damn. He positions himself as far ahead as he can, turns to see where the minicab is. He can see other minicabs, but not A2052, not yet, but it might be only seconds before it catches up with him, what will happen then? They’re bound to know where I’m heading, he thinks, they know where Westerdal is, they’re cabdrivers, for crying out loud! He drives on to the pedestrian crossing, registers that a pedestrian glares at him, but he doesn’t give a toss, he pulls up on the pavement, speeds up, carries on driving down the pavement, until he can pull out into the street again. When he looks to the left, all he sees are buildings and concrete. The minicab can’t possibly see him now. Oh, you lovely Vespa!
He accelerates down the street until he reaches Fredensborgvei and turns into the college car park. He sees a substation and parks his Vespa behind it, out of sight to anyone driving past. He removes his helmet and looks around. No A2052. Though they can’t be far away. He hurries into the college grounds.
He spots Tore Benjaminsen straight away. He is tempted to go over to him, but there are too many people around. And what would he say? ‘Have you seen Yngve Foldvik? Did you know that he has gone missing?’ It occurs to him that he isn’t entirely sure why he has come. What did I think I would see or understand, once I got here? he asks himself. It’s not like the Foldviks might be hiding out at the college. Was he hoping that the students or the staff would know where the Foldviks go when they want a little time to themselves? He can’t even be sure that anyone here knows what has happened.
He shakes his head at his own impetuousness. Then he turns around and jumps. He is looking right into the eyes of Anette Skoppum.
Chapter 61
Bjarne Brogeland is pacing up and down his office. The tired, Lapp face of Ann-Mari Sara, the crime scene technician, has just popped up on his screen again, to report on the most recent findings from Marhoni’s laptop. Interrogating Marhoni will be more interesting now. But that’s not where I want to be, Brogeland groans. What the hell is going on with Yngve and Ingvild Foldvik? Why can’t anyone find them?
Brogeland is swearing silently when Sandland knocks on his door and asks him if he is ready. I’m ready, Brogeland thinks, I’ve never been more ready in my life.
As usual, Lars Indrehaug is indignant on his client’s behalf when Sandland and Brogeland welcome them back to the interview room and go through the formalities.
‘So what’s today’s theme?’ Indrehaug snarls when Brogeland has finished. ‘My client’s favourite colour? Favourite car?’
Indrehaug nods to Marhoni. Brogeland smiles. He is anything but tired now, and the sight of the slimy lawyer makes his blood boil. He slides a sheet across the table, placing it halfway between them, so both can study it. Marhoni leans forward and glances at the sheet before looking away. He shakes his head, faintly. Brogeland registers it.
‘What’s this?’ Indrehaug asks.
‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ Brogeland says. ‘But perhaps you could explain it to us all the same, Mr Marhoni?’
Marhoni stares at the wall.
‘Okay, then I’ll do it for you,’ Brogeland says, addressing Indrehaug. ‘Your client has, believe it or not, a highly developed sense of order. He likes to know where everything is. Perhaps you’ve been to his flat? Neat and tidy. The document in front of you is a print-out of an Excel spreadsheet we found on your client’s laptop, the one he tried to burn. Perhaps you can see why?’
Indrehaug studies the document closely. He sees names, telephone numbers and e-mail addresses.
‘A quick check, not that you need to look very hard, will tell you that these are very bad people. Very bad indeed. People who make sure that our streets are flooded with drugs, which our children take, and which turn them into very bad people, too.’
Indrehaug shoves the document back to Brogeland and snorts.
‘This proves nothing. There could be any number of legitimate reasons why my client might choose to keep this information on his computer. Just because you bookmark the homepage of Rema 1000, it doesn’t follow that you shop there. The names you have found on my client’s computer certainly don’t prove that he killed someone.’
‘No, you’re right about that,’ Brogeland replies, smiling. ‘But how would you explain this?’
He slides another sheet towards Indrehaug and Marhoni.
‘This photograph was also found on your client’s computer. In fact, we found several very interesting pictures.’
Indrehaug pulls the sheet towards him. Marhoni doesn’t look at the print-out which shows him with a man in a black leather jacket. The jacket has an emblem of flames on its back. The man’s face is clearly visible.
‘This is your client in the company of a man called Abdul Sebrani. If you check the list we’ve just shown you, you’ll see that his name appears on it. The photograph was taken during the delivery of a batch of cocaine from BBB — Bad Boys Burning — to your client earlier this spring. It was taken down at Vippetangen. Can you see the water in the background?’
Indrehaug studies the photograph. The image is sharp and shot with a telephoto lens from some distance.
‘Do you remember where you were supposed to take the drugs, Mr Marhoni?’ Brogeland asks. There is no reply.
‘We have more pictures like this. Your client — and I’m only guessing here — wanted some sort of insurance against his business associates, just in case they started to play hardball. Or perhaps they had already started threatening you, Mr Marhoni?’
Marhoni ignores Brogeland’s hard stare.
‘Your client kept his head down. But when his girlfriend was killed and we came knocking on his door, he realised that his laptop might incriminate him. And BBB. That’s why he tried to burn it, to destroy the evidence.’
Brogeland looks at both Marhoni and Indrehaug. Indrehaug blanks him and leans towards Marhoni instead. Whisper, whisper.
Slam-dunk, Brogeland thinks. He looks at Sandland, hoping that she is thinking the same, but she is always difficult to read.
‘Your brother was a photographer, wasn’t he?’ she asks. Marhoni turns to her, but doesn’t reply.
‘He took these pictures, didn’t he? He uploaded them to your laptop.’
Marhoni still doesn’t reply, but there is no need for him to say anything.
‘Where’s the rest of your family, Mahmoud?’
Marhoni keeps his eyes fixed on Sandland, before he averts them and whispers:
‘Pakistan.’
‘What will happen to them?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Who is going to send them money now?’
Marhoni looks down.
‘We know that you send them a lot of money every month. Your father has brain disease. The money buys the treatment he needs. The amounts vary slightly, but I presume that’s to do with the exchange rate. You live on what you earn from minicabbing, while the money you’re paid for transporting drugs and driving gang members around ends up in Pakistan. That’s how it works, isn’t it?’
Marhoni doesn’t reply.
‘Would you like to change your statement, Mahmoud?’ Brogeland interjects. ‘Would you like me to ask you, once more, if you know Zaheerullah Hassan Mintroza? Or Yasser Shah?’
Marhoni doesn’t reply. Brogeland waits for him to crack.
‘They’re going to kill them,’ Marhoni whispers after a long pause.
‘Who are they, Mahmoud?’
