Burned (38 page)

A smart woman, he thinks, as he remembers what she said in the tent:
her script, too, made it obvious
. This makes him wonder if the script might have been Anette’s idea. Perhaps it was
she
who insisted on the Gaarder storyline, so everyone would think that Yngve Foldvik had had an affair with Henriette? Foldvik told Henning that the script was written by Henriette, but that Anette was very likely to have had a say in it.

But when did it start, he wonders? When did her plan take shape?

He remembers what she said about her first meeting with Stefan, after he won the script competition. Perhaps the wheels were set in motion that evening? Perhaps she decided to direct his script to get close to him, so she could manipulate him? She would be the woman who realised his dream. And everything in the film industry takes time. There are meetings about meetings about meetings. It would be relatively easy to pull the wool over Stefan’s eyes and, anyway, he would be dead by the time the film was completed.

What had she said to him, what words did she use to trigger his rage? Did she say that women like Henriette turn men into rapists who destroy families? It wouldn’t be difficult to inflame Stefan with this kind of logic, given what his mother had been subjected to. The more Henning thinks about it, the more he becomes convinced that Anette guided Stefan the whole way. Like a true director.

He is also convinced that they, or perhaps it was only Anette, tried to implicate Mahmoud Marhoni by texting him from Henriette’s mobile, just like in the script. The references to infidelity and the photograph on Henriette’s e-mail would be hard to explain away. It would be Marhoni’s word against a dead woman’s text messages. And no one would have a problem believing that Henriette had two-timed him. After all, she was a great flirt. The one everyone wanted. Including Anette.

He sees Stefan’s dead face before him, lying in his bed, pressed up against the wall. Did Anette promise to follow him? Did they make a suicide pact? How did she manage to trick him? Didn’t he notice that her pills were different? Why –

Hang on. Henning has an idea. And once the thought is in his head, he unlocks his entrance door fast. He takes no notice of his post, he strides up the stairs, ignoring the pain which screams in his hips and his legs. He opens his front door and sets down his laptop on the kitchen table. He climbs up the stepladder, as quickly as he can, and replaces all the batteries, before he takes off his jacket and opens a drawer in a driftwood cupboard. He sifts through receipts, takeaway menus, candles, matchboxes, hellish matchboxes, business cards, but they are not what he is looking for. He comes across a bottle of rum, Bacardi, yuk, more takeaway menus, and there, under an old ice hockey scorecard he has kept for some reason, he finds the business card he knew he hadn’t thrown away. He stares at it, sees Dr Helge Bruunsgaard’s name printed into the white, textured cardboard.

He takes out his mobile, notices that the battery is low, but thinks it should last for the call he is about to make.

The telephone rings for a long time, before Dr Helge replies. Henning’s breathing quickens when the familiar voice exuding enthusiasm and optimism says: ‘Is that you, Henning?’

‘Hi, Helge,’ he says.

‘How are you? What’s it like to be back at work?’

‘Er, good. Listen, I’m not calling this late on a Friday evening to talk about myself. I need your help. Your professional help with a story I’m working on. Can I trouble you for a few minutes? I imagine you’re on your way home?’

‘Yes, I am, but that’s all right, Henning. I’m stuck in heavy traffic, there has been an accident, so tell me, what do you want to know?’

Henning tries to organise his thoughts.

‘What I’m about to ask you will sound a bit strange. But I promise you, it’s not about me, so don’t get worried.’

‘What is it, Henning? What is it?’

The sudden concern in Dr Helge’s voice is lost on Henning. He takes a deep breath.

And asks his question.

*

The computer boots up, although somewhat reluctantly, and, as usual, takes a minute or thirty to load. Henning paces up and down while he waits for all the pre-installed programs to get ready, though he won’t be using them. The clock in the top right-hand corner of the screen shows 21.01 by the time he sits down and double-clicks on the FireCracker 2.0 icon. Again, it takes ages before the program is up and running.
6tiermes7
is logged on and he double-clicks the name. A window pops up.

