‘We’re getting to it, Mr Indrehaug,’ Brogeland says with forced restraint in his voice. Sandland is about to attack. She pulls out a sheet.
‘The victim was found with marks on her neck. They match those caused by a stun gun. Also known as an electroshock weapon, if you know what that is.’
She slides the sheet across the table and turns it over, so they can see it. It is a close-up of the victim’s neck. Two rust-coloured, irregular burns can clearly be seen. Indrehaug picks up the photograph and studies it.
‘There are many different models, but a stun gun is used when you want to paralyse rather than injure your victim. Render them helpless. So that you can put them in a hole and bury them.’ Sandland looks at Marhoni, but he remains unimpressed and unaffected by her questions.
‘For someone whose girlfriend has just been killed in a very brutal way, you don’t seem terribly upset or sad,’ she carries on. It is a question rather than a statement. Marhoni shrugs again.
‘Didn’t you care about her?’
A tiny twitch flits across his face.
‘Didn’t you love her?’
Marhoni blushes faintly.
‘Did she meet with you yesterday to end it? Was that why you killed her?’
He is getting angry now.
‘Had she met someone else? Bored with you, was she?’
Marhoni moves to get up. Indrehaug places his hand on Marhoni’s arm.
‘Sergeant — ’
‘Was that why you killed her?’
Marhoni stares at Sandland as if he wants to tear her apart.
‘Did you look at Henriette like that when you picked up the rock and crushed her head?’
‘Sergeant, that’s enough.’
‘Tell your client to answer the question.’
Brogeland coughs and gestures to Sandland to calm down. The room falls silent. Brogeland can see the pulse beat on Marhoni’s throat. He decides to strike while the iron is hot.
‘Mr Marhoni, preliminary examinations carried out at the crime scene and on the victim show she had very rough sex not long before she was killed. Would you know anything about that? What can you tell us about it?’
Marhoni is still glaring at Sandland with the same thunder in his eyes, then he quietly turns to Brogeland. He says nothing.
‘Even though you don’t watch cop shows, you probably know that semen is one of the best things a killer can leave behind? For the police, that is. DNA. You’ve heard of that?’
Still no reply. Cold-blooded bastard, Brogeland thinks.
‘Last night, at 21.17, you received a text message from Henriette Hagerup.’
Marhoni’s pupils contract slightly. Brogeland notices this.
‘Do you recall what it said?’
Brogeland can see that Marhoni is thinking about it. Brogeland looks at a sheet, which Sandland has passed to him. He raises a fist to his mouth and coughs again.
‘Sorry. It means nothing. HE means nothing. You’re the one I love. Can we talk about it? Please?’
Brogeland looks at Marhoni and at Indrehaug, in turn. He lets the implications of the text message sink in, before he continues.
‘Do you want me to read the next text she sent you?’
Marhoni looks at his lawyer. For the first time during the interview, the rock-hard surface is starting to crack.
‘It would appear that Henriette was killed sometime between midnight and 2 a.m., that’s only a few hours after sending you three text messages. If I were you, I would start talking about what happened between the two of you last night.’
Marhoni shows no signs of wanting to talk. Brogeland sighs and looks at his sheet again.
‘I promise to make it up to you. Give me another chance, please?’
Marhoni is shaking his head now.
‘Inspector, I think — ’
‘You called her after the second text, but you got no reply. Is that right?’
Brogeland is getting annoyed with the silent bastard.
‘Please respond? Please? I’ll never do it again. I promise.’ That was the third text, sent ten minutes later.’
Marhoni stares at the floor.
‘What was it she promised never to do again, Mr Marhoni? What had she done that was so bad that you can’t look me in the eye and tell me?’
No change.
‘Who is “he”?’
Marhoni looks up, but not at Brogeland.
‘Who is “he” who means nothing to her?’
Marhoni’s lips are pursed. Brogeland sighs.
‘Okay. It’s not up to me, but I guarantee that you’ll go before a judge and be remanded in custody later today. If I were your lawyer, I would start preparing you to spend the next fifteen to twenty years indoors.’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
His voice is faint, but Brogeland has already got up from his chair. He leans across the table and presses a button.
‘Interview terminated at 15.21.’
Chapter 14
It starts to rain gently. Henning likes the rain. He likes getting wet when he is outdoors, likes looking up at the sky, closing his eyes and feeling the raindrops fall on his face. Too many people ruin a good shower by putting up their umbrellas.
A little rain is appropriate now. It provides a golden opportunity for the bystanders to show that they don’t care about personal comfort in their hour of grief; they might be within range of a camera, they could even be on the news later today, so they cluster together. The rain is like tears from above, as if God himself grieves at the loss of one of his children.
Henning snaps away. His Canon takes three pictures per second. He imagines a fine photo montage in the paper later. But he isn’t looking for people who are crying. He is looking for anyone standing quietly, alone, reflecting.
He approaches a lad with short hair, no sign of a beard yet, with the Bjorn Borg logo on his underpants showing above the waistband of his trousers. He is being interviewed by Petter Stanghelle from VG. VG loves a good sob story.
The tearful boy talks about Henriette Hagerup, how clever she was, what a huge loss it is to the Norwegian film industry etc. Henning carries on walking, making sure he keeps well away from the camera lenses, as he takes in the hysteria that surrounds him.
And that’s when he sees her. Quickly, he takes her picture. She stands in front of the tree, she wasn’t there a few minutes ago; she alternates between reading the messages and staring at the ground, shaking her head imperceptibly before looking up again. More Canon shots. Though he doubts he’ll use a single one of them.
The young woman has dark, shoulder-length hair. He takes more pictures. She has an expression on her face he can’t quite decipher. She just stands there, in a world of her own. But there is something about her eyes. He moves closer and closer, until he is practically standing next to her. He pretends to be reading the mawkish cards.
‘Sad,’ he says, just loud enough for her to hear. It could be a statement or an invitation to a conversation. The young woman doesn’t reply. Without her noticing, he moves a step nearer. He stands there for a long time. His hair is starting to feel wet. He shields the camera to prevent it getting wet, too.
‘Did you know her well?’ Henning asks, addressing her directly for the first time. She nods briefly.
‘Were you on the same course?’
At last, she looks at him. He expects her to flinch at the sight of his face, but she doesn’t. She merely says:
‘Yes.’
He lets more time pass. He can see that she isn’t ready to talk, but she isn’t crying, either.
‘Are you Anette?’ he asks, eventually.
She is startled. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No.’
He pauses, giving her time to assess the situation. He doesn’t want to frighten her, he wants to arouse her curiosity. He can see she is studying him. A shiver of fear goes through her, as if she is bracing herself for what he might say.
‘How do you know my name?’
Her voice is anxious. He turns to her. For the first time, she sees his whole face, scars and all. Yet, she still doesn’t seem to really see him. He decides to put his cards on the table, before her fear gets the better of her.