Thomas Enger - Burned

He walks down to the train tracks, looking over his shoulder to see if he is being followed, but there is no sign of the killer. He hides behind a large tree, sits down and pants.

Breathe, Henning. For God’s sake, man, breathe.

He finds his mobile, calls the police and inhales deeply while he waits for a reply. His call is answered quickly. He identifies himself and says:

‘Get me Detective Inspector Bjarne Brogeland. Now.’

When Henning turned thirteen, he was allowed to rent Witness, the film starring Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis, where Danny Glover makes a rare appearance as the killer. After seeing it, Henning didn’t use a public toilet for a long time.

Even though it is twenty-two years ago, he has never forgotten the scene in the gents where the terrified Amish boy is crying and Danny Glover opens one door after another to check if there were any witnesses to the murder. Henning must admit that Danny sprang to mind as he sat in the clearing, watching the trains speed by and listening out for approaching killers.

Now he is in a waiting room. He knows why they are called that. This is where you are meant to wait. And Henning waits. He has been given a glass of water. Nothing to read. That’s because he needs to think. When the officers who will be questioning him finally arrive, his memory needs to be as organised, as detailed and as accurate as possible.

He is usually very accurate, but he feels out of practice. He thinks about Iver Gundersen and Heidi Kjus — perhaps he should have called them as well, but before he has time to think it through, the door to the waiting room is opened. A tall female officer with short hair enters. She looks at him.

‘Sergeant Ella Sandland,’ she introduces herself and holds out her hand. Henning gets up, shakes her hand and nods briefly. Bjarne Brogeland, who follows just behind her, eats her up with his eyes, before he sees his old schoolfriend and grins broadly.

‘Hallo, Henning.’

And there it is, the feeling he always used to get when he was around Bjarne. Aversion. These days, it is unlikely to have anything to do with Trine. Certain things just don’t change.

Ella Sandland sits down on the other side of the table. Brogeland comes up to Henning and offers him his hand, too. Brogeland must have interviewed hundreds of suspects, Henning thinks, met all kinds of people, but despite his training, it is still there, the slight change in his expression that Henning has seen so many times, usually much more obvious. It is only a fraction of a second and Brogeland tries to be cool about it, tries to be professional, but Henning sees him recoiling at the scars.

They shake hands. A firm squeeze.

‘Holy cow, Henning,’ Brogeland says and sits down. ‘It’s been a long time. How many years is it?’

His tone is jovial, cosy, chummy. They applied to the police academy at the same time, but they had nothing in common then, either. Henning replies:

‘Fifteen — twenty years, perhaps?’

‘Yes, it must be, at least.’

Silence. He usually likes silence, but now the walls cry out for sound.

‘Good to see you again, Henning.’

He can’t quite say the same thing about Bjarne, but he replies:

‘Likewise.’

‘I only wish the circumstances were different. We’ve a lot to talk about.’

Do we? Henning wonders. Perhaps we do. But he looks at Brogeland without replying.

‘Perhaps we should start?’ Ella Sandland suggests. Her voice is firm. Brogeland looks at her as though she is lunch, dinner and a midnight snack rolled into one. Sandland goes through the formalities. Henning listens to her, reckons that she comes from Sunnmore or somewhere close by, Hareid, possibly?

‘Have you got the guy?’ he asks, as she is about to ask her first question. The officers look at each other.

‘No,’ Brogeland replies.

‘Do you know which way he escaped?’

‘We’re actually here to interview you, not the other way round,’ Sandland says.

‘It’s fine,’ Brogeland interjects, placing his hand on her arm. ‘Of course he wants to know. No, we don’t know where the killer is. But we hope you can help us find him.’

‘So can you tell us what happened?’ Sandland completes the sentence. Henning inhales and tells them about the interview with Tariq Marhoni, the shots, his escape. He speaks quietly and with composure, even though his insides are churning. It feels weird to relive it, articulate it, to know that he was a millimetre or two from death.

‘What were you doing at Marhoni’s?’ Sandland asks.

‘I interviewed him.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not? His brother’s in custody for a murder he didn’t do. Tariq knows, or knew, his brother best. I would be worried if that thought hadn’t already occurred to you.’

‘Of course it has,’ Sandland says, offended. ‘We just haven’t got that far yet.’

‘Is that right?’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘His brother.’

‘Can you be a bit more specific?’

He breathes in, theatrically, while he tries to remember. He has everything on the Dictaphone in his pocket, but he has no plans to hand it over.

‘I asked him to tell me about his brother, what he did for a living, what his relationship with Henriette Hagerup was like — the sort of questions you ask people you want to know a little more about.’

‘What did he reply?’

‘Not very much of interest. We never got that far.’

‘You said his brother’s in custody for a murder he didn’t do. What do you mean by that? What makes you say that?’

‘Because I seriously doubt that he did it.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s little in his background to suggest that he’s a fervent supporter of hudud punishments, and the murder has — as far as I understand it — links to that.’

Sandland sits immobile and looks at him for a long time, before she exchanges glances with Brogeland.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I just do.’

Sandland and Brogeland look at each other again. Henning can guess what they are thinking.

Do we have a leak?

Sandland fixes her blue eyes on him. He feels the urge for a gin and tonic.

‘You seem to know quite a lot.’

Sandland says it like a question. Henning shrugs.

‘Or you used to. Kapital, Aftenposten, Nettavisen, 123news. How many front-page stories have you had, Juul? How many scoops? That’s what you journalists call it, isn’t it?’

Henning’s shoulders rise in preparation of another deep breath.

‘If it will help your investigation, then I can find things out.’

Sandland smiles. It is the first time he sees her smile. Perfect teeth. A red, inviting tongue. He guesses Brogeland has tasted it.

No, on second thoughts, no. She is not that stupid.

‘And, once again, you’re at the centre of an investigation, but this time you’re a witness. How does that feel?’

‘Are you fishing for a second career with NRK Sport, by any chance?’

‘I think this interview will go better and quicker if we avoid sarcasm, Henning,’ Brogeland says and gives him an amicable look. Henning nods and concedes that, for once, Brogeland has a point.

‘It’s more like a new experience, you could say,’ he starts, a tad more polite now. ‘I’ve witnessed a few things in my time, robberies and stabbings, two own goals by the same player in the same match, but it’s a strange feeling to see someone I’ve just been speaking to, who has just offered me a glass of milk, be shot twice in the chest and once in the head.’

‘Milk?’

‘Skimmed.’

Brogeland nods and smiles briefly.

‘Did you catch a glimpse of the killer?’

He hesitates.