Fear Not

January 2009

Persecuted

‘I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing in telling you this. We haven’t actually found any signs of a break-in, and the Head doesn’t want to involve the police. It’s just that I-’

‘Could you just…?’ Johanne began, and cleared her throat. ‘Could you just go through all that again?’

She tried to find a position where she could sit still.

‘Well…’

Live Smith, Director of Studies, ran her fingers through her thick grey hair. She had seemed pensive when she met Johanne in the corridor and asked her to come into the office. Now it was as if she regretted her action, and would prefer to forget the whole thing.

‘Because we’re a special school,’ she said hesitantly, ‘we hold a considerable amount of detailed information about every child. As you know, our pupils have widely differing forms of functional disability, and in order to maximize the education we are able to offer each individual child, we-’

‘I know what this school is and what it’s able to offer,’ Johanne said. ‘My daughter is a pupil here.’

Her voice sounded unfamiliar. Hard and expressionless. She coughed and had to pick up the glass of water, even though her hands were shaking.

‘Is everything all right?’

Live Smith was looking at the water trickling down Johanne’s sweater.

‘Just a bit of a dry throat. I think I might be catching a cold. Can we get on?’

She forced a smile and made a circular motion with her hand. Live Smith adjusted her jacket, tucked her hair behind her ears and sounded offended when she spoke.

‘You were the one who wanted me to start from the beginning.’

‘Sorry. Could you possibly-?’

‘OK. The short version is that when I came in last Friday to get things ready for the new term, I had the feeling that someone had been here.’

Her hand swept around the room. It was a spacious office with filing cabinets along one wall and a door leading into a smaller room. The other walls were covered in children’s drawings in IKEA frames. The curtains were bright red with yellow spots and fluttered gently in the warm air from the radiator under the window.

‘I just had a funny feeling. There was a different… smell in here, perhaps. No, that’s wrong. It was more like a different atmosphere, somehow.’

She seemed embarrassed, and smiled before quickly adding: ‘You know.’

Johanne knew.

‘Not that I believe in the supernatural,’ said Live Smith with a disarming smile. ‘But I’m sure you recognize the feeling that-’

‘There’s nothing supernatural about it,’ Johanne broke in. ‘On the contrary, it’s one of our most finely tuned capabilities. The subconscious notices things that we can’t quite manage to bring to the surface. Something might have been moved. As you say, an almost imperceptible smell might linger. The more we have lived, the more capable our accumulated experience is of telling us more than we are able to define on a first impression. Some people are better than others at understanding what they feel.’

She finally managed to get some water down.

‘Sometimes they refer to themselves as clairvoyant,’ she added.

The sarcasm made her pulse slow down.

‘And then there was the file,’ said Live Smith.

Once again that smile behind every sentence, as if she were trying to make herself insignificant. Not really worth bothering about. Not to be taken all that seriously. Under normal circumstances, Johanne would have found this feminine display unbelievably irritating, but right now it took all of her strength to keep her voice steady.

‘Kristiane’s file,’ she nodded.

‘Yes, it’s…’

Live Smith stopped herself in the middle of a breath as if she were searching for the least dangerous word. Disappeared? Lost? Stolen?

‘Perhaps it’s just been mislaid,’ she said eventually.

Her expression said something completely different.

‘How did you find out it was missing?’

‘I wanted another file from the same drawer, and I discovered it wasn’t locked. The drawer, I mean. It hadn’t been broken open or anything like that. It just wasn’t locked. I was annoyed with myself, because as far as I can remember I was the last one to lock up before Christmas. We have very strict rules when it comes to storing information about our pupils. Partly because the files contain sensitive medical information, and I…’

This time the smile was followed by a slight shrug.

Johanne said nothing.

‘Since there was no sign of a break-in on the door or the cupboards and drawers, I assumed it was down to my own carelessness. But just to be on the safe side I checked that everything was where it should be. And it was. Apart from…’

‘Apart from Kristiane’s file.’

Exactly.

Johanne felt an almost irresistible urge to wipe that smile off her face.

‘Why don’t you want to report it to the police?’

‘The Head doesn’t think it can have been a break-in. Nothing has been damaged. There are no marks on the doors, at least not that we can see. Nothing has been stolen. Not that there’s much of value in this room, apart from the computer perhaps.’

She laughed this time, a high, strained little laugh.

And what about my child? thought Johanne. Kristiane’s life, all the investigations, diagnoses and non-diagnoses, the medication and the mistakes, her progress and her setbacks, the whole of Kristiane’s existence lay documented in a file that had been gathered together over years of trust, and now it was gone.

‘I would say the children’s files are worth a little bit more than your computer,’ said Johanne.

At last the smile took a break.

‘Of course,’ said Live Smith. ‘And that’s why I thought I ought to speak to you. But perhaps the Head is right. This was an error on my part. I’m sure the file will turn up later today. I just thought that since I had that feeling, and since you actually work for the police-’

‘I don’t work for the police. I’m employed by the university.’

‘Oh yes. It’s your husband who’s in the police, isn’t it? Kristiane’s father.’

Johanne didn’t have the strength to correct her again. Instead she got to her feet. Glanced at the archive room in the back.

‘You were quite right to let me know,’ she said. ‘Could I have a look at the cupboard?’

‘The cabinet?’

‘Yes, if that’s what you call it.’

‘It’s really only the Head and I who… As I said, we have very strict rules about-’

‘I only want to look. I won’t touch a single file!’

The Director of Studies got up. Without a word she went over to the door, picked out the right key from a huge bunch, and unlocked it. Her hand fumbled around to the left of the door frame. A bright fluorescent strip light crackled and flashed before eventually settling down to an even, high-frequency hum.

‘It’s that one,’ she said, pointing.

Cabinets lined two of the walls from floor to ceiling. Grey, enamelled metal cabinets with doors. Johanne looked at the one Live Smith had pointed out. The lock appeared to be intact. She leaned closer, peering over the top of her glasses.

‘There’s a little scratch here,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘Is that new?’

‘A scratch? Let me see.’

Together they studied the lock.

‘I can’t see anything,’ said Live Smith.

‘Here,’ said Johanne, pointing with a pen. ‘At a slight angle just here. Can you see it?’

Live Smith leaned forward. As she peered at the lock her top lip was drawn up, making her look like an eager mouse.

‘No…’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I can’t see anything.’

Johanne sighed and straightened up.

‘Could you open it, please?’

This time Live Smith obliged without further discussion. The big bunch of keys rattled once more, and after a few seconds she had the door open. Inside the cabinet was divided into six drawers, each with their own lock and key.

‘Kristiane’s file was in this one,’ she said, pointing at the top drawer.

With the best will in the world, Johanne couldn’t spot any signs of a break-in. She examined the little keyhole from every possible angle. The cabinet was certainly old, with a number of scratches on the metal surface. But the lock appeared to be untouched.

‘Thanks,’ she mumbled.

Live Smith closed the cabinet and locked up after them.

‘There,’ she said with relief when everything was secure. ‘I really do apologize for raising the alarm with no reason.’

‘Not at all,’ said Johanne, forcing a smile in response. ‘As you said, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Thank you.’

She was already over by the door. Only now did it occur to her that she was still wearing her outdoor clothes. She was hot, almost sweating.

‘Ring me if it turns up,’ she said.

‘When it turns up,’ said the Director of Studies. ‘Of course I will. I’d also like to say what a pleasure it is to see the progress Kristiane is making.’

It was as if the middle-aged woman underwent a complete personality change. Gone were the artificial smiles. Her hands, which had been constantly fiddling with her hair and nervously pushing it behind her ears, lay motionless on her knee when she sat down. Johanne remained standing.

‘She’s a fascinating girl,’ Live Smith went on. ‘But then we have so many pupils like that here! What makes Kristiane special is the unpredictability of her predictability. I’ve had many autistic children here, but-’

‘Kristiane is not autistic,’ Johanne said quickly.

Live Smith shrugged her shoulders. But she wasn’t smiling.

‘Autistic, Asperger’s, or perhaps just… special. It doesn’t really matter all that much what you prefer to call it. What I mean is that it’s a pleasure to have her here. She has a wonderful ability to learn, not just to study. She can ask the most remarkable questions, which, if you look at them on her terms, can be strikingly logical.’

This time the smile was genuine. She even laughed out loud, a happy, trilling laugh that was new to Johanne. Given that she knew so little about the family, she knew Kristiane extremely well.

‘But you know all that. I just want you to understand that it isn’t only the teachers who work most closely with Kristiane who have grown fond of her. We all care about her, and learn something new from her every day.’

Johanne tugged at her scarf and licked her lips, which tasted salty.

‘Thank you,’ she said calmly.

‘I’m the one who should be thanking you. I have the best job in the world, and it’s children like your daughter who make me grateful for every single day in this school. So many of our children come up against limitations everywhere. It can mean three steps forward and two steps back. But not with Kristiane.’

‘I have to go,’ said Johanne.

‘Of course. Can you find your own way out?’

Johanne nodded and opened the door. As she let it swing shut behind her, she was aware of the smell of soap in her nostrils. She hurried down the long corridor, the heels of her ankle boots clicking on the newly polished linoleum. When she finally reached the large glass doors at the main entrance, she couldn’t get them open quickly enough.

The winter cold hit her, making it easier to breathe. She slowed down and stuck her hands in her coat pockets. As usual, Kristiane had insisted that they park a few hundred metres from the school so that they could then take the same circuitous route as always.

The weather had finally turned. A long spell of cold without snow had made the ground hard, ready to receive the dry fluffy flakes that were now drifting down over eastern Norway. The ski runs crossing the green lungs which the capital city still felt it could afford to maintain had been crowded with youngsters and parents with small children over the last few days of the Christmas holiday. Fresh, powdery snow covered the slopes every day. Adults and children armed with spades and shovels were busy on frozen football pitches. It wasn’t just that the city was lighter now that it was dressed in white, it was as if its inhabitants gave a collective sigh of relief at the fact that nature had declared herself back to normal. For this season, at least.

Johanne knotted her scarf more tightly against the snowfall, and tried to think rationally.

The file had probably just been misplaced.

She just couldn’t quite manage to believe that.

‘Fuck,’ she muttered. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

She couldn’t work out why she was so upset. True, she was more or less constantly worried about Kristiane, but this was ridiculous.

Misplaced, Live Smith had said.

Johanne increased her pace.

A new, frightening anxiety had sunk its claws into her. It had started with the man by the fence. The man they didn’t recognize, but who called Kristiane by her name. The only unusual thing about the permanent feeling of unease that had tormented her since then was that she was dealing with it alone. Isak treated Kristiane as if she were robust and normal, and always laughed away any worries. Adam had always comforted Johanne in the past, at least when she was feeling particularly low. But now he no longer had the same patience. His resigned expression as soon as she hinted that all was not as it should be with her daughter made her keep quiet more and more often. She tried to calm down, telling herself that she had read too much. All the knowledge she had acquired over the years with Kristiane had become a burden. While Ragnhild knew that strangers could be dangerous, Kristiane was often completely unsuspecting. She might allow just about anybody to take her away.

Sexual predators.

Organ thieves.

She mustn’t think like that. Kristiane was always, always supervised.

She had almost reached the car. It couldn’t be more than an hour since she parked, but the car was snowed in. Not only that, a snow-plough had driven past and left a metre-high pile of snow between the old Golf and a narrow, one-way street.

Johanne stopped. There was no spade in the car. She had left her gloves in Live Smith’s office.

For the first time she dared to follow the thought to its conclusion: someone was watching them.

Not them.

Kristiane.

The Vik-Stubo family had never had curtains in the living room. It didn’t bother them that people could look in from the street, and the room felt lighter for it. However, she had recently begun to imagine something hanging there, something not too heavy. Something to stop passers-by from looking in. The people she didn’t know, but who were out there. The rational part of her brain knew that a man by a garden fence, a friendly man in a toy shop and a missing file didn’t exactly constitute stalking. But her gut feeling said something completely different.

Angrily, she started sweeping the snow off her car with her bare hands. Her fingers quickly grew stiff with cold, but she didn’t stop until the car was completely clear. Then she started kicking away the compacted pile left by the snowplough. Her toes were sore and her ankles ached by the time she finally decided it would be possible for her to get the car out.

She flopped down on the driver’s seat, stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. She pulled out much too quickly into the road, driving over all the snow she hadn’t cleared away. She skidded and shot off, travelling at twice the speed limit. At the first junction she realized what she was doing, and slammed the brakes on just in time to avoid a collision with a lorry coming from the right.

She sat there leaning forward, her hands resting on the wheel. The adrenaline made her brain crystal-clear. She could plainly see how absurd it was to think anyone would be interested in watching a fourteen-year-old girl from Tåsen.

As soon as she put the car back in gear once more, she felt less worried.

‘You mustn’t worry because there isn’t enough to do,’ the secretary said sweetly, handing Kristen Faber a file. ‘If a client doesn’t turn up, it gives you time to do so many other things. Tidying your desk, for example. It’s rather a mess in there.’

