Henning thinks he looks like he is still asleep. His eyes are narrow and he sways. He is dressed only in underpants and a filthy vest. His face is drawn, he has huge bags under his eyes and his stubble suggests he is trying desperately to grow a beard. Tariq is chubby with curly, bushy hair. He looks like he hasn’t showered for days.
Tariq supports himself against the wall.
‘Hi, I’m Henning Juul.’
Tariq says nothing.
‘I work for 123news, and — ’
Tariq takes a step back and slams the door. And he double-locks it.
Great, Henning. Well played.
‘All I need is two minutes, Tariq.’
The sound of footsteps fading away. Henning fumes, but knocks again. He plays his last card.
‘I’m here because I think your brother is innocent.’
He shouts a little louder than he had intended. The sound reverberates. He waits. And waits. No noise from the flat. He curses to himself.
This used to be straightforward.
He lets a minute pass, maybe two, before he decides to leave. He is about to open the front door when he hears a creak. He turns around. The door opens. Tariq looks at him. The apathy in his eyes has gone. Henning seizes his chance and holds up his hands.
‘I’m not here to dig up dirt on your brother.’
His voice is soft, filled with compassion. Tariq seems to buy his explanation.
‘You think he’s innocent?’
He speaks broken Norwegian in a high-pitched voice. Henning nods. Tariq hesitates, debates with himself. His stomach bulges behind the vest.
‘If you write some shit about my brother — ’
He pulls an aggressive face, but doesn’t finish his threat. Henning holds up his hands again. His eyes alone should convince Tariq that he is serious. Tariq goes back inside, but leaves the door open. Henning follows him.
Good, Henning. You’re catching up fast.
Henning closes the door behind him and checks the ceiling. And finds what he is looking for.
‘I need to get dressed,’ Tariq calls out.
Henning explores the flat which surprises him by being clean and tidy. There are two doors to the right off the hallway where shoes are lined up neatly against the skirting board. A door to his left is open. He sneaks a peek. The toilet seat is up. The faint scent of Cif lemon wafts into the hallway.
He passes the kitchen. There is a plate with a few crumbs and a glass with traces of milk in the sink. He heads for the living room, sits down in a chair so soft he wonders if his backside is touching the floor. He can see the hallway, past the shoes, to the front door. Everywhere is clean.
He looks around, as he always does when he visits someone. Details, his old mentor, Jarle Hogseth used to say. The first thing that strikes him is the surprising number of plants and flowers in a flat inhabited by two brothers. An impressive large pelargonium with pink flowers sits on the windowsill. Orchids in a vase on a corner table. Pink roses. The brothers clearly have a thing about pink. Two candleholders with white candles. A large television, 45 inches, at least, he reckons, stands up against the wall. Home cinema — of course — from Pioneer, with tall speakers either side of the television and two behind. Henning looks for the subwoofer and assumes it must be hidden under the dark brown sofa. If he had been in a home in Oslo’s West End, he would have guessed the sofa was designed by Bolia.
The coffee table is low and inspired by oriental style, with curved legs and a square top. The table was black once, but has now been painted white. A clean glass ashtray sits in the middle. More flowers. Another candlestick. A photo of a large Pakistani family, the family in Islamabad, he guesses, hangs on the vanilla-coloured wall. There is a fireplace in one corner.
But no photos of Henriette Hagerup.
The flat is starting to affect him. He had imagined a dump, dust everywhere, mess and rubbish. This flat, however, is tidier than his own has been for the last six months, longer, perhaps.
He knows he is prejudiced. But he likes prejudices, likes having to review or change his opinion when he learns something about a subject, which overturns a preconceived notion. The knowledge he has gained from studying the Marhoni brothers’ flat is like one of those boiled sweets that doesn’t look very tasty, but tastes delicious when you unwrap it and pop it in your mouth.
He smiles as Tariq appears in the hallway. Tariq has put on a pair of black jeans and a black linen shirt. He goes to the kitchen. Henning hears him open and shut the fridge quickly, then he opens a cupboard and takes out a glass.
‘Do you want a glass of milk?’ he calls out.
‘Eh, no thanks.’
Milk, Henning muses. He has made numerous home visits, but no one has ever offered him milk before. He hears a firm glass-hitting-kitchen-counter slam followed by a grunt of satisfaction. Tariq enters the living room and sits down opposite him on a wooden stool. He takes out a packet of cigarettes and offers Henning a white friend. Henning declines, muttering something about having quit.
‘What happened to your face?’
The unexpected question takes Henning by surprise. He replies without thinking.
‘My flat burned down two years ago. My son died.’
He doesn’t know if it is the brutal truth or the unsentimental way in which he said it that makes Tariq uncomfortable. He tries to say something, but stops. Tariq fumbles with the cigarette, lights it and tosses the lighter on the coffee table. Henning follows the rectangular tool from hell with his eyes, watches it skid to a halt by the ashtray.
Tariq looks at him. For a long time. Henning says nothing; he knows that he has stirred Tariq’s curiosity, but he has no plans to bombard him with questions. Not yet.
‘So you don’t think my brother did it?’ Tariq asks and takes a deep drag on his cigarette. He pulls a face, as if it tastes of stinking feet.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
He answers frankly.
‘I don’t know.’
Tariq snorts.
‘And yet you don’t think he did it?’
‘That’s right.’
They look at each other. Henning doesn’t capitulate; he isn’t scared of what his eyes might reveal.
‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Do you mind if I use this?’
He takes out his Dictaphone and places it on the table between them. Tariq shrugs.
Far too few reporters use a Dictaphone. When he first started out, he would scribble like a maniac while listening to what his subjects said and thinking about the next question to ask them. Needless to say that was a hopeless way of conducting an interview. You don’t catch everything that’s being said and your follow-up questions aren’t logical either, because you’re concentrating on two things, at least, at the same time. Dictaphones are brilliant.
He presses ‘ record ’ and leans back in the chair. He puts his notebook in his lap. Pen poised. A Dictaphone should never replace pen and paper. If the recording fails, you will be grateful you made some notes, ideas to follow up later.
He looks at Tariq and can see he is upset by the arrest of his brother. A murder suspect. He has probably been wondering how to break it to the family back home. What will their friends say?
‘What can you tell me about your brother?’
Tariq glares at him.
‘My brother is a good man. He has always taken care of me. He was the one who got me up here, away from
