‘My name’s Henning Juul.’
Her face remains unchanged.
‘I work for 123news.’
Her open face hardens instantly.
‘Can I ask you some questions, please? Not intrusive, nosy, insensitive ones, just a few questions about Henriette?’
The apathetic stare she gave the flickering tea lights is gone.
‘How do you know my name?’ she repeats, folding her arms defensively.
‘I guessed it.’
She stares at him with growing impatience.
‘There are a hundred people here and you just guessed that my name is Anette?’
‘Yes.’
She sniffs.
‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘Just a few questions, then I’ll leave you alone.’
‘You reporters only ever have a few questions, but you end up asking hundreds.’
‘One, then. I’ll leave you alone if you answer this one question. Okay?’
He looks at her for a long time. She lets him stand there in the silence, before she tenses and relaxes her shoulders. He attempts a smile, but senses that his charm, which works on most interviewees, is lost on her. She tosses her head and sighs. Henning interprets the movement as consent and says:
‘What was the work Henriette had started and which you intend to complete?’
She looks at him.
‘That’s your question?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not “how will you remember Henriette?” or “can you tell me something about Henriette that will make my readers sob?” or some crap like that?’
She makes her voice sound like that of a pestering child. He shakes his head. She snorts. Her eyes bore into his.
Then she tosses her head again, turns on her heel and walks off.
Great, Henning, he chastises himself. Well done.
And he thinks that the only interesting person in this landscape of mourners has just left. She is no great beauty. He bets she doesn’t sit in the front row in the lecture hall or pose for pictures. He imagines her looking in the mirror and sighing, resigned; sees her giving herself to guys with beer goggles, late at night, and going home before daybreak.
But Anette, he says to himself. You’re interesting. He feels like shouting it after her.
Then he realises what he saw in her eyes. He checks the camera as she disappears around the corner of a building. He scrolls to one of the first pictures he took of her, looks into her eyes. And he knows that he was right.
Eureka! He recognises the feeling when he grasps or stumbles across something important. As he zooms in on the picture and studies her again, he wonders what Anette was so scared of.
Chapter 15
‘He reeks of guilt.’
Detective Inspector Brogeland doesn’t elaborate on his statement. He looks at Chief Inspector Gjerstad, the head of the investigation, who sits opposite him in the meeting room. He is flicking through the print-out of the interview. Sergeant Sandland sits at the end. She leans forwards and rests her elbow on the table. Her hands are folded.
Two other officers, Fredrik Stang and Emil Hagen, are present, in addition to Assistant Commissioner Nokleby. She is officially in charge of the investigation, but she always works closely with Gjerstad. Everyone’s eyes turn to Gjerstad, expecting him to say something. As always, when he is thinking, he strokes his moustache with his thumb and index finger.
‘There’s no doubt he has a problem explaining his situation,’ Gjerstad says in a deep, growling bass. ‘All the same…’
Gjerstad puts down the print-out. He takes off his glasses, places them on the table and rubs his face. Then he fixes his eyes on Brogeland.
‘You should have carried on with the interview when he finally said he didn’t do it.’
‘But…’
‘I know why you stopped at that point. You wanted to give him something to think about. But the way I read it, he was just starting to open up. He might have told us a lot more, if you had been prepared to give him a bit more time.’
‘We don’t know that,’ Brogeland replies.
‘Were you in a hurry?’
‘In a hurry?’
Brogeland’s face feels warm. Gjerstad looks at him.
‘When you next interview him, give him a bit more time.’
Brogeland squirms in his chair. He wants to defend himself, but not in front of the team; he doesn’t want to risk further humiliation.
Gjerstad looks up to the right, as if he is staring at something on the wall.
‘There’s circumstantial evidence that implicates Marhoni and it’s tempting to treat this as an honour killing. If his girlfriend was unfaithful, he might have killed her to restore his honour.’
Sandland clears her throat.
‘There is actually very little that suggests it might be an honour killing,’ she says. Gjerstad turns to her.
‘In a few countries, infidelity means a death sentence. In Sudan, for example, in 2007…’
‘Marhoni’s from Pakistan.’
‘I know, but they stone people to death in Pakistan, too. And, as far as the honour killing theory goes, several elements are missing,’ Sandland continues. Gjerstad looks at her, indicates that she should go on. Nokleby nudges her glasses further up the bridge of her nose and leans closer to the table. Her dark fringe falls over her eyes, but not to the extent that it irritates her.
‘Honour killings are often carried out after the shame has become public knowledge,’ Sandland begins. ‘As far as we’ve been able to establish, all anyone knew about Hagerup and Marhoni was that they were an item. Secondly, honour killings are often planned. The decision is usually made by the family. As far as I know, Marhoni has no family in Norway, apart from his brother, who lives with him. And last, but not least: you own up to what you’ve done. Marhoni denies that he did it.’
Gjerstad digests the short lecture and nods with approval.
‘What do we know about stoning?’ Emil Hagen asks.
Hagen is a short man who has recently graduated from the police academy. Brogeland recognises the type: bursting with enthusiasm, keen to get stuck in and nurturing a vision of making a difference to society, one villain at a time. You just keep thinking that, Brogeland muses. You’ll be brought down to earth soon enough, just like the rest of us. Emil has blond hair and looks like an adult version of the eponymous Astrid Lindgren character. He even has a big gap between his front teeth.
‘Only Iran officially uses the method today,’ Sandland explains. ‘However, it’s also used in other countries, as a form of vigilantism. It’s mainly adultery, indecency and blasphemy which are punishable by stoning. In 2007, Jafar Keyani was stoned to death in Iran. It was the first time since 2002 that Iran officially admitted to using this form of punishment.’
‘What had he done?’ Nokleby asks.
‘You mean what had she done?’
Nokleby bows her head, embarrassed at her ignorance.
‘She had an extra-marital affair.’
The rest of the team looks at Sandland. Fredrik Stang puts down his water glass.
‘I don’t follow, didn’t we just make an arrest?’ he says. Stang has dark hair, cut short to the point of a crew cut and a face that always oozes earnestness. He likes to wear tight-fitting clothes, so people can see he spent much of his youth in the gym.
‘Indeed we did, but he denies the murder and it’s far too early not to pursue other leads. Besides, we’re trying to establish a motive,’ Nokleby points out.
‘Hagerup had screwed around,’ Stang protests. ‘The texts suggest she had. And Marhoni is a Muslim, isn’t he. To me, it sounds like a straightforward home win.’
Sandland raises a bottle of Cola Zero to her lips and takes a swig.
‘Sure, I agree that it might look that way. But I still think we need to ignore the honour killing theory. It’s more obvious to take a closer look at sharia.’
‘Sharia?’ Gjerstad frowns.