Burned (12 page)

He remembers a story he worked on years ago. He was relatively inexperienced at the time, probably hadn’t covered more than ten murders when a vicar, Olav Jørstad disappeared in the sea, off the coast of Sørland. Everyone knew how much Jørstad liked fishing, but he was familiar with the sea and would never have gone out if bad weather had been forecast.

Eventually, his boat was found, bottom up. Jørstad himself was never found and everything pointed to a tragic accident. The current had very likely carried his body out into the wide, blue sea.

Henning covered the story for
Aftenposten
, and put together a standard package, which meant interviewing family, neighbours, friends, Jørstad’s congregation, the whole Norwegian Bible belt, practically. After discussing the story with his editor, Henning decided to stay on because he had a hunch that something was missing from the picture of Jørstad that everyone was painting. In the eyes of his parishioners, Jørstad was an outstanding vicar, a brilliant spiritual leader, who had the gift of the gab; some even claimed that he had healed them, but Henning never reported such claims in his articles. He suspected some of them of actively courting publicity.

However, Jørstad’s role as a choir master and conductor received very little attention. Every church has a choir. Vicars are trained in choral song. The Reverend Mr Jørstad was a man who liked discipline and consequently, it was a fine choir. Some days after Jørstad’s disappearance, after the media novelty had faded, Henning was chatting to Jørstad’s son, Lukas. They happened to talk about the choir and Henning asked if Lukas had been a member. Lukas replied no.

A few weeks later, Henning was trying to contact a member of the choir, a woman called Susanne Opseth, who was supposedly one of the last people to see Jørstad alive. Henning did his research and found several newspaper cuttings in which she was featured. And in one of them, from the early 1990s, before the Internet, he spotted her in a photo, singing in the choir with Mr Jørstad conducting. What Henning didn’t notice at first, but discovered when he examined the picture in detail, was that Lukas was lined up in the back row.

Lukas had lied when he told Henning he had never sung in the choir. Why he would lie about something so trivial? The answer was obvious. There was something about the choir that Lukas didn’t want Henning to know or find out about.

So Henning started digging, interviewing the rest of the choir and it didn’t take long before he discovered that Lukas had left the choir as an act of rebellion against his father, to humiliate him publicly. The choir wasn’t the only place where Mr Jørstad demanded discipline. It found expression in strict routines, the reciting of Bible verses, a stern upbringing devoid of affection. And it ruined Lukas’s budding relationship with a girl his own age, Agnes. Mr Jørstad didn’t approve of her and he didn’t want Lukas wasting his time with her.

Lukas released, as police interviews later revealed, years of frustration and oppression one night when his father took him fishing. Lukas hit his father over the head with an oar, sending him over the railing. Afterwards, Lukas overturned the boat and swam ashore.

Lukas was a strong swimmer and he was willing to face the consequences of his actions. Anything to rid himself of his father’s hold on him. But Lukas had an unexpected stroke of luck: his father’s body was never found.

Henning worked with the local police force and was able to break the story the day they arrested Lukas. He hasn’t checked, but as far as he knows, Lukas is still in jail. And all because of a single picture printed in a local paper many, many years ago.

Research. Even the slightest gust of wind can upset a house of cards.

Henning likes research, likes finding out information about people. Especially if those people interest him or have done something he finds fascinating. The Internet is brilliant for research. He didn’t like the Internet to begin with; in fact, he was opposed to it, but now he can’t imagine life without it. Once you have driven a Mercedes, you never go back to your pushbike.

The research he is doing now gives him no obvious clues for how to spend the rest of the day. He hasn’t come up with a plan when Heidi Kjus and Iver Gundersen enter together. Henning can’t hear what they are talking about, but his ears prick up. Gundersen smiles and looks suitably pleased – with himself, Henning reckons – but Heidi is serious as always. She reeks of ‘let’s get this show on the road’ attitude.

Heidi rarely allows herself to smile: she regards it as a sign of weakness. When she started working at
Nettavisen
, she would often join them for a beer on Fridays. She would be chatty and sociable, but never visibly drunk. Today, he can’t imagine Heidi in the pub. Now she is the Boss. And bosses are always in charge. If she is tired, she never lets on. She suppresses her laughter if someone cracks a joke. It is inappropriate to allow oneself to be seduced by humour during business hours: it dulls her focus.