The solicitor grabbed the file and opened it as he headed for the door of his office. A miasma of sweat, aftershave and neat alcohol lingered in the air around the secretary’s desk. She opened a drawer and took out an air-freshener spray. Soon the smell of last night’s boozing mingled with the intense perfume of lily of the valley. She sniffed the air and pulled a face before putting away the aerosol.

‘Hasn’t he even called?’ shouted Kristen Faber, before a coughing fit saved her the trouble of replying. Instead she got to her feet, picked up a steaming cup of coffee from a low filing cabinet behind her and followed him into his office.

‘No,’ she said when he had finished spitting phlegm into an overflowing waste-paper basket. ‘I expect something came up. Here. Drink this.’

As Kristen Faber took the cup, he almost spilled the coffee.

‘This fear of flying is too bloody much,’ he muttered. ‘Had to drink all the way back from fucking Barbados.’

The secretary, a slim, pleasant woman in her sixties, could well imagine that there had been a great deal of fucking in Barbados. She also knew he hadn’t restricted his drinking to the duration of the flight.

She had worked for Kristen Faber for almost nine years. Just the two of them, plus one part-timer. On paper they shared the offices with three other solicitors, but the way the rooms were divided meant she could go for days without seeing the others. Faber’s office had its own entrance, reception and toilet. As his office was quite spacious, she rarely had to organize coffee and mineral water in the large conference room they all shared.

Twice a year, in July and at Christmas, Kristen Faber took a holiday. Along with a group from his university years – all men, all divorced and well off – he travelled to luxury destinations in order to behave as if he were still twenty-five. Apart from his financial position, of course. He came back in the same state every time. It took him a week to get back to normal, but then he didn’t touch a drop until it was time for the next trip with the lads. The secretary assumed he suffered from a particular type of alcoholism. But she could live with it.

‘Was the flight on time?’ she asked, mainly for something to say.

‘No. We landed at Gardermoen two hours ago, and if it hadn’t been for this appointment I would have gone home to have a shower and change my clothes. Fuck.’ He sipped at the black coffee. ‘Could I have a drop more, please? And I think you could postpone my two o’clock. I have to…’

He raised his arm and sniffed at his armpit. Salty sweat rings were clearly visible against the dark fabric of his suit. He recoiled.

‘Pooh! I have to go home!’

‘As you wish,’ said the secretary with a smile. ‘You have a client at three o’clock as well. Will you be back by then?’

‘Yes.’ He glanced at his watch and hesitated briefly. ‘I’ll tell you what. Postpone my two o’clock until half past, and then the three o’clock can wait a little while.’

She fetched the coffee pot and put down a little dish of chocolates. He was already busy leafing through some papers, and didn’t say thank you.

‘Bloody man,’ he mumbled, glancing over the documents in the thin file. ‘He was adamant he needed to see me as soon as I got back.’

The secretary didn’t reply, and went back to her own office.

This headache was killing him. He stuck his thumb in one eye and his index finger in the other. The pressure didn’t help at all. Nor did the coffee; the combination of caffeine and alcohol was giving him palpitations.

The tray containing ongoing cases was overflowing. When he put the latest file on top, it slid off and fell on the floor. He got up crossly and retrieved it. He thought for a moment, opened a drawer and slipped the file inside. Then he closed the drawer and left the room.

‘Shall I ring this…?’ The secretary was looking at the diary over her half-moon glasses. ‘Niclas Winter,’ she went on. ‘To arrange another appointment, I mean. As you say, he did make an enormous fuss and-’

‘No. Wait until he rings us. I’ve got enough to do this week. If he can’t even be bothered to cancel, then tough.’

He picked up the large suitcase which he had thrown down when he arrived, and disappeared without closing the door behind him. He hadn’t asked his secretary one single question about how her Christmas had been, visiting her children and grandchildren in Thailand. She sat there listening to his footsteps on the stairs. The suitcase bumped on every step. It sounded as if he had three legs and a limp.

Then, at last, there was silence.

The heavy snow muffled every sound. It was as if the peace of Christmas still lay over the area. Rolf Slettan had chosen to walk home from work, even though it took an hour and a half to get from the veterinary surgery on Skøyen to the house on Holmenkollen Ridge. The pavements were almost a metre deep in soft snow, and for the last two kilometres he had been forced to walk in the narrow track left in the middle of the road by the snowplough. The few cars that came slithering along from time to time forced him to clamber up on to the still-white mounds of snow at either side. He was breathing heavily, and soaked in sweat. Even so, he began to run when he reached the final stretch.

From a distance the house looked like a scene from a film about the Nazis. The white cap of snow hung down over the edges of the portico, partly hiding the rough-hewn text: Home Sweet Home. Thick drifts surrounded the courtyard, which would need clearing again in a few hours.

He stopped in the turning area outside the portico. Marcus probably wasn’t home yet. A layer of virgin snow some ten centimetres deep revealed that no one had come or gone for quite some time. Little Marcus had gone home with a classmate, and wouldn’t be back until about eight o’clock. The house was dark and silent, but several wrought-iron exterior lights provided a welcoming glow, making the snow sparkle. The turf roof was buried in snow. The dragons sticking out their tongues looked as if they might take off at any moment on their new white wings.

He was brushing the snow off his trouser legs when a tyre track caught his attention. A car had turned in and swung in a wide circle in front of the portico. It couldn’t have been long ago. Crouching down, he could still make out the tyre pattern. Someone had probably pulled in to give way to oncoming traffic, he thought. As he stood up he followed the marks down the drive and back to the road.

Strange.

He took a couple of steps – carefully, so as not to destroy the tracks. They quickly became less distinct. After another half-metre, they had almost completely disappeared. There was only the vaguest hint of a track leading all the way to the road.

Rolf turned and followed the tracks in the opposite direction, where they were just as clear as in the middle. With a sense of unease that he couldn’t really explain, he went back to the point where the tracks began, followed them carefully into the small courtyard and beyond until they blended with other tracks on the road. There was no snow piled up between the street and the house; Rolf and Marcus employed a company to clear the snow, and someone came along with a tractor twice a day. They must have come just after the snowplough.

He didn’t really understand what he was looking for. Suddenly he realized that the car must have stopped. It had been snowing for a long time, but the car must still have stood there for quite a while. The difference in the depth of the tracks was striking. He could tell from the width that it was a car, or at least not a lorry or anything bigger. It must have come from down below, pulled in and stayed there for a while. As it waited the snow had come whirling in behind the back wheels, but the tracks weren’t covered by quite as much snow where they were sheltered by the car.

Suddenly an engine started. He looked up and turned to face the slope just in time to see a car pulling away from the side of the road further up, from the bus stop right by the bend curving towards the east. The whirling snow and the gathering dusk made it impossible for him to read the number plate. Instinctively, he began to run. Before he had covered the fifty metres, the car had disappeared. Everything was silent once more. He could hear nothing but his own breathing as he crouched down to examine the tracks. Feather-light snowflakes danced in the air, covering a pattern he thought he recognized. Quickly he took out his mobile phone. It was so dark that the camera flash went off automatically.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, and ran back with the phone in his hand.

The quiet side road that wound its way upwards wasn’t a natural through route. The gardens were large, and the expensive houses were spread out and sheltered from onlookers. Recently there had been a wave of break-ins around the area. Three of their neighbours had lost everything while they were away over Christmas, despite burglar alarms and a security company. The police believed they were dealing with professional thieves. Four weeks ago the family down at the bottom of the street had been the victims of a robbery. Three men had broken in during the night and taken the man of the house hostage. His nineteen-year-old son had been forced to drive to Majorstua with them in order to empty the family’s accounts with the four debit cards and three credit cards the attackers had got hold of by threatening the family and firing a shot at an expensive work of art.

The tracks by the portico were still quite clear. Rolf tried to hold his mobile at the same distance from the ground as he took another picture. He could upload them on to the computer and enlarge the pictures in order to compare them. As he was putting the phone in his pocket, he caught sight of a cigarette butt. It must have been covered by the snow, but had now become visible in one of his footprints. He bent down and scraped gently at the impression left by his boot. Another butt appeared. And another. When he examined the first one in the dim light of a street lamp, it told him nothing. He couldn’t even read the brand.

Three cigarettes. Rolf had given up smoking many years ago, but still remembered that it took about seven minutes to smoke a cigarette. Seven times three was twenty-one. If the driver had been chain-smoking, the car had been here for almost half an hour.

The police thought the burglars might be from Eastern Europe. In the newspaper they had said that people should keep their eyes open; this gang or gangs clearly undertook a considerable amount of preliminary investigation before they struck. The cigarette butts could be valuable evidence.

He carefully placed them in one of the black bags he kept in the pockets of all his jackets for picking up dog shit. Then he put the bag in his pocket and set off towards the house. He would ring the police immediately.

The answerphone cut out, but she had no idea why. Perhaps one of the children had pressed some button or other. At any rate, she hadn’t heard the whole of Adam’s message. When she heard footsteps on the stairs she stiffened, before a familiar voice called: ‘It’s me. I’m home.’

‘So I see,’ she said with a smile, stroking his cheek as he kissed her gently. ‘Weren’t you going back to Bergen?’

‘Yes. I’ve already been there. But as there a number of things I can work on just as easily from Oslo, I caught an afternoon flight home. I’ll stay here for this week, I think.’

‘Excellent! Are you hungry?’

‘I’ve eaten. Didn’t you get my message?’

‘No, there’s something wrong with the phone.’

Adam pulled off his tie, after fumbling with the knot for so long that Johanne offered to help.

‘The person who invented this ridiculous item of clothing should be shot,’ he muttered. ‘What on earth is all this?’

He frowned at the piles of documents and books, journals and loose sheets of paper lying around her on the sofa and almost covering the coffee table completely. Johanne was sitting cross-legged in the middle of it all with her reading glasses perched on her nose and a large glass of steaming hot tea in her hand.

‘I’m getting into hatred,’ she smiled. ‘I’m reading about hatred.’

‘Good God,’ he groaned. ‘As if I don’t get enough of that kind of thing at work. What are you drinking?’

‘Tea. Two parts Lady Grey and one part Chinese Pu-erh. There’s more in the Thermos in the kitchen if you’d like some.’

He took off his shoes and went to fetch a cup.

Johanne closed her eyes. The inexplicable anxiety and unease were still there, but spending a chaotic afternoon with the children had helped. Ragnhild, who would be five on 21 January and hardly talked about anything else, had arranged a practice birthday for all her dolls and teddy bears. During dinner Johanne and Kristiane had acquired hats, made from Ragnhild’s knickers covered in Hannah Montana stickers. Kristiane had given a long lecture about the movement of the planets around the sun, concluding with the announcement that she was going to be an astronaut when she grew up. Since Kristiane’s perception of time could be difficult to understand, and as she rarely showed any interest in things that might happen more than a couple of days in the future, Johanne had delightedly dug out all the books from her own childhood, when she had had exactly the same dream.

When the children were in bed, her unease had come back. In order to keep it in check, she had decided to work.

‘Tell me all about it,’ said Adam, flopping down into an armchair.

He held the cup of tea up to his face, letting the steam cover his skin like a moist film.

‘About what?’

‘About hatred.’

‘I should think you know more about it than I do.’

‘Don’t joke. I’m interested. What are you up to?’

He took a sip from his cup. The blend of tea was fresh and light, with a slightly acidic scent.

‘I was thinking,’ she said slowly, then paused. ‘I was thinking of approaching the concept of hatred from the outside. From the inside, too, of course, but in order to say anything meaningful about hate crime I think we have to delve deeply into the concept itself. With all this money that’s suddenly raining down on us…’

She looked up as if it really was.

‘… I can bring in that girl I mentioned, for example.’

‘Girl?’

‘Charlotte Holm. She specializes in the history of ideas. She’s the one I told you about, the one who wrote… this.’

She glanced around quickly before picking up a booklet.

‘Love and Hatred: A Conceptual Historical Analysis,’ Adam read slowly.

‘Exciting,’ she said, tossing the booklet aside. ‘I’ve spoken to her, and she’s probably going to start working with me in February.’

‘So how many of you will that make?’ asked Adam with a frown, as if the thought of a bunch of researchers using taxpayers’ money to immerse themselves in hatred made him deeply sceptical.

‘Four. Probably. It’ll be cool. I’ve always worked alone, more or less. And this…’

She picked up a piece of paper in one hand and waved the other hand at the rest of the papers surrounding her.

‘This is all legal hatred. Verbal hatred that is protected by the concept of freedom of speech. Since malicious comments against minorities correspond to a significant extent with what is clearly hate crime, I think it’s interesting to see how it all hangs together. Where the boundaries are.’

‘What boundaries?’

‘The boundaries for what is covered by freedom of speech.’

‘But isn’t that almost everything?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘Unfortunately? Surely we should thank God for the fact that we can say more or less anything we like in this country!’

‘Of course. But listen…’

She tucked her feet underneath her. He looked at her. When he got home he had just wanted to fall into bed, even though it wasn’t even ten o’clock. He was still tired after a day that had been much too long and not particularly productive, but he no longer had any desire to sleep. Over the years he and Johanne had fallen into a pattern where most of their life together revolved around his work, her concerns and the children. When he saw her like this, sitting amidst a sea of paper without even mentioning the children, he remembered in a flash what it had been like to be intensely in love with her.

