It has only just gone nine, but he decides to go to Tariq’s flat anyway. If he doesn’t reply because he is asleep or out, Henning can go to a nearby cafe and grab some breakfast. God knows, he needs some.
On his way to Oslogate, he passes the police station where a man in a reflective vest is cutting the grass outside. Cars rush past. He heads for Middelalderparken. The area has had a facelift in the last few years, facades have been re-plastered, new residential housing developments have been completed and made the district more attractive. Bjorvika seafront is only a few hundred metres away. You can walk to the new Opera House in ten minutes without getting out of breath.
Before he gets to number 37, he switches his mobile to silent. Too many interviews are ruined or lose their momentum due to intrusive bleeping from a laptop or a jacket pocket.
The door to the backyard is open, so Henning just walks in. The corridor is dark and empty. Middle Eastern music flows from a window. Someone is having a loud discussion in the same flat. He can smell something sweet.
He heads for stairwell B where the Marhoni brothers live. He is about to press a button saying ‘Marhoni’ when the door in front of him is opened. A man with a ginger beard comes out. He takes no notice of Henning and doesn’t close the door behind him, so Henning grabs the handle before the door slams shut.
There is a powerful aroma of spices in the stairwell. His hip protests as he walks up the stairs. He curses himself for not taking his pills this morning, but forgets all about his discomfort when he sees the name marhoni on a plate on the door of an upper ground floor flat. He stops, gets his breath back. His first home visit. You were rusty yesterday, Henning. Perhaps you’re a little less so today?
He rings the doorbell. He waits and listens. The bell seems to be faulty. He decides to knock. He clenches his fist and knocks hard three times in quick succession. His knuckles hurt.
Was there movement from inside? It sounded like it. Like someone turning over in bed. He knocks again. The sound of feet on floor. He takes a step back. The door opens. A bleary-eyed Tariq Marhoni stands on the threshold. Henning thinks he looks like he is still asleep. His eyes are narrow and he sways. He is dressed only in underpants and a filthy vest. His face is drawn, he has huge bags under his eyes and his stubble suggests he is trying desperately to grow a beard. Tariq is chubby with curly, bushy hair. He looks like he hasn’t showered for days.
Tariq supports himself against the wall.
‘Hi, I’m Henning Juul.’
Tariq says nothing.
‘I work for 123news, and — ’
Tariq takes a step back and slams the door. And he double-locks it.
Great, Henning. Well played.
‘All I need is two minutes, Tariq.’
The sound of footsteps fading away. Henning fumes, but knocks again. He plays his last card.
‘I’m here because I think your brother is innocent.’
He shouts a little louder than he had intended. The sound reverberates. He waits. And waits. No noise from the flat. He curses to himself.
This used to be straightforward.
He lets a minute pass, maybe two, before he decides to leave. He is about to open the front door when he hears a creak. He turns around. The door opens. Tariq looks at him. The apathy in his eyes has gone. Henning seizes his chance and holds up his hands.
‘I’m not here to dig up dirt on your brother.’
His voice is soft, filled with compassion. Tariq seems to buy his explanation.
‘You think he’s innocent?’
He speaks broken Norwegian in a high-pitched voice. Henning nods. Tariq hesitates, debates with himself. His stomach bulges behind the vest.
‘If you write some shit about my brother — ’
He pulls an aggressive face, but doesn’t finish his threat. Henning holds up his hands again. His eyes alone should convince Tariq that he is serious. Tariq goes back inside, but leaves the door open. Henning follows him.
Good, Henning. You’re catching up fast.
Henning closes the door behind him and checks the ceiling. And finds what he is looking for.
‘I need to get dressed,’ Tariq calls out.
Henning explores the flat which surprises him by being clean and tidy. There are two doors to the right off the hallway where shoes are lined up neatly against the skirting board. A door to his left is open. He sneaks a peek. The toilet seat is up. The faint scent of Cif lemon wafts into the hallway.
He passes the kitchen. There is a plate with a few crumbs and a glass with traces of milk in the sink. He heads for the living room, sits down in a chair so soft he wonders if his backside is touching the floor. He can see the hallway, past the shoes, to the front door. Everywhere is clean.
He looks around, as he always does when he visits someone. Details, his old mentor, Jarle Hogseth used to say. The first thing that strikes him is the surprising number of plants and flowers in a flat inhabited by two brothers. An impressive large pelargonium with pink flowers sits on the windowsill. Orchids in a vase on a corner table. Pink roses. The brothers clearly have a thing about pink. Two candleholders with white candles. A large television, 45 inches, at least, he reckons, stands up against the wall. Home cinema — of course — from Pioneer, with tall speakers either side of the television and two behind. Henning looks for the subwoofer and assumes it must be hidden under the dark brown sofa. If he had been in a home in Oslo’s West End, he would have guessed the sofa was designed by Bolia.
The coffee table is low and inspired by oriental style, with curved legs and a square top. The table was black once, but has now been painted white. A clean glass ashtray sits in the middle. More flowers. Another candlestick. A photo of a large Pakistani family, the family in Islamabad, he guesses, hangs on the vanilla-coloured wall. There is a fireplace in one corner.
But no photos of Henriette Hagerup.
The flat is starting to affect him. He had imagined a dump, dust everywhere, mess and rubbish. This flat, however, is tidier than his own has been for the last six months, longer, perhaps.
He knows he is prejudiced. But he likes prejudices, likes having to review or change his opinion when he learns something about a subject, which overturns a preconceived notion. The knowledge he has gained from studying the Marhoni brothers’ flat is like one of those boiled sweets that doesn’t look very tasty, but tastes delicious when you unwrap it and pop it in your mouth.
He smiles as Tariq appears in the hallway. Tariq has put on a pair of black jeans and a black linen shirt. He goes to the kitchen. Henning hears him open and shut the fridge quickly, then he opens a cupboard and takes out a glass.
‘Do you want a glass of milk?’ he calls out.
‘Eh, no thanks.’
Milk, Henning muses. He has made numerous home visits, but no one has ever offered him milk before. He hears a firm glass-hitting-kitchen-counter slam followed by a grunt of satisfaction. Tariq enters the living room and sits down opposite him on a wooden stool. He takes out a packet of cigarettes and offers Henning a white friend. Henning declines, muttering something about having quit.
‘What happened to your face?’
The unexpected question takes Henning by surprise. He replies without thinking.
‘My flat burned down two years ago. My son died.’
He doesn’t know if it is the brutal truth or the unsentimental way in which he said it that makes Tariq uncomfortable. He tries to say something, but stops. Tariq fumbles with the cigarette, lights it and tosses the lighter on the coffee table. Henning follows the rectangular tool from hell with his eyes, watches it skid to a halt by the ashtray.