‘Do some of your students have sharper elbows than others?’
‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’
‘You don’t want to say it or you don’t know?’
‘I don’t know. And I’m not sure that I would tell you if I knew.’
Henning smiles to himself. He isn’t ruffled by the slightly less nice atmosphere that has developed in the last few minutes.
‘A film company had bought an option on a screenplay she had written, is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
‘Which company was it?’
‘They call themselves Spot the Difference Productions. A good company. Serious.’
Henning makes a note of it.
‘Do students normally sell projects to serious film companies before they graduate?’
‘It happens. There are many desperate producers out there looking for new exciting voices. But, to be honest, many of those scripts have been rather poor.’
‘You’re saying some of your students try to learn the profession and practise it at the same time?’
‘That’s right. And I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that several of them don’t believe they should be here at all, they should be out in the real world, making films, producing, writing.’
‘So we’re talking about people with big egos?’
‘Ambitious people often have. It’s funny, but the most talented usually have the biggest egos.’
Henning nods. A pause ensues. A framed newspaper article on the wall catches Henning’s attention. It’s a story from Dagsavisen. There is a photograph of a young lad. Foldvik’s son, it has to be, he thinks. Same mouth, same nose. The boy looks to be in his teens. Da Vinci Code Lite, is the headline. The article explains that Stefan Foldvik has recently won a scriptwriting competition.
‘The interest in films runs in the family, I see,’ Henning says, pointing to the article. He often does this during an interview, introduces an unrelated subject, preferably something personal, an object he sees, for example, as a quick way in. It’s hard to get a good interview if you only talk shop. It can be done, of course, but it’s easier if you can break through people’s defences, find something they can discuss freely, preferably something you can relate to. And it’s always a good idea to volunteer information from your own life, it makes the conversation feel like a chat. It’s about getting the subject to forget that he or she is being interviewed. Often, the best information comes from what is said spontaneously.
And that’s what he hopes will happen to Foldvik. Foldvik looks at the article and smiles.
‘Yes, that’s often the case. Stefan won the competition when he was sixteen years old.’
‘Wow.’
‘Yes, he’s not untalented.’
‘Like Henriette Hagerup?’
Foldvik contemplates this.
‘No, Henriette’s talent was greater. Or, so it would seem.’
‘What do you mean?’
Foldvik looks uncomfortable.
‘Well, Stefan doesn’t seem so committed to his writing now. You know. Teenagers.’
‘Girls, beers and student life.’
‘Precisely. I hardly ever see him these days. Do you have kids?’
Henning is taken aback by the question. Because he has and he hasn’t. And he has failed to prepare a suitable reply, never thought about one, even though he knew that the question would be asked sooner or later.
He gives the simplest answer he can.
‘No.’
But his heart aches as he says it.
‘Children can be a real pain sometimes.’
‘Mm.’
Henning’s gaze stops at a 4? 6 photograph, also framed, sitting on Foldvik’s desk. It is a photo of a woman. Long, black hair that has started to go grey. She isn’t smiling. He estimates her to be in her mid-forties. Foldvik’s wife.
And that’s when Henning remembers where he first saw Yngve Foldvik.
Yngve Foldvik’s wife is called Ingvild. Henning remembers everything now. Ingvild Foldvik was brutally raped, not far from Cuba Bro some years ago. He knows this because he was at the trial, reporting on the story. Yngve Foldvik sat in the courtroom day in day out, listening to every grotesque detail as it was laid bare.
Henning remembers Ingvild Foldvik in the witness stand, how she shook, how she had been traumatised by the man who beat her up and raped her. Had it not been for a brave and very strong man out walking his dog that night, she would probably have been killed. She was horribly mutilated with a knife. All over. Her rapist got five years. Ingvild got life. And Henning can see it now, that the wounds have yet to heal. The nightmares. And possibly the screams, too.
He shelves the memory after the fleeting satisfaction of finally putting a name to a face.
‘What did Henriette write?’
‘Short films, mostly.’
‘About what? You said that she liked being provocative?’
‘Henriette managed to make two short films while she… while she was here. One was called When the Devil Knocks — it was about incest; the other one was called Snow White. The story of a girl who gets hooked on cocaine. Rather clever films. She was about to make a third.’
‘The one they were going to shoot on Ekeberg Common?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why now? So close to the summer holidays?’
‘I believe it takes place in early summer. It’s important that every detail is as authentic as possible; it adds to the film’s credibility.’
‘What was it about?’
‘The third film?’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know the details, we only discussed it briefly.’
‘But what do you remember?’
Foldvik heaves a sigh.
‘I think she wanted to do something about sharia.’
Henning stops in his tracks.
‘Sharia?’
‘Yes.’
He clears his throat, tries to organise the thoughts which are bombarding him. The first to become clear is the message Anette wrote to Henriette.
‘Did Anette Skoppum work with Henriette Hagerup on this film?’
Foldvik nods.
‘Henriette wrote the script and Anette was meant to direct it. But, knowing Anette, she probably had a lot of say in the script, too.’
Anette, Henning thinks. I have to find you. And if there is one thing he is 100 per cent sure about, it’s that the film they were going to make has something to do with the murder.
‘Do you know if she’s still here or if she has gone home for the summer?’
‘I think she’s still here. I saw her yesterday. And I’m meeting with her in a couple of days, if I remember rightly, so she’s unlikely to have left.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to have a telephone number I can reach her on?’
‘I do, but I’m not allowed to give it to you. And I’m not sure that I want you pestering my students. Everyone’s really upset.’
Yes, I know, Henning thinks. He lets it pass.
‘The script for the short film, do you have a copy of it?’
Foldvik sighs.
‘Like I said, Henriette and I only ever talked about it. She told me she would e-mail it to me once it was finished, but I never saw it.’
‘What happens to the film now?’
‘We haven’t decided yet. Is there anything else? I have another appointment.’
Foldvik gets up.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Henning replies.
Chapter 37
Dreadlocks is still at it when Henning returns to the ground floor. Good God, he thinks, the guy is trying to resuscitate that poor girl. Henning clears his throat. Dreadlocks looks up. The bashfulness of youth, which Yngve Foldvik eulogised, has definitely gone out of the window.
‘Thank you very much for your help,’ Henning begins. ‘It was really easy to find Foldvik’s office.’
‘No problem.’
Dreadlocks licks his lips.
‘I was wondering if I could ask you for another favour. I’m a reporter and I’m working on a story about Henriette Hagerup and students in her year, how they manage to carry on after the dreadful thing that has happened. It’s not going to be an intrusive article, a more abstract one based on the silence which follows, how a trauma like this affects a group of students.’