Burned (21 page)

Some people are bound to make noises about integrity, and ‘how about importance and relevance’, and Henning knows that Sture will declare that he agrees with most of it, and yet demand a tighter ship. And a tighter ship for on-line newspapers that want to survive means more sex, more tits and more porn. That’s what most people want. They may say that they don’t, but they still click on it when they have a minute or two to spare, wanting to get a closer look at the tits or the arse used as bait. On-line newspapers know this, they have the figures and statistics which prove that such stories generate hits and based on that criterion, the choice is simple.

It’ll probably vex Heidi, Henning thinks, but she is middle management and has no choice other than to carry out executive orders. And she will never say anything negative in public about the top management or the mindless decisions they take. She learnt that at her middle management course.

Henning rings Anette and waits for her to reply. Her mobile rings eleven times before she picks up.

‘Hello?’

Anette’s voice is frail and guarded.

‘Anette, my name’s Henning Juul. I work for
123news
. We met briefly last Monday.’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

‘Wait, don’t hang –’

The phone goes dead. He swears to himself, looks around. A man in a boiler suit arrives. He is carrying a bucket.

I’m going to do it, Henning tells himself. I’ll call her again, even though it’s a high-risk strategy. I might alienate her even further. Pestering people rarely pays off, but she hasn’t given me anything yet.

At first, he gets a ring tone, but is then invited to leave a message. Damn, she is blocking my call, he thinks, and sees another man in a boiler suit. He decides to send her a text instead:

I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I’m not looking for an interview. I think Henriette was killed because of the film you were making. I would like to talk to you about it. Can we meet?

He presses
‘send’
and waits. He waits. And he waits. No reply. He swears again. Now what?

No, he thinks. No bloody way. He writes her another text message:

I know you’re scared, Anette. I can tell. But I think I can help you. Please let me help you?

‘Send’
again. He knows that he is starting to sound desperate and it isn’t far from the truth. He jumps when his mobile bleeps a few seconds later. He opens the text.

No one can help me
.

His blood tingles. Things are getting seriously interesting. He replies:

You don’t know that, Anette. If you let me see the script, perhaps we can take it from there? I promise to be discreet. If you don’t want to meet – perhaps you can e-mail it to me? My e-mail address is [email protected].

‘Send.’

Eternity compressed in seconds. He hears them tick.

No, he thinks. It’s no use. Anette is gone. She doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to be a source, not even a confidential one. He derives some consolation from the fact that he made a serious attempt. But he has no room for cold comfort. He gets up and starts to walk.

His mobile bleeps again. Four quick beeps.

The Gode Café. In an hour.

Chapter 39

Bjarne Brogeland sighs. He is reading a document on his screen, but having to squint for so long is giving him a headache. I need a break, he says to himself. A long one. Perhaps I should ask Sandland if she fancies a late lunch somewhere, talk a little shop, discuss the case, a little sex. Bloody little prick teaser. I’ll have to tie a knot in it soon, if I don’t get to …

Brogeland’s thoughts are interrupted by a window popping open on his screen. The face of Ann-Mari Sara, a forensic scientist, fills the screen via a webcam. Brogeland leans forward and turns up the volume.

‘We’ve made some progress with the laptop,’ she says.

‘Marhoni’s laptop?’

‘No. Mahatma Gandhi’s. Who else?’

‘Have you found anything?’

‘Oh, I think we can safely say that.’

‘Okay, hold on. I just want to get Sandland.’

‘No need. I’ll e-mail my findings to you. I just wanted to check if you were around.’

‘Okay.’

Brogeland gets up and goes out into the corridor. Any excuse for knocking on Sandland’s door must be exploited. He opens it. She is on the telephone. All the same, Brogeland whispers with exaggerated diction:

‘Marhoni’s laptop.’

He gestures towards his own office, even though there is no need. She will get her own copy of the e-mail. Sandland mimes that she will come down to his office shortly.

Oh, how I want you to
come
, Brogeland thinks as he closes the door behind him. He returns to his own office and lets himself fall into his chair. He opens his inbox and sees that an e-mail has arrived from Ann-Mari Sara. He clicks on it and downloads the attachment.

At that very moment, Sandland enters the room.

‘Perfect timing,’ Brogeland says. Sandland stands right behind him and leans over his shoulder. Brogeland can barely control himself. She has never been this close to him. He can smell her, her –

No. Don’t even think about it.

He reads the message from Ann-Mari Sara aloud:

The hard disk was severely damaged and there is a lot of information, we have yet to retrieve. However, I think we may already have got the most important stuff. Click on the attachment and you will know what I mean.

Brogeland clicks on the attachment and watches the screen with excitement. When the image appears, he turns and looks up at Sandland. They both smile. Brogeland turns his attention back on the computer, clicks
‘reply’
and writes:

Good job, AMS. But carry on working on the hard drive. There may be more information which we might need.

Brogeland rubs his hands and thinks he is moving into the final lap.

The lap of honour.

Chapter 40

Coffee usually does the trick, but not when he is tense. Not when he is waiting for someone. Not when the hour Anette suggested passed long ago.

He has chosen a window table in the Gode Café, where he can keep an eye on passing traffic and people walking along the pavement, just an arm’s length away. Another reason for sitting here is that it is near the exit. Should anything happen.

What’s keeping you, Anette? He frets and thinks that if this had been a film, then Anette never would arrive. Someone would get to her, take whatever Henning is looking for, and make sure that her body was never found. Or perhaps they wouldn’t even bother hiding it?

He shakes his head at himself, but it is tempting to entertain such thoughts given she is now more than thirty minutes late. He tries to imagine what could have happened. She might have had an unexpected visitor, maybe her mother called, or she was waiting for the washing machine to finish or that delivery guy from Peppe’s Pizza was a fashionable half-hour late?

