Burned (13 page)

Was there movement from inside? It sounded like it. Like someone turning over in bed. He knocks again. The sound of feet on floor. He takes a step back. The door opens. A bleary-eyed Tariq Marhoni stands on the threshold. Henning thinks he looks like he is still asleep. His eyes are narrow and he sways. He is dressed only in underpants and a filthy vest. His face is drawn, he has huge bags under his eyes and his stubble suggests he is trying desperately to grow a beard. Tariq is chubby with curly, bushy hair. He looks like he hasn’t showered for days.

Tariq supports himself against the wall.

‘Hi, I’m Henning Juul.’

Tariq says nothing.

‘I work for
123news
, and –’

Tariq takes a step back and slams the door. And he double-locks it.

Great, Henning. Well played.

‘All I need is two minutes, Tariq.’

The sound of footsteps fading away. Henning fumes, but knocks again. He plays his last card.

‘I’m here because I think your brother is innocent.’

He shouts a little louder than he had intended. The sound reverberates. He waits. And waits. No noise from the flat. He curses to himself.

This used to be straightforward.

He lets a minute pass, maybe two, before he decides to leave. He is about to open the front door when he hears a creak. He turns around. The door opens. Tariq looks at him. The apathy in his eyes has gone. Henning seizes his chance and holds up his hands.

‘I’m not here to dig up dirt on your brother.’

His voice is soft, filled with compassion. Tariq seems to buy his explanation.

‘You think he’s innocent?’

He speaks broken Norwegian in a high-pitched voice. Henning nods. Tariq hesitates, debates with himself. His stomach bulges behind the vest.

‘If you write some shit about my brother –’

He pulls an aggressive face, but doesn’t finish his threat. Henning holds up his hands again. His eyes alone should convince Tariq that he is serious. Tariq goes back inside, but leaves the door open. Henning follows him.

Good, Henning. You’re catching up fast.

Henning closes the door behind him and checks the ceiling. And finds what he is looking for.

‘I need to get dressed,’ Tariq calls out.

Henning explores the flat which surprises him by being clean and tidy. There are two doors to the right off the hallway where shoes are lined up neatly against the skirting board. A door to his left is open. He sneaks a peek. The toilet seat is up. The faint scent of Cif lemon wafts into the hallway.

He passes the kitchen. There is a plate with a few crumbs and a glass with traces of milk in the sink. He heads for the living room, sits down in a chair so soft he wonders if his backside is touching the floor. He can see the hallway, past the shoes, to the front door. Everywhere is clean.

He looks around, as he always does when he visits someone.
Details
, his old mentor, Jarle Høgseth used to say. The first thing that strikes him is the surprising number of plants and flowers in a flat inhabited by two brothers. An impressive large pelargonium with pink flowers sits on the windowsill. Orchids in a vase on a corner table. Pink roses. The brothers clearly have a thing about pink. Two candleholders with white candles. A large television, 45 inches, at least, he reckons, stands up against the wall. Home cinema – of course – from Pioneer, with tall speakers either side of the television and two behind. Henning looks for the subwoofer and assumes it must be hidden under the dark brown sofa. If he had been in a home in Oslo’s West End, he would have guessed the sofa was designed by Bolia.

The coffee table is low and inspired by oriental style, with curved legs and a square top. The table was black once, but has now been painted white. A clean glass ashtray sits in the middle. More flowers. Another candlestick. A photo of a large Pakistani family, the family in Islamabad, he guesses, hangs on the vanilla-coloured wall. There is a fireplace in one corner.

But no photos of Henriette Hagerup.

The flat is starting to affect him. He had imagined a dump, dust everywhere, mess and rubbish. This flat, however, is tidier than his own has been for the last six months, longer, perhaps.

He knows he is prejudiced. But he likes prejudices, likes having to review or change his opinion when he learns something about a subject, which overturns a preconceived notion. The knowledge he has gained from studying the Marhoni brothers’ flat is like one of those boiled sweets that doesn’t look very tasty, but tastes delicious when you unwrap it and pop it in your mouth.

He smiles as Tariq appears in the hallway. Tariq has put on a pair of black jeans and a black linen shirt. He goes to the kitchen. Henning hears him open and shut the fridge quickly, then he opens a cupboard and takes out a glass.

