MakkaPakka: Everything you have — or haven’t got.
6tiermes7: You certainly don’t waste time.
MakkaPakka: Haven’t got time to waste. Have they got something worthwhile on — what’s his name?
He doesn’t get an immediate response. Perhaps I was too rash or pushy, he thinks. A minute passes. And another. He slumps. Finally, a message pops up. 6tiermes7: Sorry. Loo break.
More smileys. 6tiermes7: His name is Mahmoud Marhoni. Her boyfriend. Fled when Sergeant Sandland and Inspector Brogeland turned up at his flat. Set fire to his laptop. Looks like he argued with HH the night she was killed. Compromising text messages from her to him.
MakkaPakka: Did you manage to save his laptop?
6tiermes7: Don’t know yet.
MakkaPakka: Okay. Was Hagerup stoned to death?
6tiermes7: Stoned, flogged, hand chopped off. She had stun gun marks on her neck.
MakkaPakka: A stun gun? Like a cattle prod?
6tiermes7: Yes.
This doesn’t sound anything like an honour killing, Henning thinks. More like sharia and hudud. Something doesn’t add up. MakkaPakka: Does MM have form?
6tiermes7: No.
MakkaPakka: What does Gjerstad think?
6tiermes7: Not much yet. Think he is glad to see some progress.
MakkaPakka: Does MM have any family?
6tiermes7: A brother. Tariq. They share a flat.
MakkaPakka: You said something about compromising text messages. Compromising how?
6tiermes7: Think she has been unfaithful.
MakkaPakka: And that’s why she was killed? Is that why you’re thinking honour killing?
6tiermes7: Don’t know.
I bet Iver Gundersen doesn’t know about this, Henning thinks and nods to himself. A plan is taking shape. He likes plans. But he doesn’t like shortcuts.
And he has a feeling that the police are taking that route.
Chapter 20
Dreams. Henning wishes there was a button he could press to shut off access to his subconscious at night. He has just woken up, his eyes adjust to the darkness while he gasps for air. He is burning hot. It isn’t morning yet, but he is wide awake. And he has been dreaming again.
He dreamt they had gone to the playground in Sofienberg Park, Jonas and he. It was winter, it was cold. He cleared a bench of snow and frost and sat drinking lovely hot coffee from a plastic cup, while he watched Jonas’s grinning face, flushed cheeks and cloudy breath underneath the pale blue woolly hat which was pushed too far down his head, his eyes seeking out Henning’s, all the time. And he saw Jonas climb to the highest point of the climbing frame. All his concentration went into looking at his dad so he didn’t look where he was going, he stepped between the ropes, lost his grip, fell forwards and sideways and smashed his face and mouth into a post. Henning leapt up, ran over to him, turned the boy’s head to examine the extent of the damage, but all he could see was a black, sooty face. Jonas’s mouth was gone. No teeth.
The only things that weren’t black were his burning eyes.
He wakes up and finds himself blowing, blowing desperately on Jonas’s burning eyes to put out the flames. But they never go out. Jonas’s eyes are like those birthday candles which re-ignite themselves; you can try, but you’ll never succeed in blowing them out.
The dream knocks him for six, every time. When he wakes up, his pulse is racing and he closes his eyes to block out the image which makes him nauseous. He visualises the ocean. Dr Helge has taught him to do that, concentrate on a favourite place or activity, whenever he gets flashbacks.
Henning likes the sea. He has happy memories of saltwater. And the sea helps him open his eyes again. He rolls on to his side, sees, from the clock on his mobile, that he has slept for nearly three hours. Not bad, for him. And he decides that will have to do.
At least for today.
*
There isn’t much he can do in the middle of the night. He ignores the matches and gets up. He goes into the living room, glances at his piano, but keeps on walking. His hip aches, but it is a little early for pills.
He sits down in the kitchen. He listens to the fridge. It hums and whirrs noisily. He thinks it is on its last legs. Just like him.
He hasn’t been there for many, many years, but the groaning from the fridge reminds him of the family’s summer cabin. It is just outside Stavern, by Anvikstranda Camping. It is plain, simple and small, probably no more 30 square metres. Fantastic view of the sea. Loads of adders.
His grandfather built the cabin as cheaply as he could, just after the war, and to Henning’s knowledge, the fridge is still the original one. It moans and carries on almost like the fridge in Henning’s flat.
He hasn’t been to the cabin since he was a child. He thinks Trine goes there sometimes, but he doesn’t know for sure. Perhaps the fridge is still there. It was only a half-size and they always had to kick the bottom of the door after closing it. If they didn’t, the door would swing open again. The flap to the freezer compartment was missing. The shelves in the door were loose and cracked, which meant heavy items such as milk and bottles had to lie inside the main body of the fridge.
But the fridge worked. He can still recall how cold the milk would be. And he decides it’s all right to grow old and still be in working order. He has never tasted milk so cold, never experienced brain freezes like the ones he used to get on summer holidays in their tiny cabin. But it was fun. It was cosy. They went crabbing, played football on the large plain at the camping site, climbed rock faces, learned to swim in the sea, barbecued sausages on the beach in the evenings.
The age of innocence. Why couldn’t it have stayed that way?
He wonders if Trine remembers those summers.
*
He thinks about sharia again. Allah-u-akbar. And he recalls what Zahid Mukhtar, the head of the Islamic Council in Oslo, said in 2004:
As a Muslim, you’re subject to Islamic law and, to Muslims, sharia takes precedent over all other laws. No other interpretation of Islam is possible.
Henning interviewed a social anthropologist at the Christian Michaelsen Institute shortly afterwards, and she explained that most people in the West have a distorted image of sharia. Though there are traditions going back a thousand years and a certain consensus exists on how to interpret the laws of Allah, sharia isn’t a single unambiguous set of written laws. Religious scholars, who interpret the Koran and Hadith texts, decide what is right and wrong, and their reading is influenced by whatever culture affects them. In Norway, most people associate sharia with the death penalty in Muslim countries. And this ignorance is deliberately exploited.
The social anthropologist, whose name he can’t remember, showed him a website in Norwegian that listed sharia law in bullet points and the punishments for breaking them. ‘This is very simplistic,’ she said, pointing to the screen. ‘Few people will understand what sharia is really about from this. It’s people who aren’t scholars who might post a page like this. They use a fluid concept to gain power and influence. Most people don’t realise that hudud punishments are quite low key in the Koran. A few scholars even think they should be ignored completely.’
The interview made an impression on Henning because it challenged his own prejudices against Muslims in general and sharia in particular. And now, when he thinks about hudud punishments and links them to the murder of Henriette Hagerup, a number of things fail to add up. She wasn’t a Muslim. Nor was she married to one and, as far as he knows, she hadn’t stolen anything, either, and yet her hand had been chopped off.
He shakes his head. A few years ago, he might have been able to come up with a credible explanation, but now he is increasingly convinced that it makes no sense. And that’s the problem. It always makes sense. It has to. He just needs to find the common denominator.