Burned (28 page)

Brogeland stares at the floor, looking for an answer, but finding none.

‘Why do you think he came to you with this?’ Gjerstad says, pointing to the script. ‘Do you think he did it because he wanted to help the police or because he wanted to help himself?’

Brogeland remembers that Gjerstad is well known for his rhetorical powers. And he can think of nothing to say by way of reply.

‘Juul may very well have stumbled across something important, but don’t think for a minute that he’s doing this to benefit society. He’s using you, Bjarne. I think that what happened to him, however tragic it was, it did something to him. Given what I know of Henning Juul, my guess is it has only served to make him more cynical and manipulative.’

Brogeland doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

‘Have you done anything about it yet?’ Gjerstad asks, referring to the script.

‘I’ve tried to get hold of Anette Skoppum, but no luck so far. She doesn’t answer her mobile and she isn’t in her flat, either. I sent Emil to talk to her, but when she wasn’t there, I placed a unit outside.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Bislett.’

‘Okay.’

‘She also withdrew 5,000 kroner from a cashpoint in Akersgate, a couple of hours ago.’

‘Five grand? That’s a lot. Well, at least she is still alive.’

‘Most probably. But it also suggests she isn’t planning on withdrawing cash for a while. I’ve sent Emil to Westerdal to look for her and to talk to her friends, but I haven’t heard anything from him.’

Gjerstad nods and waits, but Brogeland has nothing more for him. He has a feeling of emptiness. Just as well that Sandland didn’t come with him, after all.

Could Henning Juul really have been that ruthless? Let a killer go free in return for a good story? Of course he could. And might Juul screw him, too, one day? But they know each other. A little.

Brogeland looks at Gjerstad, who has sat down behind his desk again and started to leaf through some documents. If Brogeland has learned anything during the seventeen months he has been working for Gjerstad, it is that once his boss has formed an opinion about someone, it takes a lot to change it. Perhaps that’s why he is such a good police officer, Brogeland thinks. Or perhaps that’s why he’ll never be a great one.

Brogeland gets up; he waits for Gjerstad to say something. But he doesn’t. Brogeland closes the door behind him on his way out.

Chapter 51

Jonas’s burning eyes rip Henning out of his sleep. He curses, sits up, finds himself on the sofa in front of the television and realises he must have dozed off during an episode of
That 70s Show.

The television is still on. The screen is filled by a man with blond hair who is eating cheese while a multitude of women of different colours and shapes and one man swap seats. Henning leans back and imagines himself riding a wave. Keep breathing, he says to himself. Keep breathing.

He is reminded of
Finding Nemo
, the animated film, where Nemo’s father searches for his missing son and meets Dory, a fish who can barely remember her own name, but who loves to sing. Henning can hear her voice in his head:
‘Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.’

They must have watched
Finding Nemo
at least thirty times, most of them the summer they visited an idyllic Danish island called Tunø. It rained the whole time. They hardly left the charming cottage they had rented on the car-free island. But Jonas loved Nemo. He wonders what that holiday would have been like without Nemo.

His mobile vibrates on the coffee table. The noise startles him. He looks at the display: caller unknown.

‘Henning Juul,’ he says and clears his voice of sleep.

‘Hi, it’s Truls Leirvåg. I hear you’ve been trying to get hold of me?’

The voice is dark and coarse. As he gets up, Henning places Truls’s dialect somewhere near Bergen. Perhaps even in Bergen.

‘Oh, hi. Yes. Great. Thanks for calling.’

No response.

‘Er, yes. I wanted to ask you about this screenplay you’ve taken out an option on. Henriette Hagerup’s script.’

More silence.

‘Can you tell me a little about her script, please? Why did you decide to option it?’

‘For the same reason we usually option scripts, I suppose. We liked it. We think we can turn it into a good film – eventually.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s called
Control+Alt+Delete
. It’s about a young woman who achieves fame and fortune, but dreams about pressing Control+Alt+Delete on her keyboard – and starting her life over. She doesn’t like the person she has become. And using a very special keyboard, she gets the chance to relive her life. Now the question is: will she make the right choices this time or will she make the same mistakes again?’