‘Do you want a glass of milk?’ he calls out.

‘Eh, no thanks.’

Milk, Henning muses. He has made numerous home visits, but no one has ever offered him milk before. He hears a firm glass-hitting-kitchen-counter slam followed by a grunt of satisfaction. Tariq enters the living room and sits down opposite him on a wooden stool. He takes out a packet of cigarettes and offers Henning a white friend. Henning declines, muttering something about having quit.

‘What happened to your face?’

The unexpected question takes Henning by surprise. He replies without thinking.

‘My flat burned down two years ago. My son died.’

He doesn’t know if it is the brutal truth or the unsentimental way in which he said it that makes Tariq uncomfortable. He tries to say something, but stops. Tariq fumbles with the cigarette, lights it and tosses the lighter on the coffee table. Henning follows the rectangular tool from hell with his eyes, watches it skid to a halt by the ashtray.

Tariq looks at him. For a long time. Henning says nothing; he knows that he has stirred Tariq’s curiosity, but he has no plans to bombard him with questions. Not yet.

‘So you don’t think my brother did it?’ Tariq asks and takes a deep drag on his cigarette. He pulls a face, as if it tastes of stinking feet.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

He answers frankly.

‘I don’t know.’

Tariq snorts.

‘And yet you don’t think he did it?’

‘That’s right.’

They look at each other. Henning doesn’t capitulate; he isn’t scared of what his eyes might reveal.

‘So what do you want to know?’

‘Do you mind if I use this?’

He takes out his Dictaphone and places it on the table between them. Tariq shrugs.

Far too few reporters use a Dictaphone. When he first started out, he would scribble like a maniac while listening to what his subjects said and thinking about the next question to ask them. Needless to say that was a hopeless way of conducting an interview. You don’t catch everything that’s being said and your follow-up questions aren’t logical either, because you’re concentrating on two things, at least, at the same time. Dictaphones are brilliant.

He presses ‘
record
’ and leans back in the chair. He puts his notebook in his lap. Pen poised. A Dictaphone should never replace pen and paper. If the recording fails, you will be grateful you made some notes, ideas to follow up later.

He looks at Tariq and can see he is upset by the arrest of his brother. A murder suspect. He has probably been wondering how to break it to the family back home. What will their friends say?

‘What can you tell me about your brother?’

Tariq glares at him.

‘My brother is a good man. He has always taken care of me. He was the one who got me up here, away from Islamabad, away from the slums and the crime there. He said life in Norway was good. He paid for my ticket, gave me a place to stay.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

Tariq looks at him, but doesn’t reply. Too soon, Henning thinks. Let the man talk.

‘It was tough to begin with. Couldn’t speak the language. Our only friends were other Pakistanis. But my brother got me in to Norwegian classes. We met people from other countries. Norwegian women –’

He sings the last word slightly and smiles. His smile promptly disappears. Henning says nothing.

‘My brother didn’t kill anyone. He’s a good guy. And he loved her.’

‘Henriette?’

Tariq nods.

‘Had they been together for a long time?’

‘No. A year, that was all.’

‘What was their relationship like?’

‘Good, I think. A lot of action.’

‘They had a lot of sex, you mean?’

Tariq smiles. Henning can tell that Tariq has a memory, perhaps several, in his head. He nods.

‘Were they faithful to each other?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘You think the police haven’t asked your brother that question already?’

Tariq doesn’t reply, but Henning can see he is debating it.

‘It was a bit on and off.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think they broke up many times, but they always got back together again. And they were at it yesterday afternoon, well, I don’t know anyone who does that.’

‘So they –’

Tariq nods.

‘Henriette made a lot of noise. She always does, but it was extra loud yesterday.’

The smile fades. He hasn’t smoked for a minute, but now he takes a deep drag of stinking feet again before stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray.

‘They met at the Mela Festival. Nothing happened at the time, later they ran into each other at a film audition. Then it was –’

Tariq’s mobile rings from what Henning assumes to be a bedroom. He has heard the ring tone before, but he can’t place it. Tariq is momentarily distracted, but he ignores the call. He reaches out for the lighter, picks it up and studies it.

