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  “This and that.”

  “Such as?”

  Again, Indrehaug leans toward Marhoni.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Sandland smiles. She leans toward Brogeland, mimicking the performance across the table, but Brogeland stops listening once he realizes that she isn’t saying “come home with me once this mind-numbing interview is over”—words he has dreamt of hearing from her lips for so long.

  “Where was she going after Hotel Cæsar had ended?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Didn’t you ask?”

  “No.”

  “She spends the night at your place sometimes, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, sometimes.”

  “But you didn’t ask why she didn’t stay over yesterday?”

  “No.”

  Sandland sighs. Marhoni’s hard-boiled mask remains intact.

  “Have you heard of Ekeberg Common?” she asks next.

  “No.”

  “Ever been up there?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Not been up there for the Norway Cup?”

  “I don’t like soccer.”

  “No brothers or nephews who play? You haven’t been up there to support them when they played?”

  He shakes his head and twinkles arrogantly at her.

  “Have you ever played cricket up there?”

  He is about to say “no” on autopilot, but he hesitates half a second too long. Brogeland notes down “has been to Ekeberg, but is lying about it.” Sandberg reads it, and carries on:

  “Do you own a stun gun, Mr. Marhoni?”

  His reaction suggests she has just asked him the stupidest question in the world.

  “A what?”

  “Don’t give me that. You know what a stun gun is. Don’t you ever go to the movies? Watch cop shows?”

  He shakes his head again and adds a smirk.

  “I don’t like cops.”

  “Inspector, what’s the point of these questions?”

  “We’re getting to it, Mr. Indrehaug,” Brogeland says with forced restraint in his voice. Sandland is about to attack. She pulls out a sheet.

  “The victim was found with marks on her neck. They match those caused by a stun gun. Also known as an electroshock weapon, if you know what that is.”

  She slides the sheet across the table and turns it over, so they can see it. It is a close-up of the victim’s neck. Two rust-colored, irregular burns can clearly be seen. Indrehaug picks up the photograph and studies it.

  “There are many different models, but a stun gun is used when you want to paralyze rather than injure your victim. Render them helpless. So that you can put them in a hole and bury them.” Sandland looks at Marhoni, but he remains unimpressed and unaffected by her questions.

  “For someone whose girlfriend has just been killed in a very brutal way, you don’t seem terribly upset or sad,” she carries on. It is a question rather than a statement. Marhoni shrugs again.

  “Didn’t you care about her?”

  A tiny twitch flits across his face.

  “Didn’t you love her?”

  Marhoni blushes faintly.

  “Did she meet with you yesterday to end it? Was that why you killed her?”

  He is getting angry now.

  “Had she met someone else? Was she bored with you?”

  Marhoni moves to get up. Indrehaug places his hand on Marhoni’s arm.

  “Sergeant—”

  “Was that why you killed her?”

  Marhoni stares at Sandland as if he wants to tear her apart.

  “Did you look at Henriette like that when you picked up the rock and crushed her head?”

  “Sergeant, that’s enough!”

  “Tell your client to answer the question!”

  Brogeland coughs and gestures to Sandland to calm down. The room falls silent. Brogeland can see the pulse beat in Marhoni’s throat. He decides to strike while the iron is hot.

  “Mr. Marhoni, preliminary examinations carried out at the crime scene and on the victim show she had very rough sex not long before she was killed. Would you know anything about that? What can you tell us about it?”

  Marhoni is still glaring at Sandland with the same thunder in his eyes, then he quietly turns to Brogeland. He says nothing.

  “Even though you don’t watch cop shows, you probably know that semen is one of the best things a killer can leave behind? For the police, that is. DNA. You’ve heard of that?”

  Still no reply. Cold-blooded bastard, Brogeland thinks.

  “Last night, at twenty-one seventeen, you received a text message from Henriette Hagerup.”

  Marhoni’s pupils contract slightly. Brogeland notices this.

  “Do you recall what it said?”

  Brogeland can see that Marhoni is thinking about it. Brogeland looks at a sheet that Sandland has passed to him. He raises a fist to his mouth and coughs again.

  “Sorry. It means nothing. HE means nothing. You’re the one I love. Can we talk about it? Please?”

  Brogeland looks at Marhoni and at Indrehaug, in turn. He lets the implications of the text message sink in, before he continues.

  “Do you want me to read the next text she sent you?”

  Marhoni looks at his lawyer. For the first time during the interview, the rock-hard surface is starting to crack.

  “It would appear that Henriette was killed sometime between midnight and two AM; that’s only a few hours after sending you three text messages. If I were you, I would start talking about what happened between the two of you last night.”

  Marhoni shows no sign of wanting to talk. Brogeland sighs and looks at his sheet again.

  “I promise to make it up to you. Give me another chance, please?”

  Marhoni is shaking his head now.

  “Inspector, I think—”

  “You called her after the second text, but you got no reply. Is that right?”

  Brogeland is getting annoyed with the silent bastard.

  “‘Please respond. Please! I’ll never do it again. I promise!’ That was the third text, sent ten minutes later.”

  Marhoni stares at the floor.