‘I see.’

‘The script needs some work, if I can put it like that, but the story has great potential.’

Henning nods to himself.

‘And Yngve Foldvik came to you with this script?’

A pause follows.

‘Yes.’

‘Is that common?’

‘What?’

‘Supervisors tipping off former colleagues about a script written by a student?’

‘I don’t know, but why not? I don’t see anything wrong with it. If you’re planning on writing some crap suggesting that, you can –’

‘Oh, no, I’m not going to write about it. I’m merely curious. It was my understanding that your co-producer, Henning Enoksen, wasn’t party to the discussions which ended up with you buying the option. Why wasn’t he?’

‘Because we trust one another’s judgement. Have you any idea how many scripts are sent to us, Juul? Every day. How many meetings we hold, how much paperwork we have to plough through in order to make the films we want to, how hard –’

‘I know,’ he interrupts. ‘What was your impression of Hagerup?’

Henning hears Leirvåg take a deep breath.

‘She was a really attractive girl. I can’t believe what has happened to her. She had such a zest for life. So open and hungry, so trusting. Not arrogant or pretentious.’

‘I presume that you had meetings with both Foldvik and Hagerup, given that he introduced her to you?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What was the chemistry like between them?’

‘What do you mean? Chemistry?’

‘You know, chemistry. The way they looked at each other. Did you pick up any sexual tension between them?’

Another silence. A long one.

‘If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then you can fuck off,’ Leirvåg says in a rising, braying Bergen accent. ‘Yngve is a decent man. One of the very, very best. He tried to help one of his students. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Do you ever go window-shopping, Juul?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you always buy the things you like?’

‘No.’

‘No. Precisely.’

Henning isn’t put off by the irritation in Leirvåg’s voice.

‘What happens to the script now?’

Leirvåg sighs.

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘But you still have your option, even though the writer is dead?’

‘Yes. I think it would be sad if we didn’t complete something she started. She would have wanted the film to go ahead.’

Nice PR point Henning thinks.

‘What does Yngve think?’

‘Yngve? He agrees with me.’

‘So you’ve already discussed it, then?’

‘No, I, eh, we –’

Henning smiles to himself and wonders if this might have been what was on the tip of Henning Enoksen’s tongue. That Leirvåg was busy planning the film’s future life without Henriette – and with Yngve.

‘Thanks for talking to me, Truls. I don’t have any more questions.’

‘Listen, you’re not going to write about this, are you?’

‘About what?’

‘About Yngve and the film and all that?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Okay. But if you do, I want copy approval. You know, check quotes and so on.’

‘I don’t know if I’ll be quoting you at all, but if I do, I’ll be in touch before it goes to print.’

‘Great.’

Leirvåg gives him his e-mail address. Henning pretends to be writing it down, but is in fact standing in front of his piano, wishing he could play it again. Leirvåg hangs up without saying goodbye.

Chapter 52

His legs hurt. He has walked a lot in the last two days, much more than he usually does. I should start taking my Vespa to work, he thinks, then I won’t need to take a taxi if I have to go from one place to another.

He is amazed at how quickly the time has gone. Before he went back to work, he was grateful when only an hour had passed. Now he feels he is losing track of time.

He looks at the clock and wonders what to do with the rest of his evening. Now that he has had a nap, there is no point in going to bed. He might as well do something productive before night comes, before Jonas’s eyes bore into him again.

I could always go to Dælenenga, he thinks, but knows he won’t be able to sit still tonight. What can he do? Seek out the lion in his den by paying a visit to Omar Rabia Rashid? Or perhaps it’s time to call on the very obliging Yngve Foldvik?

Henning strangles a yawn and hears that Gunnar Goma is stomping up and down the stairs again. Henning pads across the filthy parquet floor and opens his front door. Goma is at the bottom of the stairwell, panting. More footsteps. He sounds like an elephant as he tramples upstairs at a slow but steady pace. He comes round the banister and catches sight of Henning.