‘Freedom of speech goes a long way,’ she said, searching for an article among the chaos. ‘As it should. But as you know, it has some limitations. The most interesting comes under paragraph 135a in the penal code. I don’t want to bore you with too much legal stuff, but I just want to-’

‘You never bore me. Never.’

‘I’m sure I do.’

‘Not at the moment, anyway.’

A fleeting smile, and she went on. ‘A few people have been convicted for overstepping the law. Very few. The issue – or perhaps I should say the question of priorities – relates to freedom of speech. And judging by everything I have here…’

She waved her hands wearily before she found the book she was looking for.

‘… then freedom of speech rules. End of story.’

‘Well, isn’t that obvious?’ said Adam. ‘Fortunately. We’re a modern society, after all.’

‘I don’t know about modern. I’ve ploughed through everything these homophobic idiots have said recently-’

‘I’m not sure your conclusions are entirely scientific.’

She allowed herself to be interrupted. Sighed and put her hands behind her neck.

‘I’m not feeling particularly scientific at the moment. I’m tired. Worn out. In order for something to be classified as hate crime, it isn’t enough for the perpetrator to hate the victim as an individual. The hatred must be directed at the victim as the representative of a group. And if there’s one thing I have difficulty in grasping, it’s the idea of hatred against groups in a society like Norway. In Gaza, yes. In Kabul, yes. But here? In safe, social democratic Norway?’

She took a mouthful of tea and held it there for a few seconds before swallowing.

‘First of all I spent two months going through public pronouncements about Muslims, blacks and other ethnic and cultural minorities. What I found was generalization of the worst kind. It’s “they” and “we” right down the line.’

She drew quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

‘In the end I felt sick. I felt sick, Adam! I don’t know how an ordinary Norwegian Muslim mother or father can sleep at night. How they feel each night when they put their children to bed and settle them down and read to them, knowing how much crap people are saying and writing and thinking and feeling about them…’

Her eyes narrowed and she took off her glasses.

‘It’s as if everything is allowed these days, somehow. And of course most things should be. Political freedom of speech in Norway is getting close to the absolute. But this culture of expressing opinions…’

She breathed on the lenses and rubbed them with her shirt sleeve.

‘Sorry,’ she said, with a strained smile. ‘It’s just that I’d be so scared if I belonged to a distrusted minority and had children.’

Adam laughed. ‘I’m sure you could teach them a lot in that particular respect,’ he said. ‘On the subject of worrying about children, I mean. But…’

He stood up and pushed his tea cup to the other side of the table. He quickly swept aside the papers closest to Johanne on the sofa, and sat down beside her. Put his arm around her. Kissed her hair, which smelled of pancakes.

‘But what’s this got to do with hate crime?’ he asked. ‘I mean, we’re agreed that this isn’t a criminal issue, but is protected by the law governing freedom of speech.’

‘It’s…’

She searched for the right words.

‘Since the substance in what is said,’ she began again, before breaking off once more. ‘Since the content of what is written and said corresponds exactly with… with what the others claim, those who attack, those who kill… then in my opinion…’

She lifted the glass without drinking.

‘If we’re going to succeed in saying anything meaningful about hate crimes, then we have to know what triggers them. And I don’t mean just the traditional explanations about the conditions in which a person grew up, experiences of loss, a history of conflict, the allocation of resources, religious opposition and so on. We have to know what… triggers them. I want to investigate whether there’s a connection between statements that could be regarded as full of hatred, but entirely legal, on the one hand, and hate-filled illegal crime on the other.’

‘You mean whether the former facilitates the latter?’

‘Among other things.’

‘But isn’t that obvious? Even though we can’t ban such statements because of it?’

‘We can’t actually make that assumption. The connection, I mean. It has to be investigated.’

‘Daddy! Daddy!’

Adam shot up. Johanne closed her eyes and prayed for all she was worth that Kristiane wouldn’t wake up. All she could hear was Adam’s calm, quiet voice interspersed with Ragnhild’s sleepy fretfulness. Then everything went quiet again. The neighbours down below must have already gone to bed. Earlier that evening the noise of some film that was clearly action-packed had got on her nerves; it had sounded as if she were actually in the line of fire.

‘She’s fine,’ Adam said, flopping down on the sofa beside her. ‘Probably just a dream. She wasn’t really awake. Now, where were we?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said wearily. ‘I don’t actually know.’

‘I thought you were pleased about this project.’

She laid her hand on his stomach and crept into his embrace.

‘I am,’ she murmured. ‘But I’ve had an overdose of hatred at the moment. I haven’t even asked you how your day went.’

‘Please don’t.’

She could feel him slowly beginning to relax under her weight. His breathing became deeper, and she fell into the same rhythm. She could tell his belt was too tight from the roll of flesh bulging over the waistband of his trousers.

‘What do you think about some curtains, Adam?’

‘Hm?’

‘Curtains,’ she repeated. ‘Here in the living room. I just think the windows seem so big and dark in the winter.’

‘As long as I don’t have to choose them, go and buy them or hang them up.’

‘OK.’

They ought to get up. She ought to tidy all these papers. If the girls got up first tomorrow morning, as they usually did, things would be even more chaotic than they already were.

‘You smell so good,’ she whispered.

‘Everything about me is good,’ he said sleepily, and in his voice there was a feeling of security she hadn’t felt for a long time. ‘Besides which I am the best detective in the whole wide world.’

‘Police! Stop! Stop, I said!’

A young lad had just tumbled out of a dark green Volvo XC90. The number plates were so dirty they were illegible, despite the fact that the rest of the vehicle was quite clean. The oldest trick in the book, thought DC Knut Bork as he jumped out of the unmarked police car and set off in pursuit.

‘Stop that car!’ he yelled to his colleague, who was already striding across the carriageway.

For precisely five days it had been illegal to pay for sex in Norway. The new law had been passed by Stortinget without too much fuss, despite the fact that there was much to suggest that the new regulations would cause a significant setback for the sex industry. Open street prostitution had gone into hiding, presumably to wait and see what happened. However, there were still plenty of whores of both sexes in Oslo, and the punters hadn’t stayed away either. Everything was just a little bit trickier for them all. Perhaps that was the idea.

The boy was unsteady on his feet, but fast. However, it took Bork only fifty metres to catch up with him.

The punter in the expensive car was terrified. He was about thirty-five and had tried to cover up two child seats in the back of the car with an old blanket. His designer jeans were still open at the fly when the driver’s door was yanked open. He stepped out on to the pavement as requested, and began to cry.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ yelled the boy on the other side of the street. ‘You’re killing me!’

‘No, I’m not,’ said DC Bork. ‘And if you’re a good boy I won’t need to use the handcuffs, will I? OK? They’re not particularly comfortable, so if I were you…’

He could feel that the boy was reluctantly beginning to resign himself to the situation. The skinny body gradually relaxed. Bork slowly loosened his grip, and when the boy turned around he seemed younger than he had from a distance. His face was childish and his features soft, although he weighed no more than sixty kilos. A cold sore extended from his top lip right up into his left nostril, which was distended with scabs and pus. Bork felt sick, and was tempted to let the boy run away.

‘I haven’t fucking done anything!’ He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his padded jacket. ‘It’s not illegal to sell yourself. It’s that bastard who should go to jail!’

‘He’ll probably be fined. But since you’re our witness, that means we need to talk to you as well. Let’s go over to our car. Come on. What’s your name?’

The boy didn’t reply. He stubbornly refused to budge when Knut Bork indicated they should move.

‘Right,’ said Bork. ‘There are two ways of doing this. There’s the nice, easy way, and then there’s the way that isn’t cool at all. Not for either of us. But it’s your choice.’

No response.

‘What’s your name?’

Still nothing.

‘OK,’ said Knut Bork, getting out the handcuffs. ‘Hands behind your back, please.’

‘Martin. Martin Setre.’

‘Martin,’ Bork repeated, putting away the handcuffs. ‘Have you any form of ID on you?’

A slight shake of the head and a shrug.

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

Knut Bork grinned.

‘Seventeen,’ said Martin Setre. ‘Almost. Almost seventeen.’

The punter’s sobs grew louder. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning, and there was very little traffic. They could hear the rattle of a tram from Prinsens Gate, and a taxi hooted angrily at the two badly parked cars as it whizzed past on the hunt for passengers, its FOR HIRE sign illuminated. The Christmas party season and the financial crisis had strangled the city’s night life in January, and the streets were more or less deserted.

‘Knut,’ his colleague shouted. ‘I think you should come over here for a minute.’

‘Come on,’ said Knut Bork, grabbing the boy by the upper arm, which was so thin he could easily get his hand around it.

The boy reluctantly went with him.

‘I think we need to take this guy in,’ said his colleague as they drew closer. ‘Look what we’ve got here!’

Bork peered into the car.

Between the seats the central console was open. Under the armrest, in the space meant for sweets and snacks, lay a bulging bag that only just fitted. Knut Bork pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and opened one corner.

‘Well, well,’ he said, smacking his lips appreciatively. ‘Well I never. Hash, I presume?’

The question was unnecessary, and went unanswered. Bork weighed the bag in his hand; he seemed to be thinking.

‘Exactly half a kilo,’ he said eventually. ‘Not bad.’

‘It’s not mine,’ sobbed the man. ‘It’s his!’

He pointed at Martin.

‘What?’ howled the boy. ‘Thanks for fucking nothing! I asked him for five grams for the job, and look what I got!’

He unzipped his jacket and fumbled for something in the inside pocket. Eventually he managed to get hold of something between his index and middle fingers and pulled it out.

‘Three grams max,’ he said, dangling the little ball wrapped in cling film in front of his face. ‘Max! As if I’d have got out of the car if that big bag was mine! As if I wouldn’t have taken it with me if it belonged to me! Are you fucking crazy?’

‘There’s something in what he says, don’t you think?’

The punter sobbed as Bork place a hand on his shoulder, demanding an answer.

‘Please! You can’t lock me up! I’ll do anything, I can’t… You can have whatever you-’

‘Hang on, hang on,’ warned Knut Bork, holding up a hand. ‘Don’t go making things worse for yourself. Let’s just calm down and-’

‘Can I go now?’ said Martin in a thin voice. ‘I mean, it’s not me you want. They’ll just send me to social services and it’ll mean a load of paperwork for you and-’

‘I thought you said you were an adult. Come on.’

A night bus came along. It had to zigzag between the two cars, each blocking one side of the carriageway. There was just one nocturnal passenger looking down with curiosity at the four men before the bus roared away and it was possible to talk once again.

‘My car,’ the man sobbed as he was led to the police car. ‘My wife needs it tomorrow morning! She has to take the kids to nursery!’

‘Let me put it this way,’ said Knut Bork as he helped the man into the back seat. ‘Your wife has far bigger problems than the fact that she hasn’t got transport tomorrow morning.’

Street Boy

The problem was that so many people had started to complain about the bad air. Quite frankly, there was a horrible smell. The receptionist had his hands full moving guests around as they came back from their allocated rooms and announced that they were uninhabitable. The strange thing was that it wasn’t just one particular area of the hotel. On the contrary, the complaints were coming from one room here, another there, and in the end he had run out of patience. Given the number of rooms that could no longer be used, the hotel was seriously overbooked.

The Hotel Continental in Oslo was a proud establishment that most definitely did not tolerate an unpleasant smell in its rooms.

Fritiof Hansen, the operations manager, had been trying to track down the problem for more than fifty minutes. He had begun with the first room that had been rejected by an irate Frenchman threatening to move to the Grand. A disgusting, sweetish smell assailed his nostrils as he opened the door. There was nothing to explain the stench as far as Fritiof Hansen could see. The bathroom was freshly cleaned. All the drawers were empty, apart from the obligatory copy of the New Testament and brochures about Oslo’s nightlife and the entertainment available. He did find a dirty cotton-wool ball under the bed, and, rather embarrassingly, a used condom behind one of the legs. But nothing that smelled. Nor were there any places in the room where the smell was stronger, as far as he could tell. And as soon as he stepped into the corridor, he was surrounded once more by the scent of luxury and carpet cleaner. In the room next door, all was as it should be. When he opened a door further along the corridor, the stench was there again.

It just didn’t make any sense.

He was now standing down in the foyer, legs apart and hands behind his back as he stuck his nose in the air and sniffed. Admittedly, Fritiof Hansen was a man of sixty-three with a reduced sense of smell after smoking twenty cigarettes a day for forty years. But he had stopped smoking three years ago, and his senses of taste and smell had both improved.

‘Edvard,’ he said, holding out his hand to a bellboy who was staggering past with a bag under his arm and a suitcase in each hand. ‘Is there a funny smell just here?’

‘No,’ gasped Edvard without stopping. ‘But it stinks down in the cellar!’

‘Right…’

Fritiof Hansen clicked his heels like a soldier before brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his uniform. It was green, freshly ironed and with razor-sharp creases. His black shoes had been polished until they shone. His identity card with its magnetic strip dangled from an extendable cord clipped to his belt; combined with the carefully chosen code 1111, it gave him access to every room in the building. When he set off, his bearing was erect and military.

