Burned

He has stepped on a pill. A whole one is lying next to his shoe. Carefully, he picks it up, studies it and sniffs it. The pill and its smell remind him of something, but he can’t place it. He curses a second time and returns the pill to the exact same spot he found it, and stands up. The powder on the sole of my shoe will leave a trail, he thinks. And if I don’t boil my shoe, crime scene technicians will be able to place me here.

The room grows stuffy and humid. Henning feels the urge to run, but he doesn’t give in to it. Something on the desk stops him. It’s Henriette and Anette’s script. ‘A Sharia Caste’ is lying there, open on scene 9, the scene where the Gaarder family is having dinner. And Henning thinks that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

He rings Brogeland’s mobile. While he waits for him to reply, he tries to remember if he touched anything. The last thing he needs is the police to find his fingerprints in the Foldviks’ home.

The bathroom cabinet. Damn. He opened the bathroom cabinet. He closed it with his right hand.

Damn.

He lets the phone ring, but Brogeland doesn’t reply. He picked a great time to be busy, Henning fumes. You bloody amateur, he berates himself. But how was he to know that there was a dead body in a flat he just happened to visit?

He leaves, making sure the front door is almost closed, like it was when he arrived, and he does the same with the door to the backyard. Back outside, he feels how wonderful it is to be surrounded by fresh air, and he looks up at the windows. No one is looking down. He lets his mobile ring twenty times, at least, before he gives up. Damn, he thinks. Damn, damn, DAMN. What do I do now? I have to get hold of Bjarne. I can’t ring the police like I normally would and report this. If I do that, I’ll have to wait here, tell them what I was doing and I know it won’t look good. I won’t be able to give a proper explanation, at least not one that puts me in the clear. First Tariq and now Stefan.

No, he says to himself, I have to get hold of Bjarne.

He tries calling him again. The telephone rings and rings. Arrghhh! Henning rings the switchboard and asks to be put through to him. A female voice says ‘just a moment’. Too many long seconds pass before he is transferred.

The telephone rings again. But only twice. Then Brogeland picks up.

Chapter 55

Bjarne Brogeland never used to have a problem with dead bodies, but these days he can barely look at them. Especially not teenagers or children. I suppose it’s because I’m a father myself now, he thinks. Every time he arrives at a crime scene or goes to a home where a child has died, or been killed, he always thinks about his daughter, beautiful, lovely Alisha, about what his life would be like without her.

Yngve and Ingvild Foldvik must be devastated.

Brogeland enters the family’s flat. The atmosphere inside is one of professional detachment. The mask the police put on in order to do their job, the subdued voices, the quick glances, conveying the words none of them can bear to utter. No one moves quickly. There is no banter, no smart remarks like in detective series on television.

Brogeland goes into the bedroom. Ella Sandland is bent over the body. He called her on the way because she lives nearby. She turns to him.

‘Suicide, most probably,’ she says quietly. Brogeland looks around; he can’t bear to look at Stefan.

‘Traces of alcohol in the glass, possibly vodka.’

Brogeland goes over to the bedside table and sniffs the glass. He doesn’t nod or shake his head.

‘Suicide note?’

‘Haven’t seen one yet. So there probably isn’t one.’

‘He might have died from natural causes.’

Sandland nods, reluctantly. Brogeland turns around, taking in the whole room. He notices the script which Henning Juul told him about. Scene 9, just like the devious bastard said on the telephone. A poster for the film Seven hangs above Stefan’s bed. An empty CD sleeve for the Danish band Mew lies open on his desk. Brogeland guesses that the CD itself is in the sound system on a stool next to the bed. Speakers have been mounted high up on either side of the wall, behind the desk. A battered skateboard is leaning against the wall behind a chair.

‘Have we managed to get hold of his parents yet?’ he asks.

‘Yes. They’re on their way home.’

‘Where were they?’

‘Don’t know. Fredrik is dealing with that.’

Brogeland nods.

‘Poor people, I feel so sorry for them,’ Sandland begins.

‘Yes, so do I.’

‘However, a couple of things strike me as odd,’ Sandland whispers. She comes closer.

‘What?’

‘Look at him.’

Brogeland looks. He sees nothing but a dead teenager, a dead boy.

‘What is it?’

‘He’s naked.’

‘Naked?’

‘Yes.’

Sandland goes back to the bed and gently lifts up the blanket and duvet. Brogeland looks at Stefan, as naked as the day he was born.

‘I’ve never heard of anyone who took their clothes off before killing themselves.’

‘No, you’re right, that’s extremely rare.’

‘And he’s lying in a strange position.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Look at him. He’s pressed up against the wall.’