Super Fucking Corduroy! He manages a flustered “hi.”
“Where are you?” Gundersen asks.
Henning clears his throat: “At the victim’s college.”
“Okay. I’m calling to let you know the police have already made an arrest.”
For a moment, he forgets that he is having a conversation with his ex-wife’s new lover. He actually detects a flicker of curiosity.
“That was quick! Who is it?”
“According to my sources, it’s the boyfriend. I don’t know his name yet. But perhaps one of her friends could tell you?”
Henning can hear Iver’s voice, but he barely registers what is being said. Among the myriad of notes, candles, and red eyes he has spotted a message which stands out.
“You still there?”
“Eh, yeah. Her friends. Great.”
“It’s a home run, I reckon.”
“They have evidence?”
“I think so. I’ll start work on the story and expand on it later as more info becomes available.”
“Okay.”
Gundersen hangs up. Henning returns his mobile to his jacket pocket without taking his eyes of the card. He holds up his camera and snaps a picture, zooming in on the text:
I’ll carry on your work
See you in eternity
Anette
He lowers the camera and lets it dangle around his neck. He rereads the words before looking around at the students.
Where are you, Anette, he wonders? And what’s the work you intend to complete?
13
Detective Inspector Brogeland takes off his jacket and hangs it on a coatrack in his office. He walks down the corridor and knocks on Sergeant Sandland’s door. Secretly hoping to catch her in an erotic fantasy about him, he doesn’t wait for her to reply before he opens it. Sadly, she has so far failed to respond to his numerous advances with even so much as a glance. Perhaps I’ve been too direct. Or maybe it’s because I’m married, Brogeland thinks and enters.
Sandland is in front of her computer, typing. She doesn’t look up when Brogeland appears.
“Are you ready?” he says. She holds up one finger, before resuming her race across the keyboard with a speed a Thai masseuse would have been impressed by.
Brogeland looks around. Typical girly office, he thinks. Neat and tidy, documents in organized piles, a pencil pot with two blue and one red pen, a stapler and a hole punch, Post-it notes next to them, a diary open on today’s date, but no appointments, ring binders—all black—on the shelves behind her desk, work-related journals and reference books on a shelf of their own. There is a yucca palm on the floor, green and verdant. The roses in the glass vase on her desk are long-stemmed and fresh, there are apples and pears—perfectly ripe, of course—in a wooden bowl, next to a cactus, free from dust.
You’re prickly, Sandland, Brogeland thinks, as he studies the look of concentration on her face. You’re always prickly, but in such an enticing way. He tries to inhale her smell without her noticing. She doesn’t wear perfume. Or perhaps she does, in which case it is very discreet.
Many of the women he has slept with have reeked of something so sweet, so cloying that he has had to take long showers afterward. His urge to screw them again evaporates the second he remembers their perfume.
It wouldn’t be like that with Sandland. Oh, no! He imagines lying next to her, sweaty, his body happily exhausted after a prolonged wrestling match of sensual and rough sex. None of the usual postcoital unease and thoughts about how soon his cab can get there.
She must be a lesbian, he concludes, if she doesn’t want to screw me.
Sandland hits “Enter” slightly harder than necessary and sheets of paper start spilling out of the printer. She gets up, goes over to the printer, and picks up the small pile that has been spat out.
“Ready,” she says, without smiling.
Damn!
Brogeland opens the door for her. Sandland exits and they go to the interview room where Mahmoud Marhoni and his lawyer are waiting for them.
Too many kebabs and not enough exercise is
“Where are you?” Gundersen asks.
Henning clears his throat: “At the victim’s college.”
“Okay. I’m calling to let you know the police have already made an arrest.”
For a moment, he forgets that he is having a conversation with his ex-wife’s new lover. He actually detects a flicker of curiosity.
“That was quick! Who is it?”
“According to my sources, it’s the boyfriend. I don’t know his name yet. But perhaps one of her friends could tell you?”
Henning can hear Iver’s voice, but he barely registers what is being said. Among the myriad of notes, candles, and red eyes he has spotted a message which stands out.
“You still there?”
“Eh, yeah. Her friends. Great.”
“It’s a home run, I reckon.”
“They have evidence?”
“I think so. I’ll start work on the story and expand on it later as more info becomes available.”
“Okay.”
Gundersen hangs up. Henning returns his mobile to his jacket pocket without taking his eyes of the card. He holds up his camera and snaps a picture, zooming in on the text:
I’ll carry on your work
See you in eternity
Anette
He lowers the camera and lets it dangle around his neck. He rereads the words before looking around at the students.
Where are you, Anette, he wonders? And what’s the work you intend to complete?
13
Detective Inspector Brogeland takes off his jacket and hangs it on a coatrack in his office. He walks down the corridor and knocks on Sergeant Sandland’s door. Secretly hoping to catch her in an erotic fantasy about him, he doesn’t wait for her to reply before he opens it. Sadly, she has so far failed to respond to his numerous advances with even so much as a glance. Perhaps I’ve been too direct. Or maybe it’s because I’m married, Brogeland thinks and enters.
Sandland is in front of her computer, typing. She doesn’t look up when Brogeland appears.
“Are you ready?” he says. She holds up one finger, before resuming her race across the keyboard with a speed a Thai masseuse would have been impressed by.
Brogeland looks around. Typical girly office, he thinks. Neat and tidy, documents in organized piles, a pencil pot with two blue and one red pen, a stapler and a hole punch, Post-it notes next to them, a diary open on today’s date, but no appointments, ring binders—all black—on the shelves behind her desk, work-related journals and reference books on a shelf of their own. There is a yucca palm on the floor, green and verdant. The roses in the glass vase on her desk are long-stemmed and fresh, there are apples and pears—perfectly ripe, of course—in a wooden bowl, next to a cactus, free from dust.
You’re prickly, Sandland, Brogeland thinks, as he studies the look of concentration on her face. You’re always prickly, but in such an enticing way. He tries to inhale her smell without her noticing. She doesn’t wear perfume. Or perhaps she does, in which case it is very discreet.
Many of the women he has slept with have reeked of something so sweet, so cloying that he has had to take long showers afterward. His urge to screw them again evaporates the second he remembers their perfume.
It wouldn’t be like that with Sandland. Oh, no! He imagines lying next to her, sweaty, his body happily exhausted after a prolonged wrestling match of sensual and rough sex. None of the usual postcoital unease and thoughts about how soon his cab can get there.
She must be a lesbian, he concludes, if she doesn’t want to screw me.
Sandland hits “Enter” slightly harder than necessary and sheets of paper start spilling out of the printer. She gets up, goes over to the printer, and picks up the small pile that has been spat out.
“Ready,” she says, without smiling.
Damn!
Brogeland opens the door for her. Sandland exits and they go to the interview room where Mahmoud Marhoni and his lawyer are waiting for them.
Too many kebabs and not enough exercise is
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