Burned Read online

  “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 even appeared on his radar earlier, in connection with a case Brogeland worked on when he was a plainclothes 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 toward 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 flower beds, 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 tires.

  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 first-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.

  “Police?”

  Brogeland registers a hint of reluctance and fear in the voice. That’s not Marhoni, he thinks, Marhoni is a tough nut.

  “Yes, the police.”

  Sandland’s sexy voice is more authoritative now.

  “W-why?”

  “Police? Don’t let them in!”

  The voice in the background is loud enough for Brogeland and Sandland to hear it.

  “Open up!”

  Sandland raises her voice. Brogeland snaps out of his fantasy and pushes down the door handle. He has noticed that the lock has been vandalized, and he stomps inside with Sandland right behind him. They race up the stairs to the elevated ground floor. Brogeland can hear someone fiddling with the lock, but he gets there first, his superb physical fitness pays off, and he tears open the door.

  A man, whom he instantly guesses must be Marhoni’s brother, gives him a frightened look; Brogeland ignores him, thinking that at any moment he could be staring straight into the mouth of a pistol. He moves swiftly and noiselessly, he checks the flat, there is a smell of herbs, of cannabis, he opens a door, a kitchen, it’s empty, he continues, a bedroom, no, no one there, either; he is in the living room, and that’s when he sees it, the fireplace, someone has lit a fire; however, it’s not the flames which disconcert him, but what the flames are consuming with such greed that he is taken aback for a moment, it’s a computer, a laptop, he calls out to Sandland to save it and he will go after Marhoni, he hears how his voice is rich with power, with experience, knowledge, guts, authority, everything you need to make on-the-spot decisions. Sandland responds just as Brogeland spots Marhoni trying to escape out of a window in one of the rooms accessible through the living room. Marhoni gets ready, then he jumps. Brogeland soon reaches the window, looks down before he climbs up, realizes the drop is less than two meters, jumps, lands softly and looks around, spots Marhoni, and chases after him. You’ll be sorry you did that, he thinks, you idiot, absconding from your flat the very day your girlfriend is found murdered, how do you think it’s going to look, you moron?

  Brogeland knows it will be an easy race to win. Marhoni keeps looking over his shoulder, and every time Brogeland gains a few meters on him. Marhoni runs across the junction where Bispegata crosses Oslovei, without waiting for a green light. A car brakes right in front of him and sounds its horn. Brogeland pursues him. In the background, he can hear the tram, dring-dring; there are cars in the street, people behind windows following the chase with interest, probably wondering what on earth is going on, is someone making a film or is it the real thing? Marhoni turns around, then he runs straight ahead. Brogeland thinks Marhoni must want an audience or he would have fled in the direction of Aker Church. Brogeland is only ten meters behind Marhoni now and he is constantly gaining on him. He catches up with him and throws himself at him. They land on the tarmac outside Ruinen Bar & Café.

  Marhoni breaks his fall and Brogeland is unhurt. There is a man sitting outside the café, smoking. He watches as Brogeland sits on Marhoni’s back, pinning back his arms, before he calls in for assistance.

  “Nineteen, this is Fox Forty-Three Bravo, over.”

  He gets his breath back, while he waits for a response.

  “Nineteen responding, over.”

  “This is Fox Forty-Three Bravo, I’m in St. Hallvard’s Square, I’ve arrested a suspect and I require assistance. Over.”

  He breathes out and looks at Marhoni, who is gasping for air. Brogeland shakes his head.

  “Bloody idiot,” he mutters to himself.

  12

  Westerdals School of Communication is situated on Fredensborgvei, close to St. Hanshaugen. As always, when he finds himself in this part of Oslo, he thinks someone made a complete hash of urban planning: 1950s tenements painted a shade of gray that can best be described as concrete, and tiny, charming houses in vibrant colors, lie a hair’s breadth from each other. The incline of Damstredet reminds him of the narrow lanes of Bergen, while the buildings along the road leading to the city center evoke local government. There is a constant buzz and a permanent cloud of dust and pollution in the streets and the neighborhood’s few gardens.

  But right now, Henning couldn’t care less.

  It is packed with people under the big tree outside the entrance to the college. Friends huddle together, hugging each other. There is crying. And sobbing. He walks nearer, sees others plying the same trade as him, but ignores them. He knows what tomorrow’s newspapers will show. Photos of mourners, plenty of photos, but not very much text. Now is the time to wallow in grief, let the readers have their share of evil, the bereavement, the emotions; get to know the victim and her friends.

  It is a standard package he is putting together. He could almost have written the story before coming here, but it has been a while since he wrote anything, so he decides to start from scratch and think of some questions that might make the package a little less predictable.

