Thomas Enger: Burned

He knows he has put Gundersen on the spot, but he doesn’t care.

‘I’m not entirely sure.’

Gundersen swallows, then he recovers.

‘I suggest updating the story we’ve already published, with quotes from the press conference,’ he begins, and looks over Henning’s shoulder at Nora, who is observing their first meeting.

‘I thought about following up this honour killing theory,’ Gundersen continues. ‘See if there’s something in it. In which case, the list of suspects will be fairly short and it won’t be long before the police arrest someone.’

Henning nods. ‘Has anyone talked to her friends?’

Gundersen shakes his head.

‘Then I’ll visit her college and do a story about her life and who she was.’

‘Human interest.’

‘Mm.’

Henning makes eye contact with Gundersen, who nods.

‘All right, sounds good. I could try contacting the man who found the victim, but I’ve heard that he doesn’t want to talk to the press. So — ’ Gundersen shrugs.

Henning nods, he sees that Gundersen is still uncomfortable, that there is something he feels the urge to say. He inhales, but Henning beats him to it.

‘Great,’ he says and leaves. He walks as fast as his damaged legs can carry him, straight past Nora, without looking at her.

Well done, Henning, he tells himself. You had the shit kicked out of you in round one, but you got back on your feet and you won round two. That’s the inherent problem with boxing. Winning a round gets you nowhere, unless you also win the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that. And most important of all, the last one.

The battle has already been lost, Henning thinks. The judges have already decided. But, at least, he can try for a personal best.

He can avoid being knocked out again.

It takes several minutes before his heart rate returns to normal. He crosses Borggata, trying to forget what he has just seen and heard, but is haunted by Nora’s eyes and icy breath. He imagines the conversation between Nora and Iver, after his exit:

Iver: Well, that went all right.

Nora: Had you expected anything else?

Iver: I don’t know. Poor guy.

Nora: It’s not easy for him, Iver. Please don’t make it harder for him than it already is.

Iver: What do you mean?

Nora: Exactly what I’ve just said. Do you think it was easy for him to see me here? See me with you? I think it was very brave of him to go up to you the way he did.

Stop it, Henning. You know that wasn’t what she said. More likely, it went:

Nora: Ignore him, Iver. That’s just the way he is. He has always done his own thing. Sod him. I’m starving. Let’s have some lunch.

Yep, that’s it. Much more authentic.

He decides he needs to clear his head. Forget Nora and concentrate on the job in hand. As he waits for the lights to change at the junction with Toyengata, it occurs to him that he will need his camera.

He goes home to get it.

*

Detective Inspector Brogeland slows down. The car, one of the many new Passats the police have purchased, comes to a smooth halt outside 37 Oslogate. He puts the selector into ‘P’ and looks at his colleague, Sergeant Ella Sandland.

Jesus, she’s hot, he thinks, taking in the masculine uniform and everything it conceals. He fantasises about her constantly, pictures her without the leather jacket, the light blue shirt, the tie, stripped of everything except her handcuffs. Countless times, he has imagined her shameless, lascivious, giving herself completely to him.

Women think men in uniform are sexy. It’s a well-known fact. Brogeland, however, thinks that’s nothing compared to the other way round: women in clothes that radiate authority.

Damn, that’s hot.

Ella Sandland is 1.75 metres tall. She is extremely fit, her stomach is flatter than a pancake, her bottom stretches her trousers perfectly when she walks; she is a little under-endowed in the breast department, a touch rough and masculine in an ‘are-you-bi-or-straight’ way, but it turns him on. He looks at her hair. Her fringe just brushes her eyebrows. Her skin fits snugly under her chin, over her cheekbones; it is smooth, with no blemishes or marks and not a hint of facial hair — thank God. She moves gracefully, she has one of the straightest backs Brogeland has ever seen; and she pushes her chest slightly forward, even when she is sitting, like women tend to do to create the illusion that their breasts are bigger than they really are. But when Sandland does it, it’s just so sexy.

Damn, that’s so sexy.

And she is from West Norway. Ulsteinvik, he thinks, though she has lost her accent over the years.

He tries to suppress the images that increasingly clutter his head these days. They are outside the home of Mahmoud Marhoni, Henriette Hagerup’s boyfriend.

It is a standard home visit. In 2007, out of thirty-two murders thirty were committed by someone the victim knew or was in a relationship with. Statistically, the killer is likely to be someone close. A rejected spouse, a relative. Or a boyfriend. This makes the visit Brogeland and Sandland are about to make of the utmost importance.

‘Ready?’ he says. Sandland nods. They open their car doors simultaneously and get out.

Christ, just look at the way she gets out.

*

Brogeland has been to Oslogate before. Mahmoud Marhoni has even appeared on his radar earlier, in connection with a case Brogeland worked on when he was a plain-clothes detective. As far as they could establish at the time, Marhoni wasn’t mixed up in anything illegal.

Brogeland has been a cop long enough to know that means nothing. That’s why he experiences a heightened sense of excitement as they walk towards number 37, locate the doorbells and find the name of Henriette Hagerup’s boyfriend to the left.

There is no sound when Sandland presses the button. At that moment, a teenage girl in a hijab opens the door to the backyard. She looks at them; she isn’t startled as Brogeland had expected, but holds the door open for them. Sandland thanks her and smiles at the girl. Brogeland nods briefly by way of a thank you. He makes sure he enters last, so he can gorge himself on the sight of his female colleague’s backside.

I bet she knows, Brogeland thinks. She knows that men love to stare at her. And the uniform doubles her power. She appears unobtainable because she is a policewoman, and because she is so desirable, she can take her pick of anyone she wants — from both sides of the fence, probably. She is in control. And that’s irresistible, a huge turn-on.

They find themselves in a backyard which shows every sign of neglect. There are weeds between the paving slabs, bushes have been left to grow wild and tangled. The flowerbeds, if they can still be called that, are a jungle of compacted soil and dusty roots. The black paint on the bicycle stand is peeling and the few bicycles parked there have rusty chains and flat tyres.

There are three stairwells to choose from. Brogeland knows that Marhoni lives in stairwell B. Sandland gets there first, finds the button in the square box on the wall and presses it. No sound.

Brogeland forces himself to take his eyes off Sandland’s rear and looks up at the sky. Clouds are gathering over Gamlebyen. There will be rain soon. A swallow shrieks as it flies from one rooftop to another. He hears a jet plane pass, but he can’t see it through the clouds.

Marhoni lives in the upper ground floor flat, but the window is too high for Brogeland to be able to look in. Sandland rings the bell again. This time she gets a response.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. This is the police. Open the door, please.’

Brogeland relishes Sandland’s juicy accent.