Burned (20 page)

‘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 that every detail is as authentic as possible; it adds to the film’s credibility.’

‘What was it about?’

‘The third film?’

‘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 in his tracks.

‘Sharia?’

‘Yes.’

He clears his throat, tries to organise 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 100 per cent 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?’

‘I think she’s still 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, do you have a copy of it?’

Foldvik sighs.

‘Like I said, Henriette and I only ever talked about it. She told me she would e-mail 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.

Chapter 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 eulogised, 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 favour. I’m a reporter and I’m working on a story about Henriette Hagerup and 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 print-out?’ 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.

‘Super. Thanks so much,’ Henning says and takes the sheet. He quickly skims the names, twenty-two in all. One of the cards he read the first day he visited the college pops into his head.
Missing you, Henry. Missing you loads. Tore.

Tore Benjaminsen.

‘Excuse me,’ he says to his good Samaritan on the other side of the counter. Dreadlocks is just about to resume devouring what is left of his girlfriend, but he turns around at the sound of Henning’s voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you know Tore Benjaminsen?’

‘Tore, yes. Sure do. I know him. Everybody knows Tore, he-he.’

‘Is he here today? Have you seen him?’

‘I saw him outside somewhere.’

Henning turns towards the exit.

‘What does he look like?’

‘Short hair, small, skinny. I think he was wearing a dark blue jacket. He usually does.’

‘Thanks so much for your help.’ Henning says, and smiles. Dreadlocks raises his hand and bows his head slightly. Henning goes outside and looks around. It takes only a second to spot Tore Benjaminsen. He is having a cigarette; he was one of the smokers Henning passed on his way in nearly an hour ago.

Tore and the young woman, who is also smoking, notice him before he reaches them. They realise that he wants something and stop talking.

‘Are you Tore?’ Henning asks. Tore Benjaminsen nods. Henning recognises him now. Tore was interviewed by Petter Stanghelle a couple of days ago, in the light rain outside the college. Henning didn’t read what Tore said about his late friend, but he remembers the Björn Borg underpants.

‘Henning Juul,’ he says. ‘I work for
123news
. I was wondering if we could have a chat?’

Tore looks at the girl.

‘I’ll see you later,’ he announces grandly. It won’t be difficult to massage Tore’s ego.

Tore’s hand feels like a child’s when Henning presses it, and they sit down on a nearby bench. Tore takes out his cigarettes, pulls out a white friend and offers Henning one. Henning declines politely, but his eyes linger on his old acquaintance.

‘I thought Henriette was yesterday’s news?’

‘In a way, yes. In another, no.’

‘I don’t suppose murder ever is,’ Tore says and lights up.

‘No.’

Tore returns his lighter to his jacket pocket and inhales deeply. Henning looks at him.

‘Henry was a great girl. In many ways. Very fond of people. Perhaps a little too fond of them.’

‘What do you mean?’ Henning asks, just as it occurs to him that he ought to have switched on his Dictaphone. Too late now.

‘She was extremely extroverted and – how shall I put it – almost excessively fond of people, if you know what I mean.’

Tore takes another drag and blows out the smoke, then he looks around. He nods to a girl who is passing them.

‘Was she a flirt?’

He nods.

‘I don’t think there was anyone here with something between his legs who didn’t, at one point or another, fancy –’

He stops and shakes his head.

‘It’s really bad,’ he continues. ‘That she is dead, like.’

Henning nods silently.

‘Did you ever meet her boyfriend?’

‘Mahmoud Marhoni?’

Tore spits out the name and hawks extra long on the ‘h’ sound.

‘Yes?’

‘No idea what Henry saw in that wanker.’

‘Was he a wanker?’

‘He was a total wanker. Drove around in a massive BMW and thought he was a big shot. Always throwing money around.’

‘So he was a big spender.’

‘Yes, but in a totally failed way. He left his credit card behind the bar and told Henry’s friends that drinks were on him. Like he was desperately trying to prove he was one hell of a guy. It wouldn’t surprise me if –’

He breaks off again.

‘What wouldn’t surprise you?’

‘I was about to say that it wouldn’t surprise me if he turned out to be a drug dealer, but I know that sounds racist.’

‘Perhaps, but what if it’s true?’

‘I don’t know anything about that. And just because I said it, doesn’t mean I’m a racist.’

‘I don’t think you are.’

‘But he didn’t deserve her. He really was a tosser.’

Tore has finished his cigarette and throws the stub on the ground without stepping on it. The small white friend lies there, gasping blue-grey smoke, right next to a puddle.

‘What was their relationship like?’

‘Stormy, I think we can say.’

‘How?’

‘It was very much on and off. And Mahmoud was the jealous type. Though given how Henry carried on, you could see why.’

Henning thinks about sharia again.

‘Was she ever unfaithful?’

‘Not that I know of, but it wouldn’t surprise me. She acted out a lot, enjoyed being the centre of attention on the dance floor, to put it one way. Wore provocative clothes.’

