Burned

Chapter 40

Coffee usually does the trick, but not when he is tense. Not when he is waiting for someone. Not when the hour Anette suggested passed long ago.

He has chosen a window table in the Gode Cafe, where he can keep an eye on passing traffic and people walking along the pavement, just an arm’s length away. Another reason for sitting here is that it is near the exit. Should anything happen.

What’s keeping you, Anette? He frets and thinks that if this had been a film, then Anette never would arrive. Someone would get to her, take whatever Henning is looking for, and make sure that her body was never found. Or perhaps they wouldn’t even bother hiding it?

He shakes his head at himself, but it is tempting to entertain such thoughts given she is now more than thirty minutes late. He tries to imagine what could have happened. She might have had an unexpected visitor, maybe her mother called, or she was waiting for the washing machine to finish or that delivery guy from Peppe’s Pizza was a fashionable half-hour late?

No. Unlikely, at this time of day. Perhaps she is quite simply unreliable? There are people like that, but he didn’t get the impression that Anette was one of them. She is one of those who try; try to make something of themselves, do something with their lives, realise their ambitions.

Too much, possibly, to draw such conclusions after one brief meeting, but he is good at reading people: who is grumpy, who is a soft touch, who is real and not a fake, who beats up his wife, who might be tempted to drink a glass or three too many when the occasion presents itself, who couldn’t care less and who tries. He is quite sure that Anette tries, and he thinks she has been trying for a long time. That’s why he is starting to feel a little anxious.

But then the door to the Gode Cafe is opened. He jumps when he realises that it is Anette. She looks different from two days ago. The fear is still there, in her eyes, but she is even more introverted now. She has pulled her hood over her head. She isn’t wearing make-up and she looks scruffy. She stoops a little. She carries a backpack. A small grey backpack with no label, but many stickers.

She spots him, looks around the room and heads towards him. In nine out of ten cases, he would have got a bollocking. Bloody journalists, who can’t leave decent people alone, who have no sense of shame. He has heard it all before. And it has hit home in the past, but not now.

Anette stops at the table. She doesn’t sit down. She looks at him while she takes off her backpack. Judging from the stickers, she has travelled widely. He sees names of exotic cities from faraway countries. Assab (Eritrea), Nzerekore (Guinea), Osh (Kyrgyzstan), Blantyre (Malawi). She plonks the backpack on the chair.

‘Can I get you something to drink?’

‘I’m not staying.’

She takes a pile of paper from her backpack, throws it in front of him and closes the bag with a swift movement. She puts the backpack back on, spins on her heel and is about to leave.

‘Anette, wait.’

His voice is louder than he intended. People stare. Anette stops and turns around again. I hope she sees the urgency in my eyes, Henning thinks, the kindness, the sincerity.

‘Please, have a coffee with me.’

Anette does nothing, she just looks at him.

‘Okay, not coffee, it tastes like shit, but a latte? A cup of tea? Chai? Eins, zwei, chai?’

Anette takes a step towards him.

‘Comedian, aren’t we?’

He feels like a twelve-year-old who has been caught cheating in a test.

‘Like I said: I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

‘So why give me this?’ he asks, pointing to the pile of paper in front of him. On the front page, it says: A SHARIA CASTE WRITTEN BY HENRIETTE HAGERUP DIRECTED BY ANETTE SKOPPUM

He struggles to control himself. He wants to read it right there and then.

‘So you’ll understand.’

‘But — ’

‘Please — don’t try to help me.’

‘But, Anette — ’

She has already begun to leave. He is about to get up, but realises the hopelessness and the desperation of such an act. Instead he calls out after her:

‘Who are you scared of, Anette?’

She pushes down the door handle without looking at him or replying. She just leaves. He looks in the direction he thinks she might be walking, alone, with her backpack. He catches himself wondering if there was something else in it. An extra item of clothing? A film or book?

Or a stun gun perhaps?

The thought appears out of nowhere. But he tastes it, now that it is here. It’s a rather interesting thought. After all: who knows the script better than Anette?

No, he says to himself. If Anette had anything to do with her friend’s murder, why would she let me read the script? Why would she help me to understand? He dismisses the idea. A stupid notion. I need to read the script, see if it gives me any clues.

There has to be something.