‘It’s a bad thing that’s happened,’ he says without raising his head.

‘Do you have any idea who might have done it?’

Tariq shakes his head.

‘Did Henriette and your brother have mutual friends they hung out with?’

Tariq presses the lighter wheel hard. A proud flame shoots out. Henning feels his chest tighten.

‘We’re from Pakistan. We’ve lots of friends.’

‘Any ethnic Norwegian friends?’

‘Many.’

‘Were some of them married?’

‘Married?’

‘Yes. Wedding bells, rings on their fingers?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘Had any of them been to church and –’

‘Hello – I know what marriage is. I just don’t understand why you ask.’

Tariq carries on fidgeting with the lighter, while he looks at Henning. He doesn’t quite know how to phrase his next question without revealing too much or saying something which might be offensive.

‘Were either of them unfaithful?’

Tariq hesitates for a second. He holds Henning’s gaze before he averts his eyes and looks at the floor.

‘I don’t know.’

His voice is quieter now. Henning thinks there is something Tariq isn’t telling him. He makes a note ‘both unfaithful?’ on his pad.

‘What does your brother do for a living?’

Tariq looks up again.

‘Why’s that so important to you?’

Henning shrugs.

‘It mightn’t be important at all. Or perhaps it’s the most important thing of all. I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking, to get closer to understanding who your brother is. For most of us, we are what we do. We live through our work.’

‘Do you?’

Henning wants to carry on while the going is good, but the question stops him in his tracks. He tries to come up with a sensible answer, but he can’t.

‘No.’

Tariq nods. Henning thinks he can read empathy in Tariq’s eyes, but he can’t be sure.

‘My brother drives a minicab.’

‘Does he work for himself?’

‘No.’

‘Who does he work for?’

‘Omar.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘A friend.’

‘What’s he called apart from Omar?’

Tariq sighs.

‘Omar Rabia Rashid.’

‘And what do you do for a living?’

Tariq gives Henning a weary look.

‘I’m a photographer.’

‘Freelance or employed?’

‘Freelance.’

Henning tries to sit upright in the soft chair, but he sinks back into it.

‘You brother refused to let the police in yesterday and he set fire to his computer. Do you know why he would do that?’

Henning notices that Tariq’s eyes look worried now. Tariq takes out a new cigarette and lights it. Then he shakes his head.

‘You’ve got no idea?’

He shakes his head again.

‘My brother was the only one who used it. I’ve my own computer.’

‘You never saw what he used it for?’

‘No, but it was probably the usual stuff. Surfing. E-mail. Are we done? I’m meeting a friend.’

Henning nods.

‘Just a few more questions, then I’ll go.’

At that moment, someone knocks on the door. Three short knocks. Tariq appears surprised.

‘Your friend?’

Tariq doesn’t reply, but he gets up.

‘If it’s another reporter, then I suggest you slam the door in his face,’ Henning jokes. Tariq goes to the door. Henning can see him from where he is sitting. Tariq opens the door with a swift movement.

Henning leans forward, turns off the Dictaphone and gets ready to leave. He has just slipped it into his pocket, when he hears Tariq say:

‘What the –’

Then Tariq is hit by two bullets to his chest.

Chapter 24

The shots are silent, but powerful enough to throw Tariq Marhoni against the wall. Henning registers two red spurts from Tariq’s chest and has no time to react before the mouth of the pistol appears inside the door. A man enters. He sees Tariq slumped against the wall and fires another bullet straight into his head.

Jesus Christ.

Henning tries to get up as quietly as he can, but he is so deep into the soft chair that it is impossible without the killer noticing him. Henning watches the gun turn 90 degrees towards him and just manages to roll out of the way before the back of the chair receives a hole the size of an eye, right where his head was a second ago. The stuffing bursts out, foam and fabric whirl in the air. Henning hears footsteps and thinks that this is the end, bloody hell, this is it, it’s over before it has even begun; panicking, he looks around, he sees a door in the living room, a door leading to another room, he has no choice, he has to go that way, he stands up and runs as fast as someone with his legs can. He can feel pain in his hip, his legs don’t want to obey him, but he aims for the door and throws it open.