Iver: Well, that went all right.
Nora: Had you expected anything else?
Iver: I don’t know. Poor guy.
Nora: It’s not easy for him, Iver. Please don’t make it harder for him than it already is.
Iver: What do you mean?
Nora: Exactly what I’ve just said. Do you think it was easy for him to see me here? See me with you? I think it was very brave of him to go up to you the way he did.
Stop it, Henning. You know that wasn’t what she said. More likely, it went:
Nora: Ignore him, Iver. That’s just the way he is. He has always done his own thing. Sod him. I’m starving. Let’s have some lunch.
Yep, that’s it. Much more authentic.
He decides he needs to clear his head. Forget Nora and concentrate on the job in hand. As he waits for the lights to change at the junction with Toyengata, it occurs to him that he will need his camera.
He goes home to get it.
*
Detective Inspector Brogeland slows down. The car, one of the many new Passats the police have purchased, comes to a smooth halt outside 37 Oslogate. He puts the selector into ‘P’ and looks at his colleague, Sergeant Ella Sandland.
Jesus, she’s hot, he thinks, taking in the masculine uniform and everything it conceals. He fantasises about her constantly, pictures her without the leather jacket, the light blue shirt, the tie, stripped of everything except her handcuffs. Countless times, he has imagined her shameless, lascivious, giving herself completely to him.
Women think men in uniform are sexy. It’s a well-known fact. Brogeland, however, thinks that’s nothing compared to the other way round: women in clothes that radiate authority.
Damn, that’s hot.
Ella Sandland is 1.75 metres tall. She is extremely fit, her stomach is flatter than a pancake, her bottom stretches her trousers perfectly when she walks; she is a little under-endowed in the breast department, a touch rough and masculine in an ‘are-you-bi-or-straight’ way, but it turns him on. He looks at her hair. Her fringe just brushes her eyebrows. Her skin fits snugly under her chin, over her cheekbones; it is smooth, with no blemishes or marks and not a hint of facial hair — thank God. She moves gracefully, she has one of the straightest backs Brogeland has ever seen; and she pushes her chest slightly forward, even when she is sitting, like women tend to do to create the illusion that their breasts are bigger than they really are. But when Sandland does it, it’s just so sexy.
Damn, that’s so sexy.
And she is from West Norway. Ulsteinvik, he thinks, though she has lost her accent over the years.
He tries to suppress the images that increasingly clutter his head these days. They are outside the home of Mahmoud Marhoni, Henriette Hagerup’s boyfriend.
It is a standard home visit. In 2007, out of thirty-two murders thirty were committed by someone the victim knew or was in a relationship with. Statistically, the killer is likely to be someone close. A rejected spouse, a relative. Or a boyfriend. This makes the visit Brogeland and Sandland are about to make of the utmost importance.
‘Ready?’ he says. Sandland nods. They open their car doors simultaneously and get out.
Christ, just look at the way she gets out.
*
Brogeland has been to Oslogate before. Mahmoud Marhoni has even appeared on his radar earlier, in connection with a case Brogeland worked on when he was a plain-clothes detective. As far as they could establish at the time, Marhoni wasn’t mixed up in anything illegal.
Brogeland has been a cop long enough to know that means nothing. That’s why he experiences a heightened sense of excitement as they walk towards number 37, locate the doorbells and find the name of Henriette Hagerup’s boyfriend to the left.
There is no sound when Sandland presses the button. At that moment, a teenage girl in a hijab opens the door to the backyard. She looks at them; she isn’t startled as Brogeland had expected, but holds the door open for them. Sandland thanks her and smiles at the girl. Brogeland nods briefly by way of a thank you. He makes sure he enters last, so he can gorge himself on the sight of his female colleague’s backside.
I bet she knows, Brogeland thinks. She knows that men love to stare at her. And the uniform doubles her power. She appears unobtainable because she is a policewoman, and because she is so desirable, she can take her pick of anyone she wants — from both sides of the fence, probably. She is in control. And that’s irresistible, a huge turn-on.
They find themselves in a backyard which shows every sign of neglect. There are weeds between the paving slabs, bushes have been left to grow wild and tangled. The flowerbeds, if they can still be called that, are a jungle of compacted soil and dusty roots. The black paint on the bicycle stand is peeling and the few bicycles parked there have rusty chains and flat tyres.
There are three stairwells to choose from. Brogeland knows that Marhoni lives in stairwell B. Sandland gets there first, finds the button in the square box on the wall and presses it. No sound.
Brogeland forces himself to take his eyes off Sandland’s rear and looks up at the sky. Clouds are gathering over Gamlebyen. There will be rain soon. A swallow shrieks as it flies from one rooftop to another. He hears a jet plane pass, but he can’t see it through the clouds.
Marhoni lives in the upper ground floor flat, but the window is too high for Brogeland to be able to look in. Sandland rings the bell again. This time she gets a response.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello. This is the police. Open the door, please.’
Brogeland relishes Sandland’s juicy accent.
‘Police?’
Brogeland registers a hint of reluctance and fear in the voice. That’s not Marhoni, he thinks, Marhoni is a tough nut.
‘Yes, the police.’
Sandland’s sexy voice is more authoritative now.
‘W-why?’
‘Police? Don’t let them in.’
The voice in the background is loud enough for Brogeland and Sandland to hear it.
‘Open up.’
Sandland raises her voice. Brogeland snaps out of his fantasy and pushes down the door handle. He has noticed that the lock has been vandalised, and he stomps inside with Sandland right behind him. They race up the stairs to the elevated ground floor. Brogeland can hear someone fiddling with the lock, but he gets there first, his superb physical fitness pays off, and he tears open the door.
A man he instantly guesses must be Marhoni’s brother gives him a frightened look; Brogeland ignores him, thinking that at any moment, he could be staring straight into the mouth of a pistol. He moves swiftly and noiselessly, he checks the flat, there is a smell of herbs, of cannabis, he opens a door, a kitchen, it’s empty, he continues, a bedroom, no, no one there either, he is in the living room, and that’s when he sees it, the fireplace, someone has lit a fire; however, it’s not the flames that disconcert him, but what the flames are consuming with such greed, and he is taken aback for a moment, it’s a computer, a laptop, he calls out to Sandland to save it and he will go after Marhoni, he hears how his voice is rich with power, with experience, knowledge, guts, authority, everything you need to make on-the-spot decisions. Sandland responds just as Brogeland spots Marhoni trying to escape out of a window in one of the rooms accessible through the living room. Marhoni gets ready, then he jumps. Brogeland soon reaches the window, looks down before he climbs up, realises the drop is less than two metres, jumps, lands softly and looks around, spots Marhoni and chases after him. You’ll be sorry you did that, he thinks, you prat, absconding from your flat the very day your girlfriend is found murdered, how do you think it’s going to look, you moron?
Brogeland knows it will be an easy race to win. Marhoni keeps looking over his shoulder and every time Brogeland gains a few metres on him. Marhoni runs across the junction where Bispegata crosses Oslovei, without
