Thomas Enger - Burned

‘Have you just moved in?’ he asks.

‘No,’ Henning replies. ‘I’ve lived here for six months.’

‘Oh, have you? I live just below you.’

‘Right.’

He walks down to Henning and holds out his hand.

‘Gunnar Goma. I’ve had bypass surgery. Four veins.’

He points to a huge scar on his chest. Henning nods and shakes his hand.

‘That’s why I’m out of breath. I’ve getting back in shape. So I can satisfy the ladies, he-he.’

‘Henning Juul.’

‘And I go commando.’

‘Thanks for sharing that with me.’

‘Fancy a coffee some day?’

Henning nods again. He likes coffee, but he thinks it is unlikely that he will ever be drinking coffee with Gunnar Goma. Though, on second thoughts, the invitation isn’t entirely unwelcome.

He hears a ping from his laptop as he goes inside. He remembers that ping. Ding-dong, like a doorbell. It means someone has sent him a message via FireCracker.

6tiermes7. It has to be.

He quickly sits down, moves the mouse and wakes up the screen. He closes all other windows so only FireCracker is open. He looks at the screen. A small square window has popped up. Inside it says: 6tiermes7: Judge.

To be absolutely sure that no one else can use the program, they have agreed numerous code words. The person making contact writes the first part of the word. If the person responding gives the correct continuation, they are safe.

He smiles and replies: MakkaPakka: Devil.

He is rewarded by a smiley.

6tiermes7 and Henning have chatted about much besides evidence and cases under investigation. He got his nickname, MakkaPakka, because 6tiermes7 knows Henning loathes In the Night Garden, a half-hour children’s television programme which NRK broadcasts every afternoon before television for older children begins. The characters in In the Night Garden never say very much, instead they make sounds which correspond to their names. Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy, Makka Pakka, the Tombliboos and the Ninky Nonk.

He is convinced that 6tiermes7 enjoys teasing him whenever they chat, no matter what motivates him or her. MakkaPakka: I wasn’t sure that you still existed.

6tiermes7: Or that you did. We’ve missed you.

MakkaPakka: Thank you.

6tiermes7: So you’re back? I heard you came to the press conference today.

MakkaPakka: Who told you that?

6tiermes7: The Prime Minister. What do you take me for?

Henning sends a smiley. 6tiermes7: What’s up?

MakkaPakka: Henriette Hagerup. What do you take me for?

More smileys. 6tiermes7: What do you want?

MakkaPakka: Everything you have — or haven’t got.

6tiermes7: You certainly don’t waste time.

MakkaPakka: Haven’t got time to waste. Have they got something worthwhile on — what’s his name?

He doesn’t get an immediate response. Perhaps I was too rash or pushy, he thinks. A minute passes. And another. He slumps. Finally, a message pops up. 6tiermes7: Sorry. Loo break.

More smileys. 6tiermes7: His name is Mahmoud Marhoni. Her boyfriend. Fled when Sergeant Sandland and Inspector Brogeland turned up at his flat. Set fire to his laptop. Looks like he argued with HH the night she was killed. Compromising text messages from her to him.

MakkaPakka: Did you manage to save his laptop?

6tiermes7: Don’t know yet.

MakkaPakka: Okay. Was Hagerup stoned to death?

6tiermes7: Stoned, flogged, hand chopped off. She had stun gun marks on her neck.

MakkaPakka: A stun gun? Like a cattle prod?

6tiermes7: Yes.

This doesn’t sound anything like an honour killing, Henning thinks. More like sharia and hudud. Something doesn’t add up. MakkaPakka: Does MM have form?

6tiermes7: No.

MakkaPakka: What does Gjerstad think?

6tiermes7: Not much yet. Think he is glad to see some progress.

MakkaPakka: Does MM have any family?

6tiermes7: A brother. Tariq. They share a flat.

MakkaPakka: You said something about compromising text messages. Compromising how?

6tiermes7: Think she has been unfaithful.

MakkaPakka: And that’s why she was killed? Is that why you’re thinking honour killing?

6tiermes7: Don’t know.

I bet Iver Gundersen doesn’t know about this, Henning thinks and nods to himself. A plan is taking shape. He likes plans. But he doesn’t like shortcuts.

And he has a feeling that the police are taking that route.

Dreams. Henning wishes there was a button he could press to shut off access to his subconscious at night. He has just woken up, his eyes adjust to the darkness while he gasps for air. He is burning hot. It isn’t morning yet, but he is wide awake. And he has been dreaming again.

He dreamt they had gone to the playground in Sofienberg Park, Jonas and he. It was winter, it was cold. He cleared a bench of snow and frost and sat drinking lovely hot coffee from a plastic cup, while he watched Jonas’s grinning face, flushed cheeks and cloudy breath underneath the pale blue woolly hat which was pushed too far down his head, his eyes seeking out Henning’s, all the time. And he saw Jonas climb to the highest point of the climbing frame. All his concentration went into looking at his dad so he didn’t look where he was going, he stepped between the ropes, lost his grip, fell forwards and sideways and smashed his face and mouth into a post. Henning leapt up, ran over to him, turned the boy’s head to examine the extent of the damage, but all he could see was a black, sooty face. Jonas’s mouth was gone. No teeth.

The only things that weren’t black were his burning eyes.

He wakes up and finds himself blowing, blowing desperately on Jonas’s burning eyes to put out the flames. But they never go out. Jonas’s eyes are like those birthday candles which re-ignite themselves; you can try, but you’ll never succeed in blowing them out.

The dream knocks him for six, every time. When he wakes up, his pulse is racing and he closes his eyes to block out the image which makes him nauseous. He visualises the ocean. Dr Helge has taught him to do that, concentrate on a favourite place or activity, whenever he gets flashbacks.

Henning likes the sea. He has happy memories of saltwater. And the sea helps him open his eyes again. He rolls on to his side, sees, from the clock on his mobile, that he has slept for nearly three hours. Not bad, for him. And he decides that will have to do.

At least for today.

*

There isn’t much he can do in the middle of the night. He ignores the matches and gets up. He goes into the living room, glances at his piano, but keeps on walking. His hip aches, but it is a little early for pills.

He sits down in the kitchen. He listens to the fridge. It hums and whirrs noisily. He thinks it is on its last legs. Just like him.

He hasn’t been there for many, many years, but the groaning from the fridge reminds him of the family’s summer cabin. It is just outside Stavern, by Anvikstranda Camping. It is plain, simple and small, probably no more 30 square metres. Fantastic view of the sea. Loads of adders.

His grandfather built the cabin as cheaply as he could, just after the war, and to Henning’s knowledge, the fridge is still the original one. It moans and carries on almost like the fridge in Henning’s flat.

He hasn’t been to the cabin since he was a child. He thinks Trine goes there sometimes, but he doesn’t know for sure. Perhaps the fridge is still there. It was only a half-size and they always had to kick the bottom of the door after closing it. If they didn’t, the door would swing open again. The flap to the freezer compartment was missing. The shelves in the door were loose and cracked, which meant heavy items such as milk and bottles had to lie inside the main body of the fridge.