Burned

‘I asked him to tell me about his brother, what he did for a living, what his relationship with Henriette Hagerup was like — the sort of questions you ask people you want to know a little more about.’

‘What did he reply?’

‘Not very much of interest. We never got that far.’

‘You said his brother’s in custody for a murder he didn’t do. What do you mean by that? What makes you say that?’

‘Because I seriously doubt that he did it.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s little in his background to suggest that he’s a fervent supporter of hudud punishments, and the murder has — as far as I understand it — links to that.’

Sandland sits immobile and looks at him for a long time, before she exchanges glances with Brogeland.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I just do.’

Sandland and Brogeland look at each other again. Henning can guess what they are thinking.

Do we have a leak?

Sandland fixes her blue eyes on him. He feels the urge for a gin and tonic.

‘You seem to know quite a lot.’

Sandland says it like a question. Henning shrugs.

‘Or you used to. Kapital, Aftenposten, Nettavisen, 123news. How many front-page stories have you had, Juul? How many scoops? That’s what you journalists call it, isn’t it?’

Henning’s shoulders rise in preparation of another deep breath.

‘If it will help your investigation, then I can find things out.’

Sandland smiles. It is the first time he sees her smile. Perfect teeth. A red, inviting tongue. He guesses Brogeland has tasted it.

No, on second thoughts, no. She is not that stupid.

‘And, once again, you’re at the centre of an investigation, but this time you’re a witness. How does that feel?’

‘Are you fishing for a second career with NRK Sport, by any chance?’

‘I think this interview will go better and quicker if we avoid sarcasm, Henning,’ Brogeland says and gives him an amicable look. Henning nods and concedes that, for once, Brogeland has a point.

‘It’s more like a new experience, you could say,’ he starts, a tad more polite now. ‘I’ve witnessed a few things in my time, robberies and stabbings, two own goals by the same player in the same match, but it’s a strange feeling to see someone I’ve just been speaking to, who has just offered me a glass of milk, be shot twice in the chest and once in the head.’

‘Milk?’

‘Skimmed.’

Brogeland nods and smiles briefly.

‘Did you catch a glimpse of the killer?’

He hesitates.

‘It happened so quickly.’

‘But even in brief flashes, the brain can register a great deal of information. Think about it again. Think hard.’

He thinks hard. And, suddenly, the shell cracks. He sees something. A face. An oval face. A beard. Not covering the whole face, only around the mouth, in a square. Thick sideburns.

He tells them. And he describes something else: his lips. A little crooked to the left. Brogeland was right, he thinks. Bloody hell, Bjarne Brogeland, that prize wanker, was right.

‘Did you see what kind of weapon he used?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘A hand gun. A pistol? I don’t know a lot about weapons.’

‘Silencer?’

‘Yes. Haven’t you found bullet cases on the crime scene?’

Sandland looks at Brogeland again. Yes, of course they have, Henning thinks, and then he feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He tries to ignore the call, but it refuses to be silenced.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, pointing to his pocket.

‘Turn off your mobile,’ Sandland orders him. He takes it out and has time to see that Iver Gundersen is trying to get hold of him. He presses extra hard on the ‘ off ’ button and holds it down for a long time.

‘Did you see what the killer was wearing?’

Think. Think.

‘Dark trousers. I think his jacket was black. No, it wasn’t. It was beige.’

‘Black or beige?’

‘Beige.’

‘What colour was his hair?’

‘Don’t remember, but I think it was dark, too. The guy was dark.’

Sandland sends him a dubious look.

‘Apart from his beige jacket,’ he adds, quickly.

‘Immigrant?’ Brogeland asks.

‘Yes, I would guess so.’

‘Pakistani? Like the victim?’

‘Yes, that’s possible.’

Brogeland and Sandland both make notes. Henning can’t see them, but he knows what they say.

The killer knew the victim.

He exploits the short pause that has arisen.

‘So, what do you think, did you arrest the wrong Marhoni?’

He takes out his notepad. Sandland and Brogeland look at each other again.

‘I thought I had made it clear to you that — ’

Brogeland coughs. His hand goes back on Sandland’s arm. She reddens.

‘It’s too soon to say.’

‘So you don’t rule out revenge as the motive?’

‘We rule out nothing.’

‘On which theory are you basing the investigation, then? Mahmoud is arrested, suspected of murder and less than twenty-four hours later, his brother is killed.’

‘Inspector — ’ Sandland objects.

‘No comments. And the interview’s over,’ Brogeland announces.

‘Would you recognise the killer if you saw him again?’ Sandland continues. Henning thinks about it, replays the scene in Marhoni’s flat in his head, and says:

‘I don’t know.’

‘Could you try?’

He sees what she means.

‘Have you got some pictures for me to look at?’

She nods gravely.

‘I could always give it a try,’ he says.

Chapter 26