Burned

Due to unforeseen fluctuations in the advertising market, we are forced to reduce costs. In the short term, this won’t impact on staff, but it might well do in the long term, if we don’t produce more pages. The more pages are read, the faster we can re-sell the space to new advertisers. However, as we have sold all available advertising space, we need to generate more pages. This means we need to make decisions about the stories we write. We need to be more critical in our selection of material. And blah blah blah -

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 hjuul@123news. no.

‘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 Cafe. 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.