Thomas Enger - Burned

‘Well, Stefan doesn’t seem so committed to his writing now. You know. Teenagers.’

‘Girls, beers and student life.’

‘Precisely. I hardly ever see him these days. Do you have kids?’

Henning is taken aback by the question. Because he has and he hasn’t. And he has failed to prepare a suitable reply, never thought about one, even though he knew that the question would be asked sooner or later.

He gives the simplest answer he can.

‘No.’

But his heart aches as he says it.

‘Children can be a real pain sometimes.’

‘Mm.’

Henning’s gaze stops at a 4? 6 photograph, also framed, sitting on Foldvik’s desk. It is a photo of a woman. Long, black hair that has started to go grey. She isn’t smiling. He estimates her to be in her mid-forties. Foldvik’s wife.

And that’s when Henning remembers where he first saw Yngve Foldvik.

Yngve Foldvik’s wife is called Ingvild. Henning remembers everything now. Ingvild Foldvik was brutally raped, not far from Cuba Bro some years ago. He knows this because he was at the trial, reporting on the story. Yngve Foldvik sat in the courtroom day in day out, listening to every grotesque detail as it was laid bare.

Henning remembers Ingvild Foldvik in the witness stand, how she shook, how she had been traumatised by the man who beat her up and raped her. Had it not been for a brave and very strong man out walking his dog that night, she would probably have been killed. She was horribly mutilated with a knife. All over. Her rapist got five years. Ingvild got life. And Henning can see it now, that the wounds have yet to heal. The nightmares. And possibly the screams, too.

He shelves the memory after the fleeting satisfaction of finally putting a name to a face.

‘What did Henriette write?’

‘Short films, mostly.’

‘About what? You said that she liked being provocative?’

‘Henriette managed to make two short films while she… while she was here. One was called When the Devil Knocks — it was about incest; the other one was called Snow White. The story of a girl who gets hooked on cocaine. Rather clever films. She was about to make a third.’

‘The one they were going to shoot on Ekeberg Common?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why now? So close to the summer holidays?’

‘I believe it takes place in early summer. It’s important that every detail is as authentic as possible; it adds to the film’s credibility.’

‘What was it about?’

‘The third film?’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know the details, we only discussed it briefly.’

‘But what do you remember?’

Foldvik heaves a sigh.

‘I think she wanted to do something about sharia.’

Henning stops in his tracks.

‘Sharia?’

‘Yes.’

He clears his throat, tries to organise the thoughts which are bombarding him. The first to become clear is the message Anette wrote to Henriette.

‘Did Anette Skoppum work with Henriette Hagerup on this film?’

Foldvik nods.

‘Henriette wrote the script and Anette was meant to direct it. But, knowing Anette, she probably had a lot of say in the script, too.’

Anette, Henning thinks. I have to find you. And if there is one thing he is 100 per cent sure about, it’s that the film they were going to make has something to do with the murder.

‘Do you know if she’s still here or if she has gone home for the summer?’

‘I think she’s still here. I saw her yesterday. And I’m meeting with her in a couple of days, if I remember rightly, so she’s unlikely to have left.’

‘You wouldn’t happen to have a telephone number I can reach her on?’

‘I do, but I’m not allowed to give it to you. And I’m not sure that I want you pestering my students. Everyone’s really upset.’

Yes, I know, Henning thinks. He lets it pass.

‘The script for the short film, do you have a copy of it?’

Foldvik sighs.

‘Like I said, Henriette and I only ever talked about it. She told me she would e-mail it to me once it was finished, but I never saw it.’

‘What happens to the film now?’

‘We haven’t decided yet. Is there anything else? I have another appointment.’

Foldvik gets up.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Henning replies.

Dreadlocks is still at it when Henning returns to the ground floor. Good God, he thinks, the guy is trying to resuscitate that poor girl. Henning clears his throat. Dreadlocks looks up. The bashfulness of youth, which Yngve Foldvik eulogised, has definitely gone out of the window.

‘Thank you very much for your help,’ Henning begins. ‘It was really easy to find Foldvik’s office.’

‘No problem.’

Dreadlocks licks his lips.

‘I was wondering if I could ask you for another favour. I’m a reporter and I’m working on a story about Henriette Hagerup and students in her year, how they manage to carry on after the dreadful thing that has happened. It’s not going to be an intrusive article, a more abstract one based on the silence which follows, how a trauma like this affects a group of students.’

If there is an award for laying it on thick, Henning’s nomination is in no doubt. Dreadlocks nods sympathetically.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like a list of her fellow students. You wouldn’t happen to have that on your computer, would you?’

‘Yes, I think I might. Hang on,’ he says and grabs the mouse. He clicks and presses a few keys. The glare from the screen reflects in his eyes.

‘Would you like a print-out?’ Dreadlocks asks.

Henning smiles.

‘Yes, please. I’d like that very much.’

Clicking, typing. Next to them, a printer warms up. A sheet slides out. Dreadlocks picks it up and hands it to Henning with a service-minded smile.

‘Super. Thanks so much,’ Henning says and takes the sheet. He quickly skims the names, twenty-two in all. One of the cards he read the first day he visited the college pops into his head. Missing you, Henry. Missing you loads. Tore.

Tore Benjaminsen.

‘Excuse me,’ he says to his good Samaritan on the other side of the counter. Dreadlocks is just about to resume devouring what is left of his girlfriend, but he turns around at the sound of Henning’s voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you know Tore Benjaminsen?’

‘Tore, yes. Sure do. I know him. Everybody knows Tore, he-he.’

‘Is he here today? Have you seen him?’

‘I saw him outside somewhere.’

Henning turns towards the exit.

‘What does he look like?’

‘Short hair, small, skinny. I think he was wearing a dark blue jacket. He usually does.’

‘Thanks so much for your help.’ Henning says, and smiles. Dreadlocks raises his hand and bows his head slightly. Henning goes outside and looks around. It takes only a second to spot Tore Benjaminsen. He is having a cigarette; he was one of the smokers Henning passed on his way in nearly an hour ago.

Tore and the young woman, who is also smoking, notice him before he reaches them. They realise that he wants something and stop talking.

‘Are you Tore?’ Henning asks. Tore Benjaminsen nods. Henning recognises him now. Tore was interviewed by Petter Stanghelle a couple of days ago, in the light rain outside the college. Henning didn’t read what Tore said about his late friend, but he remembers the Bjorn Borg underpants.

‘Henning Juul,’ he says. ‘I work for 123news. I was wondering if we could have a chat?’

Tore looks at the girl.

‘I’ll see you later,’ he announces grandly. It won’t be difficult to massage Tore’s ego.

Tore’s hand feels like a child’s when Henning presses it, and they sit down on a nearby bench. Tore takes out his cigarettes, pulls out a white friend and offers Henning one. Henning declines politely, but his eyes linger on his old acquaintance.