Thomas Enger - Burned

‘I thought Henriette was yesterday’s news?’

‘In a way, yes. In another, no.’

‘I don’t suppose murder ever is,’ Tore says and lights up.

‘No.’

Tore returns his lighter to his jacket pocket and inhales deeply. Henning looks at him.

‘Henry was a great girl. In many ways. Very fond of people. Perhaps a little too fond of them.’

‘What do you mean?’ Henning asks, just as it occurs to him that he ought to have switched on his Dictaphone. Too late now.

‘She was extremely extroverted and — how shall I put it — almost excessively fond of people, if you know what I mean.’

Tore takes another drag and blows out the smoke, then he looks around. He nods to a girl who is passing them.

‘Was she a flirt?’

He nods.

‘I don’t think there was anyone here with something between his legs who didn’t, at one point or another, fancy — ’

He stops and shakes his head.

‘It’s really bad,’ he continues. ‘That she is dead, like.’

Henning nods silently.

‘Did you ever meet her boyfriend?’

‘Mahmoud Marhoni?’

Tore spits out the name and hawks extra long on the ‘h’ sound.

‘Yes?’

‘No idea what Henry saw in that wanker.’

‘Was he a wanker?’

‘He was a total wanker. Drove around in a massive BMW and thought he was a big shot. Always throwing money around.’

‘So he was a big spender.’

‘Yes, but in a totally failed way. He left his credit card behind the bar and told Henry’s friends that drinks were on him. Like he was desperately trying to prove he was one hell of a guy. It wouldn’t surprise me if — ’

He breaks off again.

‘What wouldn’t surprise you?’

‘I was about to say that it wouldn’t surprise me if he turned out to be a drug dealer, but I know that sounds racist.’

‘Perhaps, but what if it’s true?’

‘I don’t know anything about that. And just because I said it, doesn’t mean I’m a racist.’

‘I don’t think you are.’

‘But he didn’t deserve her. He really was a tosser.’

Tore has finished his cigarette and throws the stub on the ground without stepping on it. The small white friend lies there, gasping blue-grey smoke, right next to a puddle.

‘What was their relationship like?’

‘Stormy, I think we can say.’

‘How?’

‘It was very much on and off. And Mahmoud was the jealous type. Though given how Henry carried on, you could see why.’

Henning thinks about sharia again.

‘Was she ever unfaithful?’

‘Not that I know of, but it wouldn’t surprise me. She acted out a lot, enjoyed being the centre of attention on the dance floor, to put it one way. Wore provocative clothes.’

He looks away with a sad expression in his eyes.

‘Was there someone she flirted with more than others?’

‘Many. There were, eh, lots.’

‘Were you smitten, too?’

Henning looks up from his notepad and meets Tore’s eyes. Tore smiles and looks down. He sighs.

‘There was never an empty seat at Henriette’s table. Practically everyone on the course wanted to work with her, too. I made friends with her early on. We had an awesome time together, Henry and I. We were always flirting. I had just ended a relationship when we got to know each other and we discussed it a lot. She was very supportive, compassionate and warm. She was one of those people who know how to listen. And whenever I opened up to her, she always gave me a hug. A very long hug. I opened up quite a lot over those six months,’ he says, laughing.

Henning can imagine it, can imagine her. Beautiful, gentle, open, social, flirtatious. Who wouldn’t want to be around such a ray of sunshine?

‘It was easy to mistake her warmth for something else, as an invitation and one day I went too far. I tried to kiss her and — ’

He shakes his head again.

‘Well, it turned out I had misread the signals. At first, I was furious, I felt she had led me on, trapped me in her net, only to reject me. As though that was her game, like. Cat and mouse, a prick teaser. And I spent a couple of weeks being angry with her, but I got over it. One night, when we had gone out, a group of us, we talked about it. She wanted to be my friend, she said, but nothing more. I decided I would much rather be her friend than waste a lot of energy feeling rejected and, from then on, we were great friends.’

‘Did you feel bad when she got together with Mahmoud?’

‘No, not really. I knew she didn’t fancy me. But — there’s no law against envy, is there?’

Henning nods. Tore takes a big, greedy drag of his next cigarette.

‘Do you have any idea who might have killed her?’

Tore stares at him.

‘You don’t think Mahmoud did it?’

Henning stops for a moment, unsure of how frank he should be; something tells him Tore is a bit of a gossip. So he says:

‘Well, he has been arrested, but you never know.’

‘If it wasn’t Mahmoud, then I don’t know who might have done it.’

‘Do you know if she had other Muslim friends, apart from Mahmoud?’

‘Plenty. Henriette was everyone’s friend. And everyone wanted to be friends with her.’

‘What about Anette Skoppum?’

‘What about her?’

‘She worked with Henriette sometimes — from what I’ve been told?’

Tore nods.

‘Do you know her well?’

‘No, hardly at all. She’s the total opposite of Henriette. Never says very much. I’ve heard she suffers from epilepsy but I’ve never seen her have a seizure. Rarely puts herself about. At least, not while she’s sober. But when she’s drunk — ’

‘Then she loosens up?’

‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. Do you know what she always says when she’s pissed?’

‘No?’

‘What’s the point of being a genius if nobody knows?’ Tore mimics her voice and smiles.

‘If anyone ever had a good reason for low self-esteem, then it’s her. She’s not particularly talented. And I know at least three guys who got into her knickers when she was drunk. I think she must be a lesbian.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’m probably being stupid. It’s just a gut feeling I have. Hasn’t that ever happened to you? You feel you intuitively know things about people?’

‘Happens all the time,’ Henning replies and flashes a smile.

‘She was certainly a big fan of Henriette, that was plain to see. But then everyone was. What a waste,’ Tore says and shakes his head again.

‘I would like to talk to Anette as well. Would you happen to have her mobile number, by any chance?’

Tore takes out his mobile. It is a shiny dark blue Sony Ericsson.

‘I think so.’

He presses some buttons and turns the mobile to Henning, who reads the eight digits and notes them down.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I don’t have any more questions. Anything you would like to add?’

Tore gets up from the bench.

‘No. But I hope the police have got the right guy. I would like to — ’

He stops.

‘You would like to what?’

‘Forget it. It’s too late now, anyway.’

Tore Benjaminsen holds up a hand to Henning and starts walking towards the entrance.

‘Thanks for the chat.’

‘Likewise.’

Henning sits there and looks after him. Tore tries to act tough as he walks with his trousers hanging low. Bjorn Borg is in place today as well.

He sits on the bench for a while after Tore has gone. He spends a lot of time hanging around, wearing benches out these days. And that’s fine. Very nice. No deadly nightshade here. He can’t see Anette. People come and go. Every time, Henning’s eyes seek out the red entrance steps. And every time, he is disappointed.