Burned Read online

  At least for today.

  There isn’t much he can do in the middle of the night. He ignores the matches and gets up. He goes into the living room, glances at his piano, but keeps on walking. His hip aches, but it is a little early for pills.

  He sits down in the kitchen. He listens to the fridge. It hums and whirrs noisily. He thinks it is on its last legs. Just like him.

  He hasn’t been there for many, many years, but the groaning from the fridge reminds him of the family’s summer cabin. It is just outside Stavern, by Anvikstranda Camping. It is plain, simple, and small, probably no more than thirty square meters. Fantastic view of the sea. Loads of adders.

  His grandfather built the cabin as cheaply as he could, just after the war, and to Henning’s knowledge, the fridge is still the original one. It moans and carries on almost like the fridge in Henning’s flat.

  He hasn’t been to the cabin since he was a child. He thinks Trine goes there sometimes, but he doesn’t know for sure. Perhaps the fridge is still there. It was only a half-size and they always had to kick the bottom of the door after closing it. If they didn’t, the door would swing open again. The flap to the freezer compartment was missing. The shelves in the door were loose and cracked, which meant heavy items such as milk and bottles had to lie inside the main body of the fridge.

  But the fridge worked. He can still recall how cold the milk would be. And he decides it’s all right to grow old and still be in working order. He has never tasted milk so cold, never experienced brain freezes like the ones he used to get on summer holidays in their tiny cabin. But it was fun. It was cozy. They went crabbing, played soccer on the large plain at the camping site, climbed rock faces, learned to swim in the sea, barbecued sausages on the beach in the evenings.

  The age of innocence. Why couldn’t it have stayed that way?

  He wonders if Trine remembers those summers.

  He thinks about sharia again. Allahu Akbar. And he recalls what Zahid Mukhtar, the head of the Islamic Council in Oslo, said in 2004:

  As a Muslim, you’re subject to Islamic law and, to Muslims, sharia takes precedent over all other laws. No other interpretation of Islam is possible.

  Henning interviewed a social anthropologist at the Christian Michelsen Institute shortly afterward, and she explained that most people in the West have a distorted image of sharia. Though there are traditions going back a thousand years and a certain consensus exists on how to interpret the laws of Allah, sharia isn’t a single unambiguous set of written laws. Religious scholars, who interpret the Koran and Hadith texts, decide what is right and wrong, and their reading is influenced by whatever culture affects them. In Norway, most people associate sharia with the death penalty in Muslim countries. And this ignorance is deliberately exploited.

  The social anthropologist, whose name he can’t remember, showed him a website in Norwegian which listed sharia law in bullet points and the punishments for breaking them. “This is very simplistic,” she said, pointing to the screen. “Few people will understand what sharia is really about from this. It’s people who aren’t scholars who might post a page like this. They use a fluid concept to gain power and influence. Most people don’t realize that hudud punishments are quite low key in the Koran. A few scholars even think they should be ignored completely.”

  The interview made an impression on Henning because it challenged his own prejudices against Muslims in general and sharia in particular. And now, when he thinks about hudud punishments and links them to the murder of Henriette Hagerup, a number of things fail to add up. She wasn’t a Muslim. Nor was she married to one, and as far as he knows, she hadn’t stolen anything, either, and yet her hand had been chopped off.

  He shakes his head. A few years ago he might have been able to come up with a credible explanation, but now he is increasingly convinced that it makes no sense. And that’s the problem. It always makes sense. It has to. He just needs to find the common denominator.

  21

  Henning’s flat reminds him of a garage sale. He doesn’t like garages. He doesn’t know why, but they make him think of cars, idle engines, closed doors, and screaming families.

  Back in Kløfta, the Juuls’ garage contained tires that should have been thrown out long ago, ancient and unusable bicycles, rusty gardening tools, leaking hoses, bags of shingle, skis no one ever used, tins of paint, paintbrushes, logs stacked against the wall. Even though Henning’s father never tinkered with any of the cars he owned, the place always smelled like a garage. It smelled of oil.

