detail of a traumatic experience at the time. However, things may surface later, things you didn’t consider important, but which turn out to matter.’
I sound like a policeman, Henning thinks. But it works. He can see that Skagestad is trawling through his memories.
‘It could be anything. A sound, a smell, a colour,’ Henning continues. Something causes Skagestad’s facial expression to change. He grows more alert.
‘Actually, there is one thing I remember now,’ he says and looks at Henning. Kama Sutra returns. Skagestad ignores the dog.
‘I noticed it when I entered the tent, but then I forgot all about it.’
‘What was it?’ Henning says.
‘The smell,’ says Skagestad, remembering it. ‘It smelt stuffy, as it usually does inside a tent. But there was something else.’
Then he starts to laugh. Henning is puzzled.
‘It’s a bit embarrassing,’ he says.
Henning is sorely tempted to thump the old man.
‘What is?’ he asks, patiently.
Skagestad shakes his head, still smiling. Then he looks straight at him.
‘I could smell aftershave.’
‘Aftershave?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not perfume?’
‘No. Aftershave.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
He nods.
‘How can you be?’
Skagestad smiles again.
‘That’s what’s embarrassing,’ he says, but he doesn’t elaborate. Henning thinks the man would make an excellent torturer at Guantanamo.
‘Romance,’ he says. By now, Henning is completely lost.
‘From Ralph Lauren,’ Skagestad continues.
‘How —?’
‘I use it myself, you see. It was a present from my grandchild. That’s why I recognised it.’
‘Was it very noticeable?’
‘No. Very faint. But I’ve a strong sense of smell. And like I said, I use it myself sometimes, when I’m going out to — eh — meet someone.’
Kama Sutra growls again. Skagestad throws the stick. Run, drool, chew, run.
‘And I think the ladies like it.’
He smiles briefly. This time Henning really doesn’t want Skagestad to elaborate. Skagestad grows serious.
‘Poor girl.’
‘Did you notice anything else inside the tent?’
‘You don’t think that was enough?’
‘Yes, yes. But anything could be important.’
‘True. No, I don’t think there was anything else.’
They stand in silence.
‘You won’t write anything about this in your newspaper — what was it called again?’
‘123news. And, no, I won’t.’
Skagestad nods and thanks him. Then he makes to leave.
‘Nice talking to you. Time for me to go home, have a coffee and a cigarette,’ he says. Henning waves and thinks that Thorbjorn Skagestad, embarrassed or not, might just have contributed an important piece to the jigsaw.
Jarle Hogseth must be smiling in his grave.
Chapter 33
He has some hours to kill before meeting Yngve Foldvik, so he goes down to the newspaper. He does so with a feeling that today has got off to a good start. It’s a rare sensation.
He had said he wouldn’t show his face for a couple of days, but he can’t be bothered to go home now. The tired duty editor is at his desk when Henning arrives. A young woman sits with her back to him. The duty editor sees him and straightens up, but says nothing. Henning imagines that he has been told what has happened in the last twenty-four hours. He is probably surprised to see him at work, so soon.
Henning is surprised, too. Surprised that he doesn’t feel in need of some time off. It must be about having a sense of purpose, something that fills up your days, something that takes away the focus from That Which He Doesn’t Think About. And he has always been like this, when he gets the bit between his teeth. He can’t let go.
Dr Helge would probably be concerned, if he could see me now, he thinks.
Don’t take on too much, Henning, take it easy for the first couple of weeks.
Take it easy, that’s a good one. I’m really taking it easy now.
He presses the button to get a cup of coffee, waits 29 seconds, lets the machine finish dripping and goes over to his desk. He switches on his computer. The place is quiet. The only sounds are sporadic clattering from a keyboard and voices from a television near the duty editor. It sounds like CNN. Lots of breaking news.
A minute later, he is on the Internet. It doesn’t take him long to establish that little has happened overnight. His story about Tariq Marhoni is still 123news ’s main story. The right-hand column on the front page tells him that his story is the most read in the last twenty-four hours.
He clicks to check that everything is as it should be. He has taken his first sip of coffee and only just manages not to spit it out again. He stares at the screen. He has a by-line and a by-line photo. The body text, too, has been broken up by a photograph of him.
He shoots up and stomps over to the duty editor who is startled when Henning appears. The duty editor says nothing, but straightens up in his chair.
‘Did you upload my story?’ Henning thunders.
‘Your story?’
‘Yes, the one about Tariq Marhoni.’
‘When did you submit it?’
‘Last night.’
‘I started my shift at midnight, so it can’t have been me.’
Henning shakes his head and swears silently to himself.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘You bet your life something’s wrong. I wasn’t supposed to have a by-line and now my face is plastered all over the story.’
The duty editor says nothing. The young woman sitting opposite carries on typing as if nothing has happened. Henning snorts.
‘Is there any way I can find out who uploaded the story?’
‘Yes, hold on a moment.’
The duty editor clicks. Henning paces up and down, and then stops behind him. The publishing tool, Escenic Content Studio, is open. The duty editor opens the article log and clears his throat.
‘It was entered by Jorgen last night at 20.03, edited by Jorgen at 20.06 and 20.08, before Heidi opened it at 21.39 and 21.42.’
