‘How do you know my name?’ she repeats, folding her arms defensively.

‘I guessed it.’

She stares at him with growing impatience.

‘There are a hundred people here and you just guessed that my name is Anette?’

‘Yes.’

She sniffs.

‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

‘Just a few questions, then I’ll leave you alone.’

‘You reporters only ever have a few questions, but you end up asking hundreds.’

‘One, then. I’ll leave you alone if you answer this one question. Okay?’

He looks at her for a long time. She lets him stand there in the silence, before she tenses and relaxes her shoulders. He attempts a smile, but senses that his charm, which works on most interviewees, is lost on her. She tosses her head and sighs. Henning interprets the movement as consent and says:

‘What was the work Henriette had started and which you intend to complete?’

She looks at him.

‘That’s your question?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not “how will you remember Henriette?” or “can you tell me something about Henriette that will make my readers sob?” or some crap like that?’

She makes her voice sound like that of a pestering child. He shakes his head. She snorts. Her eyes bore into his.

Then she tosses her head again, turns on her heel and walks off.

Great, Henning, he chastises himself. Well done.

And he thinks that the only interesting person in this landscape of mourners has just left. She is no great beauty. He bets she doesn’t sit in the front row in the lecture hall or pose for pictures. He imagines her looking in the mirror and sighing, resigned; sees her giving herself to guys with beer goggles, late at night, and going home before daybreak.

But Anette, he says to himself. You’re interesting. He feels like shouting it after her.

Then he realises what he saw in her eyes. He checks the camera as she disappears around the corner of a building. He scrolls to one of the first pictures he took of her, looks into her eyes. And he knows that he was right.

Eureka! He recognises the feeling when he grasps or stumbles across something important. As he zooms in on the picture and studies her again, he wonders what Anette was so scared of.

‘He reeks of guilt.’

Detective Inspector Brogeland doesn’t elaborate on his statement. He looks at Chief Inspector Gjerstad, the head of the investigation, who sits opposite him in the meeting room. He is flicking through the print-out of the interview. Sergeant Sandland sits at the end. She leans forwards and rests her elbow on the table. Her hands are folded.

Two other officers, Fredrik Stang and Emil Hagen, are present, in addition to Assistant Commissioner Nokleby. She is officially in charge of the investigation, but she always works closely with Gjerstad. Everyone’s eyes turn to Gjerstad, expecting him to say something. As always, when he is thinking, he strokes his moustache with his thumb and index finger.

‘There’s no doubt he has a problem explaining his situation,’ Gjerstad says in a deep, growling bass. ‘All the same…’

Gjerstad puts down the print-out. He takes off his glasses, places them on the table and rubs his face. Then he fixes his eyes on Brogeland.

‘You should have carried on with the interview when he finally said he didn’t do it.’

‘But…’

‘I know why you stopped at that point. You wanted to give him something to think about. But the way I read it, he was just starting to open up. He might have told us a lot more, if you had been prepared to give him a bit more time.’

‘We don’t know that,’ Brogeland replies.

‘Were you in a hurry?’

‘In a hurry?’

Brogeland’s face feels warm. Gjerstad looks at him.

‘When you next interview him, give him a bit more time.’

Brogeland squirms in his chair. He wants to defend himself, but not in front of the team; he doesn’t want to risk further humiliation.

Gjerstad looks up to the right, as if he is staring at something on the wall.

‘There’s circumstantial evidence that implicates Marhoni and it’s tempting to treat this as an honour killing. If his girlfriend was unfaithful, he might have killed her to restore his honour.’

Sandland clears her throat.

‘There is actually very little that suggests it might be an honour killing,’ she says. Gjerstad turns to her.

‘In a few countries, infidelity means a death sentence. In Sudan, for example, in 2007…’

‘Marhoni’s from Pakistan.’

‘I know, but they stone people to death in Pakistan, too. And, as far as the honour killing theory goes, several elements are missing,’ Sandland continues. Gjerstad looks at her, indicates that she should go on. Nokleby nudges her glasses further up the bridge of her nose and leans closer to the table. Her dark fringe falls over her eyes, but not to the extent that it irritates her.

‘Honour killings are often carried out after the shame has become public knowledge,’ Sandland begins. ‘As far as we’ve been able to establish, all anyone knew about Hagerup and Marhoni was that they were an item. Secondly, honour killings are often planned. The decision is usually made by the family. As far as I know, Marhoni has no family in Norway, apart from his brother, who lives with him. And last, but not least: you own up to what you’ve done. Marhoni denies that he did it.’

Gjerstad digests the short lecture and nods with approval.