I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I’m not looking for an interview. I think Henriette was killed because of the film you were making. I would like to talk to you about it. Can we meet?
He presses ‘send’ and waits. He waits. And he waits. No reply. He swears again. Now what?
No, he thinks. No bloody way. He writes her another text message:
I know you’re scared, Anette. I can tell. But I think I can help you. Please let me help you?
‘Send’ again. He knows that he is starting to sound desperate and it isn’t far from the truth. He jumps when his mobile bleeps a few seconds later. He opens the text.
No one can help me.
His blood tingles. Things are getting seriously interesting. He replies:
You don’t know that, Anette. If you let me see the script, perhaps we can take it from there? I promise to be discreet. If you don’t want to meet — perhaps you can e-mail it to me? My e-mail address is hjuul@123news. no.
‘Send.’
Eternity compressed in seconds. He hears them tick.
No, he thinks. It’s no use. Anette is gone. She doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to be a source, not even a confidential one. He derives some consolation from the fact that he made a serious attempt. But he has no room for cold comfort. He gets up and starts to walk.
His mobile bleeps again. Four quick beeps.
The Gode Cafe. In an hour.
Chapter 39
Bjarne Brogeland sighs. He is reading a document on his screen, but having to squint for so long is giving him a headache. I need a break, he says to himself. A long one. Perhaps I should ask Sandland if she fancies a late lunch somewhere, talk a little shop, discuss the case, a little sex. Bloody little prick teaser. I’ll have to tie a knot in it soon, if I don’t get to…
Brogeland’s thoughts are interrupted by a window popping open on his screen. The face of Ann-Mari Sara, a forensic scientist, fills the screen via a webcam. Brogeland leans forward and turns up the volume.
‘We’ve made some progress with the laptop,’ she says.
‘Marhoni’s laptop?’
‘No. Mahatma Gandhi’s. Who else?’
‘Have you found anything?’
‘Oh, I think we can safely say that.’
‘Okay, hold on. I just want to get Sandland.’
‘No need. I’ll e-mail my findings to you. I just wanted to check if you were around.’
‘Okay.’
Brogeland gets up and goes out into the corridor. Any excuse for knocking on Sandland’s door must be exploited. He opens it. She is on the telephone. All the same, Brogeland whispers with exaggerated diction:
‘Marhoni’s laptop.’
He gestures towards his own office, even though there is no need. She will get her own copy of the e-mail. Sandland mimes that she will come down to his office shortly.
Oh, how I want you to come, Brogeland thinks as he closes the door behind him. He returns to his own office and lets himself fall into his chair. He opens his inbox and sees that an e-mail has arrived from Ann-Mari Sara. He clicks on it and downloads the attachment.
At that very moment, Sandland enters the room.
‘Perfect timing,’ Brogeland says. Sandland stands right behind him and leans over his shoulder. Brogeland can barely control himself. She has never been this close to him. He can smell her, her -
No. Don’t even think about it.
He reads the message from Ann-Mari Sara aloud:
The hard disk was severely damaged and there is a lot of information, we have yet to retrieve. However, I think we may already have got the most important stuff. Click on the attachment and you will know what I mean.
Brogeland clicks on the attachment and watches the screen with excitement. When the image appears, he turns and looks up at Sandland. They both smile. Brogeland turns his attention back on the computer, clicks ‘reply’ and writes:
Good job, AMS. But carry on working on the hard drive. There may be more information which we might need.
Brogeland rubs his hands and thinks he is moving into the final lap.
The lap of honour.
Chapter 40
Coffee usually does the trick, but not when he is tense. Not when he is waiting for someone. Not when the hour Anette suggested passed long ago.
He has chosen a window table in the Gode Cafe, where he can keep an eye on passing traffic and people walking along the pavement, just an arm’s length away. Another reason for sitting here is that it is near the exit. Should anything happen.
What’s keeping you, Anette? He frets and thinks that if this had been a film, then Anette never would arrive. Someone would get to her, take whatever Henning is looking for, and make sure that her body was never found. Or perhaps they wouldn’t even bother hiding it?
He shakes his head at himself, but it is tempting to entertain such thoughts given she is now more than thirty minutes late. He tries to imagine what could have happened. She might have had an unexpected visitor, maybe her mother called, or she was waiting for the washing machine to finish or that delivery guy from Peppe’s Pizza was a fashionable half-hour late?
No. Unlikely, at this time of day. Perhaps she is quite simply unreliable? There are people like that, but he didn’t get the impression that Anette was one of them. She is one of those who try; try to make something of themselves, do something with their lives, realise their ambitions.
Too much, possibly, to draw such conclusions after one brief meeting, but he is good at reading people: who is grumpy, who is a soft touch, who is real and not a fake, who beats up his wife, who might be tempted to drink a glass or three too many when the occasion presents itself, who couldn’t care less and who tries. He is quite sure that Anette tries, and he thinks she has been trying for a long time. That’s why he is starting to feel a little anxious.
But then the door to the Gode Cafe is opened. He jumps when he realises that it is Anette. She looks different from two days ago. The fear is still there, in her eyes, but she is even more introverted now. She has pulled her hood over her head. She isn’t wearing make-up and she looks scruffy. She stoops a little. She carries a backpack. A small grey backpack with no label, but many stickers.
She spots him, looks around the room and heads towards him. In nine out of ten cases, he would have got a bollocking. Bloody journalists, who can’t leave decent people alone, who have no sense of shame. He has heard it all before. And it has hit home in the past, but not now.
Anette stops at the table. She doesn’t sit down. She looks at him while she takes off her backpack. Judging from the stickers, she has travelled widely. He sees names of exotic cities from faraway countries. Assab (Eritrea), Nzerekore (Guinea), Osh (Kyrgyzstan), Blantyre (Malawi). She plonks the backpack on the chair.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’
‘I’m not staying.’
She takes a pile of paper from her backpack, throws it in front of him and closes the bag with a swift
