Burned

Chapter 57

He nods off in the early morning hours and is woken up by a car beeping its horn. He is lying on the sofa, adjusting his eyes to the light. It is 5.30 a.m. He shuffles into the kitchen, gets a glass of water, fetches the medicine jars from his bedside table and swallows two tablets. The matchbox is where it always is, but he hasn’t got the energy to challenge the soldiers from hell today.

He feels like he has been on a week-long bender. He knows he ought to eat something, but the thought of stale bread with dried-out ham is about as attractive as eating sawdust.

He thinks about the men who came to his flat. What would they have done if he had been there? Were they armed? Would they have tried to kill him?

He pushes the thought away. The point is that he wasn’t there, that there was no confrontation. He decides to forget about breakfast and go straight to work, even though the day is just beginning.

An hour later, he rings Brogeland. A detective never sleeps more than a couple of hours when an investigation intensifies and Henning has questions he is dying to ask. Brogeland’s voice sounds groggy when he finally picks up.

‘Hi, Bjarne, it’s me,’ Henning says, suitably jovial and matey.

‘Hi.’

‘Are you awake?’

‘No.’

‘Well, are you up?’

‘Define up.’

‘How did it go yesterday?’

‘That’s also up for discussion.’

‘What do you mean?’

Brogeland doesn’t reply.

‘Are you saying he didn’t kill himself?’

Henning is on the edge of his seat.

‘No. No, I didn’t say that. It went well, in the sense that we did what we had to do at the crime scene. What do you want to talk about? Why are you calling me this early?’

Henning is wrong-footed by Brogeland’s brusque tone.

‘Well, I — ’

‘I’m about to go to a meeting and I’ve got work to do. So if it’s not anything in particular, then — ’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘Okay, spit it out.’

It takes Henning a moment to gather his thoughts.

‘There’s something I need to know.’

‘Yes, I imagined as much.’

‘Was there any e-mail correspondence between Henriette Hagerup and Yngve Foldvik in the time leading up to her murder?’

‘Why do you ask? Why do you need to know?’

‘I just do. Okay? I feel I’ve a certain right to know.’

‘Right?’

‘Yes. I’ve helped you quite a lot in this investigation.’

‘I know.’

Brogeland sighs deeply.

‘E-mails? I don’t know. Don’t remember. I’m too tired to remember things.’

‘For God’s sake, Bjarne, you can’t be; the son of one of your potential suspects has just died. I don’t know why you’re suddenly being an arsehole after everything I’ve done for you, but that’s fine. I don’t need to talk to you anyway.’

He is about to hang up, when Brogeland yawns.

‘Okay, sorry, I’m just so bloody tired. And Gjerstad, he — ’

More yawning.

‘What about Gjerstad?’

‘Oh, forget it. Yes, Hagerup e-mailed Yngve Foldvik several times and he replied.’ Brogeland says and exhales heavily.

‘Were any of the e-mails about the script?’

‘Yes, one of them. But not about the contents, only that she would send him the script when she had finished it.’

‘Do you remember roughly when that was?’

‘A while ago. I don’t remember the exact date.’

‘How about text messages? Have you found out who texted Henriette on the day she was killed? About the time she was with Marhoni?’

‘She received two or three texts during that period. One of them said “check your e-mail”.’

‘Who sent it?’

‘We don’t know. But we know that that text, like the e-mail with the photo, was also sent from Mozambique, from one of those anonymous sites.’

‘Right. Okay. Thank you.’

‘By the way, you need to come in for an interview today. Gjerstad lost his rag last night when I told him we had only spoken on the telephone.’

‘When?’

‘We’ll be interviewing Mahmoud Marhoni again at ten o’clock. Sometime after that. Why don’t we say 11 a.m., and see how the land lies around that time?’

‘I’ll try and make it.’

‘You have to.’

‘You said “the crime scene” a minute ago. Does that mean you’re treating Stefan’s death as suspicious?’

Brogeland groans.

‘I haven’t got time to talk to you. I’ve got to go. We can talk later.’

‘So you are treating his death as suspicious.’

‘I didn’t say that. And don’t you dare speculate about it in your newspaper either.’

‘I never speculate about suicide.’

‘No, okay. Talk to you later.’

Click. Henning stares into the distance. The police have found something, he thinks, or the absence of something is enough to make them suspicious. If not, Brogeland would have dismissed it categorically.