Thomas Enger - Burned

He is convinced that whenever Nora feels a touch of ’flu or a twinge somewhere, she dismisses it as unimportant. She will be fine. I’m all right, I’m going to work. And every time, the same thought haunts her: why didn’t I just pull myself together and pick him up? How ill was I really?

Thoughts like that can drive you mad. As for him, he thinks about the three generous brandies he drank after Jonas had gone to sleep that night. Perhaps he would have been able to save him if he had only had two? Or how about one? What if he had gone to bed earlier the night before, then he wouldn’t have been overtired and nodded off in front of the television before the fire started?

What if.

He lets it ring a long time. Perhaps her display informs her that it is him? Or she might have got a new mobile and not transferred the numbers from the old one? Or maybe she has quite simply deleted him? Or she is busy doing something? Like having a life.

He is surprised when she finally picks up. He could and probably should have hung up after the tenth ring, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Her voice is awake when she says ‘hi, Henning’. He replies:

‘Hi, Nora.’

Christ, how it hurts to say her name out loud.

‘How are you?’ she says. ‘I heard what happened.’

‘I’m good.’

‘You must have been terrified?’

‘More angry, really.’

That’s actually true. He isn’t trying to come across as some macho action hero. He did get angry, mainly because he didn’t want his life to end like that, in a crescendo, in the middle of something unresolved.

They fall silent. They used to be very good at silence, both of them, but now it is merely uncomfortable. She asks no followup questions. He starts a conversation before it gets too awkward. He imagines that she doesn’t want to seem overly concerned about his welfare if Gundersen is in the room with her.

‘Listen, I’m working on a story and I came across an article you wrote about a gang, Bad Boys Burning, about six months ago. Do you remember?’

A few seconds of silence follow.

‘Yes. They had a bust-up with another gang, if I remember rightly. Hemo Raiders, or someone like that.’

They sound like a nice, friendly bunch, he thinks.

‘That’s right.’

‘Four or five of them ended up in hospital. Stab wounds and broken bones.’

‘Right again.’

‘Why are you writing about them?’

He debates whether to tell her, but remembers that they work for rival newspapers and that trust is a closed chapter in their joint book of memories. Or, partly closed, at any rate.

‘I’m not writing about them. Or, at least, I don’t think so.’

‘BBB is no joke, Henning.’

‘I never joke.’

‘No, I mean it. Some of those boys are psychopaths. They don’t give a toss about anyone. Do you think that they’re behind the murder of Tariq Marhoni?’

Oh, Nora. She knows him far too well.

‘I don’t know. It’s early days yet.’

‘If you decide to go after them, Henning, then be careful. Okay? They’re not nice people.’

‘It’ll probably be all right,’ he says, thinking how weird it is to discuss stories and sources with Nora again. Journalists inevitably end up talking shop. When you live together as well, it just becomes more shop. Until the whole thing topples.

He worked too much for a while. When he finally got home, Nora was so tired that she didn’t want to hear another word about newspapers. It all got too much. It was his fault, obviously. That, too. It is becoming the pattern of my life. I manage to destroy even the finest things, he thinks.

He thanks her for her help and hangs up. He stays on the sofa, staring at the telephone as though she is still down the other end. He presses the telephone against his ear again. Nothing but silence.

He is reminded of a double murder in Bodo he covered some years ago. Before Nora went to bed, one of the first nights they were apart, he called her. They spoke for half an hour, longer possibly. When he heard her yawn, he told her to put the handset on her pillow but not hang up. He wanted to hear her sleep. He sat in his hotel room, listening to her breathing which was rapid to begin with. Then deeper and deeper. Then he lay down, too. He doesn’t remember if he hung up. But he remembers how well he slept that night.

Zaheerullah Hassan Mintroza leans forwards on the squeaky chair in his glass cage. He is counting money. Cash. It’s only ever cash in the car wash. He does have a till and it is plugged in, but he never uses it.

Nothing beats cash in hand.

He is very pleased with today’s takings so far. 12 passenger cars? 150 kroner each = 1,800 kroner. Plus 2 polishes @ 800 kroner. And 36 mini cabs? 100 kroner each. 7,000 in total. Not bad. And it’s two hours till closing time.

Offering cabbies a discount was a good move.

He is about to go and greet a new customer, when two other cars pull up behind the filthy Mercedes parked outside. Two police cars.

Damn, Hassan thinks. The officers, three in total, get out. Hassan goes to meet them. He has seen one of them before.

‘Are you the owner of this car wash?’ asks Detective Inspector Brogeland. He raises his voice to drown out the sound of the high pressure hosing-down in progress inside the car wash. Hassan nods.

‘Do you employ a man called Yasser Shah?’

Damn, Hassan thinks again.

‘Yes.’

‘Where is he? We would like to talk to him.’

‘Why?’ Hassan asks.

‘Is he here?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

Hassan shakes his head.

‘Isn’t he supposed to be at work today?’

‘No.’

‘Do you mind if we take a look inside the car wash?’

Hassan shrugs and remains outside while the officers enter the car wash. The filthy Mercedes drives off.

Hassan thinks about Yasser. Bloody amateur. Didn’t he tell him ‘no mistakes’?

Work inside stops. An Avensis minicab is nearly ready. The officers talk to the men, but Hassan can’t hear what they are saying. He sees Mohammed shake his head. Omar too.

The officers search every room, look around the glass cage, check in front of and behind the car wash. Brogeland says something to the other officers, before he comes over to Hassan again.

‘We need to talk to Yasser Shah urgently. If you do see him, you must tell him to contact me or the police as soon as possible.’

Brogeland hands him a card. Hassan accepts reluctantly, but he doesn’t look at it. In your dreams, pig.

‘We know what you’re doing here, Hassan.’

Hassan tries not to show unease, but he can feel it in his cheeks. He waits for the threat which never comes and realises that is because it has already been made.

Brogeland says nothing else. Hassan understands that the police will keep the car wash under surveillance from now on to get hold of Yasser Shah and to monitor his other activities.

He glares at Brogeland and the other officers as they get in their cars. Perhaps I ought to offer the police a discount, Hassan thinks, and watches them drive off. Free car wash in return for their bodies at the bottom of Oslo Fjord.

He goes back in and gestures for the others to come over. They assemble inside the glass cage. Hassan doesn’t sit down. He looks at each of them in turn.

‘They know Yasser did it,’ he says.

‘How can they?’ Mohammed asks.

‘Are you thick? Yasser told us there was a man there. He must have seen Yasser and identified him to the police. He can ruin everything for us.’

‘Who? Yasser?’

Hassan sighs and shakes his head.

‘The witness, you moron.’