Thomas Enger - Burned

‘It happened so quickly.’

‘But even in brief flashes, the brain can register a great deal of information. Think about it again. Think hard.’

He thinks hard. And, suddenly, the shell cracks. He sees something. A face. An oval face. A beard. Not covering the whole face, only around the mouth, in a square. Thick sideburns.

He tells them. And he describes something else: his lips. A little crooked to the left. Brogeland was right, he thinks. Bloody hell, Bjarne Brogeland, that prize wanker, was right.

‘Did you see what kind of weapon he used?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘A hand gun. A pistol? I don’t know a lot about weapons.’

‘Silencer?’

‘Yes. Haven’t you found bullet cases on the crime scene?’

Sandland looks at Brogeland again. Yes, of course they have, Henning thinks, and then he feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He tries to ignore the call, but it refuses to be silenced.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, pointing to his pocket.

‘Turn off your mobile,’ Sandland orders him. He takes it out and has time to see that Iver Gundersen is trying to get hold of him. He presses extra hard on the ‘ off ’ button and holds it down for a long time.

‘Did you see what the killer was wearing?’

Think. Think.

‘Dark trousers. I think his jacket was black. No, it wasn’t. It was beige.’

‘Black or beige?’

‘Beige.’

‘What colour was his hair?’

‘Don’t remember, but I think it was dark, too. The guy was dark.’

Sandland sends him a dubious look.

‘Apart from his beige jacket,’ he adds, quickly.

‘Immigrant?’ Brogeland asks.

‘Yes, I would guess so.’

‘Pakistani? Like the victim?’

‘Yes, that’s possible.’

Brogeland and Sandland both make notes. Henning can’t see them, but he knows what they say.

The killer knew the victim.

He exploits the short pause that has arisen.

‘So, what do you think, did you arrest the wrong Marhoni?’

He takes out his notepad. Sandland and Brogeland look at each other again.

‘I thought I had made it clear to you that — ’

Brogeland coughs. His hand goes back on Sandland’s arm. She reddens.

‘It’s too soon to say.’

‘So you don’t rule out revenge as the motive?’

‘We rule out nothing.’

‘On which theory are you basing the investigation, then? Mahmoud is arrested, suspected of murder and less than twenty-four hours later, his brother is killed.’

‘Inspector — ’ Sandland objects.

‘No comments. And the interview’s over,’ Brogeland announces.

‘Would you recognise the killer if you saw him again?’ Sandland continues. Henning thinks about it, replays the scene in Marhoni’s flat in his head, and says:

‘I don’t know.’

‘Could you try?’

He sees what she means.

‘Have you got some pictures for me to look at?’

She nods gravely.

‘I could always give it a try,’ he says.

‘Are you always like that?’ Brogeland asks as he sits down at a table and opens up a laptop. They have relocated to a smaller room. Henning sits on the other side of the table and watches Brogeland clicking and typing on the tiny keyboard.

‘Like what?’ Henning replies.

‘Disrespectful and arrogant?’

Brogeland turns the laptop towards him and smiles. The question takes Henning by surprise. He turns down the corners of his mouth and tilts his head, first to the left and then to the right. If he hopes to turn the officer in front of him into a potential source, arrogant and disrespectful behaviour isn’t the recommended approach in Journalism for Dummies. So he says:

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to.’

He holds up his hands.

‘I’m not quite myself after what happened. It’s not every day I witness a murder. I’m not usually like this. It’s probably a defence mechanism or something.’

Brogeland nods.

‘I understand.’

It’s not a bull’s-eye, but he hits the target, at least. Brogeland pushes the computer a little closer.

‘Use the arrows to go forwards and backwards. If you want to have a closer look at one of the pictures, you just click on it.’

‘These people all have form?’

‘Yes. I’ve selected offenders with an immigrant background. I’ve add a couple of other criteria as well.’

Henning nods and starts scrolling through the pictures.

‘So, Bjarne, what have you been up to since you left school?’ he asks while he looks at the screen.

‘A bit of this and that, like most people. After A-levels, I joined the Army, I was abroad for one year, Kosovo, and then I did a three-year degree course at the Sports College. After that, I applied to the police. And I’ve been here ever since.’

‘Family?’

Henning despises himself right now.

‘Wife and child.’

‘Your wife — is she someone I know or would know of?’

‘I doubt it. I met her at Sports College. Anita’s from Hamar.’

Henning nods while he carries on looking. He does recognise some of the faces, but only because he has written about them previously, or seen them in the papers.

‘Do you enjoy being a police officer?’ he fawns and wants to puke.

‘Very much so, though it’s a tough job. I don’t get to see as much of my daughter as I would like. Antisocial working hours. There’s always an investigation going on.’

‘How old is your daughter?’

‘Three. Three and a half,’ Brogeland adds quickly.

‘Lovely age,’ Henning says and regrets going down this route immediately. He hopes Brogeland will refrain from asking the question which would traditionally follow his, and says:

‘What’s her name?’

‘Alisha.’

‘Nice name.’

Henning feels the bile rise in his throat with yesterday’s coffee.

‘My wife wanted an international name. So our kid can live abroad without having to spell her name all the time.’

Bjarne laughs briefly. Henning tries to laugh too, but it sounds forced, so he stops and concentrates on the laptop. Faces, faces, and more faces. They reek of crime. Angry eyes, embittered mouths. But no killer.

He must have been pressing arrows for around fifteen minutes, when Brogeland says:

‘Do you think the killer got a look at you?’

Henning lifts his eyes from the screen and stares at the Inspector. Funny how that never occurred to me, he thinks.

‘I don’t know,’ he replies and visualises his own flight. The killer mostly saw his back, but there was a moment when their eyes met. And it’s not easy to forget Henning’s face.

Yes, he saw me, he concludes. He must have.

He looks at Brogeland and knows what he is thinking. If Forensics don’t find any evidence that proves the killer was at the crime scene, then only Henning can place him there. In a subsequent trial, Henning’s testimony makes it a penalty kick into an open goal.

Only one thing is required.

That Henning stays alive.

Forty-five minutes later, he taps the screen eagerly with his index finger. Brogeland gets up and comes round to his side of the table.

‘Are you sure?’

Henning looks at the man’s crooked upper lip.

‘Yes.’

Brogeland’s eyes light up. He takes over the computer, turns it away from Henning, sits down, types and clicks.

‘Who is he?’ Henning asks. Brogeland looks up over the screen, his eyes flickering slightly.

‘His name’s Yasser Shah,’ he says reluctantly. ‘But don’t you dare put that in your paper.’

Henning holds up his hands.

‘What’s he done?’

‘Nothing much. He has a couple of convictions for possession. Petty crime, small stuff, really.’