Free Burned by Thomas Enger Page B

elsewhere?”
    “Because mine will be better.”
    “Hah! I hope so. And next time: call in your story.”
    He has no time to reply before Heidi hangs up. He grimaces at his mobile. And takes his time going home.
    He changes the batteries in the smoke alarms in his flat and settles down on the sofa with his laptop. On his way back, he thought about possible angles. It shouldn’t take him too long to write the story. He might even have time for a walk to Dælenenga and watch some training sessions before it gets dark.
    The most time-consuming task is uploading and editing the pictures, before he can send them to the news desk. He doesn’t want to risk the news desk ruining them.
    Six or seven years ago, he doesn’t remember precisely, a woman was brutally murdered in Grorud. Her body was found in a skip. He had taken dozens of photos and sent them all to the news desk at Aftenposten, just as they were, because The Old Lady goes to press early. He stated explicitly which photos could be used and which ones couldn’t, at least not before consent from her relatives had been obtained, as several of them had been present behind the police tape. He also stressed to the news desk that they must check with him before going to print.
    He never heard anything back that evening and he never chased it. The following morning, the story was published with not only the wrong photos, but also the wrong captions. Humble pie time. He tried to apologize to the victim’s relatives, but they refused to talk to him. “Yeah right, blame the news desk,” they sneered.
    But journalism is like any other profession. You learn from your mistakes. One of the first things a friend of his was told, when he started his medical degree, was that you won’t become a good doctor until you have filled up a cemetery. You learn on the job, acquire knowledge, master new technology, adapt, get to know your colleagues and their skills, and learn to work with them. It is a continuous process.
    He opens Photoshop and uploads the pictures. Grief, fake grief, and more fake grief. And then, Anette. He double clicks on the photos he shot of her. Even on his 15.6-inch screen, every detail is visible. When he views the photos as a slide show, it becomes even more obvious. Anette looks around, as though she is being watched, but then she steals a moment with Henriette. It is over in seconds, but he caught it on camera.
    Anette, he thinks again. What are you scared of?
    Writing the story and sending it to the news desk takes him longer than he had expected. The sentences don’t come to him as easily as he had hoped. But he decides that even an old dog can learn new tricks. And he hopes Heidi is at home, foaming at the mouth because he kept her waiting.
    He looks at the clock—8:30 PM . Too late to go to Dælenenga.
    He sighs and leans back in the sofa. He should have gone to see his mum, he thinks. It has been days now. She is probably hurt. On reflection, he can’t recall the last time she wasn’t feeling sorry for herself.
    Christine Juul lives in a simple two-bedroom flat in Helgesensgate. She has lived there for four years; it is one of those new developments, which cost a fortune to buy initially but lose value over time. There are some of them in Grünerløkka as well.
    Before Helgesensgate, she lived in Kløfta, where Henning grew up, but it proved to be too great a distance to him and Trine. She wanted to be closer to her children, purely so that they could take care of her. She spent nearly all her money on a flat devoid of character; she has nothing on her walls, only plain once-white surfaces, discolored from all the smoke she blows out into the room every day. But he doesn’t think that’s why she is hurt.
    Henning believes Christine Juul was quite content with her lot in life until her husband died. She had a good job as a care assistant, an apparently happy marriage, apparently happy and thriving children; she didn’t have many friends, but she