Burned

Chapter 41

Lars Indrehaug, the solicitor, runs his fingers through his fringe and sweeps it across his temples, away from his eyes. Tosser, Brogeland thinks. What I wouldn’t like to do to you in a soundproof room one day, when the cameras are turned off.

Dreams and reality. Two completely different concepts, sadly. The thought grows even more frustrating because Sergeant Sandland is sitting next to him. Brogeland looks at the papers on the table, flicks a switch and then another. They have prepared the interview carefully, gone through the evidence and agreed how to present it. Even though Sandland still doubts that Marhoni is guilty, he needs to come up with some convincing answers to the questions they are about to ask.

Brogeland loves talking shop to Sandland, gets off on seeing her lips when she is serious, dogged, consumed by indignation on society’s behalf. He looks forward to seeing the satisfaction in her eyes when she crosses the finishing line. If only she would take out that satisfaction on him.

Wrong switch, Bjarne.

Mahmoud Marhoni sits next to Indrehaug. Marhoni is upset, Brogeland thinks. Distraught at the murder of his brother, rattled by being remanded in custody. There are definite cracks in his tough shell. He looks scruffier. A couple of days without a razor and a ruler do that to a face accustomed to warm flannels every night.

They aren’t the only things you’ll have to get used to now, Mahmoud, Brogeland thinks. He signals to Sandland to begin the formal part of the interview: the introduction of those present and the reasons for their presence. Then she looks at Marhoni.

‘My condolences,’ she says, her voice all creamy. Marhoni gives his lawyer a quizzical look.

‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ she adds. Marhoni nods.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

‘We’re doing everything we can to find out who did it. But perhaps you already know?’

Marhoni looks at her.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Are you involved with Bad Boys Burning, Mahmoud?’

‘No.’

‘Yasser Shah?’

Marhoni shakes his head.

‘Answer the question.’

‘No.’

‘Did your brother know any of them?’

‘If I don’t know who they are, then how can I know if my brother had anything to do with them?’

Well done, Marhoni, Brogeland thinks. You avoided the trap.

‘We’ve managed to save the contents of your laptop,’ Brogeland continues and waits for a reply. Marhoni tries to appear unconcerned, but Brogeland can see that he is boiling on the inside. Though we don’t have everything, Brogeland remembers. Not yet, anyway.

But Marhoni doesn’t know that.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to change the replies that you just gave my colleague?’ Brogeland asks.

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘To avoid lying.’

‘I never lie.’

‘Oh no?’ Brogeland quips.

‘Perhaps you would like to confront my client directly rather than pussyfoot around?’ Indrehaug says. Brogeland sends him an evil stare before he addresses Marhoni again.

‘How many people, apart from you, use your laptop, Mahmoud?’

‘No one.’

‘You haven’t ever lent it to anyone?’

‘No.’

‘Not with you watching, either?’

‘No.’

‘And you’re quite sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Inspector — ’

Indrehaug throws up his hands and sighs wearily. Brogeland smiles and nods to himself.

‘What were you were doing on Henriette Hagerup’s e-mail account on the day that she was killed?’

Marhoni looks up.

‘What?’

‘Why were you reading your girlfriend’s e-mails?’

Brogeland registers that Marhoni looks surprised.

‘Was it to sneak a peek at this?’

Brogeland pushes a sheet of paper across the table. It’s a photograph of Henriette Hagerup draped around a man. The man’s face can’t be seen, only the back of his head. His hair is dark and thin. Marhoni looks at the picture.

‘Who is this, Mahmoud?’

He doesn’t reply.

‘This picture was found in your late girlfriend’s e-mail account, which was read from your laptop on the day she died. Do you want to comment on that?’

Marhoni looks at the photograph again.

‘Who sent the e-mail?’ he asks.

‘Let us worry about that. I’m asking you again, do you know the man in the picture?’

He shakes his head.

‘You understand that this doesn’t look good for you, Mahmoud?’

Marhoni still has nothing to tell them. Brogeland sighs. Indrehaug looks at his client. Marhoni rubs his thumb against the palm of his other hand. Neither Sandland nor Brogeland says anything for a while; they wait for him to crack.

‘I didn’t do it,’ he suddenly whispers.

‘What did you say?’

‘I didn’t check her e-mails.’

Brogeland rolls his eyes as if he has just suffered the world’s greatest injustice.

‘You’ve just said that you’re the only one to use your laptop. Is that no longer the case?’

Marhoni shakes his head.

‘It can’t be.’

‘So someone else used your laptop — without your knowledge — to look at a photograph of your girlfriend in the arms of another man? Is that what you’re telling us?’

Marhoni nods cautiously.

‘Who could have done it? Your brother? Henriette?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is that why they’re both dead, Mahmoud?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No, you don’t know.’

Brogeland sighs and looks at Sandland. She scans Marhoni’s face for any giveaway signs or expressions.

‘What do you think about sharia?’ Brogeland continues.

‘Sharia?’

‘Yes. Pakistani band. Played at the Mela Festival about a year ago.’

‘Inspector — ’

‘Bad joke, I know. But answer the question, what do you think about sharia? Sharia laws. Do sharia laws represent a view of women which you agree with, Mahmoud?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t think that stoning a woman — for example — is a suitable punishment for infidelity? Or chopping off someone’s hands for stealing?’

Brogeland doesn’t wait for a reply. Marhoni looks baffled.

‘Who did Henriette have an affair with, Mahmoud?’

‘If you’re innocent and want to help yourself, I strongly recommend that you start talking now.’

‘Who’s the man in the photograph?’

Brogeland and Sandland speak simultaneously. Marhoni sighs.

‘The longer you drag this out, the worse it will look.’

‘Who was the man she had an affair with?’

‘Was that why you killed her?’

‘Who are you protecting?’

Marhoni raises a hand.

‘You don’t understand anything.’

He looks down, shaking his head.

‘Then help us.’ Brogeland says. He looks at Marhoni, waiting for him to explain.

‘Henriette was never unfaithful,’ Marhoni says, having thought about it for a long time.

‘What did you say?’

‘Henriette was never unfaithful to me.’

‘Then how do you explain these text messages? Sorry. It means nothing. HE means nothing. You’re the one I love. Can we talk about it? Please?’

Brogeland stares hard at Marhoni.

‘And you’re telling me she was never unfaithful?’

‘Yes, or, I don’t know.’

‘No, you don’t. If you can’t come up with a better answer than this, then — ’

‘She never mentioned anyone else to me.’

‘So the contents of the text messages make no sense to you?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve never discussed anything like this before?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry, but you’re going to have a big problem convincing a jury of this. And you know it, Mr Indrehaug.’

Brogeland eyeballs the lawyer. Indrehaug gulps. Then he runs his fingers through his hair, one more time.