No. Unlikely, at this time of day. Perhaps she is quite simply unreliable? There are people like that, but he didn’t get the impression that Anette was one of them. She is one of those who try; try to make something of themselves, do something with their lives, realise their ambitions.

Too much, possibly, to draw such conclusions after one brief meeting, but he is good at reading people: who is grumpy, who is a soft touch, who is real and not a fake, who beats up his wife, who might be tempted to drink a glass or three too many when the occasion presents itself, who couldn’t care less and who tries. He is quite sure that Anette tries, and he thinks she has been trying for a long time. That’s why he is starting to feel a little anxious.

But then the door to the Gode Café is opened. He jumps when he realises that it is Anette. She looks different from two days ago. The fear is still there, in her eyes, but she is even more introverted now. She has pulled her hood over her head. She isn’t wearing make-up and she looks scruffy. She stoops a little. She carries a backpack. A small grey backpack with no label, but many stickers.

She spots him, looks around the room and heads towards him. In nine out of ten cases, he would have got a bollocking. Bloody journalists, who can’t leave decent people alone, who have no sense of shame. He has heard it all before. And it has hit home in the past, but not now.

Anette stops at the table. She doesn’t sit down. She looks at him while she takes off her backpack. Judging from the stickers, she has travelled widely. He sees names of exotic cities from faraway countries. Assab (Eritrea), Nzerekore (Guinea), Osh (Kyrgyzstan), Blantyre (Malawi). She plonks the backpack on the chair.

‘Can I get you something to drink?’

‘I’m not staying.’

She takes a pile of paper from her backpack, throws it in front of him and closes the bag with a swift movement. She puts the backpack back on, spins on her heel and is about to leave.

‘Anette, wait.’

His voice is louder than he intended. People stare. Anette stops and turns around again. I hope she sees the urgency in my eyes, Henning thinks, the kindness, the sincerity.

‘Please, have a coffee with me.’

Anette does nothing, she just looks at him.

‘Okay, not coffee, it tastes like shit, but a latte? A cup of tea? Chai? Eins, zwei, chai?’

Anette takes a step towards him.

‘Comedian, aren’t we?’

He feels like a twelve-year-old who has been caught cheating in a test.

‘Like I said: I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

‘So why give me this?’ he asks, pointing to the pile of paper in front of him. On the front page, it says:

A SHARIA CASTE

WRITTEN BY HENRIETTE HAGERUP

DIRECTED BY ANETTE SKOPPUM

He struggles to control himself. He wants to read it right there and then.

‘So you’ll understand.’

‘But –’

‘Please – don’t try to help me.’

‘But, Anette –’

She has already begun to leave. He is about to get up, but realises the hopelessness and the desperation of such an act. Instead he calls out after her:

‘Who are you scared of, Anette?’

She pushes down the door handle without looking at him or replying. She just leaves. He looks in the direction he thinks she might be walking, alone, with her backpack. He catches himself wondering if there was something else in it. An extra item of clothing? A film or book?

Or a stun gun perhaps?

The thought appears out of nowhere. But he tastes it, now that it is here. It’s a rather interesting thought. After all: who knows the script better than Anette?

No, he says to himself. If Anette had anything to do with her friend’s murder, why would she let me read the script? Why would she help me to understand? He dismisses the idea. A stupid notion. I need to read the script, see if it gives me any clues.

There has to be something.

Chapter 41

Lars Indrehaug, the solicitor, runs his fingers through his fringe and sweeps it across his temples, away from his eyes. Tosser, Brogeland thinks. What I wouldn’t like to do to you in a soundproof room one day, when the cameras are turned off.

Dreams and reality. Two completely different concepts, sadly. The thought grows even more frustrating because Sergeant Sandland is sitting next to him. Brogeland looks at the papers on the table, flicks a switch and then another. They have prepared the interview carefully, gone through the evidence and agreed how to present it. Even though Sandland still doubts that Marhoni is guilty, he needs to come up with some convincing answers to the questions they are about to ask.

Brogeland loves talking shop to Sandland, gets off on seeing her lips when she is serious, dogged, consumed by indignation on society’s behalf. He looks forward to seeing the satisfaction in her eyes when she crosses the finishing line. If only she would take out that satisfaction on
him
.

Wrong switch, Bjarne.

Mahmoud Marhoni sits next to Indrehaug. Marhoni is upset, Brogeland thinks. Distraught at the murder of his brother, rattled by being remanded in custody. There are definite cracks in his tough shell. He looks scruffier. A couple of days without a razor and a ruler do that to a face accustomed to warm flannels every night.

They aren’t the only things you’ll have to get used to now, Mahmoud, Brogeland thinks. He signals to Sandland to begin the formal part of the interview: the introduction of those present and the reasons for their presence. Then she looks at Marhoni.

‘My condolences,’ she says, her voice all creamy. Marhoni gives his lawyer a quizzical look.

‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ she adds. Marhoni nods.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

‘We’re doing everything we can to find out who did it. But perhaps you already know?’

Marhoni looks at her.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Are you involved with Bad Boys Burning, Mahmoud?’

‘No.’

‘Yasser Shah?’

Marhoni shakes his head.

‘Answer the question.’

‘No.’

‘Did your brother know any of them?’

‘If I don’t know who they are, then how can I know if my brother had anything to do with them?’

Well done, Marhoni, Brogeland thinks. You avoided the trap.

‘We’ve managed to save the contents of your laptop,’ Brogeland continues and waits for a reply. Marhoni tries to appear unconcerned, but Brogeland can see that he is boiling on the inside. Though we don’t have
everything
, Brogeland remembers. Not yet, anyway.

But Marhoni doesn’t know that.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to change the replies that you just gave my colleague?’ Brogeland asks.

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘To avoid lying.’