by Thomas Enger
Marhoni still doesn’t reply, but there is no need for him to say anything.
“Where’s the rest of your family, Mahmoud?”
Marhoni keeps his eyes fixed on Sandland, before he averts them and whispers:
“Pakistan.”
“What will happen to them?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who is going to send them money now?”
Marhoni looks down.
“We know that you send them a lot of money every month. Your father has a brain disease. The money buys the treatment he needs. The amounts vary slightly, but I presume that’s to do with the exchange rate. You live on what you earn from minicabbing, while the money you’re paid for transporting drugs and driving gang members around ends up in Pakistan. That’s how it works, isn’t it?”
Marhoni doesn’t reply.
“Would you like to change your statement, Mahmoud?” Brogeland interjects. “Would you like me to ask you, once more, if you know Zaheerullah Hassan Mintroza? Or Yasser Shah.”
Marhoni doesn’t reply. Brogeland waits for him to crack.
“They’re going to kill them,” Marhoni whispers after a long pause.
“Who are they, Mahmoud?”
“Hassan and his men.”
“Who are they going to kill?”
“My family. If I give them up. I’ve been wanting to quit, I’ve been looking to get out for a long time, but they started threatening me.”
“And you responded by taking photographs of the deals?”
Marhoni nods.
“And they found out?”
He nods twice.
“Answer the question.”
“Yes.”
“So the murder of your brother was a message? Keep your mouth shut or we’ll kill the rest of your family?”
He nods three times.
“Answer the question, please.”
“Yes.”
“How long has this been going on, Mr. Marhoni? When did it start?”
He sighs.
“Some time after I got my minicab license. I started driving for Omar, we already knew each other and after a while he asked me if I wanted to earn some extra cash. I said yes, because my father was ill, and to begin with all I had to do was a bit of driving and a few deliveries. But then they wanted more. In the end, I wanted out.”
“But you knew too much, so they couldn’t risk it?”
“No.”
Brogeland looks at Indrehaug, who runs his fingers through his hair. He tries to sweep it away from his eyes, but it keeps flopping into them.
“What do you want?” Indrehaug says.
“What do we want? We want the big fish, we want to know who your client’s supplier is and how the drugs get into this country. And that’s just for starters. I’m sure you can imagine the rest.”
Indrehaug nods.
“You’re presuming that my client will testify against BBB?”
“Of course.”
“Despite his family situation back in Pakistan?”
Brogeland looks at the lawyer and sighs. Then he fixes his gaze at Marhoni.
“We know that you didn’t kill Henriette Hagerup.”
Marhoni looks up at Brogeland.
“There’s a good chance that you can walk out of here very soon, if you cooperate.”
Marhoni looks more alert now. He turns to Indrehaug who turns to Brogeland.
“Are you offering my client a deal?”
Brogeland looks at Sandland, smiles, and looks back at Indrehaug.
“You bet we are.”
62
Henning is so shocked at seeing Anette at the college that he is at a loss for words. He just stands there, gawping at her. He was convinced she had gone into hiding. Then he wonders whether Anette is like him. Perhaps she has also had enough of looking over her shoulder and prefers to confront her fears rather than give in to them.
She makes no attempt to get past him.
“Hi,” he says, at last.
“Hi.”
They look at each other, both waiting for the other to say something.
“I’ve read the script,” he says, even though he knows that she knows. She nods.
“I’ve also shown it to the police.”
“Yes, I imagined you would.”
“Have they spoken to you yet?”
“No. They’ve tried, but I haven’t returned their calls.”
He frowns.
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel like it.”
She says it without blushing and seemingly without a hint of guilt. He studies her.
“But I’m thinking of doing it now.”
“Aha? Why? Why now?”
“Because I think I know who killed Henriette.”
He can barely hear her. Intrigued, he takes a step closer.
“Who?”
He can hear the trembling in his own voice. Anette glances around to make sure they are alone. They aren’t. But no one is close enough to hear what she says.
“Stefan Foldvik,” she whispers. Henning gasps. Anette watches his reaction.
“Why?”
“Haven’t you read the script?” she asks.
“Yes?”
“Then it should be obvious.”
She offers no further explanation. Henning thinks about it.
“The Foldvik family is the Gaarder family. In the script.”
He is half asking, half stating it. Anette nods.
“Did Yngve have an affair with Henriette?”
Anette takes a quick look around again, before she nods. Her eyes are grave.
“Stefan must have found out.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps he found a copy of the script at home or on his father’s PC? I don’t know.”
“Yngve hadn’t seen the script,” Henning says. Anette frowns.
“He told you that?”
“Yes,” he admits, guiltily, as it strikes him that something doesn’t add up. “Has anyone else from college read the script?”
“No.”
“No actors or extras?”
“We were the actors and we had only got as far as shooting the first scenes. We were going to film the rest later in the autumn, so we haven’t shown the script to anyone else. Not yet.”
