Henriette Hagerup and students in her year, how they manage to carry on after the dreadful thing that has happened. It’s not going to be an intrusive article, a more abstract one based on the silence which follows, how a trauma like this affects a group of students.’
If there is an award for laying it on thick, Henning’s nomination is in no doubt. Dreadlocks nods sympathetically.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like a list of her fellow students. You wouldn’t happen to have that on your computer, would you?’
‘Yes, I think I might. Hang on,’ he says and grabs the mouse. He clicks and presses a few keys. The glare from the screen reflects in his eyes.
‘Would you like a print-out?’ Dreadlocks asks.
Henning smiles.
‘Yes, please. I’d like that very much.’
Clicking, typing. Next to them, a printer warms up. A sheet slides out. Dreadlocks picks it up and hands it to Henning with a service-minded smile.
‘Super. Thanks so much,’ Henning says and takes the sheet. He quickly skims the names, twenty-two in all. One of the cards he read the first day he visited the college pops into his head. Missing you, Henry. Missing you loads. Tore.
Tore Benjaminsen.
‘Excuse me,’ he says to his good Samaritan on the other side of the counter. Dreadlocks is just about to resume devouring what is left of his girlfriend, but he turns around at the sound of Henning’s voice.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you know Tore Benjaminsen?’
‘Tore, yes. Sure do. I know him. Everybody knows Tore, he-he.’
‘Is he here today? Have you seen him?’
‘I saw him outside somewhere.’
Henning turns towards the exit.
‘What does he look like?’
‘Short hair, small, skinny. I think he was wearing a dark blue jacket. He usually does.’
‘Thanks so much for your help.’ Henning says, and smiles. Dreadlocks raises his hand and bows his head slightly. Henning goes outside and looks around. It takes only a second to spot Tore Benjaminsen. He is having a cigarette; he was one of the smokers Henning passed on his way in nearly an hour ago.
Tore and the young woman, who is also smoking, notice him before he reaches them. They realise that he wants something and stop talking.
‘Are you Tore?’ Henning asks. Tore Benjaminsen nods. Henning recognises him now. Tore was interviewed by Petter Stanghelle a couple of days ago, in the light rain outside the college. Henning didn’t read what Tore said about his late friend, but he remembers the Bjorn Borg underpants.
‘Henning Juul,’ he says. ‘I work for 123news. I was wondering if we could have a chat?’
Tore looks at the girl.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he announces grandly. It won’t be difficult to massage Tore’s ego.
Tore’s hand feels like a child’s when Henning presses it, and they sit down on a nearby bench. Tore takes out his cigarettes, pulls out a white friend and offers Henning one. Henning declines politely, but his eyes linger on his old acquaintance.
‘I thought Henriette was yesterday’s news?’
‘In a way, yes. In another, no.’
‘I don’t suppose murder ever is,’ Tore says and lights up.
‘No.’
Tore returns his lighter to his jacket pocket and inhales deeply. Henning looks at him.
‘Henry was a great girl. In many ways. Very fond of people. Perhaps a little too fond of them.’
‘What do you mean?’ Henning asks, just as it occurs to him that he ought to have switched on his Dictaphone. Too late now.
‘She was extremely extroverted and — how shall I put it — almost excessively fond of people, if you know what I mean.’
Tore takes another drag and blows out the smoke, then he looks around. He nods to a girl who is passing them.
‘Was she a flirt?’
He nods.
‘I don’t think there was anyone here with something between his legs who didn’t, at one point or another, fancy — ’
He stops and shakes his head.
‘It’s really bad,’ he continues. ‘That she is dead, like.’
Henning nods silently.
‘Did you ever meet her boyfriend?’
‘Mahmoud Marhoni?’
Tore spits out the name and hawks extra long on the ‘h’ sound.
‘Yes?’
‘No idea what Henry saw in that wanker.’
‘Was he a wanker?’
‘He was a total wanker. Drove around in a massive BMW and thought he was a big shot. Always throwing money around.’
‘So he was a big spender.’
‘Yes, but in a totally failed way. He left his credit card behind the bar and told Henry’s friends that drinks were on him. Like he was desperately trying to prove he was one hell of a guy. It wouldn’t surprise me if — ’
He breaks off again.
‘What wouldn’t surprise you?’
‘I was about to say that it wouldn’t surprise me if he turned out to be a drug dealer, but I know that sounds racist.’
‘Perhaps, but what if it’s true?’
‘I don’t know anything about that. And just because I said it, doesn’t mean I’m a racist.’
‘I don’t think you are.’
‘But he didn’t deserve her. He really was a tosser.’
Tore has finished his cigarette and throws the stub on the ground without stepping on it. The small white friend lies there, gasping blue-grey smoke, right next to a puddle.
‘What was their relationship like?’
‘Stormy, I think we can say.’
‘How?’
‘It was very much on and off. And Mahmoud was the jealous type. Though given how Henry carried on, you could see why.’
Henning thinks about sharia again.
‘Was she ever unfaithful?’
‘Not that I know of, but it wouldn’t surprise me. She acted out a lot, enjoyed being the centre of attention on the dance floor, to put it one way. Wore provocative clothes.’
He looks away with a sad expression in his eyes.
‘Was there someone she flirted with more than others?’
‘Many. There were, eh, lots.’
‘Were you smitten, too?’
Henning looks up from his notepad and meets Tore’s eyes. Tore smiles and looks down. He sighs.
‘There was never an empty seat at Henriette’s table. Practically everyone on the course wanted to work with her, too. I made friends with her early on. We had an awesome time together, Henry and I. We were always flirting. I had just ended a relationship when we got to know each other and we discussed it a lot. She was very supportive,
