Burned

Henning looks around. A cameraman from TV2 hoists his camera on to his shoulder. A reporter checks his notes before rehearsing his presentation, off-camera.

‘It’s a bit odd that Stefan was naked, don’t you think?’ Henning remarks, when the reporter has finished. Brogeland turns to him.

‘Hm?’

‘Why do you think Stefan was naked?’

‘Not entirely sure. He had a thing about symbolism. Perhaps it was his way of saying that the cycle was complete.’

‘Born naked, die naked, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

A reasonable interpretation, Henning thinks.

‘But how did Stefan know that Henriette would be in the tent that evening? Was there any mobile phone activity between them?’

‘Not that I remember. Don’t think so.’

‘So how did he know?’

Brogeland ponders this for a while.

‘Perhaps they had a verbal agreement?’

‘About what? Stefan wasn’t involved with Henriette’s film.’

‘No, I know. No idea. Anyway, somehow he knew. We’ll never get the answer to that now.’

Henning nods, slowly. The question irks him. He doesn’t like puzzles with missing pieces. He always ends up staring at the gaping hole.

‘Quite a comeback for you,’ Brogeland says, as they stroll on.

‘What do you mean?’

‘This case. But it’s just up your street, isn’t it? You like going it alone?’

Henning looks at Brogeland and wonders what has prompted this shift in tone.

‘What are you saying?’

‘Gjerstad told me about the Nigerian women,’ Brogeland confronts Henning. His smile has gone. ‘Gjerstad told me about the story you wrote, your interview with the killer.’

Henning nods and smiles. Oh, Gjerstad.

‘Did Gjerstad tell you the whole story?’

He waits for Brogeland’s reaction, but it never comes.

‘Did he tell you that I did the interview and gave the guy the publicity he wanted on one condition?’

Henning pauses for effect.

‘What condition was that?’

‘That he would stop killing Nigerian women, or indeed killing anyone at all. It’s a pipedream to believe the police can prevent prostitution in Oslo. It’s the equivalent of telling kids to stop eating sweets. There is a reason why it’s called the world’s oldest profession. Did Gjerstad say anything about how many more women the man murdered?’

Brogeland doesn’t reply.

‘No, exactly. And I couldn’t have handed him over to the police, either, because I never met him. We spoke on the telephone — twice — and both times, he called me. I never took the trouble to find out where he was calling from, because I knew it would be a waste of time. Besides, he was nicked a couple of months later. For something else.’

Henning visualises Arild Gjerstad, remembers some of the rows they have had, the blatant antipathy and contempt in his eyes. I may be prejudiced, he thinks, but I’m a tyro compared to Gjerstad.

‘Okay, I — ’

‘Forget it.’

‘But I — ’

‘Gjerstad doesn’t like journalists, Bjarne, and I’m his least favourite person. That’s just how it is.’

‘No, but I — ’

‘Leave it. It’s not important.’

Brogeland looks at him. Then he nods, quietly.

Chapter 67

When Henning arrives at the office an hour later, he senses immediately that the mood has changed. Yes, it’s a Friday, and Fridays have their own momentum, but it’s like Christmas has come early. He can tell from people’s smiles, hear it in their carefree laughter, see it in the relaxed way a woman moves, as he passes her on the stairs.

He walks down the narrow corridor and into the kitchenette, where the coffee machine stands strangely abandoned. It is just after 3 p.m. There are still plenty of people around. Kare Hjeltland is hovering behind a journalist at the news desk, as usual.

‘Henning!’ he shouts, when their eyes meet. He gives the journalist some instructions and races to the kitchenette. Henning takes a step back in anticipation of Kare’s impact, so as not to be knocked over. Heidi crosses behind Kare. She sees them, but she doesn’t join them.

‘Have you seen Iver’s story?’ Kare roars.

‘Eh, no?’

‘He has solved the Hagerup case. The stoning, all of it. I believe there was a showdown in the tent at Ekeberg Common earlier today. Bloody hell. Our hits are GOING THROUGH THE ROOF! Fuck, FUCK!’

Kare laughs out loud and slaps Henning on the shoulder, hard.

‘Are you coming with us after work? We’ve got to celebrate this.’

Henning hesitates.

‘It’s Friday, for God’s sake.’

‘Is Iver coming?’

Not that it would make a difference either way, but he prefers to know.

‘No. He’s on 17.30 on Radio 4 later today. Got to stay sober. And he has a TV talk show afterwards, I don’t remember which one, ha-ha.’

At that moment, Gundersen comes out from the lavatory. He wipes his wet hands on his worn, slightly mucky jeans, but stops mid-movement when he sees Henning. They look at each other. Kare shouts something Henning fails to hear. He looks at Gundersen, who nods cautiously. There is gratitude in his eyes combined with a strange mix of respect and wonder.

‘Some other time,’ Henning says to Kare. ‘I’m meeting someone.’

‘Oh, no,’ Kare exclaims. ‘What a shame.’