Thomas Enger - Burned

No. Unlikely, at this time of day. Perhaps she is quite simply unreliable? There are people like that, but he didn’t get the impression that Anette was one of them. She is one of those who try; try to make something of themselves, do something with their lives, realise their ambitions.

Too much, possibly, to draw such conclusions after one brief meeting, but he is good at reading people: who is grumpy, who is a soft touch, who is real and not a fake, who beats up his wife, who might be tempted to drink a glass or three too many when the occasion presents itself, who couldn’t care less and who tries. He is quite sure that Anette tries, and he thinks she has been trying for a long time. That’s why he is starting to feel a little anxious.

But then the door to the Gode Cafe is opened. He jumps when he realises that it is Anette. She looks different from two days ago. The fear is still there, in her eyes, but she is even more introverted now. She has pulled her hood over her head. She isn’t wearing make-up and she looks scruffy. She stoops a little. She carries a backpack. A small grey backpack with no label, but many stickers.

She spots him, looks around the room and heads towards him. In nine out of ten cases, he would have got a bollocking. Bloody journalists, who can’t leave decent people alone, who have no sense of shame. He has heard it all before. And it has hit home in the past, but not now.

Anette stops at the table. She doesn’t sit down. She looks at him while she takes off her backpack. Judging from the stickers, she has travelled widely. He sees names of exotic cities from faraway countries. Assab (Eritrea), Nzerekore (Guinea), Osh (Kyrgyzstan), Blantyre (Malawi). She plonks the backpack on the chair.

‘Can I get you something to drink?’

‘I’m not staying.’

She takes a pile of paper from her backpack, throws it in front of him and closes the bag with a swift movement. She puts the backpack back on, spins on her heel and is about to leave.

‘Anette, wait.’

His voice is louder than he intended. People stare. Anette stops and turns around again. I hope she sees the urgency in my eyes, Henning thinks, the kindness, the sincerity.

‘Please, have a coffee with me.’

Anette does nothing, she just looks at him.

‘Okay, not coffee, it tastes like shit, but a latte? A cup of tea? Chai? Eins, zwei, chai?’

Anette takes a step towards him.

‘Comedian, aren’t we?’

He feels like a twelve-year-old who has been caught cheating in a test.

‘Like I said: I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

‘So why give me this?’ he asks, pointing to the pile of paper in front of him. On the front page, it says: A SHARIA CASTE WRITTEN BY HENRIETTE HAGERUP DIRECTED BY ANETTE SKOPPUM

He struggles to control himself. He wants to read it right there and then.

‘So you’ll understand.’

‘But — ’

‘Please — don’t try to help me.’

‘But, Anette — ’

She has already begun to leave. He is about to get up, but realises the hopelessness and the desperation of such an act. Instead he calls out after her:

‘Who are you scared of, Anette?’

She pushes down the door handle without looking at him or replying. She just leaves. He looks in the direction he thinks she might be walking, alone, with her backpack. He catches himself wondering if there was something else in it. An extra item of clothing? A film or book?

Or a stun gun perhaps?

The thought appears out of nowhere. But he tastes it, now that it is here. It’s a rather interesting thought. After all: who knows the script better than Anette?

No, he says to himself. If Anette had anything to do with her friend’s murder, why would she let me read the script? Why would she help me to understand? He dismisses the idea. A stupid notion. I need to read the script, see if it gives me any clues.

There has to be something.

Lars Indrehaug, the solicitor, runs his fingers through his fringe and sweeps it across his temples, away from his eyes. Tosser, Brogeland thinks. What I wouldn’t like to do to you in a soundproof room one day, when the cameras are turned off.

Dreams and reality. Two completely different concepts, sadly. The thought grows even more frustrating because Sergeant Sandland is sitting next to him. Brogeland looks at the papers on the table, flicks a switch and then another. They have prepared the interview carefully, gone through the evidence and agreed how to present it. Even though Sandland still doubts that Marhoni is guilty, he needs to come up with some convincing answers to the questions they are about to ask.

Brogeland loves talking shop to Sandland, gets off on seeing her lips when she is serious, dogged, consumed by indignation on society’s behalf. He looks forward to seeing the satisfaction in her eyes when she crosses the finishing line. If only she would take out that satisfaction on him.

Wrong switch, Bjarne.

Mahmoud Marhoni sits next to Indrehaug. Marhoni is upset, Brogeland thinks. Distraught at the murder of his brother, rattled by being remanded in custody. There are definite cracks in his tough shell. He looks scruffier. A couple of days without a razor and a ruler do that to a face accustomed to warm flannels every night.

They aren’t the only things you’ll have to get used to now, Mahmoud, Brogeland thinks. He signals to Sandland to begin the formal part of the interview: the introduction of those present and the reasons for their presence. Then she looks at Marhoni.

‘My condolences,’ she says, her voice all creamy. Marhoni gives his lawyer a quizzical look.

‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ she adds. Marhoni nods.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

‘We’re doing everything we can to find out who did it. But perhaps you already know?’

Marhoni looks at her.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Are you involved with Bad Boys Burning, Mahmoud?’

‘No.’

‘Yasser Shah?’

Marhoni shakes his head.

‘Answer the question.’

‘No.’

‘Did your brother know any of them?’

‘If I don’t know who they are, then how can I know if my brother had anything to do with them?’

Well done, Marhoni, Brogeland thinks. You avoided the trap.

‘We’ve managed to save the contents of your laptop,’ Brogeland continues and waits for a reply. Marhoni tries to appear unconcerned, but Brogeland can see that he is boiling on the inside. Though we don’t have everything, Brogeland remembers. Not yet, anyway.

But Marhoni doesn’t know that.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to change the replies that you just gave my colleague?’ Brogeland asks.

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘To avoid lying.’

‘I never lie.’

‘Oh no?’ Brogeland quips.

‘Perhaps you would like to confront my client directly rather than pussyfoot around?’ Indrehaug says. Brogeland sends him an evil stare before he addresses Marhoni again.

‘How many people, apart from you, use your laptop, Mahmoud?’

‘No one.’

‘You haven’t ever lent it to anyone?’

‘No.’

‘Not with you watching, either?’

‘No.’

‘And you’re quite sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Inspector — ’

Indrehaug throws up his hands and sighs wearily. Brogeland smiles and nods to himself.

‘What were you were doing on Henriette Hagerup’s e-mail account on the day that she was killed?’

Marhoni looks up.

‘What?’

‘Why were you reading your girlfriend’s e-mails?’

Brogeland registers that Marhoni looks surprised.

‘Was it to sneak a peek at this?’

Brogeland pushes a sheet of paper across the table. It’s a photograph of Henriette Hagerup draped around a man. The man’s face can’t be seen, only the back of his head. His hair is dark and thin. Marhoni looks at the picture.