The cellar of the Continental was a confusing labyrinth, but not to Fritiof Hansen. For more than sixteen years he had taken care of small details and major issues at the hotel. When he was given the title of operations manager the previous year, he realized it was just a way of recognizing his loyalty. He wasn’t really the manager of anything. Before he got the job at the Continental, he had packed paper clips in a protected workshop in Groruddalen. He proved himself to be unusually handy, and became a kind of informal caretaker there, until his boss had recommended him for a job at the Continental. Fritiof Hansen had turned up for the interview freshly shaven, wearing neat overalls and carrying his toolbox. He got the job, and since then he hadn’t missed a single day’s work.

He didn’t like the cellar.

The complex machinery down here was maintained by a team of specialists. Fritiof Hansen might occasionally change a light bulb or fix a door that had got stuck, but the hotel used external companies for renovations and maintenance. And for the air-conditioning system. The module that collected fresh air from outside was located on the roof and in its own area on the top floor. The plant itself was in the cellar. Over the years it had been augmented in a way that made it into two independent appliances. During the latest phase of modernization it had been recommended that the whole thing be renewed, but this proved too expensive, so a compromise was reached between the hotel and the suppliers: a new, smaller plant was installed to ease the load on the old one. Fritiof Hansen could hear the low, monotone hum before he reached the inner corridor where the locked doors to the machine room were located.

As he walked down the stairs, he wrinkled his nose. It didn’t smell quite the same as the polluted rooms, but here, too, a strange, sweetish smell found its way into his nostrils, combined with damp and dust and the distinctive mustiness of old buildings.

Fritiof Hansen didn’t believe in ghosts. He believed in his brother and in Arbeiderpartiet and the hotel management, who had promised him a job here for as long as he could stand on his own two legs. Over the years he had also begun to believe in himself. Ghosts were invisible. Anything you couldn’t see didn’t exist. And yet he always felt that strange sense of unease as he set off down the long, dark corridors lined with doors leading to rooms which concealed things he recognized, but often didn’t understand.

At the point where the corridor bore to the left, the smell grew stronger. He was getting close to the air-conditioning plants which were in two rooms next door to each other. With each step he took, the unpleasant feeling grew. Perhaps he should go and fetch someone. Edvard was a good lad who was always ready to stop for a chat when he had time.

But Edvard was just a bellboy. Fritiof Hansen was operations manager, with a badge on his chest and the code for every room in the entire building. This was his job, and the receptionist had told him he had an hour to sort out what was going on before the management called in professional help.

As if he wasn’t a professional.

Despite the fact that most things in the cellar were old, the door was locked with a modern card reader. He swiped his card and keyed in the code as steadily as he could.

He opened the door.

The stench hit him with such force that he took a couple of steps backwards. He cupped his hands over his nose before hesitantly moving forward.

He stopped in the doorway of the dark room. His free hand groped for the light switch. When he found it he was almost dazzled by the fluorescent tube which suddenly drenched the room in an unpleasant blue light.

Four metres away, half-hidden behind some kind of machinery that could have been for just about anything, he could see a pair of legs from the knees down. It was difficult to tell whether they belonged to a woman or a man.

Fritiof Hansen had a set evening ritual. Every weekday at 9.35 p.m. he watched CSI on TVNorge. A beer, a small packet of crisps and Crime Scene Investigation before bed. He liked both the Miami and New York versions, but it was Gil Grissom in the original version from Las Vegas who was Fritiof Hansen’s favourite. But Grissom was about to be replaced by that black guy, and Fritiof wasn’t at all sure if he’d bother watching it any more.

Grissom was the best.

Gil Grissom wouldn’t like it if an operations manager at a respectable hotel walked into a crime scene, destroying a whole lot of microscopic evidence that might be there. Fritiof Hansen was quite convinced this was a crime scene. At any rate, the person over by the wall was definitely dead. He remembered an episode where Grissom had established the time of death by studying the development of fly larvae on a pig’s carcass. It had been bad enough on television.

‘Dead as a doornail,’ he muttered, mainly to convince himself. ‘It stinks of death in here.’

Slowly he moved back and closed the door. He checked the lock had clicked into place and set off towards the stairs. Before he got around the corner where the corridor led off at an angle of ninety degrees, he had broken into a run.

‘I was actually thinking about letting him go. But then we found the hash. I needed to interview him properly, and then it struck me that…’

DC Knut Bork handed over a report to Silje Sørensen as they walked across the blue zone in the police station. She stopped as she glanced through the document.

On closer investigation, Martin Setre had turned out to be fifteen years and eleven months old. He had spent the first part of his life with his biological parents. He was already perceived as an unlucky child during his time at nursery. Broken bones. Bruises. Admittedly, he was clumsy at nursery too, but most of his injuries were sustained at home. There was the suggestion of ADHD when a pre-school teacher asked for the boy to be checked out. Before this process could begin, the family had moved. Martin started school in a small community in Østfold. After only six months he was admitted to hospital with stomach pains, which no one could get to the bottom of. During the spring term in his first year the family moved again, after one of the teachers called round unannounced and found the boy locked in a bike shed, his clothing completely inadequate. The teacher informed the authorities, but before the case reached the top of the pile, the family had moved yet again. Martin’s life continued in this way until he was admitted to Ullevål Hospital at the age of eleven with a fractured skull. Fortunately, they had managed to save his life, but actually giving him any kind of life proved more difficult. Since then the boy had been in and out of various institutions and foster homes. The last time he had run away was at Christmas, from a residential youth care unit where he had been placed by the court.

The case against his parents was dropped due to lack of evidence.

‘Ffksk,’ mumbled Silje, looking up again.

‘What?’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ she clarified.

‘You could say that,’ agreed Knut Bork, leading her to an interview room. ‘He’s in here.’

He took out a key and inserted it in the lock.

‘We’re not really allowed to lock him in,’ he said, his voice subdued. ‘At least not without supervision. But this kid would have been long gone if I’d left the door open for one second. He tried to do a runner three times while we were bringing him in from the unit.’

‘Has he been there since last Monday?’

‘Yes, under supervision. He hasn’t been alone for more than five minutes.’

The door opened.

Martin Setre didn’t even look up. He was rocking back and forth on a chair, one foot on the table. The dark boot lay in a small lake of melted snow. The back of the chair was rhythmically hitting the wall, and had already started to leave a mark.

‘Pack that in,’ said Knut Bork. ‘Right now. This is DI Silje Sørensen. She wants to talk to you.’

The boy still didn’t look up. His fingers were playing with a snuff tin, but it didn’t look as if he had anything under his lip. However, the herpes infection was considerably worse.

‘Hi,’ said Silje, moving so that she was opposite him. ‘You can say hello to me if you like.’

She sat down.

‘I understand,’ she said, and started to laugh.

This time the boy did look up, but without meeting her eyes.

‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’

‘Not at you. At Knut here.’

She nodded in the direction of her younger colleague, who raised his eyebrows as high as he could before adopting the same indifferent expression once again. He had turned the chair around and was leaning over the back with his arms folded, a thin investigation file dangling from one hand.

‘You see,’ said Silje, ‘when he showed me your papers we made a bet. I bet 100 kronor that you would be rocking back and forward on the chair, fiddling with a snuff tin, and that you’d refuse to speak. Then I bet another hundred that you wouldn’t look me in the eye for the first quarter of an hour. It looks as though I’m going to be rich. That’s why I’m laughing.’

She laughed again.

The boy took his foot off the table, let the legs of the chair crash to the floor and stared her straight in the eye.

‘It hasn’t been quarter of an hour yet,’ he said. ‘You lost.’

‘Only partly. It’s 1-1 between Knut and me. What the score will be between you and me remains to be seen.’

A faint knock on the door made the boy glance in that direction.

‘Come in,’ Knut Bork called loudly, and the door opened.

A woman in her thirties blundered in, heavily overweight and panting, with layers of flapping clothes.

‘Sorry I’m a few minutes late,’ she said. ‘Busy day. I’m Andrea Solli, the social worker.’

She addressed her last remark to Martin and held out her hand. He responded hesitantly with a limp handshake. He didn’t get up.

‘Well, that’s the formalities out of the way,’ said Andrea Solli, sitting down on the remaining chair.

The boy closed his eyes and pretended to yawn. Andrea Solli was Number 62 in the series of social workers, experts, solicitors and lay judges who had played some part in Martin’s life. The very first one had got him to talk. He had told her everything, concluding with an account of how his father had smashed his head against a toilet until he no longer knew whether he was alive or not.

She had said she believed him, and that everything would be all right.

Nothing had ever been all right, and a long time ago he had stopped believing a single word they said.

‘So you were brought in three days ago,’ said Silje Sørensen. ‘For possession of three and a half grams of hash, it says here. To be perfectly honest, I’m not remotely interested in that. Nor am I particularly interested in your career as a prostitute. Except for…’

Knut Bork handed her a document from his file.

‘… this. It’s a report from when you were brought in on 21 November last year.’

‘What? Are you going to start poking around in ancient history?’

Martin squirmed on his chair.

‘It’s six weeks ago, Martin. The police don’t really regard that as ancient history. But actually, it’s not you I’m interested in this time.’

The boy was leaning forward, batting the snuff tin between his hands across the surface of the desk like an ice-hockey puck.

‘It’s Hawre. Hawre Ghani. You know him, don’t you?’

The puck was travelling faster between his hands.

‘Come on, Martin. You were brought in together. It’s clear from the report that you knew one another. I just want-’

‘Haven’t seen Hawre for ages,’ the boy said sullenly.

‘No. I believe you.’

‘Don’t know anything about Hawre,’ Martin muttered.

‘Were you friends?’

The boy pulled a face.

‘Does that mean yes or no?’

‘It’s not exactly easy to make friends when you live like I do. I mean, you never get to live in the same place for longer than a few weeks!’

‘You’re the one who takes off,’ the social worker interrupted. ‘I realize it’s very difficult for you, but it’s not easy to create-’

‘You can sort all that out later,’ Silje broke in. ‘I’m asking you again, Martin. Did you know Hawre well?’

He carried on playing table hockey without answering.

‘You’re blushing. Were you together?’

‘What?’

The sore in his nose had started to bleed. A thin trickle of red zigzagged down the crusty yellow scab covering the area between his left nostril and his upper lip.

‘Me and… Hawre? He isn’t even gay, not really. He just needs the money!’

‘But you are?’

‘What?’

‘Gay.’

‘You’ve no fucking right to ask me that.’

A siren started howling in the courtyard at the back. Two magpies were sitting on the window ledge outside, staring at them with coal-black eyes and taking no notice of the noise.

Martin’s eyes narrowed, and his hands finally stopped moving.

‘But since you ask, the answer is yes. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

Defiance shone from every inch of his tense body, and this time he was the one holding her gaze.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Silje.

If the boy had been ten kilos heavier, and if the sore on his face had healed, he might have been quite good-looking. Unfortunately his teeth were bad, which was rare for Norwegian children in 2009. When he spoke she could see a grey film of tartar, which still didn’t hide a couple of botched fillings in his front teeth. But his eyes were large and blue, and the long eyelashes curled upwards like a small child’s.

‘Can’t you get rid of them?’ he said.

‘Who?’

Martin pointed at the woman and Knut Bork.

‘I’m quite happy to leave,’ said Bork. ‘But the social worker has to stay. We’re not allowed to question you unless somebody from social services is present.’

Without any further discussion he got to his feet. He placed the file next to the report in front of Silje Sørensen, and pushed his chair under the table.

‘Ring me when you’ve finished,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in my office.’

As the door closed behind him, Martin stared nastily at Andrea Solli.

‘I don’t need any help from social services,’ he said. ‘You can go as well.’

Silje got in first.

‘Out of the question,’ she said firmly. ‘Forget it. Tell me about you and Hawre instead.’

Martin had started to lick the sore. The blood from his nose turned pink as it mixed with his saliva, and suddenly a piece of the scab came away.

‘Fuck,’ he yelled, grabbing at his mouth.

Blood was pouring down his face, and Andrea Solli dug out a bundle of Kleenex from her capacious handbag. Martin took three and pressed them against the sore.

‘Me and Hawre weren’t together,’ he said, sounding agitated and revealing that his voice hadn’t completely broken yet. ‘We were just mates.’

‘Mates usually have some idea where their mates are,’ said Silje.

The boy didn’t reply. His eyes were wet, but Silje didn’t know if it was because of the turn the conversation had taken or his sore lip. She wasn’t sure how to proceed. To gain time she opened a half-litre bottle of mineral water and poured three glasses without asking if anyone would like some.

‘Hawre’s dead,’ she said.

At that moment the magpies took off from the window ledge, shouting hoarsely as they disappeared into the darkness over the city. It had stopped snowing at last. It was quarter past four in the afternoon. From the corridor they could hear the rapid footsteps of people hurrying to get home.

‘That’s what I thought,’ whispered Martin.

He dropped the blood-stained tissues on the floor, put his arms on the table and hid his face.

‘That’s what I thought,’ he sobbed again.

‘When did you last see him, Martin?’

Silje Sørensen really wanted to put her arms around him. Hold him. Comfort him, as if there were any way of comforting a boy who wasn’t even sixteen years old and had lost any chance of a decent life long ago.

‘When did you last see him?’ she repeated.