He nods, thinking Yngve must be lying. He had the script, after all. It is the only logical explanation Henning can think of, since Stefan had a copy of it. Perhaps Yngve realized that the truth about his affair would come out eventually and chose to tell his family first? Later, Stefan finds the script among his father’s things, or asks to see it.
Anette could be right about Stefan: he killed Henriette because she had destroyed his family and was about to compound the damage by making a film about it. But now Stefan is dead, either by his own hand or because someone killed him. And that changes everything, in Henning’s view. But who would benefit from Stefan’s death? Calm down, Henning, there might be other reasons why a young man chooses to end his life, reasons which have nothing to do with A Sharia Caste or Henriette or Yngve. Besides, there is one option he hasn’t allowed for: Stefan’s death could be due to natural causes.
He is starting to feel a little dizzy. He knows he shouldn’t be discussing this with Anette, but he has no one else, and he needs to test his theory on someone while the ideas are coming at him from all angles.
“Did you ever discuss the script with Yngve?”
“I imagine Henriette did, but I never went to any meetings about it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Do you think they discussed the Gaarder story line?”
“No idea.”
“It’s pretty rich to expose your own lover like that.”
Again he utters it like something halfway between a question and a statement. Anette sniffs.
“Are you saying that Yngve did it?”
“No, not necessarily.”
“You don’t know Yngve. He’s a pussycat.”
“A pussycat who helped Henriette sell an option on her film.”
Anette smiles. It is the first time he has seen her smile.
“Yes, I imagine that’s why Henriette slept with him.”
“So it only happened once? It wasn’t a full-blown affair?”
She shakes her head and suppresses a laugh.
“Oh, no.”
She doesn’t elaborate. He lets it lie. He isn’t writing a gossip column.
“Did her boyfriend know about this?”
“Mahmoud? I don’t think so.”
“How do you think he would have reacted to the film? Wouldn’t he have assumed that Mona, Henriette that is, might have been unfaithful in real life? Given that most of the plot mirrored reality?”
“I don’t know,” Anette responds. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”
“But didn’t Henriette consider this when she wrote the script? Wasn’t it something you discussed?”
“Well, we—”
She ponders this, but doesn’t expand on her reply.
“So Henriette had no problem using her boyfriend as the basis of a character who is set up? How would you like it, if your boyfriend did that to you?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“No, no. But you understand what I’m saying?”
“Of course. Maybe Henriette had talked to Mahmoud about it, what do I know? Explained to him that we didn’t mean it literally, that we don’t believe he’s an idiot who should be taken off our streets. I’ve no idea.”
She shrugs.
“Does he support sharia and hudud punishments? Do you know?”
“I can’t imagine that he does.”
“So the Yashid character wasn’t a fanatical, fundamentalist Muslim?”
“No.”
“Then why was Mona stoned to death? Don’t you have to be a Muslim to be stoned to death in accordance with sharia and hudud?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you still haven’t got it, have you!?”
“Then explain it to me! From the start!”
Anette sighs.
“The point of the film is to highlight what’s going on in the world, something that might, one day, be commonplace in Norway if extreme Islamic beliefs gain a foothold and are allowed to flourish. Soon it won’t matter whether we are Norwegians or Muslims. What do you think Oslo will look like in thirty or forty years? We’ll probably all be Muslims, indoctrinated and well behaved. That’s why Yashid is an ordinary Muslim and Mona is an ordinary Norwegian woman. To make people think.”
“Right.”
“Was that so difficult?”
She looks at him as if he is slow on the uptake.
“No. But there’s nothing to suggest that that might happen, Anette. Very few people believe that Norwegian law should give way to sharia.”
“And?”
He frowns.
“And? The premise for your film is wrong! It has no roots in reality! You’re not about to tell me that you also have a sick wish to be killed by eight gunshots?”
Anette looks up at the dark gray, ominous clouds.
“I’m sure Henriette is up there with Theo, as we speak. I didn’t know you were on their side.”
Henning sighs and forces the air through his nostrils. He looks frustrated.
“There are aspects of Islam and sharia which I personally don’t care very much for, but what you’re doing only contributes to making matters worse. What about integration, multiculturalism, and all that?”
“Save it for the speeches. Besides, this has nothing to do with Stefan.”
He presses his lips together. He wants to carry on the discussion, but now is not the time. Instead, he thinks about Stefan and Romance. He remembers, from his own teenage years, how the boys doused themselves with excessive quantities of deodorant to impress the girls. Some even applied it to their clothes. It stank—in the changing rooms, in the classrooms, even on the school playground. That might have been why the smell was still in the tent, when Thorbjørn Skagestad discovered the body.
He becomes aware that Anette is looking at him. She coughs anxiously.
