Thomas Enger - Burned

The initial premise was fine: Two women stage a ‘murder’ and make sure that one woman’s boyfriend is arrested and convicted of the murder, even though he is innocent. It is only a flight of fancy, Henning reasons, wishful thinking. Translated into real life, Mona and Merete will respectively be Henriette and Anette, while Mahmoud Marhoni is Yashid Iqbal. And Tariq is Farouk.

So far so good. And, so far, most of it matches Henning’s own theories. Mahmoud Marhoni is innocent, and someone is trying to set him up. Text messages, hinted infidelity, a last rough fuck which borders on rape. It won’t be easy for a suspect to distance himself from that kind of evidence, especially not if the suspect stays silent during interview.

But who is Harald Gaarder? His family and its fate were given so much space in the script that they must be important. But are they important in real life, too? As his mother said, it’s only a film. Not everything has to mirror reality.

He explores the possibility, anyway. Harald Gaarder had an affair with Mona — who else could it have been — and the infidelity is punished by stoning. But then why do Gaarder and Merete look at each other at the end? Why was she smiling?

The real life Gaarder character must know Anette. The man who had an affair with Henriette must be known to both women. The only one Henning can think of, based on the people he has met so far, is Yngve Foldvik. But Foldvik hasn’t read the script, so it can’t be him. Unless Foldvik is lying? But why would he lie about that? He must be aware that this kind of allegation is easy to check, if the police can be bothered. Evidence on his computer, copies of the script somewhere, in his office, at home. If he is caught out in such a simple lie, it’s handcuffs straight away and welcome to Ullersmo Prison. There must be other adults, he thinks, another family. Anette’s, perhaps? Or Henriette’s?

He thinks about Henriette. Beautiful, gentle, extrovert Henriette. What sort of person were you really? Foldvik described your work as ‘provocations with substance’. Henning can see what he meant, even though the issue of sharia is examined in a narrow and very simplistic manner. The message seems to be that idiots who promote sharia need to be got rid of, and that we — for our own sake — mustn’t shy away from any means in the fight to protect ourselves and our culture; women the world over — unite — and don’t put up with it.

But where is the gunpowder? When is the explosion? Where are the incriminating lines, the ammunition, which caused someone to act out what was a fantasy? Hagerup isn’t exactly Theo van Gogh, the Dutch director who made films critical of Islam and who was killed with eight pistol shots in Amsterdam in 2004. The killer went on to cut van Gogh’s throat, insert two knives into his chest and attach a long threatening letter to them. As far as Henning knows, Hagerup wasn’t Islamophobic. And her boyfriend was a Muslim.

The more Henning thinks about it, the more convinced he is that someone close to Anette and Henriette must be behind this. I have to find out who was involved in the filming, he thinks, who had access to the script and if any outsiders read it. The killer, or the killers, must be among them.

He fights the urge to call Anette. It’s too soon. She made it clear that he mustn’t try to help her, and besides, he wants more control over the story before he contacts her again.

Instead he calls Bjarne Brogeland. Henning got his mobile number after his interview at the police station. Brogeland replies almost instantly.

‘Hi, Bjarne, it’s Henning.’

‘Hi, Henning. How are you?’

‘Eh, all right. Listen — can we meet?’

A few seconds of silence follow.

‘Now?’

‘Yes. Straight away, if you can, and some place neutral, preferably. There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

‘In your capacity as a journalist?’

‘Of that I’m not entirely sure.’

‘Does this have anything to do with Tariq Marhoni?’

‘No. His brother. And Henriette Hagerup. In the light of that, it might have something to do with Tariq. Like I said, I’m not sure.’

‘You’re not sure?’

‘No. But I guarantee that you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say and see what I’ve found. I just don’t want to do it over the telephone.’

A thinking pause follows.

‘Okay. Where do you want to meet?’

‘Lompa.’

‘Good. I can be there in fifteen minutes.’

‘Great. See you there.’

*

He decides to take a cab from the Gode Cafe, no matter how risky it might be. He waits in Fredensborgvei until he sees a free taxi, which isn’t silver. It isn’t made in Germany and doesn’t have the number ‘A2052’ on its roof, either. The driver is an older man with grey hair, steel spectacles and he smells of Old Spice. He doesn’t say much during the trip.

This suits Henning fine. It means he can think in peace while they drive past buildings, people and cars. He always feels a sense of calm when he is on his way somewhere and he isn’t responsible for the transport. It’s like pressing the pause button on yourself while the rest of the world carries on moving.

He wonders what must have gone through Henriette Hagerup’s head when it dawned on her that her own script was about to be played out for real and she had the starring role. Perhaps you never saw it coming, he thinks. Perhaps she didn’t have time to react before she was stunned by the gun, and the stoning began before she regained consciousness.

He hopes so. And he hopes that Anette lies low. If Henriette was killed because of the script, Anette is likely to be the next victim.

Lompa, or The Olympen Restaurant, to give it its proper name, was closed at the start of October 2006 for refurbishment and reopened the following year. Henning was a regular at Lompa before That Which He Doesn’t Think About. It was a great place to grab a bite to eat and a beer; unpretentious clientele and a friendly service.

The moment he enters, he realises that the atmosphere has changed. It is missing the magic ingredient that creates the buzz, the charming chaos, the relaxed crowd. If you remove that one ingredient from the recipe, the sauce will never be the same again. The place looks great after the renovation, but it’s not the same.

He finds Brogeland in the bar. He isn’t in uniform now. Bubbles sparkle in a shiny glass next to him. They shake hands.

‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ Henning says. ‘Preferably near the exit?’

He doesn’t feel like explaining why, so he makes up an excuse:

‘Standing up gives me backache.’

‘Of course.’

They go to an empty table by the window. They have a view of Gronlandsleiret. Cars zoom past. All of them appear to be silver. An effusive woman in a waitress’s uniform comes over to them.

‘Would you like to see the menu?’

‘No thank you. Just coffee, please.’

Brogeland gestures to indicate that he is happy with his effervescent drink. He follows the waitress with his eyes as she leaves and disappears behind the bar. When he turns around, the expression in his eyes has changed. He doesn’t say anything, he just gives Henning the ‘start talking’ look. Henning takes it as a sign that Brogeland has no interest in swapping life stories since the vacuum that arose between school and work.

He takes out the script and slams it on the table.

‘The text messages which Henriette Hagerup sent to Mahmoud Marhoni the night she was killed, they wouldn’t happen to look like these?’

He shows him the page with the first text message and studies Brogeland’s reaction. It’s not a difficult task. Brogeland recoils.