Heidi looks at Henning while she talks to Gundersen. She is excited about something and gesticulates enthusiastically. Gundersen nods. Henning notices that Gundersen’s facial expression changes when he sees Henning is already at his desk. It is as if the self-assured, arrogant and smug cosmopolitan develops teenage acne and regresses fifteen years.

‘You’re in early?’ Gundersen remarks and looks at Henning. Henning nods, but doesn’t reply and glances at Heidi who sits down without saying anything.

‘How did it go yesterday?’ Gundersen asks. Henning glares at him. Tosser, he thinks. Haven’t you read my story?

‘All right.’

‘People keen to talk?’

Gundersen sits down and switches on his PC.

‘Enough.’

Gundersen smiles a crooked smile and looks at Heidi. Henning knows she is listening, though she pretends she isn’t. He turns his attention back to the screen.

Salty waves, Henning.

Oh, what fun this is going to be.

A little later Heidi says, in her Boss voice, that it is time to have a meeting. Neither Gundersen nor Henning says anything, but they get up and trundle after her. Gundersen slips to the front of the queue and waits for twenty-nine seconds so he can take a fresh cup of coffee with him. This creates a moment alone for Henning and his Boss. He steels himself for another bollocking, but Heidi says:

‘That was a good story, Henning.’

He already knew that. But he didn’t know that Heidi was big enough to admit it. He feels like saying that he will be quicker next time, but he doesn’t. She might be like one of those Death Eaters in
Harry Potter
. Perhaps she will be different tomorrow or change when it is a full moon? For Christ’s sake – the last time he had a meeting with Heidi,
he
was evaluating
her
stories. Not the other way around. Imagine Cristiano Ronaldo teaching an eight-year-old kid to play football and then getting a pat on the back from the same boy a few years later for a good insider pass.

Okay, wrong metaphor, but really. He is sure that Heidi can read his mind, but Gundersen comes to his rescue by entering the meeting room.

‘Just the three of us?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’

‘What about Jørgen and Rita?’

‘Jørgen is manning the desk today, and Rita is on duty tonight.’

Gundersen nods. Heidi sits down at the end of the table and takes out a sheet of paper. She reviews today’s stories. And she does it quickly. Henning knows that is because the news desk or the team who monitor the news and publish stories on an ongoing basis can handle most things. Heidi has an ulterior motive: she wants to show them that she is the Boss, that she is in charge.

Then they get to the real reason:

‘Where are we with the stoning? Any good follow-ups today?’

Henning looks at Gundersen. Gundersen looks at Henning. He is back in his role as the rookie, so he awaits Gundersen’s star turn. Gundersen takes a sip of his coffee and leans forward.

‘The police seem fairly certain that Marhoni did it. I’ve a reliable source at the station who might give me some info from their interviews with him.’

Heidi nods and makes a quick note on her sheet.

‘Anything else?’

‘Not at the moment. I’ll check my sources and see if anything else comes up.’

Heidi nods again. Then she looks at Henning.

‘Henning, what have you got today?’

Heidi has her pen ready. He isn’t used to reporting to a superior, so he hesitates for a second before clearing his throat.

‘Not sure yet.’

Heidi is about to write something, but stops.

‘You’re not sure yet?’

‘No. I’ve got some ideas, but I don’t know if they’ll lead to anything.’

The truth is he doesn’t know if he can get hold of the people he wants to talk to or if they will tell him anything useful, and he doesn’t want to promise something at the meeting he later finds he can’t deliver. Best not to say anything.

‘What kind of ideas, Henning?’ she probes. He can hear the doubt in her voice. And he sees her sneaking in a quick sideways peek at Gundersen.

‘I want to talk to a few more people at Hagerup’s college – if they’re there today.’

‘We’ve done human interest.’

‘This isn’t human interest. This is different.’

‘What is it?’

