Burned

by Thomas Enger

  “We can’t be sure that an immigrant did this,” Henning says.

  “Is that right? We’ve never had a stoning in Norway before.”

  It’s too early in the morning to have the immigration debate, so he says:

  “Why did you go inside the tent?”

  “That’s the thing. I’m not really sure. But the tent wasn’t there the day before, I’m here every day, you see, and I was curious.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “I usually do, but not near the tent. Nothing caught my eye as I walked up here. I live in Samvirkevei.”

  “Can you describe the crime scene?”

  “The crime scene?”

  “Yes. What did it look like inside the tent, did you notice anything?”

  Skagestad takes a deep breath.

  “I have already done this with the police.”

  “Yes, but you may not have remembered everything. The brain is remarkable. We rarely remember every detail of a traumatic experience at the time. However, things may surface later, things you didn’t consider important, but which turn out to matter.”

  I sound like a policeman, Henning thinks. But it works. He can see that Skagestad is trawling through his memories.

  “It could be anything. A sound, a smell, a color,” Henning continues. Something causes Skagestad’s facial expression to change. He grows more alert.

  “Actually, there is one thing I remember now,” he says and looks at Henning. Kama Sutra returns. Skagestad ignores the dog.

  “I noticed it when I entered the tent, but then I forgot all about it.”

  “What was it?” Henning says.

  “The smell,” says Skagestad, remembering it. “It smelled stuffy, as it usually does inside a tent. But there was something else.”

  Then he starts to laugh. Henning is puzzled.

  “It’s a bit embarrassing,” he says.

  Henning is sorely tempted to thump the old man.

  “What is?” he asks, patiently.

  Skagestad shakes his head, still smiling. Then he looks straight at him.

  “I could smell deodorant.”

  “Deodorant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not perfume?”

  “No. Deodorant for men.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  He nods.

  “How can you be?”

  Skagestad smiles again.

  “That’s what’s embarrassing,” he says, but he doesn’t elaborate. Henning thinks the man would make an excellent torturer at Guantánamo.

  “Romance,” he says. By now, Henning is completely lost.

  “From Ralph Lauren,” Skagestad continues.

  “How?”

  “I use it myself, you see. It was a present from my grandchild. That’s why I recognized it.”

  “Was it a strong smell?”

  “No. Very faint. But I’ve a strong sense of smell. And like I said, I use it myself sometimes, when I’m going out to, eh, meet someone.”

  Kama Sutra growls again. Skagestad throws the stick. Run, drool, chew, run.

  “And I think the ladies like it.

  He smiles briefly. This time Henning really doesn’t want to Skagestad to elaborate. Skagestad grows serious.

  “Poor girl.”

  “Did you notice anything else inside the tent?”

  “You don’t think that was enough?”

  “Yes, yes. But anything could be important.”

  “True. No, I don’t think there was anything else.”

  They stand in silence.

  “You won’t write anything about this in your newspaper—was what it called again?”

  “123news. And no, I won’t.”

  Skagestad nods and thanks him. Then he makes to leave.

  “Nice talking to you. Time for me to go home, have a coffee and a cigarette,” he says. Henning waves and thinks that Thorbjørn Skagestad, embarrassed or not, might just have contributed an important piece to the puzzle.

  Jarle Høgseth must be smiling in his grave.

  33

  He has some hours to kill before meeting Yngve Foldvik, so he goes down to the newspaper. He does so with a feeling that today has got off to a good start. It’s a rare sensation.

  He had said he wouldn’t show his face for a couple of days, but he can’t be bothered to go home now. The tired duty editor is at his desk when Henning arrives. A young woman sits with her back to him. The duty editor sees him and straightens up, but says nothing. Henning imagines that he has been told what has happened in the last twenty-four hours. He is probably surprised to see him at work so soon.

  Henning is surprised, too. Surprised that he doesn’t feel in need of some time off. It must be about having a sense of purpose, something that fills up your days, something that takes away the focus from That Which He Doesn’t Think About. And he has always been like this, when he gets the bit between his teeth. He can’t let go.

  Dr. Helge would probably be concerned, if he could see me now, he thinks.

  Don’t take on too much, Henning, take it easy for the first couple of weeks.

  Take it easy, that’s a good one. I’m really taking it easy now.

  He presses the button to get a cup of coffee, waits twenty-nine seconds, lets the machine finish dripping and goes over to his desk. He switches on his computer. The place is quiet. The only sounds are sporadic clattering from a keyboard and voices from a television near the duty editor. It sounds like CNN. Lots of breaking news.

  A minute later he is on the Internet. It doesn’t take him long to establish that little has happened overnight. His story about Tariq Marhoni is still 123news’s main story. The right-hand column on the front page tells him that his story is the most read in the last twenty-four hours.

  He clicks to check that everything is as it should be. He has taken his first sip of coffee and only just manages not to spit it out again. He stares at the screen. He has a byline and a byline photo! The body text, too, has been broken up by a photograph of him!

  He shoots up and stomps over to the duty editor, who is startled, when Henning appears. The duty editor says nothing, but straightens up in his chair.

