by Thomas Enger
Coincidence?
Perhaps he should get a move on, before the silver Mercedes returns? He aims for the steep incline between Markvei and Fredensborgvei, where the sleepy current of the River Aker flows under the bridge, but decides on a whim to go to the off-license. For once, it has nothing to do with his mother.
He stands behind the window in the off-license, hiding behind the customers and flicking through a leaflet while he checks the road. Many Mercedes, many of them silver, but none containing two dark men.
A good while later he goes back outside, glances to the left and the right, before marching briskly in the direction of the Westerdals School of Communication. His breathing is faster than normal. And he keeps looking over his shoulder.
When he finally puts the traffic behind him and is back on college premises, his breathing starts to relax. He decides that if the minicab duo was keeping him under surveillance, they were pretty useless at it, given that he managed to lose them so easily. Either that or they were doing a brilliant job, since he couldn’t see them anymore. They might just have slowed down to stare at his face. He decides to forget all about it. It is nearly ten o’clock. Time for a chat with Henriette Hagerup’s supervisor.
36
The area around the college has changed in the last two days. The cameras have gone and with them the fake mourners. Hagerup’s shrine is still there, but no tea lights are burning. He notices more cards, a couple of bouquets of flowers and roses that are already wilting, but no sobbing students in front of her photo. The few people who are outside chat with no trace of sadness in their eyes. Two students, one male, one female, are smoking outside the college entrance.
Perhaps it’s the end of term, Henning thinks, perhaps they are taking their last exams? Or they might already have broken up? This could make the story considerably more difficult to investigate or, indeed, solve.
He becomes aware that the smokers are staring at him as he enters the main building. As soon as he gets inside, he sees a reception area to his left with a semicircular counter with two people behind it. They are wrapped around each other, kissing. He makes a point of coughing slightly, as he puts his hands on the counter.
They jump, giggle, and look up at him, before exchanging a “why don’t we get a room” look. Oh, to be twenty again, Henning muses.
“I’ve an appointment with Yngve Foldvik,” he says. The young man, who has long dreadlocks and an untrimmed beard, points toward a staircase.
“Take the stairs up to the first floor, turn right and right again, and you’re there. That’ll take you straight to his office.”
Henning thanks Dreadlocks for his help. He is about to leave when he remembers something.
“You wouldn’t happen to know who Anette is?”
“Anette?”
You idiot, he tells himself, There’s bound to be at least fifteen Anettes here.
“I only know her first name. She was a friend of Henriette Hagerup. They were on the same course.”
“Ah, her. Yes, Anette Skoppum.”
“Have you seen her today by any chance?”
“No, I don’t think so. Have you?” Dreadlocks says, looking at his girlfriend, who is fiddling with her mobile. She shakes her head and doesn’t look up.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Not to worry,” Henning says and leaves.
Suddenly he is engulfed by students. He passes some on the stairs, too. It’s like turning back the clock, twelve or thirteen years. He recalls his time at Blindern, student life, an age of few responsibilities, parties, exam stress, coffee breaks, alert eyes in the lecture hall. He liked the eyes in the lecture hall, liked being a student, liked absorbing all the knowledge he could.
Foldvik’s office is easy to locate. Henning knocks on the door. No reply. He knocks again and checks his watch. It is one minute to ten. He knocks a third time and pushes down the door handle. The door is locked.
He looks around. The place is deserted now. He can see doors. A whole corridor of them. It says EDITING SUITE or REHEARSAL ROOM on most. He notices a black backdrop and a film poster with the wording TO ELISE.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes him turn around. A man comes round the corner, straight toward him. Yngve Foldvik looks exactly like his photograph, same side parting. Again, Henning has a strong feeling of knowing the man, but he can’t place him.
He decides to forget about it and goes to meet Foldvik. Foldvik holds out his hand.
“You must be Henning Juul.”
Henning nods.
“Yngve Foldvik. Nice to meet you.”
Henning nods in return. From time to time, when he meets new people, he is struck by how they speak, the phrases they tend to use. First and surname, followed by a “nice to meet you,” for example. Nothing unusual about that. But what’s the point of saying that it’s nice to meet him before knowing if it is? His mere existence surely isn’t automatically nice?
Nora used to say “Hi, Nora calling” when she rang him. It irritated him every single time, but he never mentioned it. He thought it was bleeding obvious she was calling him, given he was holding the telephone and talking to her.
Phrases, he thinks. We surround ourselves with phrases, never contemplating what they suggest, how superfluous they are, and how little meaning they convey. Of course, he hopes that the meeting with Yngve Foldvik will be nice, but strictly speaking that isn’t why he has come.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Foldvik says in a nice voice.
“I’ve just arrived,” Henning says and follows him into the office. It is a small study. There is a huge computer monitor on a desk, two television screens mounted on the wall, a couple of chairs, and a display of film posters. The bookshelves are packed with reference books and biographies, which he instantly sees are all about films. He also notices that Foldvik has the screenplay for Pulp Fiction in book form. Foldvik takes a seat and offers him the other chair. He rolls his chair to the window and opens it.
