Burned

Chapter 27

Forty-five minutes later, he taps the screen eagerly with his index finger. Brogeland gets up and comes round to his side of the table.

‘Are you sure?’

Henning looks at the man’s crooked upper lip.

‘Yes.’

Brogeland’s eyes light up. He takes over the computer, turns it away from Henning, sits down, types and clicks.

‘Who is he?’ Henning asks. Brogeland looks up over the screen, his eyes flickering slightly.

‘His name’s Yasser Shah,’ he says reluctantly. ‘But don’t you dare put that in your paper.’

Henning holds up his hands.

‘What’s he done?’

‘Nothing much. He has a couple of convictions for possession. Petty crime, small stuff, really.’

‘So he has gone from small-time dealing to hired killer?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Hm.’

‘He belongs to a gang that calls itself BBB. Bad Boys Burning.’

Henning wrinkles his nose.

‘What kind of gang is that? I’ve never heard of them.’

‘One which has come to our attention in the last year. It’s involved in a range of criminal activities. Smuggling, drugs, debt collection using fists and weapons such as — eh — well, weapons. Colleagues working directly with organised crime know a lot about them, I believe.’

‘Did the Marhoni brothers have anything to do with BBB?’

Brogeland is about to reply, but he stops and looks at Henning. And, again, he knows exactly what Brogeland is thinking.

Henning, you’re probably a decent guy, but I don’t know you well enough yet.

‘This is really good,’ Brogeland says instead. ‘Thank you so much. You’ve been a great help.’

They get up. Brogeland holds out his hand. Another firm handshake. Henning leaves the police station with a feeling that the person he helped the most was probably himself.

Outside in the street, the headline comes to him. Tariq’s last words. It will be a great story, he thinks. Tourette Kare will click. Literally.

He switches on his mobile as he turns into Gronlandsleiret. Thirty seconds later, the text messages flood in. Several people have left messages on his voicemail. Iver Gundersen is one of them. Henning knows why they are calling, obviously, of course he does, but he hasn’t got the energy to respond and he is about to hit the delete button when Gundersen calls again. Henning sighs and replies with a curt ‘hi’.

‘Where are you?’

‘At the police station.’

‘Why haven’t you called us? It’s a huge story and we would have been the first to break it.’

‘I was a bit busy saving my life. What’s left of it.’

‘For God’s sake, I’ve been trying to get hold of you for three and a half hours.’

‘Three and a half hours?’

‘Yes.’

‘You timed it?’

Gundersen takes a deep breath and exhales so hard that it roars in Henning’s ear.

‘It’s totally unacceptable that NRK gets to break the news that a 123news reporter witnessed a murder and was shot at himself.’

‘Is that Jorn Bendiksen again?’

‘Yes.’

‘His sources must be very good.’

Henning says it in a way which can’t be misinterpreted. He knows that Gundersen will regard it as a personal insult.

‘At the very least, I need an interview with you now, so you can tell me what happened. We have omitted quoting NRK and given our readers the impression that we have spoken to you, but I feel sick to my stomach. An eyewitness report from you would put a lot of things right.’

‘You haven’t faked any quotes, have you?’

‘No, no. You can check for yourself when you get in, or you can read it on your mobile. Do you want to do it in the office, or over the phone?’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘No, no,’ Henning says, mimicking Gundersen’s voice. ‘There’ll be no interview.’

Total silence.

‘Is this a joke?’

‘No, no.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Because a couple of bullets whizzed past my ears roughly three and a half hours ago. I’ve no intention of making it easy for the killer to find me, in case he fancies having another go. He knows that I saw him. Or, if he doesn’t, he soon will.’

Gundersen heaves a sigh.

‘I’m going home now to write up the interview with Tariq. When that’s done, that’s me out of the picture for a couple of days,’ Henning continues. He just manages to complete the last sentence, before Gundersen hangs up on him. Henning gloats.

He is about to stop off at Meny supermarket when his mobile rings again. He doesn’t recognise the number. Perhaps it’s Gundersen pretending to sell subscriptions? He switches off his mobile and dreams of one, maybe two, three or four warm fish cakes.

Yum.