‘I don’t remember,’ he wept.

‘This is really important, Martin. Hawre was murdered.’

The sobs broke off. ‘Murdered?’

His voice sounded half-suffocated as he lay slumped over the table.

‘Yes. And that’s why it’s really, really important that you try to remember.’

‘Do you think I murdered Hawre?’

He wasn’t even angry. Or accusing. Martin Setre simply took it for granted that everybody assumed he was guilty of everything.

‘No, absolutely not. I don’t believe for one moment that you murdered your friend.’

‘Good,’ he snivelled, slowly sitting up.

Andrea Solli pointed at the Kleenex. He didn’t touch them.

‘Because I wouldn’t do that!’

‘Can you try to remember when you last saw him? We can start from 21 November. When you were brought in together. It was a Friday. Can you remember anything about that day?’

He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

‘You were taken into care and driven to the residential unit, it says here. Hawre, on the other hand, managed to do a runner during the journey. Did you see him after that?’

‘Yes…’

He really looked as if he was thinking hard. A deep furrow appeared at the top of his nose.

‘I cleared off the following day. We met up… on the Sunday. And on…’

For the first time he picked up the glass of mineral water.

‘Can I have a Coke instead?’ he mumbled.

‘Of course. Here.’

Silje passed him a bottle. He opened it and drank, not bothering with a glass. A grimace of pain passed over his face as the neck of the bottle caught the sore, which was still bleeding.

‘We met on the Sunday. I’m quite sure about that, because…’

He suddenly stopped speaking.

‘Because…?’ said Silje.

‘I’m not saying.’

‘You have to understand that-’

‘I’m not saying anything about that night, OK? It’s not important, anyway, because I saw Hawre the following day.’

‘Right,’ said Silje, bringing up the calendar on her mobile. ‘So that would be… Monday 24 November?’

‘I don’t know what the fucking date was, but it was the Monday after we were brought in. We were going to…’

Finally he picked up a tissue and dabbed cautiously at his mouth. Tears still lingered on his eyelashes. He was no longer crying, but his whole body seemed more exhausted than ever, if that were possible.

‘We were just going to pick up a couple of blokes, turn a couple of tricks. Then we were going to go and see a film. We needed the money.’

Silje Sørensen had a pen and paper in front of her. So far she hadn’t written a single word. Now she cautiously picked up the pen, but didn’t touch the paper.

‘What film were you going to see?’ she asked, adding quickly: ‘Just so I can check the date.’

‘Man of War.’

She smiled.

‘Come on, Martin. Man of War had its premiere just before Christmas.’

‘OK, OK. I don’t remember. It’s true. I don’t fucking remember what we were going to see, because we never went in the end.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘We decided to… we… we needed some cash. We went down to the central station.’

He caught her eye again, as if seeking confirmation that she understood what he meant. She gave a slight nod, which he interpreted as a yes.

‘There were loads of people there. It was packed.’

‘What time of day was this?’

‘Dunno – afternoon, maybe. Not very late, anyway. We were going to go to the pictures later. We hung out where we usually hang out…’

‘And where’s that?’

‘By the entrance from Jernbanetorget.’

‘And then?’

‘Nobody came.’

‘Nobody? But you said it was-’

‘Nobody we were looking for. Nobody who…’

He was playing with the snuff tin again. She noticed that his fingers were unusually long and slender, almost feminine.

‘So we decided to go Oslo City, the shopping centre. But just when we got outside some guy came up and started talking to us in English. Well, American really. I’m not sure. American, I think.’

‘I see. And what did he want?’

‘The usual,’ Martin said defiantly. ‘But he couldn’t like just say it straight out. He didn’t sort of use the normal… He was creepy. There was something about him.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t really know. But I didn’t want to go with him. He was…’

The pause grew so long that Silje asked a question: ‘Do you remember what he looked like?’

‘Old. Expensive clothes. Quite fat.’

‘What do you mean by old?’

‘At least forty. Disgusting. Asking and digging, kind of. I don’t like old men. Twenty-five is OK. Not much older, anyway. But Hawre needed the money more than me, so he went off with this guy.’ He stared at the Coke bottle. ‘He was wearing the kind of clothes that show how rich you are. Know what I mean?’

Silje knew exactly what he meant. She was the wealthiest DI in the country, having inherited a fortune when she turned eighteen. It didn’t really make any difference to her. When she applied to the police training academy she deliberately moved downmarket. But now she was so used to it that she bought her clothes at H &M. But she knew just what he meant, and nodded.

‘And then?’

He looked up. His eyes frightened her; his despair over his friend’s death had turned into sheer apathy. He shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something she couldn’t catch.

‘What?’

‘I don’t remember much more about that day.’

‘But you haven’t seen Hawre since then.’

His tongue couldn’t stay away from the sore. Instead of answering, he shook his head.

The preliminary post-mortem report showed that Hawre Ghani probably died between the 18th and 25th of November. Martin Setre had seen Hawre on 24 November when he went off with an unknown sex client.

‘You have to help me,’ said Silje.

He remained silent.

‘I need a drawing of the man Hawre went with,’ she said. ‘Can you help me with that?’

‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘If I can have something to eat first.’

‘Of course you can. What would you like?’

For the first time she saw the hint of a smile on his damaged face.

‘Steak and onions and loads of fried potatoes,’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

Adam Stubo tried to drown out the rumbling of his stomach by coughing. Only an hour ago he had eaten an apple and a banana, but his belly already felt empty. On New Year’s Eve he had stepped on the bathroom scales for the first time in two years. The number shining up at him from the display had three figures, and it frightened him. Since there was no space for exercise in his packed agenda, he needed to cut down on food. He had secretly joined an Internet diet club, which immediately and mercilessly informed him that his daily intake was over 4,000 calories. Getting it down to 1,800 was sheer hell.

He still had three chocolate bars in the drawer of his desk. He opened it and looked at the striped wrappers. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he had half a piece. Admittedly, he had looked up the number of calories in chocolate on the Internet calculator the other day, and had resolved never to touch the bloody stuff again. But he was so hungry that he wasn’t thinking clearly.

The telephone rang.

‘Adam Stubo,’ he said more pleasantly than usual, deeply grateful for the interruption.

‘It’s Sigmund.’

Sigmund Berli had been Adam’s friend and closest colleague for almost ten years. He was far from the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he worked hard and was totally loyal. Sigmund voted for Fremskrittspartiet, supported Vålerenga and ate ready meals seven days a week since splitting up with his wife about a year ago. What little free time he had he devoted to his two sons, whom he adored. Sigmund Berli was Adam’s anchor in the sea of humanity, and he was grateful for precisely that. With increasing frequency he would find himself sitting through a dinner with Johanne’s friends and colleagues from the university without saying a word. Telling them anything about how real life was lived in this country was usually pointless. He preferred Sigmund Berli and his broad generalizations; at least they were based on a life lived among ordinary people.

‘We’ve found a bloody great pile of poison-pen letters,’ said Sigmund.

‘Are you still in Bergen?’

‘Yes. In a safe in the Bishop’s office.’

‘You’re in a safe in the Bishop’s office?’

‘Ha bloody ha. The letters. There was a safe in her office that we only found out about a few days ago. The secretary had a code, but it turned out to be wrong. So we got somebody from the firm who supplied the safe to come out and look at it. And there was a pile of shit in there, if I can put it that way.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Guess.’

‘No games, Sigmund.’

‘The usual homophobic crap.’ Adam could clearly hear that Sigmund was smiling at the other end of the phone. ‘What else?’

‘Are we talking about e-mails?’ Adam asked. ‘Or ordinary letters? Anonymous?’

‘A bit of both. Most are print-outs of e-mails, and the majority are anonymous, but there’s the odd one that uses their full name. It’s mostly complete garbage, Adam. Filth, no more and no less. And do you know what I’ve never understood?’

Quite a lot, Adam thought.

‘Why anyone gets so worked up about what people do in bed. My boy’s ice-hockey trainer is gay. Terrific bloke. Tough and masculine with the lads, but incredibly nice. Comes to every training session, unlike that idiot they had before, even though he had a wife and four kids. Some of the other parents started complaining when this bloke came out in the paper, but you should have seen old Sigmund go!’

His laughter crackled down the phone.

‘I showed them what was what, and no mistake! You can’t compare an ordinary gay bloke with a bloody paedophile. He’s a friend for life now. We’ve had a beer together a few times, and he’s sound. Fantastic on the ice, too. Used to be in the national junior team until it all got too much. Bunch of homophobes, that’s what they are.’

Adam listened with mounting surprise. His eyes were still fixed on the striped chocolate bars.

‘What are you doing with the letters?’ he said absently.

Sigmund was munching on something.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just had to get something inside me. They have top-notch cinnamon buns here in Bergen.’

The drawer containing the chocolate bars slammed shut before Sigmund continued.

‘We’ve got one of the IT guys working on her computer. Looking for the addresses and so on. And, of course, the letters will be examined as well. I wonder why she saved them all? Nothing was ever reported.’

‘Most people in the public eye get that kind of thing all the time. At least if they have controversial opinions. Not many make a fuss about it. After all, it can just make things worse. Johanne’s working on a project that-’

‘And how is my favourite girl?’ Sigmund interrupted.

Adam’s colleague had been steadfastly in love with Johanne for several years, and that clearly hadn’t changed. It normally blossomed only in the form of sheer delight every time he saw or spoke to her. After a few drinks he might come out with clumsy compliments and the odd unwelcome fumble. On one occasion Johanne had slapped him hard across the face when he had grabbed her breast after getting roaring drunk on his hosts’ cognac. For some bizarre reason she still seemed to like him, somehow.

‘Fine,’ said Adam. ‘Call round some time.’

‘Great! What about this weekend? That would fit in really well-’

‘Ring me when you’ve got something new,’ Adam broke in. ‘Got to go. Bye.’

Just as he was about to end the call he heard Sigmund’s electronically distorted voice: ‘Hang on! Don’t go.’

Adam put the phone to his ear again.

‘What is it?’

‘I just wanted to say that not all the letters are about gay stuff.’

‘No?’

‘Some are about abortion.’

‘Abortion?’

‘Yes, the Bishop was pretty fanatical about it, you know.’

‘But what are they writing? And more to the point, who’s writing?’

Sigmund had finally finished eating.

‘It’s all a bit of a mixture. Anyway, those letters aren’t as aggressive. More kind of bitter. There’s one from a woman who wishes she’d never been born. Her mother was raped, and because she was so young at the time, she didn’t dare say anything until it was too late. Everything went wrong for the kid from the day she was born.’

‘Hm. A person who complains to the Bishop about the fact that she actually exists?’

‘Yep.’

‘But what did she actually want?’

‘She wanted to try to convince the Bishop that abortion can be justified. Something along those lines. I don’t really know. A lot of the letters are from total nut jobs, Adam. I agree with you – I don’t think we should take too much notice of them. But since we haven’t got much else to go on, we need to have a closer look at them. Are you coming up here soon?’

Adam clamped the phone between his head and shoulder. Opened the drawer, grabbed one of the chocolate bars and tore off the wrapper.

‘Not until next week, probably. But we’ll talk before then. Bye.’

He put down the phone and broke the bar into four pieces. Slowly he began to eat. He let every piece lie on his tongue for ages, sucking rather than chewing. When he had finished one piece, he picked up the next. It took him five minutes to enjoy every last bit, and he finished off by licking his fingers clean.

His mood improved. His blood sugar rose and he felt clear-headed. When he realized a few seconds later that he had just consumed 216 empty calories he was so upset that he grabbed his coat and switched off the light. It was Wednesday 7 January, and seven days on starvation rations was enough for this time.

He would allow himself a decent dinner, anyway.

Rage

At around dinner time on 9 January the doorbell rang at a grey-painted house on Hystadveien in Sandefjord.

Synnøve Hessel was lying on the sofa. She was in a state somewhere between sleep and reality, in a haze of melancholy dreams. She couldn’t sleep at night. The darkest hours felt both interminable and wasted. She couldn’t search for Marianne when everyone else was asleep and everything was closed, but at the same time it was impossible to get any rest. The days just got worse and worse. From time to time she dozed off, as she had now.

There wasn’t much else to do.

Their joint bank account hadn’t been touched. Synnøve hadn’t yet managed to gain access to Marianne’s account. She had contacted every hospital in Norway, but without success. There were no more friends to ring. Even the most casual acquaintances and distant relatives had been asked if they had heard anything from Marianne since 19 December. Two days ago Synnøve had gathered her courage and finally phoned her in-laws. The last time she heard from them had been a terrible letter they had sent when it became clear that Marianne was going to leave her husband to move in with a woman. The call had been a waste of time. As soon as Marianne’s mother had realized who was calling she launched into a venomous, two-minute tirade before slamming the phone down. Synnøve didn’t even have time to tell her why she was calling.

And Marianne was still missing.

Synnøve had hardly eaten for a week and a half. She had spent the days after Marianne’s disappearance searching for her. At night she went for long, long walks with the dogs. Now she didn’t even have the energy for that. For the last two days they had had to make do with the dog run in the garden. Yesterday evening she had forgotten to feed them. When she suddenly remembered, it was two o’clock in the morning. Her tears had frightened the alpha male, who had whimpered and paced around, demanding lots of attention before he was prepared to touch his food. In the end Synnøve had crawled into one of the kennels and fallen asleep there with Kaja in her arms. She had woken up stiff with cold half an hour later.