“Yuk! It’s stuffy in here,” he says. Henning has a view of the car park. His eyes stop at a car waiting for the lights to change at the junction of Fredensborgvei and Rostedsgate. It’s a silver Mercedes. A silver Mercedes minicab. This time, he manages to read the license number on the roof:
A2052.
He decides to check the number as soon as he gets a chance.
“So how can I help you?” Foldvik asks. Henning takes out his Dictaphone and makes a point of showing it to Foldvik, who nods by way of consent.
“Henriette Hagerup,” Henning says.
“Yes, I guessed as much.”
Foldvik smiles. Everything is still nice.
“What can you tell me about her?”
Foldvik breathes in deeply and sifts through his memories. He becomes wistful and he shakes his head.
“It’s—”
He shakes his head again. Henning lets him.
“Henriette was remarkably talented. She was highly intelligent and she wrote exceptionally well. I’ve taught many students here in my time, but I can’t honestly remember anyone with greater potential than her.”
“In which way?”
“She was utterly fearless. She wanted to provoke and she did, but her provocations had substance, if you know what I mean.”
Henning nods.
“Was she well liked among the other students?”
“Henriette, yes! She was very popular.”
“Social, extroverted?”
“Very much so. I don’t think she ever said no to a party.”
“What’s the atmosphere like at the college?”
“Good. Very good, I think. Henriette’s year had bonded particularly well. It’s a part of our teaching philosophy that everything is permitted in the creative process. Let go, drop your inhibitions, give it your all. If you’re scared of being judged by those around you, you can’t do that. That’s alpha and omega, if you’re to create anything. At first, you must overcome your shyness.”
&n
bsp; Henning is close to applying for a place himself, but he snaps out of it and gets back to reality.
“So no jealousy here, in other words?”
“Not that I know of. Though teachers don’t know everything,” he says and laughs. Then the implication in Henning’s question dawns on Foldvik.
“Do you think that’s why she was killed?” Foldvik asks. “Jealousy, I mean?”
“At the moment I think nothing.”
I sound like a copper, Henning thinks. Again.
“I thought they had already arrested her boyfriend for the murder?”
“He’s only a suspect.”
“Yes, but surely he did it? Who else could it be?”
Henning feels like saying “why do you think I’m here?” but he drops it. He wants to have a nice time for as long as possible. But he is aware that Foldvik has become defensive.
“I won’t deny that there might be friction among the students, but that’s not unusual among creative people who have different visions of the same projects.”
“Do some of your students have sharper elbows than others?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
“You don’t want to say it or you don’t know?”
“I don’t know. And I’m not sure that I would tell you if I knew.”
Henning smiles to himself. He isn’t ruffled by the slightly less nice atmosphere that has developed in the last few minutes.
“A film company had bought an option on a screenplay she had written, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Which company was it?”
“They call themselves Spot the Difference Productions. A good company. Serious.”
Henning makes a note of it.
“Do students normally sell projects to serious film companies before they graduate?”
“It happens. There are many desperate producers out there looking for new exciting voices. But, to be honest, many of those scripts have been rather poor.”
“You’re saying some of your students try to learn the profession and practice it at the same time?”
“That’s right. And I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that several of them don’t believe they should be here at all, they should be out in the real world, making films, producing, writing.”
“So we’re talking about people with big egos?”
“Ambitious people often have. It’s funny, but the most talented usually have the biggest egos.”
Henning nods. A pause ensues. A framed newspaper article on the wall catches Henning’s attention. It’s a story from Dagsavisen. There is a photograph of a young lad. Foldvik’s son, it has to be, he thinks. Same mouth, same nose. The boy looks to be in his teens. “Da Vinci Code Lite” is the headline. The article explains that Stefan Foldvik has recently won a scriptwriting competition.
“The interest in films runs in the family, I see,” Henning says, pointing to the article. He often does this during an interview, introduces an unrelated subject, preferably something personal, an object he sees, for example, as a quick way in. It’s hard to get a good interview if you only talk shop. It can be done, of course, but it’s easier if you can break through people’s defenses, find something they can discuss freely, preferably something you can relate to. And it’s always a good idea to volunteer information from your own life, it makes the conversation feel like a chat. It’s about getting the subject to forget that he or she is being interviewed. Often, the best information comes from what is said spontaneously.
And that’s what he hopes will happen to Foldvik. Foldvik looks at the article and smiles.
“Yes, that’s often the case. Stefan won the competition when he was sixteen years old.”
“Wow!”
“Yes, he’s not untalented.”
“Like Henriette Hagerup?”
Foldvik contemplates this.
“No, Henriette’s talent was greater. Or so it would seem.”
“What do you mean?”
Foldvik looks uncomfortable.