‘Oh, hello,’ he says and stops. He is gasping and rests his hands on his knees to breathe more deeply.

‘Hi,’ Henning says, trying quickly to remember the number of the emergency ambulance. Is it 110, 112 or 113? He can never remember.

‘You gave me a fright,’ Goma says, exhaling. He is growing a moustache.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,’ Henning says and studies his neighbour. Goma takes a few more steps. Bare-chested as always. The smell of acrid sweat is strong, even from a distance. He is wearing his usual red shorts.

‘I was wondering about something,’ Henning begins. He waits for Goma to stop, but he doesn’t.

‘You carry on talking,’ Goma says, and walks on. ‘I can hear you. Bloody good acoustics in here. I could screw one of my girlfriends and entertain the whole neighbourhood, ha-ha.’

Henning isn’t sure how to phrase his next question without giving away too much or sounding weird. And it’s not easy to concentrate with a frisky 75-year-old elephant disappearing higher and higher up the stairs.

He opts for the direct approach.

‘You’ve a spyhole in your door, don’t you?’

He already knows the answer, but asks nevertheless.

‘Bet your life I do, ha-ha.’

Goma stops again and wheezes.

‘Arne on the third floor, HI ARNE,’ Goma shouts, before he continues: ‘Arne on the third floor gets so many lady visitors at night. Sometimes, I watch them through the hole in the door, ha-ha.’

Arne? Arne Halldis?

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m not going to be at home much tonight, but it’s possible I might get a visitor. I was wondering, if you’re in anyway and if you hear someone, please would you have a peek through your spyhole and take a good look at them?’

Henning closes his eyes while he waits for Goma to reply; he must sound like a teenager taking the girl of his dreams to the cinema for the first time. Goma is clearly questioning Henning’s sanity.

‘What on earth do you want to know that for? If you’re not in, they’ll just come back another time, won’t they?’

‘Yes, but I’m not entirely sure that I’ll enjoy this visit.’

Silence. Even the acoustically perfect stairwell is quiet.

‘Lovesick woman, is it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Not a problem. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.’

Stomp, stomp.

‘Thank you.’

The old man would have made a brilliant interview subject, Henning thinks. The only question is what would I interview him about? He also thinks, for some inexplicable reason, that the story would be subject to fairly heavy censoring by the news desk. Nevertheless, he leaves his flat certain in the knowledge that the stairwell is safely guarded for the rest of the evening.

He has a hunch that something might happen.

Chapter 53

As he is wearing a helmet, it will be hard for anyone to recognise him, especially since he has lowered the visor. He makes sure to pull his jacket high up under his chin.

The Vespa starts without problems and Henning feels like a sixteen-year-old on his way to a secret date, as he zooms up Steenstrupsgata and passes the School of Art and Foss College, still making good progress. The great thing about the small scooter is that he can go everywhere and, if a car were to chase him, he can always drive on the pavement, down a path or an alleyway.

It doesn’t take him long to reach Alexander Kiellands Square, where people are eating outside and he can see the gushing fountains on Telthusbakken. He crosses Uelandsgate and watches the homeless and druggies huddle up outside Café Trappa. It feels good to be back in on the road. It has been a long time.

The Vespa is one of the few of his father’s possessions he has kept. It would be wrong to say that he has taken particularly good care of it. He tends to leave it exposed to the elements in the backyard all year round, and it surprises him by starting contentedly every time.

He parks outside the Rema 1000 supermarket at the bottom of Bjerregaardsgate, hangs his helmet on the handlebars and looks to both sides, before walking up the right-hand side of the street. He passes number 20. Yngve Foldvik lives at 24B.

He stops outside the red-painted door to Foldvik’s building and looks at the doorbells. The middle one says FOLDVIK. He presses it and waits for a reply. While he is waiting, he thinks about the questions he will ask and how to phrase them. He is starting to believe that Yngve Foldvik might be Harald Gaarder in the script, after all. In which case, he plays an important part, but not one that makes a lot of sense. And that’s why Henning needs to talk to him.