Burned

Perhaps it’s the end of term, Henning thinks, perhaps they are taking their last exams? Or they might already have broken up? This could make the story considerably more difficult to investigate or, indeed, solve.

He becomes aware that the smokers are staring at him as he enters the main building. As soon as he gets inside, he sees a reception area to his left with a semi-circular counter with two people behind it. They are wrapped around each other, kissing. He makes a point of coughing slightly, as he puts his hands on the counter.

They jump, giggle and look up at him, before exchanging ‘why-don’t-we-get-a-room’ looks. Oh, to be twenty again, Henning muses.

‘I’ve an appointment with Yngve Foldvik,’ he says. The young man, who has long dreadlocks and an untrimmed beard, points towards a staircase.

‘Take the stairs up to the first floor, turn right and right again, and you’re there. That’ll take you straight to his office.’

Henning thanks Dreadlocks for his help. He is about to leave when he remembers something.

‘You wouldn’t happen to know who Anette is?’

‘Anette?’

You idiot, he tells himself, there’s bound to be at least fifteen Anettes here.

‘I only know her first name. She was a friend of Henriette Hagerup. They were on the same course.’

‘Ah, her. Yes, Anette Skoppum.’

‘Have you seen her today, by any chance?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Have you?’ Dreadlocks says, looking at his girlfriend who is fiddling with her mobile. She shakes her head and doesn’t look up.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘Not to worry,’ Henning says and leaves.

Suddenly he is engulfed by students. He passes some on the stairs, too. It’s like turning back the clock, twelve or thirteen years. He recalls his time at Blindern, student life, an age of few responsibilities, parties, exam stress, coffee breaks, alert eyes in the lecture hall. He liked the eyes in the lecture hall, liked being a student, liked absorbing all the knowledge he could.

Foldvik’s office is easy to locate. Henning knocks on the door. No reply. He knocks again and checks his watch. It is one minute to ten. He knocks a third time and pushes down the door handle. The door is locked.

He looks around. The place is deserted now. He can see doors. A whole corridor of them. It says ‘Editing Suite’ or ‘Rehearsal Room’ on most. He notices a black backdrop and a film poster with the wording To Elise.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes him turn around. A man comes round the corner, straight towards him. Yngve Foldvik looks exactly like his photograph, same side parting. Again, Henning has a strong feeling of knowing the man, but he can’t place him.

He decides to forget about it and goes to meet Foldvik. Foldvik holds out his hand.

‘You must be Henning Juul.’

Henning nods.

‘Yngve Foldvik. Nice to meet you.’

Henning nods in return. From time to time, when he meets new people, he is struck by how they speak, the phrases they tend to use. First and surname, followed by a ‘nice to meet you’, for example. Nothing unusual about that. But what’s the point of saying that it’s nice to meet him, before knowing if it is? His mere existence surely isn’t automatically nice?

Nora used to say ‘hi, Nora calling ’ when she rang him. It irritated him every single time, but he never mentioned it. He thought it was bleeding obvious she was calling him, given he was holding the telephone and talking to her.

Phrases, he thinks. We surround ourselves with phrases, never contemplating what they suggest, how superfluous they are and how little meaning they convey. Of course he hopes that the meeting with Yngve Foldvik will be nice, but strictly speaking that isn’t why he has come.

‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,’ Foldvik says in a nice voice.

‘I’ve just arrived,’ Henning says and follows him into the office. It is a small study. There is a huge computer monitor on a desk, two television screens mounted on the wall, a couple of chairs, and a display of film posters. The bookshelves are packed with reference books and biographies which he instantly sees are all about films. He also notices that Foldvik has the screenplay for Pulp Fiction in book form. Foldvik takes a seat and offers him the other chair. He rolls his chair to the window and opens it.

‘Yuk! It’s stuffy in here,’ he says. Henning has a view of the car park. His eyes stop at a car waiting for the lights to change at the junction of Fredensborgvei and Rostedsgate. It’s a silver

Mercedes. A silver Mercedes minicab. This time, he manages to read the licence number on the roof: A2052.

He decides to check the number as soon as he gets a chance.

‘So how can I help you?’ Foldvik asks. Henning takes out his Dictaphone and makes a point of showing it to Foldvik, who nods by way of consent.

‘Henriette Hagerup,’ Henning says.

‘Yes, I guessed as much.’

Foldvik smiles. Everything is still nice.

‘What can you tell me about her?’

Foldvik breathes in deeply and sifts through his memories. He becomes wistful and he shakes his head.

‘It’s — ’

He shakes his head again. Henning lets him.