Burned by Thomas Enger Page B

hearing from her lips for so long.
    “Where was she going after Hotel Cæsar had ended?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “You don’t know? Didn’t you ask?”
    “No.”
    “She spends the night at your place sometimes, doesn’t she?”
    “Yes, sometimes.”
    “But you didn’t ask why she didn’t stay over yesterday?”
    “No.”
    Sandland sighs. Marhoni’s hard-boiled mask remains intact.
    “Have you heard of Ekeberg Common?” she asks next.
    “No.”
    “Ever been up there?”
    “Not that I remember.”
    “Not been up there for the Norway Cup?”
    “I don’t like soccer.”
    “No brothers or nephews who play? You haven’t been up there to support them when they played?”
    He shakes his head and twinkles arrogantly at her.
    “Have you ever played cricket up there?”
    He is about to say “no” on autopilot, but he hesitates half a second too long. Brogeland notes down “has been to Ekeberg, but is lying about it.” Sandberg reads it, and carries on:
    “Do you own a stun gun, Mr. Marhoni?”
    His reaction suggests she has just asked him the stupidest question in the world.
    “A what?”
    “Don’t give me that. You know what a stun gun is. Don’t you ever go to the movies? Watch cop shows?”
    He shakes his head again and adds a smirk.
    “I don’t like cops.”
    “Inspector, what’s the point of these questions?”
    “We’re getting to it, Mr. Indrehaug,” Brogeland says with forced restraint in his voice. Sandland is about to attack. She pulls out a sheet.
    “The victim was found with marks on her neck. They match those caused by a stun gun. Also known as an electroshock weapon, if you know what that is.”
    She slides the sheet across the table and turns it over, so they can see it. It is a close-up of the victim’s neck. Two rust-colored, irregular burns can clearly be seen. Indrehaug picks up the photograph and studies it.
    “There are many different models, but a stun gun is used when you want to paralyze rather than injure your victim. Render them helpless. So that you can put them in a hole and bury them.” Sandland looks at Marhoni, but he remains unimpressed and unaffected by her questions.
    “For someone whose girlfriend has just been killed in a very brutal way, you don’t seem terribly upset or sad,” she carries on. It is a question rather than a statement. Marhoni shrugs again.
    “Didn’t you care about her?”
    A tiny twitch flits across his face.
    “Didn’t you love her?”
    Marhoni blushes faintly.
    “Did she meet with you yesterday to end it? Was that why you killed her?”
    He is getting angry now.
    “Had she met someone else? Was she bored with you?”
    Marhoni moves to get up. Indrehaug places his hand on Marhoni’s arm.
    “Sergeant—”
    “Was that why you killed her?”
    Marhoni stares at Sandland as if he wants to tear her apart.
    “Did you look at Henriette like that when you picked up the rock and crushed her head?”
    “Sergeant, that’s enough!”
    “Tell your client to answer the question!”
    Brogeland coughs and gestures to Sandland to calm down. The room falls silent. Brogeland can see the pulse beat in Marhoni’s throat. He decides to strike while the iron is hot.
    “Mr. Marhoni, preliminary examinations carried out at the crime scene and on the victim show she had very rough sex not long before she was killed. Would you know anything about that? What can you tell us about it?”
    Marhoni is still glaring at Sandland with the same thunder in his eyes, then he quietly turns to Brogeland. He says nothing.
    “Even though you don’t watch cop shows, you probably know that semen is one of the best things a killer can leave behind? For the police, that is. DNA. You’ve heard of that?”
    Still no reply. Cold-blooded bastard, Brogeland thinks.
    “Last night, at twenty-one seventeen, you received a text message from Henriette Hagerup.”
    Marhoni’s pupils contract slightly. Brogeland notices this.
    “Do you recall what it said?”
    Brogeland