Burned (33 page)

‘It depends, but it wasn’t the case here. I think he got a few thousand kroner and an invitation to Zentropa in Denmark. Stefan was thrilled when I asked him. Stefan’s a nice guy, a smart guy. But dangerous, too. I got the feeling that he had some mental problems.’

‘What do you mean? What made you think that?’

‘I’m not really sure. It’s a little hard to explain. You needed to spend time with him to notice. Sometimes, he was over the moon. Laughed at everything, hyper, almost. Other times you could barely get a word out of him. Like he had shut down completely.’

Henning nods and thinks that the description fits a boy who takes his own life after taking someone else’s. What if the burden grew too heavy or the memories too powerful? Maybe he couldn’t bear to close his eyes at night without seeing her dead, without reliving what he had done?

Perhaps there is nothing suspicious about his death, after all? But then why have his parents gone missing?

That moment, it starts to rain. The heavens open completely. Henning and Anette rush to the lobby. They aren’t the only ones to seek shelter there, a bottleneck is created, but it lasts less than a minute, then everyone is inside.

People smile at each other while they shake off the water. Anette runs her fingers through her wet hair. They find themselves by the reception counter. Dreadlocks is there today, but there is no sign of his girlfriend. Dreadlocks meets Henning’s eyes and they nod to each other.

‘Have you seen Yngve today?’ Henning asks Anette in a low voice. She shakes her head and replies ‘no’ at the same time. She is about to say something else.

‘It’s his day off today.’

They turn around and look at Dreadlocks.

‘Yngve and his wife have both taken today off,’ he says and holds up his hands. ‘Sorry, I overheard you. I didn’t mean to. Yngve called in this morning, he wanted to speak to the Principal, but he wasn’t in, so I took a message. He said that neither he nor his wife would be coming to work.’

‘That’s weird,’ Anette says. ‘I was due to meet him today. Did he say why?’

Henning is on the verge of saying that their son has died, but remembers at the last moment that the death isn’t public knowledge yet.

‘He said something about going on a trip,’ Dreadlocks replies.

‘A trip?’

‘Yes. A camping trip, I think he said.’

‘Camping?’

Henning is aware that he is nearly shouting.

‘Yes.’

His stomach lurches. The usual thing would be to tell the truth, that their son has died and they are taking some time off. Everyone would understand. So why say they are going
camping?

‘Why did he tell you that?’

‘I just thought he wanted me to know. In case someone asked after him or them. I don’t know. He sounded – how can I put it – a bit agitated. Or manic, I’m not really sure.’

‘How? What do you mean?’

‘If I didn’t know him, I would have said that he was high. He spoke faster than he normally does.’

‘Did he say where they were going?’

‘No. Only that they were going camping. I did think it sounded weird, I’ve never really seen Yngve as one of those, you know, the outdoor type. But I thought – why not – camping is cool, so –’

He holds up his hands.

‘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.

‘W-who are you?’ she stutters.

He looks at Yngve in the ground. His head has flopped. But he is breathing.

‘My name’s Henning Juul,’ he says with as much control in his voice as he can muster. He can see that the name means nothing to her.

‘I reported on your court case. Before this happened,’ he says, pointing to his face, thinking that the scarring might earn him some sympathy points.

‘What are you doing? Why are you here?’

Her voice is sharper now. He looks at Yngve.

‘Don’t do it, Ingvild,’ he says. ‘Deep down, you don’t really want to do it.’

‘Oh yes, I do,’ she snarls. ‘What have I got to live for? He has taken everything from me. EVERYTHING. My whole life. It’s – it’s –’

Her eyes narrow. She starts to cry without making a sound. The tears just fall from her eyes. Then they start to glow again and she looks at her husband with contempt. She turns to Henning. It is as if a veil has been placed over her face.

‘Do you know what he made my son do? Do you know who my son is?’

Henning takes another step into the tent.

‘Stefan,’ he says, gently. ‘And it was Stefan who killed Henriette Hagerup.’

She lets out a pitiful howl.

‘H-how do you know that?’ she sobs. He takes a deep breath and prepares himself.

‘I read Henriette Hagerup’s script.’

She sniffs, brushes away the hair from her face. He thinks about what to say, how to find an inroad to the sentient part of her brain. Brute force is no good. Throwing himself at her and dragging her outside is hopeless. Ingvild Foldvik may be reduced to skeleton, but she is a skeleton with a purpose. And, if you have enough of that, you can achieve most things. Besides, she has a stun gun.

‘If you’ll let me, Ingvild,’ he says, as softly as he can, ‘then I want to talk to you about the script.’

‘Ingvild,’ she says, mimicking his voice. ‘So now you think you know all about me, eh? Stupid journalist.’

‘Stefan killed Henriette because your husband slept with her. He might even have been in love with her. He destroyed your family.
She
destroyed your family and wrote a script which – in parts – dealt with what happened. But Stefan read something more into the script.’

‘What do you mean?’

He glances at Yngve, who is still unconscious.

‘Stefan was into symbolism.
The Da Vinci Code Lite
, that’s what the newspaper called his script, wasn’t it? Henriette’s hand was chopped off. There was nothing about that in her script. Hudud punishments in sharia law prescribe that thieves are punished by having their hand chopped off. Henriette stole your husband.’