Burned

He remembers what she said about her first meeting with Stefan, after he won the script competition. Perhaps the wheels were set in motion that evening? Perhaps she decided to direct his script to get close to him, so she could manipulate him? She would be the woman who realised his dream. And everything in the film industry takes time. There are meetings about meetings about meetings. It would be relatively easy to pull the wool over Stefan’s eyes and, anyway, he would be dead by the time the film was completed.

What had she said to him, what words did she use to trigger his rage? Did she say that women like Henriette turn men into rapists who destroy families? It wouldn’t be difficult to inflame Stefan with this kind of logic, given what his mother had been subjected to. The more Henning thinks about it, the more he becomes convinced that Anette guided Stefan the whole way. Like a true director.

He is also convinced that they, or perhaps it was only Anette, tried to implicate Mahmoud Marhoni by texting him from Henriette’s mobile, just like in the script. The references to infidelity and the photograph on Henriette’s e-mail would be hard to explain away. It would be Marhoni’s word against a dead woman’s text messages. And no one would have a problem believing that Henriette had two-timed him. After all, she was a great flirt. The one everyone wanted. Including Anette.

He sees Stefan’s dead face before him, lying in his bed, pressed up against the wall. Did Anette promise to follow him? Did they make a suicide pact? How did she manage to trick him? Didn’t he notice that her pills were different? Why -

Hang on. Henning has an idea. And once the thought is in his head, he unlocks his entrance door fast. He takes no notice of his post, he strides up the stairs, ignoring the pain which screams in his hips and his legs. He opens his front door and sets down his laptop on the kitchen table. He climbs up the stepladder, as quickly as he can, and replaces all the batteries, before he takes off his jacket and opens a drawer in a driftwood cupboard. He sifts through receipts, takeaway menus, candles, matchboxes, hellish matchboxes, business cards, but they are not what he is looking for. He comes across a bottle of rum, Bacardi, yuk, more takeaway menus, and there, under an old ice hockey scorecard he has kept for some reason, he finds the business card he knew he hadn’t thrown away. He stares at it, sees Dr Helge Bruunsgaard’s name printed into the white, textured cardboard.

He takes out his mobile, notices that the battery is low, but thinks it should last for the call he is about to make.

The telephone rings for a long time, before Dr Helge replies. Henning’s breathing quickens when the familiar voice exuding enthusiasm and optimism says: ‘Is that you, Henning?’

‘Hi, Helge,’ he says.

‘How are you? What’s it like to be back at work?’

‘Er, good. Listen, I’m not calling this late on a Friday evening to talk about myself. I need your help. Your professional help with a story I’m working on. Can I trouble you for a few minutes? I imagine you’re on your way home?’

‘Yes, I am, but that’s all right, Henning. I’m stuck in heavy traffic, there has been an accident, so tell me, what do you want to know?’

Henning tries to organise his thoughts.

‘What I’m about to ask you will sound a bit strange. But I promise you, it’s not about me, so don’t get worried.’

‘What is it, Henning? What is it?’

The sudden concern in Dr Helge’s voice is lost on Henning. He takes a deep breath.

And asks his question.

*

The computer boots up, although somewhat reluctantly, and, as usual, takes a minute or thirty to load. Henning paces up and down while he waits for all the pre-installed programs to get ready, though he won’t be using them. The clock in the top right-hand corner of the screen shows 21.01 by the time he sits down and double-clicks on the FireCracker 2.0 icon. Again, it takes ages before the program is up and running. 6tiermes7 is logged on and he double-clicks the name. A window pops up. MakkaPakka: Hugger?

He waits patiently until the response arrives. Not even 6tiermes7 can be in front of a keyboard all the time. 6tiermes7: Mugger.

Shouldn’t you be out celebrating now?

MakkaPakka: Done that. It was no fun.

6tiermes7: You would rather be chatting to me. I completely understand.

MakkaPakka: I’m wondering about something.

6tiermes7: You’re joking. Now?

MakkaPakka: Now more than ever, possibly.

6tiermes7: That sounds serious. What is it?

MakkaPakka: One of the text messages sent to Henriette Hagerup on the day she died came from Mozambique. You know from where in Mozambique?

6tiermes7: Hold on a moment, let me check.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to type. A few minutes pass. Then 6tiermes7 is back. 6tiermes7: A place called Inhambane.

Another large puzzle piece falls into place. It’s as if the gaping hole he has been staring at all day closes and clangs shut. MakkaPakka: This case isn’t over.

6tiermes7: What?