He hesitates again, he wants to tell her about Anette’s eyes, about how the hudud punishments don’t make sense, but he doesn’t trust Heidi or Gundersen. Not yet. He knows they are his colleagues and that he needs to work with them, but they have to earn his trust first. It has nothing to do with professional rivalry or ego.

‘I think there’s more to Hagerup’s background and life, something which matters to this story,’ he says. ‘I’m hoping people at her college can shed some light on who she was and why someone chose to knock her out with a stun gun and throw rocks at her head until she died.’

He is pleased with his own reply until he realises what he has just said.

‘A stun gun?’

Gundersen looks at him. Henning curses himself. He says.

‘Eh?’

A pathetic attempt to buy time.

‘I don’t recall reading anything about a stun gun?’

Henning says nothing; he feels two pairs of eyes sticking into him like pins. His cheeks redden.

‘Who told you that, Henning?’ Heidi asks.

‘I thought I had heard somewhere that a stun gun was used,’ he says, instantly hearing how feeble his explanation sounds. He can tell from their faces that they don’t believe him. But they say nothing. They just stare at him.

Crested, salty waves won’t help you now, Henning. He can hear his own laboured breathing. Then he says.

‘Are we done?’

He doesn’t look at them, but he gets up and avoids meeting their eyes as he goes to the door, half expecting to hear Heidi’s sharp voice order him back, Henning the Labrador, sit, but he grabs the handle without anything happening, he pushes it down, pulls the door open and leaves.

The silence he leaves behind is like a plane crash in his head. He can only imagine what Gundersen and Heidi say about him in his absence. Not that it matters.

He is just grateful to be out of there.

Chapter 23

Henning hits the streets of Grønland before Heidi and Gundersen finish their meeting. The temperature has risen by several degrees since he got to work and the air is humid. He looks up. Clouds, white and grey, rush across the sky. It is almost nine o’clock. Tariq Marhoni probably isn’t up yet.

Henning found little of interest about him on the Internet: Tariq came to Norway from Islamabad in the mid 1990s, his brother had arrived a few years earlier, and they have shared three different addresses. While Mahmoud couldn’t be found in any newspaper articles, chat rooms, web pages or tax registers, Tariq featured in a
VG
survey a couple of years ago where he was asked if he was for or against the EU.

Tariq placed himself in the ‘don’t know’ category. And that was all Henning had learned. In other words, the Marhoni brothers have kept a low profile, but Henning has been around long enough to know that means nothing. Tariq is still best placed to tell him about Mahmoud, the police’s only suspect, and he has been branded guilty already. That’s why Henning needs to find out as much about him as he can.

It has only just gone nine, but he decides to go to Tariq’s flat anyway. If he doesn’t reply because he is asleep or out, Henning can go to a nearby café and grab some breakfast. God knows, he needs some.

On his way to Oslogate, he passes the police station where a man in a reflective vest is cutting the grass outside. Cars rush past. He heads for Middelalderparken. The area has had a facelift in the last few years, façades have been re-plastered, new residential housing developments have been completed and made the district more attractive. Bjørvika seafront is only a few hundred metres away. You can walk to the new Opera House in ten minutes without getting out of breath.

Before he gets to number 37, he switches his mobile to silent. Too many interviews are ruined or lose their momentum due to intrusive bleeping from a laptop or a jacket pocket.

The door to the backyard is open, so Henning just walks in. The corridor is dark and empty. Middle Eastern music flows from a window. Someone is having a loud discussion in the same flat. He can smell something sweet.

He heads for stairwell B where the Marhoni brothers live. He is about to press a button saying ‘Marhoni’ when the door in front of him is opened. A man with a ginger beard comes out. He takes no notice of Henning and doesn’t close the door behind him, so Henning grabs the handle before the door slams shut.

There is a powerful aroma of spices in the stairwell. His hip protests as he walks up the stairs. He curses himself for not taking his pills this morning, but forgets all about his discomfort when he sees the name marhoni on a plate on the door of an upper ground floor flat. He stops, gets his breath back. His first home visit. You were rusty yesterday, Henning. Perhaps you’re a little less so today?

He rings the doorbell. He waits and listens. The bell seems to be faulty. He decides to knock. He clenches his fist and knocks hard three times in quick succession. His knuckles hurt.