“I tried getting Henriette to drop the Gaarder story line. I didn’t think it was relevant to the film’s message. But she wouldn’t listen to me. I also thought it was a bit weird, surely everyone would know who it was based on? The Foldvik family had suffered enough.”
“How do you mean?”
“Stefan told me about his mother. That she had been raped and—”
“Stefan told you about that?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know Stefan?
“Stefan won a script competition last year. I wanted to film his script for one of my projects. It was a good story.”
“Didn’t he get a prize?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, didn’t the organizers of the competition promise to film his script? That’s the usual prize in such competitions, isn’t it?”
“It depends, but it wasn’t the case here. I think he got a few thousand kroner and an invitation to Zentropa in Denmark. Stefan was thrilled when I asked him. Stefan’s a nice guy, a smart guy. But dangerous, too. I got the feeling that he had some mental problems.”
“What do you mean? What made you think that?”
“I’m not really sure. It’s a little hard to explain. You needed to spend time with him to notice. Sometimes he was over the moon. Laughed at everything, hyper, almost. Other times you could barely get a word out of him. Like he had shut down completely.”
Henning nods and thinks that the description fits a boy who takes his own life after taking someone else’s. What if the burden grew too heavy or the memories too powerful? Maybe he couldn’t bear to close his eyes at night without seeing her dead, without reliving what he had done?
Perhaps there is nothing suspicious about his death, after all? But then why have his parents gone missing?
That moment, it starts to rain. The heavens open completely. Henning and Anette rush to the lobby. They aren’t the only ones to seek shelter there, a bottleneck is created, but it lasts less than a minute, then everyone is inside.
People smile at one another while they shake off the water. Anette runs her fingers through her wet hair. They find themselves by the reception counter. Dreadlocks is there today, but there is no sign of his girlfriend. Dreadlocks meets Henning’s eyes and they nod to each other.
“Have you seen Yngve today?” Henning asks Anette in a low voice. She shakes her head and replies “no” at the same time. She is about to say something else.
“It’s his day off today.”
They turn around and look at Dreadlocks.
“Yngve and his wife have both taken today off,” he says and holds up his hands. “Sorry, I overheard you. I didn’t mean to. Yngve called in this morning, he wanted to speak to the dean, but he wasn’t in, so I took a message. He said that neither he nor his wife would be coming to work.”
“That’s weird,” Anette says. “I was due to meet with him today. Did he say why?”
Henning is on the verge of saying that their son has died, but remembers at the last moment that the death isn’t public knowledge yet.
“He said something about going on a trip,” Dreadlocks replies.
“A trip?”
“Yes. A camping trip, I think he said.”
“Camping?”
Henning is aware that he is nearly shouting.
“Yes.”
His stomach lurches. The usual thing would be to tell the truth, that their son has died and they are taking some time off. Everyone would understand. So why say they are going camping?
“Why did he tell you that?”
“I just thought he wanted me to know. In case someone asked after him or them. I don’t know. He sounded—how can I put it—a bit agitated. Or manic, I’m not really sure.”
“How? What do you mean?”
“If I didn’t know him, I would have said that
he was high. He spoke faster than he normally does.”
“Did he say where they were going?”
“No. Only that they were going camping. I did think it sounded weird, I’ve never really seen Yngve as one of those, you know, outdoor types. But I thought, why not—camping is cool, so . . .”
He holds up his hands.
“When was this?”
“Just after eight o’clock this morning, I think. I can’t be sure. I hadn’t had my first coffee yet.”
“Sod it,” Henning mutters to himself, but Anette hears him.
“What is it?”
He shakes his head and whispers to her so that Dreadlocks can’t hear.
“The police are looking for them, but no one knows where they are.”
“Why? Do you think that they—”
He gives her a sharp look. She understands him instantly, moves closer and whispers:
“Are you saying that they know that Stefan killed Henriette?”
He knows what he wants to say, but he shakes his head.
“I don’t know.”
“And now they’ve gone? Disappeared?”
“It looks like it.”
They stand for a while without saying anything. Then it dawns on him. He turns to Dreadlocks again.
“Do you know if the tent on Ekeberg Common is still there?”
“The tent for the filming? Yes. The police finished with it yesterday, they said they had taken all the pictures and gathered all the evidence they needed. They called to say we could pick it up.”
That’s where they must be. Henning looks out of the window. The rain will soak him. And a minicab is out of the question. He lifts up his helmet.
“Do you want me to drive?”
He looks at Anette, surprised.
“You have a car?”
“Yes. Why shouldn’t I have?”
He thinks no, why shouldn’t she?
“Don’t you have a lecture or something?”
“Like I said, I was due to meet with Yngve, but as he’s not here, then . . .”
She throws up her hands.
“And if he’s somewhere else, and you know where and why, I’m happy to provide transport. It’s no big deal. I can give you a lift up there.”
The prospect is too tantalizing for him to resist it.
“Is your car close by?”
“It’s just over there,” she says, pointing over his head.
