Burned

‘It was tough to begin with. Couldn’t speak the language. Our only friends were other Pakistanis. But my brother got me in to Norwegian classes. We met people from other countries. Norwegian women — ’

He sings the last word slightly and smiles. His smile promptly disappears. Henning says nothing.

‘My brother didn’t kill anyone. He’s a good guy. And he loved her.’

‘Henriette?’

Tariq nods.

‘Had they been together for a long time?’

‘No. A year, that was all.’

‘What was their relationship like?’

‘Good, I think. A lot of action.’

‘They had a lot of sex, you mean?’

Tariq smiles. Henning can tell that Tariq has a memory, perhaps several, in his head. He nods.

‘Were they faithful to each other?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘You think the police haven’t asked your brother that question already?’

Tariq doesn’t reply, but Henning can see he is debating it.

‘It was a bit on and off.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think they broke up many times, but they always got back together again. And they were at it yesterday afternoon, well, I don’t know anyone who does that.’

‘So they — ’

Tariq nods.

‘Henriette made a lot of noise. She always does, but it was extra loud yesterday.’

The smile fades. He hasn’t smoked for a minute, but now he takes a deep drag of stinking feet again before stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray.

‘They met at the Mela Festival. Nothing happened at the time, later they ran into each other at a film audition. Then it was — ’

Tariq’s mobile rings from what Henning assumes to be a bedroom. He has heard the ring tone before, but he can’t place it. Tariq is momentarily distracted, but he ignores the call. He reaches out for the lighter, picks it up and studies it.

‘It’s a bad thing that’s happened,’ he says without raising his head.

‘Do you have any idea who might have done it?’

Tariq shakes his head.

‘Did Henriette and your brother have mutual friends they hung out with?’

Tariq presses the lighter wheel hard. A proud flame shoots out. Henning feels his chest tighten.

‘We’re from Pakistan. We’ve lots of friends.’

‘Any ethnic Norwegian friends?’

‘Many.’

‘Were some of them married?’

‘Married?’

‘Yes. Wedding bells, rings on their fingers?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘Had any of them been to church and — ’

‘Hello — I know what marriage is. I just don’t understand why you ask.’

Tariq carries on fidgeting with the lighter, while he looks at Henning. He doesn’t quite know how to phrase his next question without revealing too much or saying something which might be offensive.

‘Were either of them unfaithful?’

Tariq hesitates for a second. He holds Henning’s gaze before he averts his eyes and looks at the floor.

‘I don’t know.’

His voice is quieter now. Henning thinks there is something Tariq isn’t telling him. He makes a note ‘both unfaithful?’ on his pad.

‘What does your brother do for a living?’

Tariq looks up again.

‘Why’s that so important to you?’

Henning shrugs.

‘It mightn’t be important at all. Or perhaps it’s the most important thing of all. I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking, to get closer to understanding who your brother is. For most of us, we are what we do. We live through our work.’

‘Do you?’

Henning wants to carry on while the going is good, but the question stops him in his tracks. He tries to come up with a sensible answer, but he can’t.

‘No.’

Tariq nods. Henning thinks he can read empathy in Tariq’s eyes, but he can’t be sure.

‘My brother drives a minicab.’

‘Does he work for himself?’

‘No.’

‘Who does he work for?’

‘Omar.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘A friend.’

‘What’s he called apart from Omar?’

Tariq sighs.

‘Omar Rabia Rashid.’

‘And what do you do for a living?’

Tariq gives Henning a weary look.

‘I’m a photographer.’

‘Freelance or employed?’

‘Freelance.’

Henning tries to sit upright in the soft chair, but he sinks back into it.

‘You brother refused to let the police in yesterday and he set fire to his computer. Do you know why he would do that?’

Henning notices that Tariq’s eyes look worried now. Tariq takes out a new cigarette and lights it. Then he shakes his head.

‘You’ve got no idea?’

He shakes his head again.

‘My brother was the only one who used it. I’ve my own computer.’

‘You never saw what he used it for?’

‘No, but it was probably the usual stuff. Surfing. E-mail. Are we done? I’m meeting a friend.’

Henning nods.

‘Just a few more questions, then I’ll go.’

At that moment, someone knocks on the door. Three short knocks. Tariq appears surprised.

‘Your friend?’

Tariq doesn’t reply, but he gets up.

‘If it’s another reporter, then I suggest you slam the door in his face,’ Henning jokes. Tariq goes to the door. Henning can see him from where he is sitting. Tariq opens the door with a swift movement.

Henning leans forward, turns off the Dictaphone and gets ready to leave. He has just slipped it into his pocket, when he hears Tariq say:

‘What the — ’

Then Tariq is hit by two bullets to his chest.

Chapter 24