  “What was it she promised never to do again, Mr. Marhoni? What had she done that was so bad that you can’t look me in the eye and tell me?”

  No change.

  “Who is ‘he’?”

  Marhoni looks up, but not at Brogeland.

  “Who is ‘he’ who means nothing to her?”

  Marhoni’s mouth is pursed. Brogeland sighs.

  “Okay. It’s not up to me, but I guarantee that you’ll go before a judge and be remanded in custody later today. If I were your lawyer, I would start preparing you to spend the next fifteen to twenty years indoors.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  His voice is faint, but Brogeland has already gotten up from his chair. He leans across the table and presses a button.

  “Interview terminated at fifteen twenty-one.”

  14

  It starts to rain gently. Henning likes the rain. He likes getting wet when he’s outdoors, likes looking up at the sky, closing his eyes and feeling the raindrops fall on his face. Too many people ruin a good shower by putting up their umbrellas.

  A little rain is appropriate now. It provides a golden opportunity for the bystanders to show that they don’t care about personal comfort in their hour of grief; they might be within range of a camera, they could even be on the news later today, so they cluster together. The rain is like tears from above, as if God himself grieves at the loss of one of his children.

  Henning snaps away. His Canon takes three pictures per second. He imagines a fine photo montage in the paper later. But he isn’t looking for people who are crying. He is looking for anyone standing quietly, alone, reflecting.

  He approaches a lad with short hair, no sign of a beard yet, with the Björn Borg logo on his underpants showing above the waistband of his trousers.
He is being interviewed by Petter Stanghelle from VG. VG loves a good sob story.

  The tearful boy talks about Henriette Hagerup, how clever she was, what a huge loss it is to the Norwegian film industry, et cetera. Henning carries on walking, making sure he keeps well away from the camera lenses, as he takes in the hysteria that surrounds him.

  And that’s when he sees her. Quickly, he takes her picture. She stands in front of the tree; she wasn’t there a few minutes ago. She alternates between reading the messages and staring at the ground, shaking her head imperceptibly before looking up again. More Canon shots. Though he doubts he’ll use a single one of them.

  The young woman has dark, shoulder-length hair. He takes more pictures. She has an expression on her face he can’t quite decipher. She just stands there, in a world of her own. But there is something about her eyes. He moves closer and closer, until he is practically standing next to her. He pretends to be reading the mawkish cards.

  “Sad,” he says, just loud enough for her to hear. It could be a statement or an invitation to a conversation. The young woman doesn’t reply. Without her noticing, he moves a step nearer. He stands there for a long time. His hair is starting to feel wet. He shields the camera to prevent it getting wet, too.

  “Did you know her well?” Henning asks, addressing her directly for the first time. She nods briefly.

  “Were you on the same course?”

  At last, she looks at him. He expects her to flinch at the sight of his face, but she doesn’t. She merely says:

  “Yes.”

  He lets more time pass. He can see that she isn’t ready to talk, but she isn’t crying, either.

  “Are you Anette?” he asks, eventually.

  She is startled. “Do I know you?”

  “No.”

  He pauses, giving her time to assess the situation. He doesn’t want to frighten her, he wants to arouse her curiosity. He can see she is studying him. A shiver of fear goes through her, as if she is bracing herself for what he might say.

  “How do you know my name?”

  Her voice is anxious. He turns to her. For the first time, she sees his whole face, scars and all. Yet she still doesn’t seem to really see him. He decides to put his cards on the table, before her fear gets the better of her.

  “My name’s Henning Juul.”

  Her face remains unchanged.

  “I work for 123news.”

  Her open face hardens instantly.

  “Can I ask you some questions, please? Not intrusive, nosy, insensitive ones, just a few questions about Henriette?”

  The apathetic stare she gave the flickering tea lights is gone.

  “How do you know my name?” she repeats, folding her arms defensively.

  “I guessed it.”

  She stares at him with growing impatience.

  “There are a hundred people here and you just guessed that my name is Anette?”

  “Yes.”

  She sniffs.

  “I’ve nothing to say to you.”

  “Just a few questions, then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “You reporters only ever have a few questions, but you end up asking hundreds.”

  “One, then. I’ll leave you alone if you answer this one question. Okay?”

  He looks at her for a long time. She lets him stand there in the silence, before she tenses and relaxes her shoulders. He attempts a smile, but senses that his charm, which works on most interviewees, is lost on her. She tosses her head and sighs. Henning interprets the movement as consent and says:

  “What was the work Henriette had started and which you intend to complete?”

  She looks at him.

  “That’s your question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not ‘How will you remember Henriette?’ or ‘Can you tell me something about Henriette that will make my readers sob?’ or some crap like that?”

  She makes her voice sound like that of a pestering child. He shakes his head. She snorts. Her eyes bore into his.

  Then she tosses her head again, turns on her heel, and walks off.

  Great, Henning, he chastises himself. Well done!

  And he thinks that the only interesting person in this landscape of mourners has just left. She is no great beauty. He bets she doesn’t sit in the front row in the lecture hall or pose for pictures. He imagines her looking in the mirror and sighing, resigned; sees her giving herself to guys with beer goggles, late at night, and going home before daybreak.