The doorbell rang again.

Synnøve didn’t move. She didn’t want visitors. A lot of people had tried, but not many had got past the door.

Ding-dong.

And again.

She got up awkwardly from the sofa and folded the woollen blanket. She massaged her stiff neck as she shuffled towards the door, ready to convince yet another friend that she wanted to be alone.

When she opened the door and saw Kjetil Berggren standing there, she felt dizzy with relief. They had found Marianne, she realized, and Kjetil had come here to give her the good news. It had all been a terrible misunderstanding, but Marianne would soon be home and everything would be just like before.

Kjetil Berggren’s expression was so serious. Synnøve took a step backwards into the hallway. The front door opened wider. There was a woman standing behind him. She was probably around fifty, and was wearing a winter coat. Around her neck, where everyone else would have had a scarf to keep out the bitter January cold, she was wearing a priest’s collar.

The pastor was just as serious as the police officer.

Synnøve took another step back before sinking to her knees and covering her face with her hands. Her nails dug into her skin, making blood-red stripes on both cheeks. She was howling, a constant, desperate lament that was like nothing Kjetil Berggren had ever heard before. Only when Synnøve started banging her head on the stone floor did he try to lift her up. She hit out at him, and sank down once more.

And all the time that dreadful howling.

The intense sound of pain made the dogs in the backyard answer her. Six huskies howled like the wolves they almost were. The desolate chorus rose up to the low clouds, and could be heard all the way to Framnes on the other side of the grey, deserted, wintry fjord.

A siren sliced through the steady hum of the traffic as they stopped for a red light at a junction. In the rear-view mirror Lukas could see a blue flashing light, and he tried to manoeuvre the car closer to the pavement without encroaching on the pedestrian zone. The ambulance, travelling far too fast, came up on the outside of the queue and almost ran over an old man who walked straight in front of Lukas’s big BMW X5. He was obviously deaf.

‘That was close,’ Lukas said to his father, staring at the bewildered pedestrian until the cars behind him started sounding their horns.

Erik Lysgaard didn’t reply. He was sitting in the passenger seat, as silent as always. His clothes were now clearly too big. The seat belt made him look flat and skinny. His hair stuck out from his scalp in miserable, downy clumps, and he looked ten years older than he was. Lukas had had to remind his father to have a shower that morning; a sour smell had emanated from his body the previous evening when he reluctantly allowed himself to be hugged.

Nothing had changed.

Once more Lukas had insisted on taking his father back to his home in Os. Once more Erik had protested, and, as before, Lukas had eventually won. The sight of their grandfather had frightened the children yet again, and a couple of times Astrid had been on the point of losing her composure.

‘We need to make some plans,’ said Lukas. ‘The police say we can hold the funeral next week. It’ll have to be quite a big occasion. There were so many people who were fond of Mum.’

Erik sat in silence, his face expressionless.

‘Dad, you need to make some decisions.’

‘You can sort it all out,’ said his father. ‘I don’t care.’

Lukas reached out and turned off the radio. He was gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and the speed at which he travelled along the last section of Årstadsveien would have cost him his licence had there been a camera. The tyres screeched as he turned left into Nubbebakken, crossing the oncoming traffic before slamming on the brakes.

‘Dad,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Why has one of the photos disappeared?’

For the first time in the entire journey his father looked at him.

‘Photos?’

‘The photos in Mum’s room.’

Erik turned away again.

‘I want to go home.’

‘There have always been four photographs on that shelf. They were there when I was at the house the day after Mum was murdered. I remember, because that detective went in there by mistake. One of the photographs isn’t there any more. Why not?’

‘I want to go home.’

‘I’ll take you home. But I want an answer, Dad!’

Lukas banged his fist on the wheel. Pain shot up his arm, and he swore silently.

‘Take me home,’ said Erik. ‘Now.’

The coldness in his father’s voice made Lukas keep quiet. He put the car into gear. His hands were shaking and he felt almost as upset as when the police came to tell him that his mother was dead. When they pulled into the small area behind the open gate of his father’s house a few minutes later, he could clearly see the beautiful woman in the missing photograph in his mind’s eye. She was dark, and although the picture was black and white, he thought she had blue eyes. Just like Lukas. Her nose was straight and slender, like his, and her smile clearly showed that one front tooth lay slightly on top of the other.

Just like his own teeth.

Not enough of her clothing was visible to enable him to guess when the photo was taken. He hadn’t seen it until he was a teenager. Now that he had children of his own and had become aware of how observant children are, he had worked out that it couldn’t have been on display when he was younger. Once he had asked who she was. His mother had smiled and stroked his cheek and replied: ‘A friend you don’t know.’

Lukas stopped the car and got out to help his father into the house.

They didn’t exchange a word, and avoided looking at one another.

When the door closed behind Erik, Lukas got back in the car. He sat there for a long time as the wet snow obscured the windscreen and the temperature inside the car dropped.

His mother’s friend looked an awful lot like him.

‘She looks just like you! The spitting image!’

Karen Winslow laughed as she took the photograph of Ragnhild. She held it at an angle to avoid the reflection of the overhead lights, and shook her head. Ragnhild was lying in the bath with shampoo in her hair and a giant rubber duck on her tummy. It looked as if she was being attacked by a bright yellow monster.

‘So she’s the youngest,’ she said, handing back the photograph. ‘Have you got a picture of the older one?’

The photograph had been taken the previous Christmas.

Kristiane was sitting on the steps in front of the house on Hauges Vei, her expression serious. For once she was looking straight into the camera, and had just taken off her hat. Her thin hair was sticking out in all directions with static electricity, and the background light from the pane of glass in the door made it look as if she had a halo.

‘Wow,’ said Karen. ‘What a beautiful child! How old is she? Nine? Ten?’

‘Nearly fourteen,’ said Johanne. ‘It’s just that she’s not quite like other children.’

It was surprisingly easy to say.

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Who knows?’ said Johanne. ‘Kristiane was born with a heart defect, and had to undergo three major operations before she was one year old. Nobody has really managed to find out whether the damage was done then, or whether it’s an impairment she was born with.’

Karen smiled again and examined the photograph more closely. Looking at her old college friend reminded Johanne of how many years had passed. Karen had always been slim and fit, but now her face was thinner, more strained, and her black hair was streaked with grey. She had started wearing glasses. Johanne thought this must be recent, because she kept taking them off and putting them back on all the time, and she didn’t really know what to do with them when she wasn’t using them.

It was almost eighteen years since they last met, but they had recognized one another straight away. Johanne had been given the longest hug she could remember when Karen got out of the taxi outside Restaurant Victor on Sandaker, and as they walked inside she felt happy.

Almost exhilarated.

The waiter placed a glass of champagne in front of each of them.

‘Would you like me to go through the menu with you right away?’ he said with a smile.

‘I think we’d prefer to wait a little while,’ Johanne said quickly.

‘Of course. I’ll come back.’

Karen raised her glass.

‘Here’s to you,’ she said, smiling. ‘To think we’ve managed to meet up again. Fantastic.’

They sipped their champagne.

‘Mmm. Wonderful. Tell me more about Kris… Kristi…’

‘Kristiane. For a long time the experts insisted that it could be some form of autism. Asperger’s perhaps. But it doesn’t really fit. Admittedly, she does need fixed routines, and for long periods she can be highly dependent on order and clear systems. Sometimes she’s almost reminiscent of a savant, someone who is autistic but has certain highly developed skills. But then, all of a sudden, without any clue as to what has brought about the change, she’s just like an ordinary child with mild learning difficulties. And although she finds it difficult to make real friends, she shows great flexibility when it comes to relationships with other people. She’s…’

Johanne picked up her glass again, surprised at how good it felt to talk about her older daughter with someone who had never met her.

‘… tremendously loving towards her family.’

‘She really is absolutely adorable,’ said Karen, handing back the photograph. ‘You are so, so lucky to have her.’

Karen’s comment made Johanne feel warm, almost embarrassed. Isak loved his daughter more than anything on earth, and Adam was the most loving stepfather in the world. Both sets of grandparents worshipped Kristiane, and she was as well integrated into the social environment surrounding the Vik and Stubo families as it was possible for a child like her to be. Occasionally someone would remark that Kristiane was lucky to have such a good family. Live Smith had given Johanne the feeling that she was happy to have Kristiane in her school.

But no one had ever said that Johanne was lucky to have a daughter like Kristiane.

‘It’s true,’ said Johanne. ‘I’m… we’re really lucky to have her.’

She quickly blinked back the tears. Karen reached across the table and placed her hand on Johanne’s cheek. The gesture felt oddly welcome, in spite of all the years that lay between them.

‘Children are God’s greatest gift,’ said Karen. ‘They are always, always a blessing, wherever they come from, whoever they come to, and whatever they are like. They should be treated, loved and respected accordingly.’

A single tear escaped and trickled down Johanne’s cheek.

Americans and their big words, she thought. Americans and their pompous, high-flown, beautiful choice of words. She smiled quickly and wiped the tear away with the back of her hand.

‘Are you ready to order?’

The waiter reappeared, looking from one to the other.

‘Yes,’ said Johanne. ‘It would be very helpful if you could go through the menu in English so that I don’t have to translate for my friend.’

This was no problem for the waiter. He spent almost ten minutes explaining and describing each dish and answering all of Karen’s interested questions. When they had finally agreed on food and wine, Johanne realized that Karen was far more worldly than she was. Even the waiter seemed impressed.

They began with oysters.

There were no oysters on the menu, and the waiter didn’t mention them at all during his comprehensive account of what the restaurant had to offer. Karen shook her head when he had finished, smiled her dazzling white smile and suggested that every self-respecting master chef always has a few oysters tucked away.

Always, she insisted.

It was true.

The problem was that Johanne had never eaten oysters.

She was an academic with a PhD. Well-travelled and financially secure. She liked food. She had eaten dog in China and deep-fried spiders from a shack in Angkor Wat. But she had never dared to try oysters.

She looked at the plate. The half-shells lay there on a bed of ice, smelling faintly of the shoreline. Nobody could claim that the slimy, dirty white blobs looked appetizing. She glanced at Karen, who trickled a mixture of white wine and vinegar over each oyster from a small bowl, before picking up the first shell and sliding the contents into her mouth. She closed her eyes and rolled the oyster around in her mouth, then swallowed and exclaimed: ‘Perfect!’

Johanne followed suit.

The oyster was the best thing she had ever tasted.

‘Johanne,’ said Karen when the dish was empty. ‘Tell me more. Tell me everything. Absolutely everything!’

They talked their way through two more courses. They talked about their time at college and mutual friends from those days. About families and parents, about their joys and frustrations. About their children. They talked over each other, laughed and interrupted each other. The acoustics in the small restaurant were hopeless; Karen’s loud laugh bounced off the bare walls, disturbing the other guests. However, the waiter remained friendly, discreetly topping up their glasses as soon as they were almost empty.

‘Karen, I have to ask you about something.’

Johanne looked at the fourth course as it was placed in front of her: quail on a bed of artichoke purée. The little bird was surrounded by a circle of fine strips of Parma ham interspersed with pickled cherry tomatoes.

‘Tell me about the APLC,’ she said.

‘How do you know I work there?’ Karen carefully wiped her mouth with the thick fabric serviette before picking up her knife and fork again.

‘I googled you,’ said Johanne. ‘At the moment I’m working on a project that-’

Karen laughed, making the glasses clink.

‘We’ve been sitting here for over two hours, and we still haven’t got round to telling each other what we do! You first – start talking!’

And Johanne talked. She talked about her job at the Institute of Criminology, about the doctoral thesis she completed in 2000, about how she loved research but found the teaching obligations which went with her current position something of a trial, and about the joys and frustrations of having to combine her career with two demanding children. Gradually, she got around to talking about the project on which she was currently working. By the time she had finished, the quail were tiny skeletons on otherwise empty plates.

‘You must come over and see us,’ Karen said firmly. ‘What we do is highly relevant to your research.’

‘And now it’s your turn,’ said Johanne. ‘Off you go.’

She asked the waiter if they could have a short pause before the next course. She could feel that she had had a little bit too much to drink, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten out, and she definitely couldn’t remember when she had felt this good. So when the waiter refilled her glass, she smiled appreciatively at him.

‘We started in 1971, and we’re located in Montgomery, Alabama,’ Karen began, holding her glass of red wine up to the light to assess the colour. ‘The two founders – who are white by the way – were part of the civil rights movement. They founded the company mainly to work against racism. It doesn’t make any money, of course.’

She paused, as if trying to work out how to tell a long story in the shortest possible time.

‘From the start you could say we acted as an organization providing free legal aid. Not that I was there at the time!’

Once more her laughter echoed around the room, and an elderly couple two tables away glared in their direction.

‘In those days I hadn’t even finished elementary school. In 1981 the company set up an information department, simply to make it easier to reach our only real goal: an America that works in agreement with its once revolutionary constitution. For the first few years the struggle was mainly focused on white supremacy groups.’