  “Did you upload my story?” Henning thunders.

  “Your story?”

  “Yes, the one about Tariq Marhoni!”

  “When did you submit it?”

  “Last night!”

  “I started my shift at midnight, so it can’t have been me.”

  Henning shakes his head and swears silently to himself.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “You bet your life something’s wrong! I wasn’t supposed to have a byline and now my face is plastered all over the story!”

  The duty editor says nothing. The young woman sitting opposite carries on typing as if nothing has happened. Henning snorts.

  “Is there any way I can find out who uploaded the story?”

  “Yes, hold on a moment.”

  The duty editor clicks. Henning paces up and down, and then stops behind him. The publishing tool, Escenic Content Studio, is open. The duty editor opens the article log and clears his throat.

  “It was entered by Jørgen last night at 20:03, edited by Jørgen at 20:06 and 20:08, before Heidi opened it at 21:39 and 21:42.”

  “Heidi Kjus?”

  “Yes.”

  His cheeks feel hot. He returns to his desk without saying thank you. Heidi ought to thank her lucky stars that she isn’t here yet.

  She arrives half an hour later. She goes straight to Henning’s desk. She looks angry. That makes two of us, Henning fumes.

  “Why don’t you answer when I call you?” she says, dumping her bag on his desk. He is temporarily flummoxed.

  “I—”

  “When I call you, you pick up. I don’t care what time it is. Is that clear?”

  “No.”

  “What did you say?”

  She plants her hands on her hips.

  “I said no. When I’m off duty,
then I’m off duty. I don’t have to report to you then. And why the hell did you insert my byline photo when I expressly said I didn’t want a byline on the Tariq story!”

  Now it’s Heidi’s turn to be taken aback.

  “I—”

  “You realize how easy it’ll be for the killer to find me now if he wants to?”

  She digests this.

  “On this paper, everyone who writes a story, gets a byline,” she begins cautiously, then gets into her stride.

  “If we don’t have the balls to stand by what we write and put our name and photograph to it, then we shouldn’t publish it.”

  He is unsure if he has heard her correctly, so he says “hm” and looks at her.

  “Besides, your name and photograph are in every paper today, so if we don’t include it, it just looks weird.”

  He looks at her, but can’t think of anything to say. Because she has a point. Bloody hell, he thinks, she’s actually right!

  Heidi sits down and begins her morning rituals. She switches on her computer, takes her mobile out of her bag, opens her diary. She has won. The bitch was right!

  And he was just thinking that today had got off to a good start!

  34

  Heidi walks quietly up and down while Henning drinks his coffee in silence. She probably has important meetings today, he imagines. Every time she sits down, she glances at him, before her eyes become managerial again.

  The clock turns eight without Lord Corduroy deigning to make an appearance. He probably worked late last night. Perhaps he is doing something? Or he has already filed a story? Henning decides to give him a call, even though their last conversation wasn’t particularly amicable. Sometimes you have to offer your hand in friendship, swallow a camel and all that. This has rarely been Henning’s strongest point.

  Gundersen answers quickly, but his voice sounds sleepy.

  “Hi, it’s Henning.”

  “Good morning.”

  No background noises. Good!

  “Where are you?” he asks, even though he doesn’t want to know.

  “At home. I’ll be in a little later. I’ve already spoken to Heidi about it.”

  “That’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Oh?”

  Gundersen is slightly more awake now, but a pause arises and gives Henning the feeling that they both have something they want to say, but that neither of them wants to go first. Like two awkward teenagers.

  “Are you busy?” Henning asks at last. “Any plans for today?”

  He hears Gunderson sit up. His voice sounds distant. He lights a cigarette and blows the smoke hard into the handset.

  “I had a brief chat with Emil Hagen,” he says, inhaling deeply.

  “Who is he?”

  “A police officer from the investigation. Seems quite new. He bridled a little when I mentioned the stun gun.”

  Henning gulps.

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t want to comment on it. Mahmoud still denies having done anything wrong, but he hasn’t said anything to prove his innocence, either, so the police aren’t really getting anywhere. He doesn’t have an alibi for the evening. You met the only person who could provide him with one yesterday.”

  “Do you think that’s why Tariq was killed?”

  He asks on impulse. But now that the question has been aired, he decides it was actually a good one.

  “That’s hard to know. Might have been.”

  He nods to himself. It might very well have been. In which case, someone doesn’t mind if Mahmoud Marhoni stays where he is. But why doesn’t Marhoni say something?

  “And you? Are you at work since you ask?”

  Henning looks at Heidi.

  “Yes, I’m at the paper.”

  “I thought you were meant to take it easy for a couple of days?”

  “So did I.”

  He is in no mood to discuss his mental health with Gundersen, so he carries on:

  “Did Emil Hagen say anything about the hunt for Yasser Shah?”

  “Yasser who?”

  “The man who shot at me yesterday. I picked him out on a police database.”

  “I asked how far they had got in the hunt for the killer, but Hagen didn’t know. Didn’t seem like the sharpest knife in the drawer. Hagen, I mean.”

