Burned by Thomas Enger Page A

Brogeland’s first impression when he takes a closer look at Mahmoud Marhoni. He has gained some weight since he saw last him and yet he wears a tight-fitting T-shirt. A spare tire of puppy fat hangs around his waist. If I ever wanted to turn women off, Brogeland thinks, then that’s precisely how I would go about it.
    Marhoni’s face is round. Brogeland estimates his stubble to be a week old, but Marhoni has shaved under his chin in a neat edge. His skin is chestnut brown. He is just under 1.70 meters, but he has a presence which suggests he is oblivious to his lack of height or the excess weight.
    Marhoni looks tough and displays the “what are you looking at, pig” attitude. Brogeland has seen it before; he has seen it all before. He already knows what kind of interview it is going to be.
    Marhoni’s lawyer, Lars Indrehaug, is a creep who has defended vermin all his life. The prosecution service loathes him and regards him as a jackal who exploits loopholes in the law to put rapists, drug dealers, and other scum back on the street. He is tall, thin, and gangly. His hair flops into his eyes. He brushes it away with his fingers.
    Brogeland and Sandland sit down opposite Indrehaug and his client. Brogeland takes the lead, goes through the formalities and fixes his eyes on Marhoni.
    “Why did you run when we came to talk to you?”
    Marhoni shrugs. You just carry on playing that game, Brogeland thinks, and continues:
    “Why did you burn your laptop?”
    Same response.
    “What was on it?”
    Still no reply.
    “You know we’re going to find out sooner or later, don’t you? You can make it easier for yourself by saving us some time.”
    Marhoni gives Brogeland a look loaded with contempt. Brogeland sighs.
    “What can you tell me about your relationship with Henriette Hagerup?”
    Marhoni barely looks up. Indrehaug leans toward him, whispers something neither Brogeland nor Sandland can hear, before straightening up again.
    “She was my girlfriend,” Marhoni replies in broken Norwegian.
    “How long had you been together?”
    “About a year.”
    “How did you meet?”
    “At a concert.”
    “What kind of concert?”
    “Surely the nature of the concert is irrelevant to the investigation?” Indrehaug interjects.
    Brogeland glares at Indrehaug who looks indignant on his client’s behalf.
    “We’re trying to establish what kind of relationship your client had with the victim,” Sandland cuts in. For once, Brogeland decides not to look at her. He torpedoes Indrehaug with his eyes, though Indrehaug isn’t impressed in the slightest.
    “What kind of concert was it?” Brogeland repeats.
    “Noori.”
    “Noori?”
    “At the Mela Festival.”
    “Noori is a fairly well-known Pakistani rock band,” Sandland says. This time Brogeland looks at her, but tries to conceal how impressed he is, because he is also annoyed at her interruption.
    “It’s made up of two brothers from—”
    “Yes, I get it.”
    For the first time during the interview, something other than contempt emerges from Marhoni’s eyes. He looks at Sandland, slightly more vigilant now. Brogeland registers this and signals that she should take over. Sandland moves closer to the table.
    “When did you last see Henriette?”
    Marhoni thinks about it. “Yesterday afternoon.”
    “Can you be more specific?”
    “She was at my place until Hotel Cæsar finished.”
    “You watched Hotel Cæsar ?”
    “Really—”
    Indrehaug’s cheeks have acquired a flame-red hue, which reveals his fondness for red wine. Sandland holds up her hands by way of apology.
    “What did you talk about?”
    “This and that.”
    “Such as?”
    Again, Indrehaug leans toward Marhoni.
    “That’s none of your business.”
    Sandland smiles. She leans toward Brogeland, mimicking the performance across the table, but Brogeland stops listening once he realizes that she isn’t saying “come home with me once this mind-numbing interview is over”—words he has dreamt of