Sandland is in front of her computer, typing. She doesn’t look up when Brogeland appears.
‘Are you ready?’ he says. She holds up one finger, before resuming her race across the keyboard with a speed a Thai masseuse would have been impressed by.
Brogeland looks around. Typical girly office, he thinks. Neat and tidy, documents in organised piles, a pencil pot with two blue pens and one red, a stapler and a hole punch, Post-it notes next to them, a diary open on today’s date, but no appointments, ring binders — all black — on the shelves behind her desk, work-related journals and reference books on a shelf of their own. There is a yucca palm on the floor, green and verdant. The roses in the glass vase on her desk are long-stemmed and fresh, there are apples and pears — perfectly ripe, of course — in a wooden bowl, next to a cactus, free from dust.
You’re prickly, Sandland, Brogeland thinks, as he studies the look of concentration on her face. You’re always prickly, but in such an enticing way. He tries to inhale her smell without her noticing. She doesn’t wear perfume. Or perhaps she does, in which case it is very discreet.
Many of the women he has slept with have reeked of something so sweet, so cloying, that he has had to take long showers afterwards. His urge to screw them again evaporates the second he remembers their perfume.
It wouldn’t be like that with Sandland. Oh, no. He imagines lying next to her, sweaty, his body happily exhausted after a prolonged wrestling match of sensual and rough sex. None of the usual post-coital unease and thoughts about how soon his cab can get there.
She must be a lesbian, he concludes, if she doesn’t want to screw me.
Sandland hits ‘ enter ’ slightly harder than necessary and sheets of paper start spilling out of the printer. She gets up, goes over to the printer and picks up the small pile that has been spat out.
‘Ready,’ she says, without smiling.
Damn. Brogeland opens the door for her. Sandland exits and they go to the interview room where Mahmoud Marhoni and his lawyer are waiting for them.
*
Too many kebabs and not enough exercise is Brogeland’s first impression when he takes a closer look at Mahmoud Marhoni. He has gained some weight since he saw last him and yet he wears a tight-fitting T-shirt. A spare tyre of puppy fat hangs around his waist. If I ever wanted to turn women off, Brogeland thinks, then that’s precisely how I would go about it.
Marhoni’s face is round. Brogeland estimates his stubble to be a week old, but Marhoni has shaved under his chin in a neat edge. His skin is chestnut brown. He is just under 1.70 metres, but he has a presence which suggests he is oblivious to his lack of height or the excess kilos.
Marhoni looks tough and displays the ‘what are you looking at, pig’ attitude. Brogeland has seen it before, he has seen it all before. He already knows what kind of interview it is going to be.
Marhoni’s lawyer, Lars Indrehaug, is a creep who has defended vermin all his life. The prosecution service loathes him and regards him as a jackal who exploits loopholes in the law to put rapists, drug dealers and other scum back on the street. He is tall, thin and gangly. His hair flops into his eyes. He brushes it away with his fingers.
Brogeland and Sandland sit down opposite Indrehaug and his client. Brogeland takes the lead, goes through the formalities and fixes his eyes on Marhoni.
‘Why did you run when we came to talk to you?’
Marhoni shrugs. You just carry on playing that game, Brogeland thinks, and continues:
‘Why did you burn your laptop?’
Same response.
‘What was on it?’
Still no reply.
‘You know we’re going to find out sooner or later, don’t you? You can make it easier for yourself by saving us some time.’
Marhoni gives Brogeland a look loaded with contempt. Brogeland sighs.
‘What can you tell me about your relationship with Henriette Hagerup?’
Marhoni barely looks up. Indrehaug leans towards him, whispers something neither Brogeland nor Sandland can hear, before straightening up again.
‘She was my girlfriend,’ Marhoni replies in broken Norwegian.
‘How long had you been together?’
‘About a year.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘At a concert.’
‘What kind of concert?’
‘Surely the nature of the concert is irrelevant to the investigation?’ Indrehaug interjects.
Brogeland glares at Indrehaug who looks indignant on his client’s behalf.
‘We’re trying to establish what kind of relationship your client had with the victim,’ Sandland cuts in. For once, Brogeland decides not to look at her. He torpedoes Indrehaug with his eyes, though Indrehaug isn’t impressed in the slightest.
‘What kind of concert was it?’ Brogeland repeats.
‘Noori.’
‘Noori?’
‘At the Mela Festival.’
‘Noori is a fairly well-known Pakistani rock band,’ Sandland says. This time Brogeland looks at her, but tries to conceal how impressed he is, because he is also annoyed at her interruption.
‘It’s made up of two brothers from — ’
‘Yes, I get it.’
For the first time during the interview, something other than contempt emerges in Marhoni’s eyes. He looks at Sandland, slightly more vigilant now. Brogeland registers this and signals that she should take over. Sandland moves closer to the table.
‘When did you last see Henriette?’
Marhoni thinks about it. ‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘She was at my place until Hotel Caesar finished.’
‘You watched Hotel Caesar?’
‘Really — ’
Indrehaug’s cheeks have acquired a flame-red hue, which reveals his fondness for red wine. Sandland holds up her hands by way of apology.
‘What did you talk about?’
‘This and that.’
‘Such as?’
Again, Indrehaug leans towards Marhoni.
‘That’s none of your business.’
Sandland smiles. She leans towards Brogeland, mimicking the performance across the table, but Brogeland stops listening once he realises that she isn’t saying ‘come home with me once this mind-numbing interview is over’ — words he has dreamt of hearing from her lips for so long.
‘Where was she going after Hotel Caesar had ended?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? Didn’t you ask?’
‘No.’
‘She spends the night at your place sometimes, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, sometimes.’
‘But you didn’t ask why she didn’t stay over yesterday?’
‘No.’
Sandland sighs. Marhoni’s hard-boiled mask remains intact.
‘Have you heard of Ekeberg Common?’ she asks next.
‘No.’
‘Ever been up there?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘Not been up there for the Norway Cup?’
‘I don’t like football.’
‘No brothers or nephews who play? You haven’t been up there to support them when they played?’
He shakes his head and twinkles arrogantly at her.
‘Have you ever played cricket up there?’
He is about to say ‘no’ on autopilot, but he hesitates half a second too long. Brogeland notes down ‘has been to Ekeberg, but is lying about it’. Sandberg reads it, and carries on:
‘Do you own a stun gun, Mr Marhoni?’
His reaction suggests she has just asked him the stupidest question in the world.
‘A what?’
‘Don’t give me that. You know what a stun gun is. Don’t you ever go to the movies? Watch cop shows?’
He shakes his head again and adds a smirk.
‘I don’t like cops.’
‘Inspector, what’s the point of these questions?’