especially if the stones are small.’
‘Yes, but we should be looking for someone who knows about hudud punishments.’
‘That could be anyone, surely?’
‘Anyone can read up on it, that’s true, whether you’re Norwegian or Muslim. However, this killing is highly ritualistic. Flogging her, stoning her and chopping off one of her hands — it all means something.’
‘So it would appear,’ Nokleby remarks.
‘Was Hagerup unfaithful?’ Hagen asks. ‘Or did she steal something?’
Sandland shrugs.
‘No idea. Could be both. Or neither. We don’t know yet.’
‘Okay,’ Gjerstad says in a voice designed to bring the meeting to a close. He gets up. ‘We need to carry out a more detailed background check on both Marhoni and Hagerup, find out who they were and what she did or didn’t do, what she knew, what she studied, people she knew, friends, family situation and so on. Secondly, we need to talk to the Muslim communities, find out if anyone there approves of flogging and that kind of punishment and see if there’s a link to Hagerup or Marhoni. Emil, you’re an IT whiz. Check the chat rooms, homepages, blogs and more, look up everything you can on sharia and hudud, and report back if you come across any names we should take a closer look at.’
Emil nods.
‘And one more thing,’ Gjerstad says and looks at Nokleby, before he continues. ‘It shouldn’t need saying, but NRK was remarkably well informed at today’s press conference. This investigation ticks so many boxes that we’ll only make it worse for ourselves if the press gets a hint of what we’re looking into. Anything said here stays within these four walls. Understood?’
Nobody says anything. But everyone nods.
Chapter 16
It doesn’t take him long to finish at Westerdal. He interviews some people, gets the information he knows the newspaper wants him to get, takes more pictures and heads home. He is outside Jimmy’s Sushi Bar in Fredensborgvei when his mobile rings.
‘Henning,’ he answers.
‘Hi, it’s Heidi.’
He pulls a face and says ‘hi’ back without a flicker of enthusiasm.
‘Where are you?’
‘On my way home to write up the story. I’ll e-mail it to you tonight.’
‘Dagbladet already has a story about grieving students at the college. Why don’t we? Why is it taking so long?’
‘Long?’
‘Why didn’t you call in with what you had?’
‘Surely I have to write the story before I can call it in?’
‘Four lines about the mood, two quotes from a distraught bystander and we could have put together a story and padded it out with photos and some more quotes later. Now we’re waaaaay late.’
He is tempted to say that the expression isn’t ‘waaaaay late’ but either ‘way behind’ or ‘running late’, but he doesn’t. Heidi sighs heavily.
‘Why would anyone want to read our human interest story, when they’ve already read it elsewhere?’
‘Because mine will be better.’
‘Hah! I hope so. And next time: call in your story.’
He has no time to reply before Heidi hangs up. He grimaces at his mobile. And takes his time going home.
*
He changes the batteries in the smoke alarms in his flat and settles down on the sofa with his laptop. On his way home, he thought about possible angles. It shouldn’t take him too long to write the story. He might even have time for a walk to D?lenenga and watch some training sessions, before it gets dark.
The most time-consuming task is uploading and editing the pictures, before he can send them to the news desk. He doesn’t want to risk the news desk ruining them.
Six or seven years ago, he doesn’t remember precisely, a woman was brutally murdered in Grorud. Her body was found in a skip. He had taken dozens of photos and sent them all to the news desk at Aftenposten, just as they were, because The Old Lady goes to press early. He stated explicitly which photos could be used and which ones couldn’t, at least not before consent from her relatives has been obtained, as several of them had been present behind the police tape. He also stressed to the news desk that they must check with him before going to print.
He never heard anything back that evening and he never chased it. The following morning, the story was published with not only the wrong photos, but also the wrong captions. Humble pie time. He tried to apologise to the victim’s relatives, but they refused to talk to him. ‘Yeah right, blame the news desk,’ they sneered.
But journalism is like any other profession. You learn from your mistakes. One of the first things a friend of his was told when he started his medical degree was that you won’t become a good doctor until you have filled up a cemetery. You learn on the job, acquire knowledge, master new technology, adapt, get to know your colleagues and their skills, and learn to work with them. It is a continuous process.
He opens Photoshop and uploads the pictures. Grief, fake grief and more fake grief. And then, Anette. He double-clicks on the photos, his shot of her. Even on his 15.6 inch screen, every detail is visible. When he views the photos as a slideshow, it becomes even more obvious. Anette looks around, as though she is being watched, but then she steals a moment with Henriette. It is over in seconds, but he caught it on camera.
Anette, he thinks again. What are you scared of?
*
Writing the story and sending it to the news desk takes him longer than he had expected. The sentences don’t come to him as easily as he had hoped. But he decides that even an old dog can learn new tricks. And he hopes Heidi is at home, foaming at the mouth because he kept her waiting.
He looks at the clock. 8.30 p.m. Too late to go to D?lenenga.
He sighs and leans back in the sofa. I should have gone to see Mum, he thinks. It has been days now. She is probably hurt. On reflection, he can’t recall the last time she wasn’t feeling sorry for herself.
Christine Juul lives in a simple two-bedroom flat in Helgesensgate. She has lived there for four years; it is one of those new developments, which cost a fortune to buy initially, but lose value over time. There are some of them in Grunerlokka as well.
Before Helgesensgate, she lived in Klofta, where Henning grew up, but it proved to be too great a distance to him and Trine. She wanted to be closer to her children, purely so that they could take care of her. She spent nearly all her money on a flat devoid of character; she has nothing on her walls, only plain once-white surfaces, discoloured from all the smoke she blows out into the room every day. But he doesn’t think that’s why she is hurt.
Henning believes Christine Juul was quite content with her lot in life until her husband died. She had a good job as a care assistant, an apparently happy marriage, apparently happy and thriving children; not many friends, but she valued the ones she had, she was involved with the local choir and wine-tasting club, but when Jakob Juul died unexpectedly, she fell to pieces. Overnight.
Even though Henning and Trine were only teenagers when it happened, they soon discovered they had to fend for themselves. They had to shop, cook, cut the grass, trim the hedge, wash the clothes, clean the house, take themselves to football training and matches, to school and to their holiday cabin by the sea. If they had any questions about their education, they had to ask the neighbours. Or leave them unanswered.
All because Christine Juul got herself a new best friend.
St Hallvard is a sweet herb liqueur made from potatoes and it contains just enough alcohol to numb an anxious mind. Now, not a week goes by without Henning visiting to re-fill her drinks cabinet. Two bottles, at least. She sulks if she only gets one.