  The smell of oil will always remind him of his father. He doesn’t remember all that much about him, but he remember his smell. Henning was fifteen years old when his father died suddenly. One morning he simply failed to wake up. Henning had got up early, he had an English test later that day. His plan was to do some last-minute revision before the rest of his family stirred, but Trine was already awake. She was sitting on the bathroom floor, her legs pulled up to her chest. She said:

  He’s dead.

  She pointed to the wall, the wall to their parents’ bedroom. She wasn’t crying, she merely kept saying:

  He’s dead.

  He remembers knocking on the door, even though it was ajar. The door to his parents’ bedroom was always closed. Now it swung open. His father lay there with his hands on the duvet. His eyes were shut. He looked at peace. His mother was still asleep. Henning went over to his father’s side of the bed and looked at him. He looked like he was sleeping. When Henning shook him, he didn’t move. Henning shook him again, harder this time.

  His mother woke up. At first, she was startled, wondering what on earth Henning was up to. Then she looked at her husband—and screamed.

  Henning doesn’t remember much of what happened next. He only recalls the smell of oil. Even in death, Jakob Juul smelled of oil.

  After a breakfast consisting of two cups of coffee with three sugars, Henning decides to go to work. It is only 5:30 AM, but he thinks there is no point in hanging around the flat.

  He visualizes the sea as he turns into Urtegata. He should be feeling tired, but the coffee has woken him up. Sølvi isn’t there yet, but he visualizes her, too, as he swipes his card.

  There is only one other person in the office when he arrives. The night duty editor is hunched over his keyboard, sipping a cup of coffee. Henning nods briefly to him as they make eye contact, but the duty editor soon returns to his screen.

  Henning lets himself sink into his squeaking chair. He catches himself wondering when Iver Gundersen gets to work, if he is postcoital and glowing, if it’s plain for all to see that Nora gave him a good start to the day.

  By the time Henning snaps out of his self-flagellating fantasy, he could have sworn he could detect Nora’s scent. A hint of coconut against warm skin. He doesn’t recall the name of the lotion, the one she loved and which he loved that she wore. But he can smell coconut all around him. He turns, gets halfway up from his chair and looks around. The duty editor and he are the only people there. And yet he can smell coconut. Sniff, sniff. Why can’t he recall the name of that lotion!

  The scent disappears as quickly as it came. He falls back into his chair.

  The sea, Henning, tells himself. Focus on the sea.

  22

  Research is a fine word. It’s even a profession. A researcher. Every TV series has one. Every TV news desk has one, sometimes many.

  Henning spends his time doing a little research while the rest of the newspaper wakes up. Research matters, it is possibly a journalist’s most important task when there isn’t much else to do. Dig, dig, dig. The oddest but ultimately crucial snippets of information can be found in the strangest texts or public records.

  He remembers a story he worked on years ago. He was relatively inexperienced at the time, probably hadn’t covered more than ten murders when a vicar, Olav Jørstad, disappeared in the sea, off the coast of Sørland. Everyone knew how much Jørstad liked fishing, but he was familiar with the sea and would never have g
one out if bad weather had been forecast.

  Eventually his boat was found, bottom up. Jørstad himself was never found and everything pointed to a tragic accident. The current had very likely carried his body out into the wide, blue sea.

  Henning covered the story for Aftenposten, and put together a standard package, which meant interviewing family, neighbors, friends, Jørstad’s congregation, the whole Norwegian Bible belt, practically. After discussing the story with his editor, Henning decided to stay on because he had a hunch that something was missing from the picture of Jørstad that everyone was painting. In the eyes of his parishioners, Jørstad was an outstanding vicar, a brilliant spiritual leader who had the gift of the gab; some even claimed that he had healed them, but Henning never reported such claims in his articles. He suspected some of them of actively courting publicity.