‘Ku Klux Klan,’ Johanne said quietly.

‘Among others. We’ve won a series of cases against members of the Klan. A couple of times we’ve even managed to close down their training camps and busted pretty big active cells. Of course the problem is…’

She gave a little sigh and took a sip of her wine.

‘KKK aren’t the only ones in that particular arena. We’ve got the Imperial Klans of America, the Aryan Nations, the Church of the Creator… You name it. Over the years our information service has become pretty comprehensive, and today I think we have an overview of 926 different hate groups distributed across the whole of the US. And they’re extremely active.’

She emphasized the word extremely.

‘I presume they’re not all working against African-Americans?’

‘No indeed. For example, we have black separatist movements that want to get rid of the rest of us. The Jews also have enemies everywhere. In the US, too.’

Karen suddenly looked older. The lines around her eyes were not laughter lines, as Johanne had thought. Now that Karen was serious, they were much deeper.

‘The Institute for Historical Review, Noontide Press… way too many. On the other side, the Jews have the Jewish Defense League, which is most definitely a hate organization. So, there is enough hatred to go round in this world. We’ve got groups who are against South Americans, against Native Americans, for Native Americans, against all immigrants on more general and less prejudiced grounds…’

An ironic smile ended the sentence. She was speaking more quietly now, but the married couple who had been sitting over by the wall still glared reproachfully at them as they got up to leave. As they passed behind Johanne she heard something about a ruined evening and the fact that there ought to be a limit, even for Americans.

‘And then, of course, there are all those who hate gays,’ said Karen.

Dessert arrived at their table.

‘Strawberry carpaccio with a vanilla crust and a miniature champagne sorbet,’ said the waiter, placing the plates in front of them. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’

‘How big are these groups?’ asked Johanne when they were alone again.

Karen stuck her spoon into the slices of strawberry. She rested her elbows on the table and gazed at her food as she answered slowly.

‘That’s not an easy question to answer, actually. As far as the purely racist organizations are concerned, they’re bigger than you can imagine. Some of them are really old, and are run like military forces. As for the others, particularly the anti-gay groups, it’s much more difficult to…’

She put the spoon in her mouth and closed her eyes in bliss as she chewed. She searched for the right words.

‘How shall I put it?… More difficult to define.’

Johanne nodded. She was also trying to find the right words, and asked: ‘Because of strong links with church communities, which are actually legitimate?’

‘Yes,’ said Karen. ‘That’s one reason. Initially, we define a hate group as a more or less established organization that fosters hatred against groups, or promotes this hatred in some other way. They’re not classified as criminal until they overstep the mark with regard to the rules on freedom of speech to which most countries subscribe, incite others to carry out actions punishable by law, or carry out such actions themselves, where the individual focus of this criminal action is targeted because they belong to a large group of people with specific, recognizable characteristics.’

She let out a long breath.

‘That’s not the first time you’ve said that,’ smiled Johanne.

‘I might have gone through it a few times.’

She was eating more slowly now. Johanne was full to bursting, and pushed her plate away.

‘To give you one example,’ said Karen. ‘This happened in 2007. A young man, Satender Singh, was on holiday at Lake Natoma in California. He was from Fiji, and one day he was at a restaurant with some Indian friends. A group of people who spoke Russian decided that they could tell Satender was gay, and, to cut a long story short, they killed him.’

Johanne sat in silence.

‘It does happen that homosexuals are killed just because they’re homosexuals,’ Karen went on. ‘The particular thing about this case was that the murderers belonged to a very large group of Slavic religious immigrants in the Sacramento area. Their church communities are extreme in their condemnation of homosexuality. We’re talking about almost a hundred thousand people, divided among seventy fundamentalist congregations in an area which used to be heavily populated by gays. To say that the relationship between these groups is now highly charged would be something of an understatement. The Christians are running an intensive anti-gay propaganda campaign, using both their own TV and radio stations and an enormous capacity to mobilize. At some protest meetings held by gay organizations, there are more anti-demonstrators than demonstrators.’

She took a deep breath and scraped up the remains of her sauce with her fork before going on.

‘But when do they take that extra step and become criminals? On the one hand, it’s clear they feel hatred. Their use of language and not least the disproportionate amount of attention they give to this whole issue makes it very clear that this is a question of pure, insane hatred. In addition, several of their spiritual leaders have refused to distance themselves from the murder of Satender, for example. On the other hand, freedom of speech is, and will remain, quite far-reaching, and many of those within such communities right across the US are very careful not to incite violence and murder directly.’

‘They build the foundations for actions based on hatred, they refuse to condemn such actions when they occur, and afterwards they wash their hands of the whole thing because they didn’t come straight out and say “kill them”.’

‘Exactly,’ said Karen, nodding. ‘And when a priest proclaims into the ether that homosexuals are wallowing in sin and will die an agonizing death, they will burn in hell, they will… Well, he can simply say he was referring to the word and the will of God. If one of God’s children took him literally, that’s not his problem. And as you’re well aware, religious freedom and the freedom of speech are…’

‘The very basis of America’s existence,’ Johanne concluded.

‘More coffee?’

The waiter must have had a first-class degree in patience. They had been the only customers in the restaurant for more than half an hour. The staff were just waiting for them to finish. And yet the waiter took the time to top up their coffee cups and fetch more hot milk.

‘None of this is good news,’ said Karen when he’d gone. ‘And apart from these extreme church groups, we have more established organizations in several parts of the US. Like the American Family Association. Of course, they don’t incite murder either, but they make a hell of a lot of noise, and constantly create a bad atmosphere when it comes to public debate. A little while ago they started a boycott of McDonald’s, of all things.’

‘Actually, that sounds quite sensible,’ said Johanne with a smile. ‘But why?’

‘Because the chain had bought advertising space at one of the Gay Pride festivals.’

‘And how did it go?’

‘The whole thing failed, of course. On that occasion. But some of these groups are powerful and influential; they have plenty of money, and they don’t care what methods they use. They certainly express hatred, but you can’t call them criminal. But the most frightening thing of all is that…’

She raised her glass in a silent toast.

‘Recently we’ve seen signs of a more systematic persecution. Six murders of gay men during the past year are still unsolved: three in New York, one in Seattle and two in Dallas. Each case was thoroughly investigated over a long period by the local police. The murders were all carried out using different methods, and other circumstances varied. However, our investigators gradually discovered that two of the victims were cousins; the third had been a school friend of the first; the fourth had travelled around Europe by train with the second; and the last two had had brief relationships with the fourth two years apart. The FBI has taken over the cases. Not that they’ve got any closer to finding the perpetrator. But our department isn’t going to let this go until it’s solved.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Johanne mumbled. ‘What theories do you have?’

‘Plenty.’

The noise from the kitchen had increased in volume. Whisks and ladles crashed down on metal worktops, and they could clearly hear the dishwasher. Johanne looked at her watch.

‘I think we ought to make a move,’ she said, hesitating briefly before she added: ‘Do you still enjoy walking, Karen?’

‘Me? I walk all the time!’

Johanne asked for the bill. It had been ready for a long time, and Karen grabbed it before Johanne had even realized the waiter was there.

‘My treat.’

Johanne didn’t have the energy to argue.

‘Shall we walk back to my place and have a nightcap?’ she asked as Karen got out her credit card. ‘It’s only about twenty minutes from here. Maybe a bit more in this weather.’

‘Fantastic,’ said Karen delightedly. She showered the waiter with compliments, picked up her coat and headed for the door.

‘Oslo is a really quiet city,’ she said in surprise when they got outside.

The traffic lights at the junction between Hans Nielsen Hauges Vei and Sandakerveien changed from amber to red with not a car in sight. The dirt and fumes from the day’s traffic were concealed beneath a thin layer of fresh snow. There was hardly a footprint to be seen on the pavement. The clouds hung low over the city, and towards the southwest a pale yellow glow shone from the street lamps in the centre.

‘This is mainly a residential area,’ said Johanne. ‘And in any case people don’t go out much at night after Christmas. Norwegians party themselves to a standstill in December. January is the month of good intentions.’

They passed the video shop on the corner and set off along Sandakerveien.

‘Where were we?’ said Karen.

‘Your theories,’ Johanne reminded her. ‘About those six murders.’

‘Ah yes.’

Karen knotted her scarf more tightly as they walked. Johanne had forgotten how tall and long-legged her friend was; she had to hurry to keep up with Karen.

‘As far as the anti-gay movement goes, we’ve seen some strange new alliances. Jews and Christians, Muslims and even extreme right-wing groups haven’t been able to live in peace for hundreds and hundreds of years, but now they’ve found a common enemy: the gay community. We’ve just registered a group who call themselves “The 25’ers”. The curious thing about them is that they work very quietly.’

‘Quietly? Isn’t the whole point of groups like that to make as much noise as possible?’

‘As a rule. But these people are different. We think they originate from more traditional fundamentalist environments on both the Muslim and the Christian side. It’s as if they think everything is moving too slowly. That it’s time to do something radical. It’s the same people as before, but in a different combination, so to speak. They have the same goals, but are planning to use completely different methods to achieve them.’

They walked on for a while in silence. The conversation had taken an unpleasant turn, and Johanne wasn’t sure she wanted to follow it to its conclusion.

‘What methods?’ she asked anyway as they reached the point where Sandakerveien levels out and curves towards the north-west.

Karen stopped so abruptly that Johanne had gone a couple of metres before she realized.

‘Oslo isn’t exactly a beautiful city,’ said Karen, looking around.

Johanne smiled.

‘I think the point where we’re standing right now is the ugliest, most depressing place in the entire city,’ she said. ‘Not that I think our city is particularly beautiful, but don’t judge it by what you see here.’

On the right-hand side lay several box-shaped warehouses, trying to hide beneath the snow as if out of sheer embarrassment. In front of them – where Nycoveien takes a couple of hundred metres to reach a desolate roundabout – half the wall of Storosentret had been torn down because the complex was being extended. The vast, patched-up shopping centre looked more like a ruin than a building site. From the roof a gigantic red O flashed in the darkness, an inflamed Cyclops eye. Between the two streets an office block with vertical turquoise stripes cast garish reflections on the snow. On the left-hand side stood a handful of yellow brick buildings at an angle. For some reason the architect had thought it a good idea to put all the pipes on the outside; it looked like the backdrop to a cheap sci-fi film.

‘It’ll be better when we get up to Nydalen,’ said Johanne. ‘Come on.’

They set off again, trudging along in the middle of the road.

‘So far we don’t know nearly enough about The 25’ers,’ said Karen as they picked up speed. ‘But we have reason to believe that an unholy alliance – to put it mildly – has been formed between fundamentalist Muslims and fundamentalist Christians. We have a theory that the name comes from the digit sum of the numbers 19, 24 and 27, the first number relating to the Koran and the other two referring to the Bible – St Paul’s Epistle to the Romans. All very complicated. Of course we’re not talking about some kind of church community here. Nor a political group.’

‘So what are they?’

‘A militant group. A paramilitary force. We think we’ve identified at least three of the members: two ultra-conservative Christians and one Muslim. All three have a military background. One was actually a Navy Seal. The problem is they know that we know who they are, and they’ve gone quiet. All they’re doing at the moment is behaving perfectly normally. Unfortunately, we have reason to believe the group is quite large. Large and extremely well run. The FBI are banging their heads against a brick wall, and there’s not much the APLC can do under the circumstances. But we’re trying, of course. We’re trying as hard as we can.’

‘But what is it these people actually do?’

‘They murder homosexuals and lesbians,’ said Karen. ‘The 25’ers is an organization for the discontented. Those who want action, not words.’

She paused as they moved to the side of the road to avoid an oncoming car.

‘Fortunately, we make do with shouting at each other in Norway, thank God,’ said Johanne.

Karen gave a wry smile as she stopped at the next roundabout. ‘That’s how it starts. That’s exactly how it starts.’

There were no cars in sight, and they crossed the road.

‘Is the anti-gay movement in Norway mainly religious?’ asked Karen.

‘To a certain extent. I’d say the element that can be defined as a movement is characterized by the Christian conservatives. Some individuals are trying to construct a more morally philosophical platform for their homophobic arguments. But when you examine their reasoning, you discover they all have a deep faith in God as their starting point.’ She took a deep breath and sighed heavily. ‘And then there’s the constant whining from the caravans.’

‘Caravans?’

‘It’s just an expression. I mean the masses. Not particularly Christian and most definitely not philosophical. They just don’t like gays.’

They had reached the Congress Centre, and Karen stopped in front of one of G-sports windows. It obviously wasn’t the January sales display of ski equipment she was interested in, because she was looking at the reflection of Johanne’s face in the glass.

‘I’ve always thought you were so far ahead when it came to equality. Anti-racism. Gay rights.’

She suddenly leaned closer to the window, mumbling something that sounded like a calculation.

‘A thousand dollars? For those skis? I’ve got exactly the same ones, and they cost 450. I’m beginning to understand why the average wage is so high in this country.’

‘Something happened here when gays started having children,’ Johanne said thoughtfully, as if she’d suddenly been struck by a fresh insight. ‘Before that, most things were running fairly smoothly. But this business with children has caused a real backlash.’