  He opts for a slow and soft approach, quietly observing before identifying someone to interview. He has an eye for such people. Soon he is caught up in a river of tears and finds himself overcome by an unexpected reaction:

  Anger. Anger, because only a few people here know what real grief is, know how much it hurts to lose someone you care about, someone you love, someone you would willingly throw yourself in front of a bus for. He sees that many of the bystanders don’t grieve properly, they exaggerate, they pose, relishing the opportunity to show how sensitive they are. But it’s all fake.

  He tr
ies to shake off his rage. He takes out his camera and shoots some pictures, moves around, focusing on faces, on eyes. He likes eyes. They are said to be the mirror of the soul, and Henning likes eyes because they reveal the truth.

  He zooms in on the impromptu shrine the victim’s friends have built under the huge tree to the right of the entrance. Three thick trunks have intertwined and created an enormous broccoli-shaped growth. The branches sag with the weight of the leaves. The roots of the tree are encircled by a low cobblestone wall.

  A framed photograph of Henriette Hagerup is leaning against one of the tree trunks. The photograph is surrounded by flowers, handwritten cards, and messages. Tea lights flicker in the gentle wind which has found its way here. There are photographs of her with her fellow students, with friends, at parties, on location, behind a camera. It’s grief. It’s condensed grief, but it’s still fake. A textbook example, no doubt about it.

  He looks up from the camera and concludes that Henriette Hagerup was a strikingly attractive woman. Or perhaps a mere child. There was something innocent about her: blond curly hair, not too long, a brilliant broad smile, and fair skin. He sees charm. And something more important, something better. Intelligence. He sees that Henriette Hagerup was an intelligent young woman.

  Who could have hated you so much?

  He reads some of the cards:

  We will never forget you, Henriette

  Rest in peace

  Johanne, Turid, and Susanne

  Missing you, Henry

  Missing you loads

  Tore

  There are between ten and twenty cards or notes about absence and grief, and all the messages have similar wording. He is scanning them absentmindedly, when his mobile starts to vibrate in his pocket. He takes it out but doesn’t recognize the caller’s number. He is supposed to be working, but decides to answer it nevertheless.

  “Hello?”

  He moves away from the crowd.

  “Hi, Henning, it’s Iver. Iver Gundersen.”

  Before he has time to say anything, a blast of jealousy hits him right in the solar plexus. Mister Super Fucking Corduroy! He manages a flustered “hi.”

  “Where are you?” Gundersen asks.

  Henning clears his throat: “At the victim’s college.”

  “Okay. I’m calling to let you know the police have already made an arrest.”

  For a moment, he forgets that he is having a conversation with his ex-wife’s new lover. He actually detects a flicker of curiosity.

  “That was quick! Who is it?”

  “According to my sources, it’s the boyfriend. I don’t know his name yet. But perhaps one of her friends could tell you?”

  Henning can hear Iver’s voice, but he barely registers what is being said. Among the myriad of notes, candles, and red eyes he has spotted a message which stands out.

  “You still there?”

  “Eh, yeah. Her friends. Great.”

  “It’s a home run, I reckon.”

  “They have evidence?”

  “I think so. I’ll start work on the story and expand on it later as more info becomes available.”

  “Okay.”

  Gundersen hangs up. Henning returns his mobile to his jacket pocket without taking his eyes of the card. He holds up his camera and snaps a picture, zooming in on the text:

  I’ll carry on your work

  See you in eternity

  Anette

  He lowers the camera and lets it dangle around his neck. He rereads the words before looking around at the students.

  Where are you, Anette, he wonders? And what’s the work you intend to complete?

  13

  Detective Inspector Brogeland takes off his jacket and hangs it on a coatrack in his office. He walks down the corridor and knocks on Sergeant Sandland’s door. Secretly hoping to catch her in an erotic fantasy about him, he doesn’t wait for her to reply before he opens it. Sadly, she has so far failed to respond to his numerous advances with even so much as a glance. Perhaps I’ve been too direct. Or maybe it’s because I’m married, Brogeland thinks and enters.

  Sandland is in front of her computer, typing. She doesn’t look up when Brogeland appears.

  “Are you ready?” he says. She holds up one finger, before resuming her race across the keyboard with a speed a Thai masseuse would have been impressed by.

  Brogeland looks around. Typical girly office, he thinks. Neat and tidy, documents in organized piles, a pencil pot with two blue and one red pen, a stapler and a hole punch, Post-it notes next to them, a diary open on today’s date, but no appointments, ring binders—all black—on the shelves behind her desk, work-related journals and reference books on a shelf of their own. There is a yucca palm on the floor, green and verdant. The roses in the glass vase on her desk are long-stemmed and fresh, there are apples and pears—perfectly ripe, of course—in a wooden bowl, next to a cactus, free from dust.