  Henning nods to himself and wonders if the Operation Gangbuster team is now in charge of the hunt for Shah, seeing that he was a member of BBB.

  “I’ve an appointment with the first victim’s supervisor today. I don’t know if he has anything useful to tell us, and I’ll try to speak to more of her friends. There’s something wrong at that college.”

  “Sounds good. I might see you later,” Gundersen says and inflects it as a question. Henning has no idea what will happen after his meeting with Foldvik, but he still says:

  “Yeah, you probably will.”

  Then he hangs up. He is left with a strange feeling that this was possibly their first civilized conversation. Or it was their first conversation which lasted more than two sentences.

  “Don’t forget we have a staff meeting today at two o’clock.”

  Heidi’s voice is frosty. She doesn’t look at him.

  “A staff meeting?”

  “Yes. Sture will be giving us a general update. Business is bad at the moment.”

  Isn’t it always?

  “I only mention it because I overheard you saying you have an appointment later today. Attendance is compulsory.”

  Henning thinks yes, I bet it is, but refrains from saying it out loud.

  Sture Skipsrud is founder and editor in chief of 123news. Sture and Henning worked together at Kapital for a couple of years. The advantage of working on a specialist journal, which isn’t published daily, is that you have time to investigate a story in depth. Interview several sources, form a proper and balanced impression of the issue. Good stories are born in that atmosphere. Stories that need a little more time.

  Sture was a great investigative journalist. He received the profession’s self-congratulatory award, the SKUP, at the start of the nineties for an exposé of the trade minister that led to the minister’s resignation. It made his career, and Sture used his superstar status to negotiate better contracts, he worked for Dagens Næringsliv for a while, wrote a couple of books about some finance wizards, joined TV2 before he left to start 123news in the late nineties. Many have wondered why a man who had made his name in investigative journalism would suddenly want to promote its absolute opposite.

  But Henning has always believed in the simplest explanation, which was that Sture wanted a reaction. Things weren’t happening fast enough for him. He wanted results. And preferably 1–2–3.

  “I’m off now,” Henning says. He needs some breakfast before he talks to Yngve Foldvik.

  “Aren’t you coming to the morning meeting?”

  “You already know what I’m doing today.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll try to make the staff meeting.”

  “You must.”

  “I’ll remember that when I’ve got a gun to my head.”

  Okay, so that parting shot was a tad melodramatic, but it worked. Heidi says nothing and lets him go.

  One–one, he thinks.

  35

  He stops off at Deli de Luca in Thorvald Meyersgate and buys a pesto chicken calzone. He also gets a couple of tabloids and a cup of coffee and sits down on a bench opposite Deichmanske Library. The worst of the morning rush hour is over, but there are still cars, trams, and people late for work around. He takes careful sips of his coffee and starts reading VG. Their front-page story is a scaremongering tale about a new lethal bacterium terrifying Denmark that the Norwegian Institute of Public Health fears will reach the country by the autumn. There is a small photo of him in the top right-hand corner with the caption “Tried to kill journalist” underneath it.

  He swears under his breath, doubly annoyed not only because there is actually a photograph of him, but
also because Heidi Kjus was right. He finds the story on page four. Petter Stanghelle gets the byline. Henning skims through the text until he reaches a quote:

  “Juul was lucky to escape the killer. Besides the three shots which killed Tariq Marhoni, another four were fired. None of them hit the reporter,” says Chief Inspector Arild Gjerstad, who is heading the investigation, to VG.

  Four shots, Henning thinks. He doesn’t remember there being four. He reads on:

  VG has been unable to contact Henning Juul, but Juul’s editor, Heidi Kjus, made the following comment on the dramatic situation: “We’re obviously deeply grateful that Henning is all right. I dread to think what might have happened.”

  Henning smiles to himself.

  You can always rely on Heidi.

  Stanghelle goes on to speculate if there is a link between the murder of Marhoni and the murder of Henriette Hagerup, but no one from the police will comment on it.

  No surprise there.

  Dagbladet also leads with the murder of Tariq Marhoni, but doesn’t mention Henning. Their angle is that it was a straightforward execution, carried out by a professional, it would seem. Except that Henning escaped.

  He is about to get up and leave when a silver Mercedes minicab slows down as it drives past Deli de Luca. The car stops for a red light. There are two men inside, both in the front. Henning’s eyes are drawn to them because they are looking at him. And they carry on looking at him, even though the lights have now changed to green.

  The tram behind the minicab beeps its horn and the Mercedes slowly accelerates. Henning’s eyes follow the minicab as it turns right into Nordregate and disappears behind the library. Of course, it could be nothing, he thinks. But it could also be the exact opposite. He swallows the rest of his coffee, tosses the paper cup into an already overflowing bin, and heads for the junction. He looks for the Mercedes, which has turned left into Toftesgate, but fails to get the car’s registration number or the license number on its roof.

  Henning tries to dismiss the incident, but it’s not easy. He only had time to see that the two men in the car looked similar. Both dark, with black hair, dark beards. Brothers possibly? And they were immigrants.