“Well, Stefan doesn’t seem so committed to his writing now. You know. Teenagers.”
“Girls, beers, and student life.”
“Precisely. I hardly ever see him these days. Do you have kids?”
Henning is taken aback by the question. Because he has and he hasn’t. And he has failed to prepare a suitable reply, never thought about one, even though he knew that the question would be asked sooner or later.
He gives the simplest answer he can.
“No.”
But his heart aches as he says it.
“Children can be a real pain sometimes.”
“Mm.”
Henning’s gaze stops at a four-by-six photograph, also framed, sitting on Foldvik’s desk. It is a photo of a woman. Long black hair that has started to go gray. She isn’t smiling. He estimates her to be in her mid-forties. Foldvik’s wife.
And that’s when Henning remembers where he first saw Yngve Foldvik.
Yngve Foldvik’s wife is called Ingvild. Henning remembers everything now. Ingvild Foldvik was brutally raped, not far from Cuba Bro, some years ago. He knows this because he was at the trial, reporting on the story. Yngve Foldvik sat in the courtroom day in, day out, listening to every grotesque detail as it was laid bare.
Henning remembers Ingvild Foldvik in the witness stand, how she shook, how she had been traumatized by the man who had beaten her up and raped her. Had it not been for a brave and very strong man out walking his dog that night, she would have probably been killed. She was horribly mutilated with a knife. All over. Her rapist got five years. Ingvild got life. And Henning can see it now, that the wounds have yet to heal. The nightmares. And possibly the screams, too.
He puts the memory to one side after the fleeting satisfaction of finally putting a name to a face.
“What did Henriette write?”
“Short films, mostly.”
“What were they about? You said that she liked being provocative?”
“Henriette managed to make two short films while she . . . while she was here. One was called When the Devil Knocks—it was about incest; the other one was called Snow White. It was about a girl who gets hooked on cocaine. Rather clever films. She was about to start filming another one.”
“The one they were going to shoot on Ekeberg Common?”
“Yes.”
“But why now? So close to the summer holidays?”
“I believe it takes place in early summer. It’s important to make the details as authentic as possible to give the film credibility.”
“What was it about?”
“The film she was about to start shooting?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know the details, we only discussed it briefly.”
“But what do you remember?”
Foldvik heaves a sigh.
“I think she wanted to do something about sharia.”
Henning stops.
“Sharia?”
“Yes.”
He clears his throat, tries to organize the thoughts which are bombarding him. The first to become clear is the message Anette wrote to Henriette.
“Did Anette Skoppum work with Henriette Hagerup on this film?”
Foldvik nods.
“Henriette wrote the script and Anette was meant to direct it. But, knowing Anette, she probably had a lot of say in the script, too.”
Anette, Henning thinks. I have to find you. And if there is one thing he is one hundred percent sure about, it’s that the film they were going to make has something to do with the murder.
“Do you know if she’s still here or if she has gone home for the summer?”
“She should still be here. I saw her yesterday. And I’m meeting with her in a couple of days, if I remember rightly, so she’s unlikely to have left.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a telephone number I can reach her on?”
“I do, but I’m not allowed to give it to you. And I’m
not sure that I want you pestering my students. Everyone’s really upset.”
Yes, I know, Henning thinks. He lets it pass.
“The script for the short film, would you happen to have a copy of it?”
Foldvik sighs.
“Like I said, Henriette and I only ever talked about it. She told me she would email it to me once it was finished, but I never saw it.”
“What happens to the film now?”
“We haven’t decided yet. Is there anything else? I have another appointment.”
Foldvik gets up.
“No, I don’t think so,” Henning replies.
37
Dreadlocks is still at it when Henning returns to the ground floor. Good God, he thinks, the guy is trying to resuscitate that poor girl. Henning clears his throat. Dreadlocks looks up. The bashfulness of youth, which Yngve Foldvik eulogized, has definitely gone out of the window.
“Thank you very much for your help,” Henning begins. “It was really easy to find Foldvik’s office.”
“No problem.”
Dreadlocks licks his lips.
“I was wondering if I could ask you for another favor. I’m a reporter and I’m working on a story about Henriette Hagerup and the students in her year, how they manage to carry on after the dreadful thing that has happened. It’s not going to be an intrusive article, a more abstract one based on the silence which follows, how a trauma like this affects a group of students.”
If there is an award for laying it on thick, Henning’s nomination is in no doubt. Dreadlocks nods sympathetically.
“What can I do for you?”
“I”d like a list of her fellow students. You wouldn’t happen to have that on your computer, would you?”
“Yes, I think I might. Hang on,” he says and grabs the mouse. He clicks and presses a few keys. The glare from the screen reflects in his eyes.
“Would you like a printout?” Dreadlocks asks.
Henning smiles.
“Yes, please. I’d like that very much.”
Clicking, typing. Next to them, a printer warms up. A sheet slides out. Dreadlocks picks it up and hands it to Henning with a service-minded smile.
