Burned

Chapter 46

Zaheerullah Hassan Mintroza is having dinner. Today, as yesterday, it is chicken biryani with chapatti, but it doesn’t taste like it does in Karachi. It rarely does. Hassan doesn’t know why, because the ingredients are the same, they are flown to Oslo almost daily and the food is cooked in Norway by Pakistanis. Perhaps it is to do with the cooking utensils, the air temperature, the humidity, the love with which the food is prepared?

Hassan remembers when Julie, the finest mistress he had some years ago, surprised him by cooking Pakistani lamb casserole with mint chutney and naan when he visited her one evening. She had got the recipe from Wenche Andersen on Good Morning, Norway. She had even tried to bake naan from scratch.

It tasted good, but that was all. Real naan is baked in a tandoori oven, at the far end, and it must cook for no more than fifteen to twenty seconds. The lamb casserole contained far too much coriander and ginger, and not enough chilli.

He dumped her a month later. None of his other mistresses has ever been allowed to cook for him. They know what he expects from them, and dinner on the table when he visits isn’t the reason he pays their rent.

In Pakistan all chefs are men. Women don’t measure up. That’s just the way it is.

Hassan is watching an episode of MacGyver when his mobile, which is lying next to his plate, starts to vibrate. He swallows a large chunk of chicken, slightly too large, and has to force it down. He washes it down with Coke before he answers the call. When he finally does, it is with a brusque ‘yes’ and still with food somewhere in his throat.

‘It’s Mohammed. We’ve found him.’

Hassan swallows again.

‘Good. Where is he?’

More Coke.

‘Walking down the street. He’s in Gronlandsleiret right now. Do you want us to take him out right away?’

Hassan prods the food on his plate with his fork.

‘In the middle of the afternoon? Are you stupid or something? We’ve attracted enough attention as it is.’

‘Okay.’

Hassan takes another bite.

‘By the way, I want a word with him before he dies. I want to know how he got those horrendous scars,’ he says, still eating. He puts down his fork and wipes his mouth.

‘Okay.’

‘I want to know where he spends the rest of the day. Don’t do anything until you’ve spoken to me.’

Another okay.

‘And put a car outside his place of work and his flat.’

‘Will do, boss.’

Hassan hangs up and finishes his dinner. Definitely not chicken biryani tomorrow. No, he fancies dhal, perhaps a kebab of grilled tandoori king prawns with onion and paprika. Yes. Definitely king prawns. A royal meal fit for a king.