‘No. He has gone underground. I spoke to an officer from Operation Gangbuster yesterday who said he thought Yasser could have gone back to Pakistan.’
‘What about Hassan?’
‘He goes to work and then he goes home. Or rather to his homes, he has several, so it depends on which girlfriend he wants to screw.’
Stang looks at Sandland and reddens. She looks back at him with no signs of embarrassment.
‘Er, that’s all, really.’
Brogeland sighs. The investigation is making slow progress. He is just about to start briefing them on Stefan Foldvik when Sandland’s mobile vibrates. She apologises. Then Brogeland’s own mobile buzzes. Beeps come from Hagen’s. Stang looks at the others. His mobile stays silent.
‘What’s happening?’ he says. Brogeland opens the text message he has just received. He types in a number and waits for a reply. It follows promptly.
‘Hello, this is DI Brogeland.’
He looks at Sandland while he listens to the voice down the other end.
‘Are you sure? You’ve checked everywhere, spoken to neighbours, friends, relatives, everyone?’
Brogeland listens, nods and hangs up.
‘Damn,’ he says and shoots out of his chair, as quick as lightning.
Chapter 59
Iver Gundersen manages to look even more tired than Henning feels. Henning crosses his fingers and hopes that Gundersen’s lack of sleep is the result of a blazing row with Nora. Gundersen joins the national news crowd and says hi, his breath reeking of garlic and alcohol. He sets down his cup of coffee.
‘Late night?’ Henning asks.
‘Later than I had planned,’ Gundersen says, bending down to switch on his computer. He straightens up, pulls a face and starts to massage his temples with his fingertips.
‘They cook bloody good food at Delicatessen,’ he says.
‘One beer soon leads to another, when you’re enjoying yourself.’
Enjoying yourself, Henning fumes. Dammit. He was going to tell him about yesterday, but given that Iver is preoccupied with enjoying himself, he drops the idea.
‘What’s up?’ Gundersen asks and takes a seat. His body wobbles on the chair. He runs his fingers through his hair. Henning suspects Gundersen didn’t even shower before going to work, that it is all a part of his image: A rough diamond.
What does she see in him?
‘Nothing much,’ Henning says. ‘Any excitement your end?’
‘Maybe,’ Gundersen says, moving the mouse. ‘I’ve a twelve o’clock appointment with Mahmoud Marhoni’s lawyer. The police are interviewing him again this morning, and I hope to get a detailed update of recent developments. I’ve got a good relationship with Indrehaug. Heidi mentioned that you thought the police were about to eliminate Marhoni?’
Henning swears silently, while Gundersen opens his browser.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Based on what?’
‘Facts and evidence,’ he snaps. It is clearly too early for a serious discussion, maybe Gundersen can only do one thing at a time: read the newspaper, drink coffee, then read the other newspapers, drink more coffee, gradually get his head in gear.
‘And that means?’ Gundersen says, slurping his scalding hot coffee. Henning exhales and wonders where to begin. He is saved when Gundersen’s mobile beeps. Gundersen reads the message and frowns.
‘Do you know who Foldvik is?’ he asks.
‘Foldvik?’
‘Yes. Yngve and Ingvild Foldvik?’
‘Yes, I know who they are,’ Henning says, barely managing to control his breathing. ‘They work at the college where Henriette Hagerup was a student. What’s this about?’
‘I’ve got a tip-off that the police are looking for them.’
‘What do you mean “looking for them”? Have they disappeared?’
‘Seems like it.’
‘Are you sure?’
He has already risen from his chair. Gundersen snorts.
‘I’m only reading what it says here.’
Henning squeezes past him as fast as his legs will allow him.
‘What’s wrong?’ Gundersen calls out. The bewilderment in his voice is audible, but Henning ignores it. He doesn’t have time. He rushes outside, gets on his Vespa and zooms off in the direction of Westerdal School of Communication.
Chapter 60
There might be a perfectly natural explanation, Henning thinks, as he drives down Urtegata. Perhaps the Foldviks needed to get away, just the two of them, process their grief in private. Create some distance from their tragedy, reduce the noise.
He pushes the Vespa hard, turns into Hausmannsgate and crosses the junction just as the lights change from green to amber. A dark-haired woman pushing a pram shakes her fist at him and shouts something he doesn’t hear. He can see her outrage clearly in his wing mirror as he passes a dirty, oyster grey Opel Vectra.
And he spots something else, too. A minicab. Even in the small wing mirror, he can see a letter and four numbers. A2052.
Omar Rabia Rashid, or someone driving for him, accelerates. The silver Mercedes receives the same angry hand gesture from the dark-haired woman, but the minicab crosses without anyone getting hurt.
On impulse, Henning turns left into Calmeyersgate, speeds up and passes a lorry left with its engine running outside a Thai supermarket. Henning ignores the Give Way sign as he comes up to the next street, but he can’t turn into it, because it is one way and then he thinks why not, there are no cars around, so he does it, he turns right, someone on the pavement shouts after him, but he doesn’t care. If the police happen to be in the vicinity and notice his careless or dangerous driving, they are welcome to pull him over. It would give him a chance to point out the guys who are following him.
He soon finds himself in Torggate where the cars are bumper-to-bumper. One of them is yellow; even now he can’t ignore yellow cars. He sees that the bicycle lane is clear and pulls into it, speeds up again, nearly running over a seagull, which flaps up right in front of him. He checks his mirror to see if the Mercedes is following, but it isn’t in his field of vision. Suddenly, he has to brake, bloody pedestrian crossing, why doesn’t anyone look where they are going, he thinks, people just walk straight out into the road, he wants to beep his horn, but realises what a self- defeating gesture it would be. He presses the accelerator and gains speed before he has to stop again, this time for a red light.
He is tempted to jump the lights, which are painfully slow to change. He checks his mirror, no silver Mercedes; he looks up, cars are zooming back and forth in both directions, but then they start to slow down. The lights change from green to amber, he twists the throttle open full force, turns to the left and manages to get across the pedestrian crossing before the pedestrians are halfway across the road. Back in Hausmannsgate, he checks his mirror again: no sign of A2052, he drives on, aware that several cars are having to slow down, but he has no intention of letting them pass. Another pedestrian crossing, he sweeps across it, passes Elvebakken School to his right, some students are outside smoking. He soon reaches the bottom of Rostedsgate, another red light,