He looks away with a sad expression in his eyes.

‘Was there someone she flirted with more than others?’

‘Many. There were, eh, lots.’

‘Were you smitten, too?’

Henning looks up from his notepad and meets Tore’s eyes. Tore smiles and looks down. He sighs.

‘There was never an empty seat at Henriette’s table. Practically everyone on the course wanted to work with her, too. I made friends with her early on. We had an awesome time together, Henry and I. We were always flirting. I had just ended a relationship when we got to know each other and we discussed it a lot. She was very supportive, compassionate and warm. She was one of those people who know how to listen. And whenever I opened up to her, she always gave me a hug. A very long hug. I opened up quite a lot over those six months,’ he says, laughing.

Henning can imagine it, can imagine her. Beautiful, gentle, open, social, flirtatious. Who wouldn’t want to be around such a ray of sunshine?

‘It was easy to mistake her warmth for something else, as an invitation and one day I went too far. I tried to kiss her and –’

He shakes his head again.

‘Well, it turned out I had misread the signals. At first, I was furious, I felt she had led me on, trapped me in her net, only to reject me. As though that was her game, like. Cat and mouse, a prick teaser. And I spent a couple of weeks being angry with her, but I got over it. One night, when we had gone out, a group of us, we talked about it. She wanted to be my friend, she said, but nothing more. I decided I would much rather be her friend than waste a lot of energy feeling rejected and, from then on, we were great friends.’

‘Did you feel bad when she got together with Mahmoud?’

‘No, not really. I knew she didn’t fancy me. But – there’s no law against envy, is there?’

Henning nods. Tore takes a big, greedy drag of his next cigarette.

‘Do you have any idea who might have killed her?’

Tore stares at him.

‘You don’t think Mahmoud did it?’

Henning stops for a moment, unsure of how frank he should be; something tells him Tore is a bit of a gossip. So he says:

‘Well, he has been arrested, but you never know.’

‘If it wasn’t Mahmoud, then I don’t know who might have done it.’

‘Do you know if she had other Muslim friends, apart from Mahmoud?’

‘Plenty. Henriette was everyone’s friend. And everyone wanted to be friends with her.’

‘What about Anette Skoppum?’

‘What about her?’

‘She worked with Henriette sometimes – from what I’ve been told?’

Tore nods.

‘Do you know her well?’

‘No, hardly at all. She’s the total opposite of Henriette. Never says very much. I’ve heard she suffers from epilepsy but I’ve never seen her have a seizure. Rarely puts herself about. At least, not while she’s sober. But when she’s drunk –’

‘Then she loosens up?’

‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. Do you know what she always says when she’s pissed?’

‘No?’

‘What’s the point of being a genius if nobody knows?’ Tore mimics her voice and smiles.

‘If anyone ever had a good reason for low self-esteem, then it’s her. She’s not particularly talented. And I know at least three guys who got into her knickers when she was drunk. I think she must be a lesbian.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’m probably being stupid. It’s just a gut feeling I have. Hasn’t that ever happened to you? You feel you intuitively know things about people?’

‘Happens all the time,’ Henning replies and flashes a smile.

‘She was certainly a big fan of Henriette, that was plain to see. But then everyone was. What a waste,’ Tore says and shakes his head again.

‘I would like to talk to Anette as well. Would you happen to have her mobile number, by any chance?’

Tore takes out his mobile. It is a shiny dark blue Sony Ericsson.

‘I think so.’

He presses some buttons and turns the mobile to Henning, who reads the eight digits and notes them down.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I don’t have any more questions. Anything you would like to add?’

Tore gets up from the bench.

‘No. But I hope the police have got the right guy. I would like to –’

He stops.

‘You would like to what?’

‘Forget it. It’s too late now, anyway.’

Tore Benjaminsen holds up a hand to Henning and starts walking towards the entrance.

‘Thanks for the chat.’

‘Likewise.’

Henning sits there and looks after him. Tore tries to act tough as he walks with his trousers hanging low. Björn Borg is in place today as well.

Chapter 38

He sits on the bench for a while after Tore has gone. He spends a lot of time hanging around, wearing benches out these days. And that’s fine. Very nice. No deadly nightshade here. He can’t see Anette. People come and go. Every time, Henning’s eyes seek out the red entrance steps. And every time, he is disappointed.

He decides to call her. Before he types in the number, he registers that the time is 1.30 p.m. already. He wonders what reprisals might await him if he fails to show for the fabled staff meeting, but he bets that Sture, for old times’ sake, will give him the abbreviated version later. Besides, Henning has a pretty good idea of what his boss is going to say:

Due to unforeseen fluctuations in the advertising market, we are forced to reduce costs. In the short term, this won’t impact on staff, but it might well do in the long term, if we don’t produce more pages. The more pages are read, the faster we can re-sell the space to new advertisers. However, as we have sold all available advertising space, we need to generate more pages. This means we need to make decisions about the stories we write. We need to be more critical in our selection of material. And blah blah blah –