MakkaPakka: Hugger?

He waits patiently until the response arrives. Not even
6tiermes7
can be in front of a keyboard all the time.

6tiermes7: Mugger.
Shouldn’t you be out celebrating now?

MakkaPakka: Done that. It was no fun.

6tiermes7: You would rather be chatting to me. I completely understand.

MakkaPakka: I’m wondering about something.

6tiermes7: You’re joking. Now?

MakkaPakka: Now more than ever, possibly.

6tiermes7: That sounds serious. What is it?

MakkaPakka: One of the text messages sent to Henriette Hagerup on the day she died came from Mozambique. You know from where in Mozambique?

6tiermes7: Hold on a moment, let me check.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to type. A few minutes pass. Then
6tiermes7
is back.

6tiermes7: A place called Inhambane.

Another large puzzle piece falls into place. It’s as if the gaping hole he has been staring at all day closes and clangs shut.

MakkaPakka: This case isn’t over.

6tiermes7: What?

MakkaPakka: Stefan Foldvik didn’t kill himself. Anette Skoppum murdered him.

6tiermes7: What makes you think that?

MakkaPakka: Lots of reasons. Too many loose ends. I need you to do me a few more favours.

6tiermes7: Go on?

MakkaPakka: The samples you took from Stefan’s room – I suppose they’re low priority now?

6tiermes7: That’s right.

MakkaPakka: That mustn’t happen.

6tiermes7: You can’t assume I have the power to change that.

MakkaPakka: No, I know. I’m just telling you what needs to happen to solve this case.

6tiermes7: If the samples will solve the case in the end, then surely time isn’t of the essence?

MakkaPakka: No, except that Anette could be over the hills and far away by then. The summer holidays are about to begin. God knows which far-flung place she’ll visit this time. She has already explored half the globe. By the time you finish processing the evidence which could convict her, she could be anywhere.

6tiermes7: I understand the problem, but I can’t do a whole lot about it. You need to take this up with Gjerstad or go directly to Nøkleby. Try to convince them. I can always help you afterwards.

MakkaPakka: Okay, I get it. But I’ve got a couple of other things I know you can help me with.

6tiermes7: What are they?

He takes a deep breath before he starts typing. It does little to calm the galloping beast in his chest.

Chapter 72

The day of Henriette Hagerup’s funeral starts off cloudless, clear and beautiful. It is Monday. Henning Juul has dusted down an old suit. He watches himself in the mirror. He adjusts the black tie he hates wearing, and runs his fingers over his scars.

It is a long time since he last looked at them. Really looked at them. But as he does, he thinks they have grown less noticeable. It’s like they have sunk into him, somehow.

He takes a deep breath in the bathroom, where the air is still warm and moist after the shower he took half an hour ago. Shaving cream and a razor lie next to the sink which now has a rim of stubble and foam.

Before he leaves, he checks that everything he needs is in place in his pockets.
The most important thing you need to bring is your head
, Jarle Høgseth used to say. That may be true, Henning thinks, but it’s not a bad idea to pack some tools as well. He needs to keep his wits about him now, even though he has made good use of them recently. He has reviewed every conversation and every encounter. Dr Helge and
6tiermes7
have both provided invaluable help and pieces for the jigsaw, but he doesn’t know if it’s enough.

He hopes to know the answer in a couple of hours.

*

Ris Church was consecrated in 1932. It is a beautiful stone church in Roman style. The church bells, all three of them, are already tolling when Henning arrives by taxi. He gets out and mixes with the mourners.

He enters the church and is given an order of service leaflet with Henriette Hagerup’s name and smiling face on the cover. He recognises the photograph. It was displayed on Henriette’s shrine outside the college last week. He remembers thinking that she looked intelligent. He takes a seat on a pew right at the back and refrains from staring at the mourners. He doesn’t want to look at anyone or talk to anyone. Not yet.

