Burned: A Novel (The Henning Juul Series)
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Uncovering class divisions, racial conflicts, and tangled emotions, this gritty, shocking
novel of suspense heralds the arrival of a major new talent.
Henning Juul is a veteran investigative crime reporter in Oslo, Norway. A horrific fire killed his six-year-old son, cut scars across his face, and ended his marriage, and on his first day back at the job after the terrible tragedy a body is discovered in one of the city’s public parks. A beautiful female college student has been stoned to death and buried up to her neck, her body left bloody and exposed. The brutality of the crime shakes the whole country, but despite his own recent trauma – and the fact that his ex-wife’s new boyfriend is also on the case - Henning is given the assignment. When the victim’s boyfriend, a Pakistani native, is arrested, Henning feels certain the man is innocent. This was not simply a Middle Eastern-style honor killing in the face of adultery – it was a far more complicated gesture, and one that will drag Henning into a darkness he’s never dreamed of.
trunks. The photograph is surrounded by flowers, handwritten cards and messages. Tea lights flicker in the gentle wind which has found its way here. There are photographs of her with her fellow students, with friends, at parties, on location, behind a camera. It’s grief. It’s condensed grief, but it’s still fake. A textbook example, no doubt about it. He looks up from the camera and concludes that Henriette Hagerup was a strikingly attractive woman. Or perhaps a mere child. There was something
you – eh – would want to decide for yourself if there was anything you wanted to throw out.’ ‘Throw out?’ ‘Yes. Or reorganise. Or – you know.’ Henning looks around. ‘Where are the others?’ ‘Who?’ ‘The rest of the team?’ ‘Buggered if I know, lazy sods. Oh yes, Heidi is here. Heidi Kjus. She’s around somewhere. In charge of national news now, she is.’ Henning feels his chest tighten. Heidi Kjus. Heidi was one of the first temps from the Oslo School of Journalism he hired a million years
help,’ Henning begins. ‘It was really easy to find Foldvik’s office.’ ‘No problem.’ Dreadlocks licks his lips. ‘I was wondering if I could ask you for another favour. I’m a reporter and I’m working on a story about Henriette Hagerup and students in her year, how they manage to carry on after the dreadful thing that has happened. It’s not going to be an intrusive article, a more abstract one based on the silence which follows, how a trauma like this affects a group of students.’ If there is an
she says, looking at him. ‘Did it make a good story?’ ‘It’ll do,’ he says. ‘At least, I think so. I didn’t write it myself. Didn’t have the energy.’ ‘So you got some poor sod to do it for you?’ ‘Something like that.’ ‘It’s much more fun to write yourself.’ ‘I thought you wanted to be a director?’ ‘Yes, but the best directors are often the best writers. Quentin Tarantino, for example. Oliver Stone. I was about to mention Clint Eastwood, but I don’t believe he writes very much himself, now
to her from a free e-mail account from the same café shortly afterwards, telling her to check her e-mail. This happened while she was with Mahmoud Marhoni.’ ‘And then?’ ‘And then? You’re telling me it’s pure coincidence that you happen to have a Inhambane sticker on your backpack? You’ve been there, Anette. You’ve probably got friends there. Inhambane isn’t exactly one of Star Tours’ top-ten travel destinations.’ Anette doesn’t reply. ‘The trouble with being partners in crime’, he carries on,