  However, Jørstad’s role as a choir master and conductor received very little attention. Every church has a choir. Vicars are trained in choral song. The Reverend Mr. Jørstad was a man who liked discipline, and consequently, it was a fine choir. Some days after Jørstad’s disappearance, after the media novelty had faded, Henning was chatting to Jørstad’s son, Lukas. They happened to talk about the choir and Henning asked if Lukas had been a member. Lukas replied no.

  A few weeks later, Henning was trying to contact a member of the choir, a woman called Susanne Opseth, who was supposedly one of the last people to see Jørstad alive. Henning did his research and found several newspaper cuttings in which she was featured. And in one of them, from the early 1990s, before the Internet, he spotted her in a photo, singing in the choir with Mr. Jørstad conducting. What Henning didn’t notice at first, but discovered when he examined the picture in detail, was that Lukas was lined up in the back row.

  Lukas had lied when he told Henning he had never sung in the choir. Why would he lie about something so trivial? The answer was obvious. There was something about the choir that Lukas didn’t want Henning to know or find out about.

  So Henning started digging, interviewing the rest of the choir, and it didn’t take long before he discovered that Lukas had left the choir as an act of rebellion against his father, to humiliate him publicly. The choir wasn’t the only place where Mr. Jørstad demanded discipline. It found expression in strict routines, the reciting of Bible verses, a stern upbringing devoid of affection. And it ruined Lukas’s budding relationship with a girl his own age, Agnes. Mr. Jørstad didn’t approve of her and he didn’t want Lukas wasting his time with her.

  Lukas released, as police interviews later revealed, years of frustration and oppression one night when his father took him fishing. Lukas hit his father over the head with an oar, sending him over the railing. Afterward, Lukas overturned the boat and swam ashore.

  Lukas was a strong swimmer and he was willing to face the consequences of his actions. Anything to rid himself of his father’s hold on him. But Lukas had an unexpected stroke of luck: his father’s body was never found.

  Henning worked with the local police force and could break the story the day they arrested Lukas. He hasn’t checked, but as far as he knows, Lukas is still in jail. And all because of a single picture printed in a local paper many, many years ago.

  Research. Even the slightest gust of wind can upset a house of cards.

  Henning likes research, likes finding out information about people. Especially if those people interest him or have done something he finds fascinating. The Internet is brilliant for research. He didn’t like the Internet to begin with, in fact he was opposed to it, but now he can’t imagine life without it. Once you have driven a Mercedes, you never go back to your push-bike.

  The research he is doing now gives him no obvious clues for how to spend the rest of the day. He hasn’t yet come up with a plan when Heidi Kjus and Iver Gundersen enter together. Henning can’t hear what they are talking about, but his ears prick up. Gundersen smiles and looks suitably pleased—with himself, Henning reckons—but Heidi is serious as always. She reeks of “let’s get this show on the road” attitude.

  Heidi rarely allows herself to smile, she regards it as a sign of weakness. When she started working at Nettavisen, she would often join them for a beer on Fridays. She would be chatty and sociable, but never visibly drunk. Today, he can’t imagine Heidi in the pub. Now she is the Boss. And bosses are always in charge. If she is tired, she never lets on. She suppresses her laughter if someone cracks a joke. It is inappropriate to allow oneself to be seduced by humor during business hours, it dulls her focus.

  Heidi looks at Henning while she talks to Gundersen. She is excited about something and gesticulates enthusiastically. Gundersen nods. Henning notices that Gundersen’s facial expression changes when he sees Henning is already at his desk. It is as if the self-assured, arrogant, and smug cosmopolitan develops teenage acne and regresses fifteen years.

  “You’re in early?” Gundersen remarks and looks at Henning. Henning nods, but doesn’t reply and glances at Heidi who sits down without saying anything.

  “How did it go yesterday?” Gundersen asks. Henning glares at him. Jerk, he thinks. Haven’t you read my story?

  “All right.”

  “People keen to talk?”

  Gundersen sits down and switches on his PC.

  “Enough.”