  You’re prickly, Sandland, Brogeland thinks, as he studies the look of concentration on her face. You’re always prickly, but in such an enticing way. He tries to inhale her smell without her noticing. She doesn’t wear perfume. Or perhaps she does, in which case it is very discreet.

  Many of the women he has slept with have reeked of something so sweet, so cloying that he has had to take long showers afterward. His urge to screw them again evaporates the second he remembers their perfume.

  It wouldn’t be like that with Sandland. Oh, no! He imagines lying next to her, sweaty, his body happily exhausted after a prolonged wrestling match of sensual and rough sex. None of the usual postcoital unease and thoughts about how soon his cab can get there.

  She must be a lesbian, he concludes, if she doesn’t want to screw me.

  Sandland hits “Enter” slightly harder than necessary and sheets of paper start spilling out of the printer. She gets up, goes over to the printer, and picks up the small pile that has been spat out.

  “Ready,” she says, without smiling.

  Damn!

  Brogeland opens the door for her. Sandland exits and they go to the interview room where Mahmoud Marhoni and his lawyer are waiting for them.

  Too many kebabs and not enough exercise is Brogeland’s first impression when he takes a closer look at Mahmoud Marhoni. He has gained some weight since he saw last him and yet he wears a tight-fitting T-shirt. A spare tire of puppy fat hangs around his waist. If I ever wanted to turn women off, Brogeland thinks, then that’s precisely how I would go about it.

  Marhoni’s face is round. Brogeland estimates his stubble to be a week old, but Marhoni has shaved under his chin in a neat edge. His skin is chestnut brown. He is just under 1.70 meters, but he has a presence which suggests he is oblivious to his lack of height or the excess weight.

  Marhoni looks tough and displays the “what are you looking at, pig” attitude. Brogeland has seen it before; he has seen it all before. He already knows what kind of interview it is going to be.

  Marhoni’s lawyer, Lars Indrehaug, is a creep who has defended vermin all his life. The prosecution service loathes him and regards him as a jackal who exploits loopholes in the law to put rapists, drug dealers, and other scum back on the street. He is tall, thin, and gangly. His hair flops into his eyes. He brushes it away with his fingers.

  Brogeland and Sandland sit down opposite Indrehaug and his client. Brogeland takes the lead, goes through the formalities and fixes his eyes on Marhoni.

  “Why did you run when we came to talk to you?”

  Marhoni shrugs. You just carry on playing that game, Brogeland thinks, and continues:

  “Why did you burn your laptop?”

  Same response.

  “What was on it?”

  Still no reply.

  “You know we’re going to find out sooner or later, don’t you? You can make it easier for yourself by saving us some time.”

  Marhoni gives Brogeland a look loaded with contempt. Brogeland sighs.

  “What can you tell me about your relationship with Henr
iette Hagerup?”

  Marhoni barely looks up. Indrehaug leans toward him, whispers something neither Brogeland nor Sandland can hear, before straightening up again.

  “She was my girlfriend,” Marhoni replies in broken Norwegian.

  “How long had you been together?”

  “About a year.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “At a concert.”

  “What kind of concert?”

  “Surely the nature of the concert is irrelevant to the investigation?” Indrehaug interjects.

  Brogeland glares at Indrehaug who looks indignant on his client’s behalf.

  “We’re trying to establish what kind of relationship your client had with the victim,” Sandland cuts in. For once, Brogeland decides not to look at her. He torpedoes Indrehaug with his eyes, though Indrehaug isn’t impressed in the slightest.

  “What kind of concert was it?” Brogeland repeats.

  “Noori.”

  “Noori?”

  “At the Mela Festival.”

  “Noori is a fairly well-known Pakistani rock band,” Sandland says. This time Brogeland looks at her, but tries to conceal how impressed he is, because he is also annoyed at her interruption.

  “It’s made up of two brothers from—”

  “Yes, I get it.”

  For the first time during the interview, something other than contempt emerges from Marhoni’s eyes. He looks at Sandland, slightly more vigilant now. Brogeland registers this and signals that she should take over. Sandland moves closer to the table.

  “When did you last see Henriette?”

  Marhoni thinks about it. “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “She was at my place until Hotel Cæsar finished.”

  “You watched Hotel Cæsar?”

  “Really—”

  Indrehaug’s cheeks have acquired a flame-red hue, which reveals his fondness for red wine. Sandland holds up her hands by way of apology.

  “What did you talk about?”