Thomas Enger - Burned

‘In which case, Tariq knew a lot more than we first assumed. It also means that both he and his brother were mixed up in something nasty.’

‘Tariq didn’t strike me as the type. He took photographs. Besides, he seemed like a decent guy.’

‘Well, you would know better than I. After all, you interviewed him just before he was killed.’

‘Yes, and I don’t remember him saying anything which might suggest that someone would want to silence him. But he was reluctant to tell me what his brother did for a living and that struck me as a little odd.’

‘Precisely.’

‘And you haven’t found Yasser Shah yet?’

‘No. He’s not at home, not at work or in any of the places he usually hangs out, nor has there been any activity on his credit card in the last few days. He hasn’t crossed any borders, either.’

‘Do you think he’s still alive?’

‘Are you saying someone might have killed him?’

‘Yes. It’s not improbable, given that I identified him and you’re looking for him. Yasser Shah was, as far as I could tell from his criminal record, a small fish. He only had petty crime convictions. His disappearance suggests he was paid for the hit or that someone ordered him to do it. And if that someone is trying to cover their tracks, then Shah is potentially a huge problem. He knows too much. He might even know why Hagerup and Tariq were killed.’

‘Yes, but gangs look after their members. They’re prepared to keep their people hidden, if they get into trouble.’

‘Perhaps. But do you think they’re ready to run that big a risk? We’re talking about a murder here.’

‘Possibly. I don’t know a lot about BBB. They came to our attention after I finished working as a plain-clothes officer, after Operation Gangbuster was set up.’

Henning ponders this for a while. The more he bats the arguments back and forth, the more he agrees with Brogeland. The murder of Tariq is unrelated to the murder of Henriette Hagerup. Tariq was collateral damage. He was no player. All he did was take photographs.

Then a thought occurs to him. And after that first one, the ideas start to flood in: Tariq Marhoni was killed to send a message to Mahmoud. That’s why Mahmoud isn’t talking, that’s why he set fire to his laptop. There is something on his computer which implicates other people. People who are prepared to kill to keep that information hidden. And Henning doesn’t think for one moment that information is a picture of Henriette hugging an unidentified man.

He shares his thoughts with Brogeland, who is silent for a long time. When he does start talking again, he does so quietly. And he is very serious:

‘If what you’re saying is true, we need to put the pressure on BBB. And this will have consequences for you, Henning,’ he says, boring his eyes into him. ‘You’ll need to tread carefully from now on.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If these guys are anything like the other gangs operating in Oslo, then we’re talking about hardcore bastards. They’ve no conscience. If you’re the only person who can put Yasser Shah on the crime scene, you are — in their eyes — a dead man. Like I said, they look out for each other. But worse, you have helped aim a spotlight on them and their activities, which could ruin their source of income. Or reduce it significantly. These guys are very concerned about profit. Mix it all together and you have a lethal cocktail.’

‘You’re saying they want me dead?’

Brogeland looks at him gravely.

‘There’s a good chance, certainly.’

‘Perhaps,’ Henning says and looks out of the window. A man is smoking across the street. Henning looks at him. The man looks at Henning. For a long time.

He considers what Brogeland has said. Henning’s face is plastered all over today’s newspapers. It won’t take long to find out where he works, where he lives or get to his relatives.

Damn, he says to himself.

Mum.

Henning can no longer see the man across the street. He didn’t get a proper look at him, but he noticed that the man was short and compact. He was bald, too, and he wasn’t an ethnic Norwegian, he was a little more dark-skinned. He wore shorts and a white, open-necked, short-sleeved shirt with some sort of print on it, but it was hard to take everything in during the brief moment he looked at him. And now, the man has gone.

Henning calls his mother as he walks. Her telephone rings. It rings for a long time. He starts to worry. He tells himself that her mobility isn’t that bad, only that she needs time to move from one point to another if she gets a coughing fit.

He lets the telephone ring and ring. Perhaps she is cross and is leaving it to ring deliberately because she wants him to feel bad. That usually works. And it’s working now. For God’s sake, Mum, he says to himself. Pick up, please.

He crosses the road at the top of Toyengata. He stares at the pavement, trying to look inconspicuous. He can feel his heart beat faster and faster under his shirt. For God’s sake, Mum, he thinks again and speeds up. His legs protest, but he has already made up his mind to visit her. If she isn’t answering her telephone, he needs to hurry up. He looks around as he walks, but it is chaos, there are people everywhere, cars, taxis; he sees them, but he doesn’t see them. He has a constant feeling that someone is watching him, following him, He smells something sharp and spicy. He passes a video shop at the entrance to Gronland Underground Station and just as he is about to hang up, the telephone is answered. But there is no reply.

‘Mum?’ he whispers. He doubts that his voice can be heard through the noise from the station, but he can hear her breathing, or her attempts to breathe.

Nothing is wrong. No new disasters, at any rate. He can hear that she is angry — without her saying anything. That’s the strange thing about her. She can give a whole lecture without uttering a single word. A glance, a sigh, a grunt or a turn of her head is enough. Christine Juul has a whole arsenal of feelings or opinions which are never spoken. She is like Streken, the children’s television character whose background changes colour depending on what mood he is in.

Nothing good ever happens to Streken.

‘Are you there?’ he continues.

A snort.

Precisely.

‘How are you, Mum?’ he says, realising the pointlessness of his question immediately.

‘Why are you calling?’ she grunts.

‘I just wanted to — ’

‘I’m out of milk.’

‘Eh — ’

‘And I need more cigarettes.’

He doesn’t know why he waits for her to tell him that he needs to go to the off-licence as well, because she never does, she just lets it hang like an invisible bridge between his telephone and hers, as if she expects him to understand without the need for her to say so. And he does. Perhaps that’s why.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll come and see you soon. I don’t know if I can manage it today, because I’ve a lot on, but it won’t be long. And another thing, Mum. Don’t open your door to strangers. Okay?’

‘Why would I want to open the door? I never get any visitors.’

‘But if someone were to ring the bell, and it isn’t me or Trine, then don’t open the door.’

‘You both have keys.’

‘Yes, but you — ’

‘And I need a new magazine.’

‘I — ’

‘And some sugar. I’m out of sugar.’

‘Okay. See you soon.’

Click.

Zaheerullah Hassan Mintroza is having dinner. Today, as yesterday, it is chicken biryani with chapatti, but it doesn’t taste like it does in Karachi. It rarely does. Hassan doesn’t know why, because the ingredients are the same, they are flown to Oslo almost daily and the food is cooked in Norway by Pakistanis. Perhaps it is to do with the cooking utensils, the air temperature, the humidity, the love with which the food is prepared?