Thomas Enger - Burned

‘What kind of ideas, Henning?’ she probes. He can hear the doubt in her voice. And he sees her sneaking in a quick sideways peek at Gundersen.

‘I want to talk to a few more people at Hagerup’s college — if they’re there today.’

‘We’ve done human interest.’

‘This isn’t human interest. This is different.’

‘What is it?’

He hesitates again, he wants to tell her about Anette’s eyes, about how the hudud punishments don’t make sense, but he doesn’t trust Heidi or Gundersen. Not yet. He knows they are his colleagues and that he needs to work with them, but they have to earn his trust first. It has nothing to do with professional rivalry or ego.

‘I think there’s more to Hagerup’s background and life, something which matters to this story,’ he says. ‘I’m hoping people at her college can shed some light on who she was and why someone chose to knock her out with a stun gun and throw rocks at her head until she died.’

He is pleased with his own reply until he realises what he has just said.

‘A stun gun?’

Gundersen looks at him. Henning curses himself. He says.

‘Eh?’

A pathetic attempt to buy time.

‘I don’t recall reading anything about a stun gun?’

Henning says nothing; he feels two pairs of eyes sticking into him like pins. His cheeks redden.

‘Who told you that, Henning?’ Heidi asks.

‘I thought I had heard somewhere that a stun gun was used,’ he says, instantly hearing how feeble his explanation sounds. He can tell from their faces that they don’t believe him. But they say nothing. They just stare at him.

Crested, salty waves won’t help you now, Henning. He can hear his own laboured breathing. Then he says.

‘Are we done?’

He doesn’t look at them, but he gets up and avoids meeting their eyes as he goes to the door, half expecting to hear Heidi’s sharp voice order him back, Henning the Labrador, sit, but he grabs the handle without anything happening, he pushes it down, pulls the door open and leaves.

The silence he leaves behind is like a plane crash in his head. He can only imagine what Gundersen and Heidi say about him in his absence. Not that it matters.

He is just grateful to be out of there.

Henning hits the streets of Gronland before Heidi and Gundersen finish their meeting. The temperature has risen by several degrees since he got to work and the air is humid. He looks up. Clouds, white and grey, rush across the sky. It is almost nine o’clock. Tariq Marhoni probably isn’t up yet.

Henning found little of interest about him on the Internet: Tariq came to Norway from Islamabad in the mid 1990s, his brother had arrived a few years earlier, and they have shared three different addresses. While Mahmoud couldn’t be found in any newspaper articles, chat rooms, web pages or tax registers, Tariq featured in a VG survey a couple of years ago where he was

asked if he was for or against the EU.

Tariq placed himself in the ‘don’t know’ category. And that was all Henning had learned. In other words, the Marhoni brothers have kept a low profile, but Henning has been around long enough to know that means nothing. Tariq is still best placed to tell him about Mahmoud, the police’s only suspect, and he has been branded guilty already. That’s why Henning needs to find out as much about him as he can.

It has only just gone nine, but he decides to go to Tariq’s flat anyway. If he doesn’t reply because he is asleep or out, Henning can go to a nearby cafe and grab some breakfast. God knows, he needs some.

On his way to Oslogate, he passes the police station where a man in a reflective vest is cutting the grass outside. Cars rush past. He heads for Middelalderparken. The area has had a facelift in the last few years, facades have been re-plastered, new residential housing developments have been completed and made the district more attractive. Bjorvika seafront is only a few hundred metres away. You can walk to the new Opera House in ten minutes without getting out of breath.

Before he gets to number 37, he switches his mobile to silent. Too many interviews are ruined or lose their momentum due to intrusive bleeping from a laptop or a jacket pocket.

The door to the backyard is open, so Henning just walks in. The corridor is dark and empty. Middle Eastern music flows from a window. Someone is having a loud discussion in the same flat. He can smell something sweet.

He heads for stairwell B where the Marhoni brothers live. He is about to press a button saying ‘Marhoni’ when the door in front of him is opened. A man with a ginger beard comes out. He takes no notice of Henning and doesn’t close the door behind him, so Henning grabs the handle before the door slams shut.

There is a powerful aroma of spices in the stairwell. His hip protests as he walks up the stairs. He curses himself for not taking his pills this morning, but forgets all about his discomfort when he sees the name marhoni on a plate on the door of an upper ground floor flat. He stops, gets his breath back. His first home visit. You were rusty yesterday, Henning. Perhaps you’re a little less so today?

He rings the doorbell. He waits and listens. The bell seems to be faulty. He decides to knock. He clenches his fist and knocks hard three times in quick succession. His knuckles hurt.

Was there movement from inside? It sounded like it. Like someone turning over in bed. He knocks again. The sound of feet on floor. He takes a step back. The door opens. A bleary-eyed Tariq Marhoni stands on the threshold. Henning thinks he looks like he is still asleep. His eyes are narrow and he sways. He is dressed only in underpants and a filthy vest. His face is drawn, he has huge bags under his eyes and his stubble suggests he is trying desperately to grow a beard. Tariq is chubby with curly, bushy hair. He looks like he hasn’t showered for days.

Tariq supports himself against the wall.

‘Hi, I’m Henning Juul.’

Tariq says nothing.

‘I work for 123news, and — ’

Tariq takes a step back and slams the door. And he double-locks it.

Great, Henning. Well played.

‘All I need is two minutes, Tariq.’

The sound of footsteps fading away. Henning fumes, but knocks again. He plays his last card.

‘I’m here because I think your brother is innocent.’

He shouts a little louder than he had intended. The sound reverberates. He waits. And waits. No noise from the flat. He curses to himself.

This used to be straightforward.

He lets a minute pass, maybe two, before he decides to leave. He is about to open the front door when he hears a creak. He turns around. The door opens. Tariq looks at him. The apathy in his eyes has gone. Henning seizes his chance and holds up his hands.

‘I’m not here to dig up dirt on your brother.’

His voice is soft, filled with compassion. Tariq seems to buy his explanation.

‘You think he’s innocent?’

He speaks broken Norwegian in a high-pitched voice. Henning nods. Tariq hesitates, debates with himself. His stomach bulges behind the vest.

‘If you write some shit about my brother — ’

He pulls an aggressive face, but doesn’t finish his threat. Henning holds up his hands again. His eyes alone should convince Tariq that he is serious. Tariq goes back inside, but leaves the door open. Henning follows him.

Good, Henning. You’re catching up fast.

Henning closes the door behind him and checks the ceiling. And finds what he is looking for.

‘I need to get dressed,’ Tariq calls out.

Henning explores the flat which surprises him by being clean and tidy. There are two doors to the right off the hallway where shoes are lined up neatly against the skirting board. A door to his left is open. He sneaks a peek. The toilet seat is up. The faint scent of Cif lemon wafts into the hallway.