The ceremony is beautiful, dignified, subdued and sad. The vicar’s monotonous voice fills the church, accompanied by suppressed sniffling and silent weeping. Henning tries not to think about the last time he was in church, the last time he heard people mourn the loss of a child, but the thoughts are impossible to block out. Even when the vicar is speaking, he can hear the tune of ‘Little Friend’.

Fifteen minutes into the ceremony, he gets up and leaves. The atmosphere, the smell, the sounds, the black clothes, the faces, everything takes him two years back in time, to when he sat in another church, at the front, wondering if he could be put back together, if he would ever be human again.

He hasn’t moved on, he realises, as he comes out into the porch. He dreads to think about what lies ahead, his future, the unfinished business he has been too traumatised to face. But now that he knows his brain is working again, he can ignore it no longer. I can’t let it go, he thinks, I need to do something about the gnawing in my chest, this nagging clockwork which ticks away inside me; it will never release me and let me be swallowed up in the peaceful ground and close my eyes with a feeling of completion.

Because I know I’m right.

He loosens his tie a little as he comes outside and feels the fresh wind on his face. He steps away from the entrance. The vicar’s voice carries right through the open doors. A gardener is tidying up a nearby grave and making it look nice. Henning wanders around the graves. The grass is newly mown, its colours lush and green, and all shrubs are trimmed meticulously.

He strolls to the back of the church, where the gravestones are lined up like teeth. He thinks it has been a long time since he last visited Jonas, but pushes the thought aside when he sees her.

Anette is standing in front of the rectangular hole in the ground, where Henriette Hagerup will be laid to rest. Even now, Anette is carrying her backpack. A sudden onset of nerves sweeps through his body as he decides to join her. There is no one around. She is wearing a black skirt and black blazer over her blouse, which is also black.

Anette turns as he approaches from behind.

‘So you couldn’t stand it inside, either?’ she says and flashes him a smile.

‘Hi, Anette,’ he says, stops next to her and looks down into the hole.

‘I hate funerals,’ she begins. ‘I think it’s better to say goodbye like this, out here, before the hysteria begins.’

He nods. Neither of them speaks for a while.

‘I hadn’t expected to see you here,’ she says, finally looking at him. ‘Dull day was it?’

‘No,’ he replies. ‘I’m right where I need to be.’

‘What do you mean?’

He takes a step closer to the edge of the hole and looks at it again. He is reminded of Kolbein Falkeid’s poem, which Vamp set to music:

When evening falls, I quietly embark

and my lifeboat is lowered six foot down.

Twenty-three years, he thinks. Henriette Hagerup only lived for twenty-three years. He wonders if she had time to feel that she had had a life.

He sticks his hand into his jacket pocket.

‘You thought you had remembered everything,’ he says, meeting Anette’s eyes. Her cautious smile melts into an uneasy twitch in the corner of her mouth. He can see his words have taken her by surprise. Good, he intended them to. He waits until the dramatic effect is complete.

‘What?’

‘I couldn’t understand why you suddenly became so helpful and obliging. You drove me up to Ekeberg Common, right in the middle of a rainstorm. At that point, Stefan’s death wasn’t public knowledge. But you knew about it. You knew because you were the last person to see him alive. You knew because you talked him into taking his own life.’

She raises her eyebrows.

‘What the hell are you –’

‘You suffer from epilepsy, don’t you?’

Anette shifts her weight from one leg to the other.

‘Can I have a look in your backpack?’

‘What – no.’

‘Epileptics are often prescribed Orfiril. I bet you have Orfiril in there,’ he says, pointing to her backpack. ‘Or perhaps you’ve run out?’

She doesn’t reply, but sends him a look that suggests he has wounded her deeply.

‘Orfiril tablets look just like this,’ he says and pulls out a bag of Knott from his suit pocket. He takes out a small, white pastille and holds it up.

‘Stefan had already let the cat out of the bag to his parents. You were going to prison for a long time, both of you. You saw a chance for Stefan to take all the credit. Or was that your plan all along?’