OFFICER 2:
We know that you tried to call her. We also know that you left your flat just after eight o’clock that night.
OFFICER 1:
There’s evidence of a brutal sexual assault, Yashid.
OFFICER 2:
And we have your laptop. You checked her e-mail that afternoon. Why did you do that?
OFFICER 1:
We get it, Yashid. You got angry. It’s understandable. She was screwing around, you got angry and you taught her a lesson.
OFFICER 2:
You can make it much easier for yourself by talking, Yashid. Tell us what happened. You’ll feel better for it.
Yashid says nothing.
OFFICER 1:
After you got the text messages, you went to the place where she was filming. You raped her and buried her in a hole in the ground. Afterwards, you picked up some heavy stones and threw them at her until she died. That’s the appropriate punishment, isn’t it? For being unfaithful?
Yashid looks at the police officers. Yashid’s lawyer leans towards him and whispers into his ear. Yashid leans forward.
YASHID:
I love Mona. I’m innocent.
The police officers look at each other and sigh.
Caption against a black background: Five months later
14. INT — OSLO COURTHOUSE — NOON:
Yashid sits next to his lawyer. Harald Gaarder sits some rows behind him. He looks depressed and gloomy. Farouk Iqbal is there, too. He looks anxious. The judge enters. Everyone stands up.
JUDGE:
Sit down, please.
Everyone sits down. The judge looks at the jury.
JUDGE:
Has the jury reached a verdict?
FOREMAN OF THE JURY:
We have.
15. INT — OSLO COURTHOUSE — NOON:
Close-up of Yashid. He looks down. He is visibly nervous. The camera zooms out. Merete sits at the back of the courtroom. The picture of her grows sharper. She remains in focus while the foreman of the jury reads out the verdict.
FOREMAN OF THE JURY:
In the case against Yashid Iqbal we, the jury, find the defendant guilty of all charges.
The courtroom erupts with jubilation. Merete looks at Harald Gaarder. She smiles to him. Gaarder looks away and leaves. Merete takes out a mobile. She writes a text message. We see what she writes.
‘One down. Plenty more to go.’ She scrolls through her contacts, finds Mona, and presses ‘send’.
THE END
He puts down the script, slightly disappointed, and rubs his eyes. The trailer promised a blood-dripping thriller and all he got was a mediocre drama. The script was supposed to be his Pandora’s Box, but there was no mention of stun guns, floggings or severed hands. He begins to wonder if other, more brutal, versions of the script exist.
The initial premise was fine: Two women stage a ‘murder’ and make sure that one woman’s boyfriend is arrested and convicted of the murder, even though he is innocent. It is only a flight of fancy, Henning reasons, wishful thinking. Translated into real life, Mona and Merete will respectively be Henriette and Anette, while Mahmoud Marhoni is Yashid Iqbal. And Tariq is Farouk.
So far so good. And, so far, most of it matches Henning’s own theories. Mahmoud Marhoni is innocent, and someone is trying to set him up. Text messages, hinted infidelity, a last rough fuck which borders on rape. It won’t be easy for a suspect to distance himself from that kind of evidence, especially not if the suspect stays silent during interview.
But who is Harald Gaarder? His family and its fate were given so much space in the script that they must be important. But are they important in real life, too? As his mother said, it’s only a film. Not everything has to mirror reality.
He explores the possibility, anyway. Harald Gaarder had an affair with Mona — who else could it have been — and the infidelity is punished by stoning. But then why do Gaarder and Merete look at each other at the end? Why was she smiling?
The real life Gaarder character must know Anette. The man who had an affair with Henriette must be known to both women. The only one Henning can think of, based on the people he has met so far, is Yngve Foldvik. But Foldvik hasn’t read the script, so it can’t be him. Unless Foldvik is lying? But why would he lie about that? He must be aware that this kind of allegation is easy to check, if the police can be bothered. Evidence on his computer, copies of the script somewhere, in his office, at home. If he is caught out in such a simple lie, it’s handcuffs straight away and welcome to Ullersmo Prison. There must be other adults, he thinks, another family. Anette’s, perhaps? Or Henriette’s?
He thinks about Henriette. Beautiful, gentle, extrovert Henriette. What sort of person were you really? Foldvik described your work as ‘provocations with substance’. Henning can see what he meant, even though the issue of sharia is examined in a narrow and very simplistic manner. The message seems to be that idiots who promote sharia need to be got rid of, and that we — for our own sake — mustn’t shy away from any means in the fight to protect ourselves and our culture; women the world over — unite — and don’t put up with it.
But where is the gunpowder? When is the explosion? Where are the incriminating lines, the ammunition, which caused someone to act out what was a fantasy? Hagerup isn’t exactly Theo van Gogh, the Dutch director who made films critical of Islam and who was killed with eight pistol shots in Amsterdam in 2004. The killer went on to cut van Gogh’s throat, insert two knives into his chest and attach a long threatening letter to them. As far as Henning knows, Hagerup wasn’t Islamophobic. And her boyfriend was a Muslim.
The more Henning thinks about it, the more convinced he is that someone close to Anette and Henriette must be behind this. I have to find out who was involved in the filming, he thinks, who had access to the script and if any outsiders read it. The killer, or the killers, must be among them.
Chapter 43
He fights the urge to call Anette. It’s too soon. She made it clear that he mustn’t try to help her, and besides, he wants more control over the story before he contacts her again.
Instead he calls Bjarne Brogeland. Henning got his mobile number after his interview at the police station. Brogeland replies almost instantly.
‘Hi, Bjarne, it’s Henning.’
‘Hi, Henning. How are you?’
‘Eh, all right. Listen — can we meet?’
A few seconds of silence follow.
‘Now?’
‘Yes. Straight away, if you can, and some place neutral, preferably. There’s something I need to talk to you about.’
‘In your capacity as a journalist?’
‘Of that I’m not entirely sure.’
‘Does this have anything to do with Tariq Marhoni?’
‘No. His brother. And Henriette Hagerup. In the light of that, it might have something to do with Tariq. Like I said, I’m not sure.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘No. But I guarantee that you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say and see what I’ve found. I just don’t want to do it over the telephone.’
A thinking pause follows.
‘Okay. Where do you want to meet?’
‘Lompa.’
‘Good. I can be there in fifteen minutes.’
‘Great. See you there.’
*
He decides to take a cab from the Gode Cafe, no matter how risky it might be. He waits in Fredensborgvei until he sees a free taxi, which isn’t silver. It isn’t made in Germany and doesn’t have the number ‘A2052’ on its roof, either. The driver is an older man with grey hair, steel spectacles and he smells of Old Spice. He doesn’t say much during the trip.
This suits Henning fine. It means he can think in peace while they drive past buildings, people and cars. He always feels a sense of calm when he is on his way somewhere and he isn’t responsible for the transport. It’s like pressing the pause button on yourself while the rest of the world carries on moving.
He wonders what must have gone through Henriette Hagerup’s head when it dawned on her that her own script was about to be played out for real and she had the starring role. Perhaps you never saw it coming, he thinks. Perhaps she didn’t have time to react before she was stunned by the gun, and the stoning began before she regained consciousness.