‘When was this?’
‘Just after eight o’clock this morning, I think. I can’t be sure. I hadn’t had my first coffee yet.’
‘Sod it,’ Henning mutters to himself, but Anette hears him.
‘What is it?’
He shakes his head and whispers to her so that Dreadlocks can’t hear.
‘The police are looking for them, but no one knows where they are.’
‘Why? Do you think that they — ’
He gives her a sharp look. She understands him instantly, moves closer and whispers:
‘Are you saying that they know that Stefan killed Henriette?’
He knows what he wants to say, but he shakes his head.
‘I don’t know.’
‘And now they’ve gone? Disappeared?’
‘It looks like it.’
They stand for a while without saying anything. Then it dawns on him. He turns to Dreadlocks again.
‘Do you know if the tent on Ekeberg Common is still there?’
‘The tent for the filming? Yes. The police finished with it yesterday, they said they had taken all the pictures and gathered all the evidence they needed. They called to say we could pick it up.’
That’s where they must be. Henning looks out of the window. The rain will soak him. And a minicab is out of the question. He lifts up his helmet.
‘Do you want me to drive?’
He looks at Anette, surprised. ‘You have a car?’
‘Yes. Why shouldn’t I have?’
He thinks no, why shouldn’t she?
‘Don’t you have a lecture or something?’
‘Like I said, I was due to meet with Yngve, but as he’s not here, then — ’
She throws up her hands. ‘And if he’s somewhere else, and you know where and why, I’m happy to provide transport. It’s no big deal. I can give you a lift up there.’
The prospect is too tantalising for him to resist it.
‘Is your car close by?’
‘It’s just over there,’ she says, pointing over his head.
‘Okay. Let’s go.’
Chapter 63
They manage to get soaked to the skin in the short distance from the lobby to the car park. Anette opens the door on the driver’s side first, gets in, and unlocks the passenger door for him. He climbs inside a small dark blue Polo, which appears to be in good nick, even though it must be at least fifteen years old. The car is remarkably free from smells, given that it is a woman’s car, but something tells him that Anette doesn’t care much for perfume.
She starts the car, turns the wipers to maximum speed and reverses out. She is about to put the car in gear, when she stops and looks at him. The sound of the wipers brushing back and forth mixes with protests from the engine that has yet to warm up.
‘What’s going on?’ she says. Henning groans. I can’t tell her about Stefan, he thinks. It’s not up to him to give out that sort of information.
‘I need to speak to the Foldviks.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? Does it have anything to do with Stefan? Or Henriette?’
He nods. ‘But I don’t know what. Or how.’
Suitably enigmatic, he thinks. It also happens to be true. He has no idea what is going on or what to say to them, if and when he finds them. But his instinct tells him he needs to find them, and he needs to find them fast.
‘Please, Anette, just drive. Okay? I’ll explain everything later. But right now, we haven’t got time to talk.’
Anette looks at him, lets a few seconds go by. Then she puts the car into first and drives off. Henning says a silent prayer.
They go down Fredensborgvei. I ought to ring Brogeland, he thinks, tell him what I know, but I can’t. Not yet.
They drive on in silence. That suits Henning fine, it gives him a chance to think. Anette drives cautiously, not nervously, but with care and without excessive stomping on the accelerator or the brakes. She forces the Polo up a long, winding road, past the old business school and Ekeberg Restaurant which nestles further up the hill. Henning can see Oslo Fjord stretch out between the islands, ferries in the port; a few private boats have gone out, despite the dreadful weather. They also pass some poor cyclist, who no longer cares about getting wet when Anette splashes him.
While the rain cascades down, he thinks about Stefan, he visualises him in the tent, holding the rock over his head, the rage which took over, so he couldn’t stop until Henriette’s body was lifeless, before he had flogged her and chopped off one of her hands. Where does such rage come from? And how do the hudud punishments fit in?
He is reminded of the photograph of Stefan and the newspaper cutting about him in Yngve Foldvik’s office. And once he has compared recent events to the information in the article, everything falls into place.
Well, I’ll be damned.
It takes them no more than eleven or twelve minutes to get from Westerdal to Ekeberg. He sees the white tent the moment they reach the Common. He asks her to pull into a bus stop. She does so.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ he says, as he opens the door.
‘But — ’
‘This is no place for you now, Anette. Go home. Thanks for the lift.’
Anette is about to say something, but thinks better of it.
‘I’ll just have to read about it later,’ she says and smiles briefly. Maybe, he thinks, and gets out. He slams the door shut behind him. The rain pelts down. Trying to escape it is pointless.
He watches Anette drive off and heads down the tarmac path that winds its way across the Common in the direction of Ekeberg School. There is nobody outside now, in the school playground, or the playing fields. Nor can he see any cars parked near the tent. Hm, he wonders, could I have been wrong? Perhaps they’re not here, after all?
Sneaking around like this makes him feel like he is doing something illegal, an extreme form of apple scrumping. He is just about to open the tent, when he freezes. A sound. A voice? No. Through the intense drumming of the rain, he can hear someone groaning inside. He listens out. But it’s the sound of one person only. Not two. He looks over his shoulder. There isn’t a soul to be seen.
Damn, Henning, he thinks. What’s your plan once you go in? ‘Hi, I am Henning Juul from 123news. I’d like to interview you, please.’
Damn. He turns around again. The Common is deserted. The rain hammers against the roof of the tent. He checks the time. It has just gone noon. He was supposed to be at the police station an hour ago. Perhaps Brogeland is waiting for him? No. He would have called. And with Marhoni’s interrogation, Stefan’s suspicious death and the disappearance of the Foldviks, Brogeland probably wouldn’t have time to interview him, anyway.
I’m going in, he says to himself. I’ll just have to take things as I find them.
He bends down, gets hold of the zip and pulls it up in one swift movement. He looks inside. At first, he wonders if there is something wrong with his eyesight. Slowly, the picture becomes clearer. Ingvild Foldvik is holding a spade. Rocks lie at her feet, big and small. She looks at him with terror in her eyes. He looks at her with terror in his eyes.
Then he sees the hole in the ground. Yngve is buried in it. And he has a red mark from a stun gun on his neck.
Chapter 64
Henning struggles to control his breathing. He holds out his hands. Raindrops trickle down his head. He wipes his face with one hand and steps inside the tent. The air is stuffy. The merciless rain bangs against the roof, which can’t keep out all the water, so some seeps through and drips on to the grass. He looks into Ingvild Foldvik’s eyes. They are wide open and fixed. There is a shiny, faraway expression in them he has only ever seen in people who are insane.
‘Take it easy,’ he says and realises immediately how stupid that sounds. She is holding a spade, there is a pile of rocks by her feet and it doesn’t take a whole lot of imagination to work out what she intends to do with them.
She is much thinner than when he last saw her. She was slim when she gave evidence in court, but now she is practically a skeleton. Her clothes hang on her like rags. She has aged ten years, at least. Her skin sags. She is a zombie, he thinks. Her teeth are stained yellow from years of smoking and her hair has started to go grey. It is tied back into a hasty ponytail; strands of damp hair fall over her face, a pale, gaunt face with large bags under her eyes.