‘Yes.’
‘What about Jorgen and Rita?’
‘Jorgen is manning the desk today, and Rita is on duty tonight.’
Gundersen nods. Heidi sits down at the end of the table and takes out a sheet of paper. She reviews today’s stories. And she does it quickly. Henning knows that is because the news desk or the team who monitor the news and publish stories on an ongoing basis can handle most things. Heidi has an ulterior motive: she wants to show them that she is the Boss, that she is in charge.
Then they get to the real reason:
‘Where are we with the stoning? Any good follow-ups today?’
Henning looks at Gundersen. Gundersen looks at Henning. He is back in his role as the rookie, so he awaits Gundersen’s star turn. Gundersen takes a sip of his coffee and leans forward.
‘The police seem fairly certain that Marhoni did it. I’ve a reliable source at the station who might give me some info from their interviews with him.’
Heidi nods and makes a quick note on her sheet.
‘Anything else?’
‘Not at the moment. I’ll check my sources and see if anything else comes up.’
Heidi nods again. Then she looks at Henning.
‘Henning, what have you got today?’
Heidi has her pen ready. He isn’t used to reporting to a superior, so he hesitates for a second before clearing his throat.
‘Not sure yet.’
Heidi is about to write something, but stops.
‘You’re not sure yet?’
‘No. I’ve got some ideas, but I don’t know if they’ll lead to anything.’
The truth is he doesn’t know if he can get hold of the people he wants to talk to or if they will tell him anything useful, and he doesn’t want to promise something at the meeting he later finds he can’t deliver. Best not to say anything.
‘What kind of ideas, Henning?’ she probes. He can hear the doubt in her voice. And he sees her sneaking in a quick sideways peek at Gundersen.
‘I want to talk to a few more people at Hagerup’s college — if they’re there today.’
‘We’ve done human interest.’
‘This isn’t human interest. This is different.’
‘What is it?’
He hesitates again, he wants to tell her about Anette’s eyes, about how the hudud punishments don’t make sense, but he doesn’t trust Heidi or Gundersen. Not yet. He knows they are his colleagues and that he needs to work with them, but they have to earn his trust first. It has nothing to do with professional rivalry or ego.
‘I think there’s more to Hagerup’s background and life, something which matters to this story,’ he says. ‘I’m hoping people at her college can shed some light on who she was and why someone chose to knock her out with a stun gun and throw rocks at her head until she died.’
He is pleased with his own reply until he realises what he has just said.
‘A stun gun?’
Gundersen looks at him. Henning curses himself. He says.
‘Eh?’
A pathetic attempt to buy time.
‘I don’t recall reading anything about a stun gun?’
Henning says nothing; he feels two pairs of eyes sticking into him like pins. His cheeks redden.
‘Who told you that, Henning?’ Heidi asks.
‘I thought I had heard somewhere that a stun gun was used,’ he says, instantly hearing how feeble his explanation sounds. He can tell from their faces that they don’t believe him. But they say nothing. They just stare at him.
Crested, salty waves won’t help you now, Henning. He can hear his own laboured breathing. Then he says.
‘Are we done?’
He doesn’t look at them, but he gets up and avoids meeting their eyes as he goes to the door, half expecting to hear Heidi’s sharp voice order him back, Henning the Labrador, sit, but he grabs the handle without anything happening, he pushes it down, pulls the door open and leaves.
The silence he leaves behind is like a plane crash in his head. He can only imagine what Gundersen and Heidi say about him in his absence. Not that it matters.
He is just grateful to be out of there.
Chapter 23
Henning hits the streets of Gronland before Heidi and Gundersen finish their meeting. The temperature has risen by several degrees since he got to work and the air is humid. He looks up. Clouds, white and grey, rush across the sky. It is almost nine o’clock. Tariq Marhoni probably isn’t up yet.
Henning found little of interest about him on the Internet: Tariq came to Norway from Islamabad in the mid 1990s, his brother had arrived a few years earlier, and they have shared three different addresses. While Mahmoud couldn’t be found in any newspaper articles, chat rooms, web pages or tax registers, Tariq featured in a VG survey a couple of years ago where he was
asked if he was for or against the EU.
Tariq placed himself in the ‘don’t know’ category. And that was all Henning had learned. In other words, the Marhoni brothers have kept a low profile, but Henning has been around long enough to know that means nothing. Tariq is still best placed to tell him about Mahmoud, the police’s only suspect, and he has been branded guilty already. That’s why Henning needs to find out as much about him as he can.
It has only just gone nine, but he decides to go to Tariq’s flat anyway. If he doesn’t reply because he is asleep or out, Henning can go to a nearby cafe and grab some breakfast. God knows, he needs some.
On his way to Oslogate, he passes the police station where a man in a reflective vest is cutting the grass outside. Cars rush past. He heads for Middelalderparken. The area has had a facelift in the last few years, facades have been re-plastered, new residential housing developments have been completed and made the district more attractive. Bjorvika seafront is only a few hundred metres away. You can walk to the new Opera House in ten minutes without getting out of breath.
Before he gets to number 37, he switches his mobile to silent. Too many interviews are ruined or lose their momentum due to intrusive bleeping from a laptop or a jacket pocket.
The door to the backyard is open, so Henning just walks in. The corridor is dark and empty. Middle Eastern music flows from a window. Someone is having a loud discussion in the same flat. He can smell something sweet.
He heads for stairwell B where the Marhoni brothers live. He is about to press a button saying ‘Marhoni’ when the door in front of him is opened. A man with a ginger beard comes out. He takes no notice of Henning and doesn’t close the door behind him, so Henning grabs the handle before the door slams shut.
There is a powerful aroma of spices in the stairwell. His hip protests as he walks up the stairs. He curses himself for not taking his pills this morning, but forgets all about his discomfort when he sees the name marhoni on a plate on the door of an upper ground floor flat. He stops, gets his breath back. His first home visit. You were rusty yesterday, Henning. Perhaps you’re a little less so today?
He rings the doorbell. He waits and listens. The bell seems to be faulty. He decides to knock. He clenches his fist and knocks hard three times in quick succession. His knuckles hurt.
Was there movement from inside? It sounded like it. Like someone turning over in bed. He knocks again. The sound of feet on floor. He takes a step back. The door opens. A bleary-eyed Tariq Marhoni stands on the threshold.
