Thomas Enger - Burned

Hassan remembers when Julie, the finest mistress he had some years ago, surprised him by cooking Pakistani lamb casserole with mint chutney and naan when he visited her one evening. She had got the recipe from Wenche Andersen on Good Morning, Norway. She had even tried to bake naan from scratch.

It tasted good, but that was all. Real naan is baked in a tandoori oven, at the far end, and it must cook for no more than fifteen to twenty seconds. The lamb casserole contained far too much coriander and ginger, and not enough chilli.

He dumped her a month later. None of his other mistresses has ever been allowed to cook for him. They know what he expects from them, and dinner on the table when he visits isn’t the reason he pays their rent.

In Pakistan all chefs are men. Women don’t measure up. That’s just the way it is.

Hassan is watching an episode of MacGyver when his mobile, which is lying next to his plate, starts to vibrate. He swallows a large chunk of chicken, slightly too large, and has to force it down. He washes it down with Coke before he answers the call. When he finally does, it is with a brusque ‘yes’ and still with food somewhere in his throat.

‘It’s Mohammed. We’ve found him.’

Hassan swallows again.

‘Good. Where is he?’

More Coke.

‘Walking down the street. He’s in Gronlandsleiret right now. Do you want us to take him out right away?’

Hassan prods the food on his plate with his fork.

‘In the middle of the afternoon? Are you stupid or something? We’ve attracted enough attention as it is.’

‘Okay.’

Hassan takes another bite.

‘By the way, I want a word with him before he dies. I want to know how he got those horrendous scars,’ he says, still eating. He puts down his fork and wipes his mouth.

‘Okay.’

‘I want to know where he spends the rest of the day. Don’t do anything until you’ve spoken to me.’

Another okay.

‘And put a car outside his place of work and his flat.’

‘Will do, boss.’

Hassan hangs up and finishes his dinner. Definitely not chicken biryani tomorrow. No, he fancies dhal, perhaps a kebab of grilled tandoori king prawns with onion and paprika. Yes. Definitely king prawns. A royal meal fit for a king.

It is almost four o’clock, but Henning decides to stop by the office anyway. He has no articles to file, because he hasn’t found out anything he feels he can write about yet, but he is working. And he hasn’t shown his face since this morning. I ought to report to Heidi or Tourette Kare, he thinks. Have a chat with Gundersen, perhaps, if he is around.

He takes a risk and crosses the street at Vaterlands Park. He is dragging his legs across the road, some distance away from the pedestrian crossing, dodging the worst of the rush-hour traffic, when he becomes aware of a car on the far side of the lights. It’s not a silver Mercedes, it’s a Volvo too far away for him to make out the model, but it accelerates as the lights change from green to amber. It is forced to brake when the car in front blocks it. Tyres screech. Horns beep. Horns beep all over Oslo. All day long.

The Volvo gets a response from the car in front. Henning is half expecting a confrontation, that the Volvo driver will get out and have a go at the driver of the car in front, but it doesn’t happen. Instead the man in the passenger seat rolls down his window and sticks his head out. Henning can’t make out his face properly, all he can see is a pair of gleaming, gold-framed sunglasses, even though there isn’t a single ray of sunshine for miles around.

He registers this because he instantly gets the feeling that the man is looking for him. If they are all like Ray-Ban Man, Henning thinks, perhaps he doesn’t have much to fear. But some idiots carry guns and if you give a moron a gun, you can get him to do almost anything.

The thought makes him speed up and he decides to make a detour on his way to the office. The area between Gronlandsleiret and Urtegata can seem a little inhospitable, regardless of the time of day, so he walks up Brugata, mingles with people at the bus station and jumps on the number 17 tram when it arrives a few minutes later. He rides it up Trondheimsvei and gets off at the Rimi supermarket, follows Herslebsgate until the large yellow building at the top of Urtegata is once more in sight. Cars zoom past him in both directions; it is the height of the rush-hour, and if anyone wants to kill him or kidnap him, it would be impossible to do it here. With one million witnesses and no clear escape routes, Henning can feel safe. Or relatively safe.

Perhaps I’m just paranoid, he thinks, perhaps I’ve been out of the game too long to know that this is completely normal, that nothing is going to happen? But there was something about the way Brogeland spoke which got his attention. Brogeland was worried. He knows about this gang. And as Nora said: they’re not nice people.

He catches himself wondering how this is all going to end. If they are trying to kill him — as Brogeland hinted — because he can place Yasser Shah in Tariq Marhoni’s flat, they won’t stop until they have succeeded.

Henning needs to check a couple of things. When he arrives at the office, he is thinking about them and practically collides with Kare Hjeltland at the coffee machine. Kare is about to step aside, when he sees who it is.

‘Henning.’

‘Hi, Kare,’ Henning replies. Kare gazes at him as if he were Elvis.

‘How are you? Bloody hell. Bloody hell, you must have been scared shitless?’

Henning reluctantly agrees that he was a little scared, yes, he probably was.

‘What the hell happened?’

Henning takes a step back and hopes that Kare won’t notice. While he gives him the abbreviated version, he checks the room. Gundersen isn’t there. But he spots Heidi. And he can see that Heidi has spotted him.

‘Listen, I didn’t manage to get back to the staff meeting,’ he says. ‘I heard Sture was going to say a few words?’

‘Yes, a lot of fun that was, he-he. Same old story. You were lucky, you had a good reason for getting away, away, AWAY!’

Kare grins from ear to ear, once his tic has died down.

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing we haven’t heard before. Bad times, you lot need to generate more pages and do it faster, if we’re to avoid cuts and boo fucking hoo.’

Kare laughs and smiles — for a long time. Heidi would probably enjoy cutting me right now, Henning thinks. But he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

He excuses himself by saying he needs a word with Heidi before he goes home for the day. Kare understands and slaps him hard on the shoulder, three times. Then he is off again. Henning decides to strike first.

‘Hello, Heidi,’ he says. She turns her head.

‘Why the hell — ’

‘Bad times, slowdown in the advertising market, we need to deliver more pages, cuts.’

He sits down without looking at her. He feels her eyes on him and is reminded of the North Pole.

‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

He turns on his computer. Heidi clears her throat.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Working. Is Iver around?’

Heidi doesn’t reply immediately.

‘Er, no. He has gone home.’

He is still not making eye contact with her and tries to remain unaffected by the unpleasant silence which envelops them. Heidi doesn’t move. When Henning finally looks up, he is surprised by the expression in her eyes. She looks like she has had a puncture and there is no sight of a bus stop for miles.

‘I’m close to breaking a really good story,’ he says in a milder voice and tells her about his meetings with Yngve Foldvik and Tore Benjaminsen, tells her that the police will soon eliminate Mahmoud Marhoni as a suspect, and that from now on, the focus of the investigation will be on Henriette Hagerup’s closest circle of friends. He doesn’t mention his sources, but Heidi nods all the same and doesn’t pressure him.