Burned

He soon finds himself in Torggate where the cars are bumper-to-bumper. One of them is yellow; even now he can’t ignore yellow cars. He sees that the bicycle lane is clear and pulls into it, speeds up again, nearly running over a seagull, which flaps up right in front of him. He checks his mirror to see if the Mercedes is following, but it isn’t in his field of vision. Suddenly, he has to brake, bloody pedestrian crossing, why doesn’t anyone look where they are going, he thinks, people just walk straight out into the road, he wants to beep his horn, but realises what a self-defeating gesture it would be. He presses the accelerator and gains speed before he has to stop again, this time for a red light.

He is tempted to jump the lights, which are painfully slow to change. He checks his mirror, no silver Mercedes; he looks up, cars are zooming back and forth in both directions, but then they start to slow down. The lights change from green to amber, he twists the throttle open full force, turns to the left and manages to get across the pedestrian crossing before the pedestrians are halfway across the road. Back in Hausmannsgate, he checks his mirror again: no sign of A2052, he drives on, aware that several cars are having to slow down, but he has no intention of letting them pass. Another pedestrian crossing, he sweeps across it, passes Elvebakken School to his right, some students are outside smoking. He soon reaches the bottom of Rostedsgate, another red light, damn. He positions himself as far ahead as he can, turns to see where the minicab is. He can see other minicabs, but not A2052, not yet, but it might be only seconds before it catches up with him, what will happen then? They’re bound to know where I’m heading, he thinks, they know where Westerdal is, they’re cabdrivers, for crying out loud! He drives on to the pedestrian crossing, registers that a pedestrian glares at him, but he doesn’t give a toss, he pulls up on the pavement, speeds up, carries on driving down the pavement, until he can pull out into the street again. When he looks to the left, all he sees are buildings and concrete. The minicab can’t possibly see him now. Oh, you lovely Vespa!

He accelerates down the street until he reaches Fredensborgvei and turns into the college car park. He sees a substation and parks his Vespa behind it, out of sight to anyone driving past. He removes his helmet and looks around. No A2052. Though they can’t be far away. He hurries into the college grounds.

He spots Tore Benjaminsen straight away. He is tempted to go over to him, but there are too many people around. And what would he say? ‘Have you seen Yngve Foldvik? Did you know that he has gone missing?’ It occurs to him that he isn’t entirely sure why he has come. What did I think I would see or understand, once I got here? he asks himself. It’s not like the Foldviks might be hiding out at the college. Was he hoping that the students or the staff would know where the Foldviks go when they want a little time to themselves? He can’t even be sure that anyone here knows what has happened.

He shakes his head at his own impetuousness. Then he turns around and jumps. He is looking right into the eyes of Anette Skoppum.

Chapter 61

Bjarne Brogeland is pacing up and down his office. The tired, Lapp face of Ann-Mari Sara, the crime scene technician, has just popped up on his screen again, to report on the most recent findings from Marhoni’s laptop. Interrogating Marhoni will be more interesting now. But that’s not where I want to be, Brogeland groans. What the hell is going on with Yngve and Ingvild Foldvik? Why can’t anyone find them?

Brogeland is swearing silently when Sandland knocks on his door and asks him if he is ready. I’m ready, Brogeland thinks, I’ve never been more ready in my life.

As usual, Lars Indrehaug is indignant on his client’s behalf when Sandland and Brogeland welcome them back to the interview room and go through the formalities.

‘So what’s today’s theme?’ Indrehaug snarls when Brogeland has finished. ‘My client’s favourite colour? Favourite car?’

Indrehaug nods to Marhoni. Brogeland smiles. He is anything but tired now, and the sight of the slimy lawyer makes his blood boil. He slides a sheet across the table, placing it halfway between them, so both can study it. Marhoni leans forward and glances at the sheet before looking away. He shakes his head, faintly. Brogeland registers it.

‘What’s this?’ Indrehaug asks.

‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ Brogeland says. ‘But perhaps you could explain it to us all the same, Mr Marhoni?’

Marhoni stares at the wall.

‘Okay, then I’ll do it for you,’ Brogeland says, addressing Indrehaug. ‘Your client has, believe it or not, a highly developed sense of order. He likes to know where everything is. Perhaps you’ve been to his flat? Neat and tidy. The document in front of you is a print-out of an Excel spreadsheet we found on your client’s laptop, the one he tried to burn. Perhaps you can see why?’