  But Anette, he says to himself. You’re interesting. He feels like shouting it after her.

  Then he realizes what he saw in her eyes. He checks the camera as she disappears around the corner of a building. He scrolls to one of the first pictures he took of her, looks into her eyes. And he knows that he was right.

  Eureka! He recognizes the feeling when he grasps or stumbles across something important. As he zooms in on the picture and studies her again, he wonders what Anette was so scared of.

  15

  “He reeks of guilt.”

  Detective Inspector Brogeland doesn’t elaborate on his statement. He looks at Chief Inspector Gjerstad, the head of the investigation, who sits opposite him in the meeting room. He is flicking through the printout of the interview. Sergeant Sandland sits at the end. She leans forward and rests her elbow on the table. Her hands are folded.

  Two other officers, Fredrik Stang and Emil Hagen, are present, in addition to Assistant Commissioner Nøkleby. She is officially in charge of the investigation, but she always works closely with Gjerstad. Everyone’s eyes turns to Gjerstad, expecting him to say something. As always, when he is thinking, he strokes his mustache with his thumb and index finger.

  “There’s no doubt he has a problem explaining his situation,” Gjerstad says in a deep, growling bass. “All the same . . .”

  Gjerstad puts down the printout. He takes off his glasses, places them on the table, and rubs his face. Then he fixes his eyes on Brogeland.

  “You should have carried on with the interview when he finally said he didn’t do it.”

  “But . . .”

  “I know why you stopped at that point. You wanted to give him something to think about. But the way I read it, he was just starting to open up. He might have told us a lot more if you had been prepared to give him a bit more time.”

  “We don’t know that,” Brogeland replies.

  “Were you in a hurry?”

  “In a hurry?”

  Brogeland’s face feels warm. Gjerstad looks at him.

  “When you next interview him, give him a bit more time.”

  Brogeland squirms in his chair. He wants to defend himself, but not in front of the team; he doesn’t want to risk further humiliation.

  Gjerstad looks up to the right, as if he is staring at something on the wall.

  “There’s circumstantial evidence which implicates Marhoni and it’s tempting to treat this as an honor killing. If his girlfriend was unfaithful, he might have killed her to restore his honor.”

  Sandland clears her throat.

  “There is actually very little which suggests it might be an honor killing,” she says. Gjerstad turns to her.

  “In a few countries, infidelity means a death sentence. In Sudan, for example, in 2007 . . .”

  “Marhoni’s from Pakistan.”

  “I know, but they stone people to death in Pakistan, too. And as far as the honor killing theory goes, several elements are missing,” Sandland continues. Gjerstad looks at her, indicates that she should go on. Nøkleby nudges her glasses further up the bridge of her nose and leans closer to the table. Her dark fringe falls over her eyes, but not to the extent that it irritates her.

  “Honor killings are often carried out after the shame has become public knowledge,” Sandland begins. “As far as we’ve been able to establish, all anyone knew about Hagerup and Marhoni was that they were an item. Second, honor killings are often planned. The decision is usually made by the family. As far as I know, Ma
rhoni has no family in Norway, apart from his brother, who lives with him. And last but not least: you own up to what you’ve done. Marhoni denies that he did it.”

  Gjerstad digests the short lecture and nods with approval.

  “What do we know about stoning?” Emil Hagen asks.

  Hagen is a short man who has recently graduated from the Police Academy. Brogeland recognizes the type: bursting with enthusiasm, keen to be busy, and nurturing a vision of making a difference to society one villain at a time. You just keep thinking that, Brogeland muses. You’ll be brought down to earth soon enough, just like the rest of us. Emil has blond hair and looks like an adult version of the eponymous Astrid Lindgren character. He even has a big gap between his front teeth.

  “Only Iran officially uses the method today,” Sandland explains. “However, it’s also used in other countries, as a form of vigilantism. It’s mainly adultery, indecency, and blasphemy which are punishable by stoning. In 2007, Jafar Kiani was stoned to death in Iran. It was the first time since 2002 that Iran officially admitted to using this form of punishment.”

  “What had he done?” Nøkleby asks.

  “You mean what had she done?”

  Nøkleby bows her head, embarrassed at her ignorance.

  “She had an extramarital affair.”

  The rest of the team looks at Sandland. Fredrik Stang puts down his water glass.

  “I don’t follow, didn’t we just make an arrest?” he says. Stang has dark hair, cut short to the point of a crew cut, and a face which always oozes earnestness. He likes to wear tight-fitting clothes, so people can see he spent much of his youth in the gym.

  “Indeed we did, but he denies the murder and it’s far too early not to pursue other leads. Besides, we’re trying to establish a motive,” Nøkleby points out.

  “Hagerup had screwed around,” Stang protests. “The texts suggest she had. And Marhoni is a Muslim, isn’t he? To me, it sounds like a straightforward home run.”

  Sandland raises a bottle of Coca-Cola Zero to her lips and takes a swig.

  “Sure, I agree that it might look that way. But I still think we need to ignore the honor killing theory. It’s more obvious to take a closer look at sharia.”

  “Sharia?” Gjerstad frowns.

  “Yes. You do know what it is, don’t you?”