  Gundersen smiles a crooked smile and looks at Heidi. Henning knows she is listening, though she pretends she isn’t. He turns his attention back to the screen.

  Salty waves, Henning.

  Oh, what fun this is going to be.

  A little later Heidi says, in her Boss voice, that it is time to have a meeting. Neither Gundersen nor Henning says anything, but they get up and trundle after her. Gundersen slips to the front of the queue and waits for twenty-nine seconds so he can take a fresh cup of coffee with him. This creates a moment alone for Henning and his Boss. He steels himself for another dressing-down, but Heidi says:

  “That was a good story, Henning.”

  He already knew that. But he didn’t know that Heidi was big enough to admit it. He feels like saying that he will be quicker next time, but he doesn’t. She might be like one of those Death Eaters in Harry Potter. Perhaps she will be different tomorrow or change when it is a full moon? For Christ’s sake—the last time he had a meeting with Heidi, he was evaluating her stories! Not the other way around. Imagine Cristiano Ronaldo teaching an eight-year-old kid to play soccer and then get a pat on the back by the same boy a few years later for a good insider pass?

  OK, wrong metaphor, but really! He is sure that Heidi can read his mind, but Gundersen comes to his rescue by entering the meeting room.

  “Just the three of us?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “What about Jørgen and Rita?”

  “Jørgen is manning the desk today, and Rita is on duty tonight.”

  Gundersen nods. Heidi sits down at the end of the table and takes out a sheet of paper. She reviews today’s stories. And she does it quickly. Henning knows that is because the news desk or the team that monitors the news and published stories on an ongoing basis can handle most things. Heidi has an ulterior motive: she wants to show them that she is The Boss, that she is in charge.

  Then they get to the real reason:

  “Where are we with the stoning? Any good follow-ups today?”

  Henning looks at Gundersen. Gundersen looks at Henning. He is back in his role as the rookie, so he awaits Gundersen’s star turn. Gundersen takes a sip of his coffee and leans forward.

  “The police seem fairly certain that Marhoni did it. I’ve a reliable source at the station who might give me some info from their interviews with him.”

  Heidi nods and makes a quick note on her sheet.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not at the moment. I’ll check my sources and see if anything else comes up.”

  Heidi nods again. Then she looks at Henning.

  “Henning, what have you got today?”

  Heidi has her pen ready. He isn’t
used to reporting to a superior, so he hesitates for a second, before clearing his throat.

  “Not sure yet.”

  Heidi is about to write something, but stops.

  “You’re not sure yet?”

  “No. I’ve got some ideas, but I don’t know if they’ll lead to anything.”

  The truth is he doesn’t know if he can get hold of the people he wants to talk to or if they will tell him anything useful, and he doesn’t want to promise something at the meeting he later finds he can’t deliver. Best not to say anything.

  “What kind of ideas, Henning?” she probes. He can hear the doubt in her voice. And he sees her sneaking in a quick sideways peek at Gundersen.

  “I want to talk to a few more people at Hagerup’s college—if they’re there today.”

  “We’ve done human interest.”

  “This isn’t human interest. This is different.”

  “What is it?”

  He hesitates again, he wants to tell her about Anette’s eyes, about how the hudud punishments don’t make sense, but he doesn’t trust Heidi or Gundersen. Not yet. He knows they are his colleagues and that he needs to work with them, but they have to earn his trust first. It has nothing to do with professional rivalry or ego.

  “I think there’s more to Hagerup’s background and life, something that matters to this story,” he says. “I’m hoping people at her college can shed some light on who she was and why someone chose to knock her out with a stun gun and throw rocks at her head until she died.”

  He is pleased with his own reply until he realizes what he has just said.

  “A stun gun?”

  Gundersen looks at him. Henning curses himself. He says:

  “Eh?”

  A pathetic attempt to buy time.

  “I don’t recall reading anything about a stun gun?”

  Henning says nothing, he feels two pairs of eyes sticking into him like pins. His cheeks redden.

  “Who told you that, Henning?” Heidi asks.