‘What about Anette Skoppum?’
‘What about her?’
‘She worked with Henriette sometimes — from what I’ve been told?’
Tore nods.
‘Do you know her well?’
‘No, hardly at all. She’s the total opposite of Henriette. Never says very much. I’ve heard she suffers from epilepsy but I’ve never seen her have a seizure. Rarely puts herself about. At least, not while she’s sober. But when she’s drunk — ’
‘Then she loosens up?’
‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. Do you know what she always says when she’s pissed?’
‘No?’
‘What’s the point of being a genius if nobody knows?’ Tore mimics her voice and smiles.
‘If anyone ever had a good reason for low self-esteem, then it’s her. She’s not particularly talented. And I know at least three guys who got into her knickers when she was drunk. I think she must be a lesbian.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’m probably being stupid. It’s just a gut feeling I have. Hasn’t that ever happened to you? You feel you intuitively know things about people?’
‘Happens all the time,’ Henning replies and flashes a smile.
‘She was certainly a big fan of Henriette, that was plain to see. But then everyone was. What a waste,’ Tore says and shakes his head again.
‘I would like to talk to Anette as well. Would you happen to have her mobile number, by any chance?’
Tore takes out his mobile. It is a shiny dark blue Sony Ericsson.
‘I think so.’
He presses some buttons and turns the mobile to Henning, who reads the eight digits and notes them down.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I don’t have any more questions. Anything you would like to add?’
Tore gets up from the bench.
‘No. But I hope the police have got the right guy. I would like to — ’
He stops.
‘You would like to what?’
‘Forget it. It’s too late now, anyway.’
Tore Benjaminsen holds up a hand to Henning and starts walking towards the entrance.
‘Thanks for the chat.’
‘Likewise.’
Henning sits there and looks after him. Tore tries to act tough as he walks with his trousers hanging low. Bjorn Borg is in place today as well.
Chapter 38
He sits on the bench for a while after Tore has gone. He spends a lot of time hanging around, wearing benches out these days. And that’s fine. Very nice. No deadly nightshade here. He can’t see Anette. People come and go. Every time, Henning’s eyes seek out the red entrance steps. And every time, he is disappointed.
He decides to call her. Before he types in the number, he registers that the time is 1.30 p.m. already. He wonders what reprisals might await him if he fails to show for the fabled staff meeting, but he bets that Sture, for old times’ sake, will give him the abbreviated version later. Besides, Henning has a pretty good idea of what his boss is going to say:
Due to unforeseen fluctuations in the advertising market, we are forced to reduce costs. In the short term, this won’t impact on staff, but it might well do in the long term, if we don’t produce more pages. The more pages are read, the faster we can re-sell the space to new advertisers. However, as we have sold all available advertising space, we need to generate more pages. This means we need to make decisions about the stories we write. We need to be more critical in our selection of material. And blah blah blah -
Some people are bound to make noises about integrity, and ‘how about importance and relevance’, and Henning knows that Sture will declare that he agrees with most of it, and yet demand a tighter ship. And a tighter ship for on-line newspapers that want to survive means more sex, more tits and more porn. That’s what most people want. They may say that they don’t, but they still click on it when they have a minute or two to spare, wanting to get a closer look at the tits or the arse used as bait. On-line newspapers know this, they have the figures and statistics which prove that such stories generate hits and based on that criterion, the choice is simple.
It’ll probably vex Heidi, Henning thinks, but she is middle management and has no choice other than to carry out executive orders. And she will never say anything negative in public about the top management or the mindless decisions they take. She learnt that at her middle management course.
Henning rings Anette and waits for her to reply. Her mobile rings eleven times before she picks up.
‘Hello?’
Anette’s voice is frail and guarded.
‘Anette, my name’s Henning Juul. I work for 123news. We met briefly last Monday.’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘Wait, don’t hang — ’
The phone goes dead. He swears to himself, looks around. A man in a boiler suit arrives. He is carrying a bucket.
I’m going to do it, Henning tells himself. I’ll call her again, even though it’s a high-risk strategy. I might alienate her even further. Pestering people rarely pays off, but she hasn’t given me anything yet.
At first, he gets a ring tone, but is then invited to leave a message. Damn, she is blocking my call, he thinks, and sees another man in a boiler suit. He decides to send her a text instead:
I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I’m not looking for an interview. I think Henriette was killed because of the film you were making. I would like to talk to you about it. Can we meet?
He presses ‘send’ and waits. He waits. And he waits. No reply. He swears again. Now what?
No, he thinks. No bloody way. He writes her another text message:
I know you’re scared, Anette. I can tell. But I think I can help you. Please let me help you?
‘Send’ again. He knows that he is starting to sound desperate and it isn’t far from the truth. He jumps when his mobile bleeps a few seconds later. He opens the text.
No one can help me.
His blood tingles. Things are getting seriously interesting. He replies:
You don’t know that, Anette. If you let me see the script, perhaps we can take it from there? I promise to be discreet. If you don’t want to meet — perhaps you can e-mail it to me? My e-mail address is hjuul@123news. no.
‘Send.’
Eternity compressed in seconds. He hears them tick.
No, he thinks. It’s no use. Anette is gone. She doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to be a source, not even a confidential one. He derives some consolation from the fact that he made a serious attempt. But he has no room for cold comfort. He gets up and starts to walk.
His mobile bleeps again. Four quick beeps.
The Gode Cafe. In an hour.
Chapter 39
Bjarne Brogeland sighs. He is reading a document on his screen, but having to squint for so long is giving him a headache. I need a break, he says to himself. A long one. Perhaps I should ask Sandland if she fancies a late lunch somewhere, talk a little shop, discuss the case, a little sex. Bloody little prick teaser. I’ll have to tie a knot in it soon, if I don’t get to…
Brogeland’s thoughts are interrupted by a window popping open on his screen. The face of Ann-Mari Sara, a forensic scientist, fills the screen via a webcam. Brogeland leans forward and turns up the volume.
‘We’ve made some progress with the laptop,’ she says.
‘Marhoni’s laptop?’
‘No. Mahatma Gandhi’s. Who else?’
‘Have you found anything?’
‘Oh, I think we can safely say that.’
‘Okay, hold on. I just want to get Sandland.’
‘No need. I’ll e-mail my findings to you. I just wanted to check if you were around.’
‘Okay.’
Brogeland gets up and goes out into the corridor. Any excuse for knocking on Sandland’s door must be exploited. He opens it. She is on the telephone. All the same, Brogeland whispers with exaggerated diction:
‘Marhoni’s laptop.’
He gestures towards his own office, even though there is no need. She will get her own copy of the e-mail. Sandland mimes that she will come down to his office shortly.