The cloud cover had broken up. Over Grefsenkollen three stars appeared on a strip of black. The wind had increased since they left the restaurant, and the temperature must have fallen. Johanne put her hands together and blew warm air into her woollen gloves. The wind carried with it a damp chill, and she pushed her hands in her pockets with her gloves on.

‘More and more lesbians are having children,’ she went on. ‘At the beginning of this year a new gender-neutral law on marriage was brought in, guaranteeing the same rights to IVF as heterosexuals. In recent years gay men have also started on the same route, travelling to the US and using egg donors and surrogate mothers. All of which has led to…’

They set off again.

‘Do you know what they call those children?’ she said angrily. ‘Half-manufactured. Constructed children!’

Karen shrugged her shoulders.

‘History repeats itself,’ she said wearily. ‘There’s nothing new under the sun. When the first marriages between blacks and whites took place, some people claimed it went against God’s commandments. That it was against the will of God and nature and customs and against everything we were used to. Their children were also given a nickname: half-castes. Which sounds quite a lot like your half-manufactured.’

She took a deep breath.

‘It will pass, Johanne. In a few days a “half-caste” president will be inaugurated back home. Six years ago no one – but no one – would have thought that we would have a woman president, and now an African-American. It’s a pity about Helen Bentley, by the way. I was sorry she didn’t want to stand for a further term. I’ve nothing but praise for Obama, but deep down…’

It was half past eleven. A bus came chugging towards them. The driver was yawning as it passed, but he gave a start when a cat suddenly ran into the road, causing him to slam on the brakes.

‘Deep down I think it was an even greater victory to get a woman president in the White House,’ Karen said quietly, as if entrusting Johanne with a dangerous secret. ‘And when the most powerful leader in the world says she’s throwing in the towel for the sake of her family after only four years, I reserve the right not to believe her.’

Johanne tried to suppress a smile. She didn’t often feel the need to share the story of the dramatic events that took place in May 2005. The twenty-four hours she had spent with Helen Bentley in an apartment in Frogner, while the whole world assumed the American president was dead, had over the years become a locked-in memory which she rarely opened in order to examine it more closely. She had been instructed to keep quiet in the interests of the security of both Norway and the United States, and had kept all the pledges she had signed. Now, for the first time, she was tempted to break her word.

‘I’ve never heard of The 25’ers,’ she said instead. ‘Tell me more.’

They had reached Gullhaug Torg.

Karen moved her bag to the other shoulder. She opened her mouth a couple of times without saying anything, as if she didn’t really know what words to choose.

‘Rage,’ she said eventually. ‘While the rest of the hate groups grow strong on frenzy, prejudice and misdirected religious fervour, organizations like The 25’ers are built on holy rage. That’s something different. Something much more dangerous.’

They stopped on the bridge over the Akerselva and leaned against the railing. The water level was low, and beautiful ice sculptures had formed along the edges.

‘How… how do all these organizations finance their activities?’ asked Johanne.

‘It varies,’ Karen replied. ‘When it comes to the extreme church groups, they finance themselves just like any other faith community. Rich members and generous donations. And they’re not that expensive to run. The more militant groups also collect money from their members. But we think some of them are partly funded through serious crime.’

She paused and looked at a lovely arch of ice spanning three large rocks.

‘The Ku Klux Klan and the Aryan Nations, for example. While KKK has traditionally directed its hatred against African-Americans – and they’ve killed God knows how many over the years – the Aryan Nations base their existence on a pseudo-theological belief that it’s the Anglo-Saxons, not the Jews, who are God’s chosen people. They hate the blacks as well, of course, but for them it’s the Jews who are the real virus infecting the pure body of humanity. They rally an enormous amount of support in jails, something which has been a deliberate policy on the part of their leaders. Their money comes from…’

She turned to Johanne and held up one finger at a time on her left hand.

‘Fraud, larceny, narcotics, bank robberies.’

Four fingers stuck up in the air before her thumb joined them.

‘And murder. Professional murderers. There are actually those who provide that service.’

Johanne didn’t know much about the professional murder industry, and didn’t reply.

‘Someone orders a murder through an intermediary,’ Karen explained. ‘If the intended victim happens to be gay, you can hire a killer who thinks people like that should die anyway. If the victim is black you find an organization…’

She raised her shoulders to make the point.

‘You get the idea.’

A solitary duck had settled down for the night on the west bank of the river. It withdrew its beak from under its wing and stared at them in the hope that the two women on the bridge might have brought along some bread. When nothing happened it tucked its head down and became a round ball of feathers once again.

‘When it comes to The 25’ers, we know far too little about them,’ said Karen. ‘However, we know enough to conclude that they remind us of The Order, who sprang up in the eighties as a splinter group from the KKK and AN. They were going to start a revolution and bring down the American government. The most striking difference between them and these new groups is the level of cooperation between different religions. And unfortunately they’re not alone. For example, there’s another splinter group from-’

‘Stop,’ Johanne said with a smile, putting her arm around Karen’s shoulders. ‘I can’t cope with any more. I think we should say that’s enough talk of hatred for tonight. I want to hear about your children, your husband, your brother! Is he still such a ladies’ man?’

‘You bet! He’s on his third marriage!’

Johanne tucked her hand under Karen’s arm as they set off again.

‘Not far now,’ she said, guiding her off to the right. ‘Adam will be so pleased to see you.’

It was true. He would be pleased, however late it was.

By the time she had dealt with the children, her job, the house and the rest of the family, Johanne usually had no energy left. She and Adam sometimes went out to dinner, usually with old friends, but she always dreaded it. On very rare occasions they would invite someone round. It was always enjoyable, but took all of her strength for several days before and after. Adam, on the other hand, was good at pursuing his own interests as soon as he had an hour to spare. He devoted a lot of time to his grandson Amund, who had been a tiny baby when Adam’s grown-up daughter and wife died in a tragic accident. He also met friends. And he had recently started saying that he wanted to have a horse again – as if he had ten or twelve hours a week he didn’t know how to fill.

And he was always on at her. Go out. Ask somebody round. Ring a friend and go and see a film.

‘Kristiane will be fine without you for a couple of hours,’ he would say, more often than Johanne would like to admit.

Adam would be delighted.

They had almost reached Maridalsveien. The clouds were scudding across the sky, and the soughing of the bare treetops almost drowned out the hum of the traffic on Ringveien to the north.

Three minutes and they’d be home.

She was almost tempted to wake up Kristiane.

Just to show her off.

And When You Get There

‘First of all I have to show you this,’ said Kjetil Berggren, placing four items in front of her on a white cloth. ‘Take all the time you need.’

His voice was quiet and almost overflowing with empathy, as if they were already at Marianne’s funeral. In which case they would both have been inappropriately dressed. It was Saturday 10 January and Kjetil Berggren’s scruffy anorak was hanging on a hook by the door. As he walked around the table to sit down again, he had to pull up one of his knee socks.

‘I’d been expecting a skin suit and skates,’ Synnøve said.

The detective didn’t reply.

‘I’m feeling better now,’ she said tonelessly. ‘It’s fine.’

For the first time in exactly two week she had slept. Really slept. As soon as Berggren and the priest had dared to leave her in peace the previous evening, she had fed the dogs and fallen into bed. Fourteen hours later, she woke up. She had lain there for a few seconds not really knowing where she was or what she was feeling. When the realization that Marianne was dead suddenly hit her, she had started crying again. But this was different, in spite of everything. There was no longer anything to worry about. Marianne was dead, and the search was over. At some point in the future it would be possible to live with her grief. She realized this now, after fourteen days in hell. What had been a painful inertia had gradually turned into movement. Towards something. And when she arrived there, everything would be better.

This morning she had really noticed how tense she had been over the past two weeks. Her back was aching and it was difficult to move her head from side to side. Her jaws almost felt locked when she tried to eat a little porridge as a late breakfast. In the end she gave up and ran herself a scalding hot bath. She had lain there until the water grew cold and the skin on the tips of her fingers started to crinkle.

Synnøve Hessel had wandered around the empty house. She had brought Kaja inside for company and consolation, for the first time ever. Marianne had made it a condition of keeping huskies that they had to stay outside. Kaja had hesitated on the doorstep, before eventually allowing herself to be enticed inside and up on to the sofa. They had grieved there together, Synnøve and the dog, until Kjetil Berggren came to pick her up at three o’clock, as agreed.

She was sitting in the same room as before. An officer from Oslo had been there when she arrived, but she didn’t want to talk to anyone but Kjetil. Not yet.

‘I realize this has all been very difficult for you, Synnøve, and I-’

‘Kjetil,’ she broke in. ‘I mean it. If you had any idea how I’ve been feeling since Marianne disappeared, you’d realize it’s much easier to…’

She stopped and closed her eyes.

‘If we could just get this over and done with.’

‘Have you had those cuts on your face looked at?’ he asked.

‘They’re just superficial.’

Kjetil Berggren looked as if he were about to protest. Instead, he nodded at the objects between them on the desk.

‘Can I touch them?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’

The white gold wedding ring was slightly bigger than her own. The inlaid diamond was dull, and might have gone unnoticed had she not known it was there. It was Marianne who had wanted diamonds. Synnøve had preferred a perfectly ordinary ring made of ordinary gold, without embellishments – a traditional wedding ring. She wanted to be married to Marianne in the same way everybody else is married, so the ring should be plain and gold.

‘We didn’t have time to get married,’ she said.

‘I thought you were-’

‘We were registered partners – as if we were running a business together or something. But with the new law and everything, we were planning to get married properly in the summer.’

The tears made the cuts on her face smart.

‘Anyway, the ring looks like hers.’

She held up her right hand limply to show its twin. Then she took a deep breath and went on much too quickly: ‘The necklace too. The keys are definitely hers. I’ve never seen that USB stick before, but we must have about thirty lying around the house. Can you take them away now? Can you take them away?!’ She hid her face in her hands. ‘I assume,’ she said, her voice muffled, ‘that I have to identify these things because you don’t want me to see Marianne.’

Kjetil Berggren didn’t reply. Quickly, without touching the four objects, he slipped each one into a plastic bag and carefully folded the cloth around them.

‘Of course, we’ll have a DNA analysis done as well,’ he said. ‘But unfortunately there seems to be little doubt that the deceased is Marianne.’

‘They said she’d paid,’ said Synnøve, placing her hands on her knee at last. ‘At the hotel, they said Marianne had paid for the room!’

‘Yes, the bill had been paid. But not by her.’

‘By whom, then? If someone else paid it must be the murderer, and in that case it should be easy to… Haven’t they got CCTV? Guest lists? It must be the simplest thing in the world to…’

She fell silent when she saw the expression on Kjetil’s face.

‘The Continental has video surveillance in certain parts of the building,’ he said slowly. ‘In reception, among other places. Unfortunately, the tapes are erased after seven days. Next week they’re switching to digital recordings, and then everything will be saved for much longer. Up to now they’ve been using old-fashioned equipment. Videotapes. It’s not possible to keep them for ever.’

‘Videotapes,’ she whispered in disbelief. ‘In a luxury hotel?’

He nodded and went on: ‘The bill was paid on the evening of the nineteenth. We can tell that from the till. The receptionist insists it was a man who paid for the room. In cash. He can’t really give us anything in the way of a more detailed description. There were a hell of a lot of people there that evening, bang in the middle of the Christmas party season. The Theatre Café was packed, and you can go straight from there into the foyer, where there’s another bar. You pass reception on the way.’

‘Does that mean…?’

Synnøve didn’t know herself what that was supposed to mean.

‘There was also a wedding reception that evening,’ Kjetil went on. ‘Lots of activity and noise. And apparently there was some kind of dramatic incident involving a child who went outside and almost got run over by a bus. No, hang on, a tram. Anyway, there was a huge commotion, and for the life of him the receptionist can’t remember much about the actual payment.’

‘But who… who in the world would do all this? I just can’t understand… To murder her, hide her, pay the bill… It’s so absurd that… Who on earth would think of doing such a thing?!’

‘That’s what we’re trying to work out,’ Kjetil said calmly. ‘The key question is why Marianne was murdered. If you have any information whatsoever that might help us to-’

‘Of course I haven’t,’ she snapped. ‘Of course I haven’t a clue why anyone would want to kill Marianne! Apart from her bloody parents!’

He didn’t bother to comment on that.

Synnøve tugged at her sweater. She picked up the glass of water and put it down again without having a drink. Fiddled with her wedding ring. Ran her fingers through her hair.

Tried to make the time pass.

That was what she must focus on in the days to come. Making the time pass. Time heals all wounds, but whenever she glanced at the clock only half a minute had passed since the last time.

And no wounds had healed.

‘Can I go?’ she mumbled.

‘Of course. I’ll drive you. We’re going to have to trouble you with more questions before too long, but-’

‘Who?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Who’s going to trouble me with more questions?’

‘Since the body was found in Oslo, and all the indications are that the crime took place there, this is a case for the Oslo police. Naturally, we’ll be assisting them as necessary, but-’

‘I’d like to go now.’

She stood up. Kjetil Berggren noticed that her sweater was too big, and her shoulders were drooping. She must have lost five or six kilos in just a couple of weeks. Six kilos she couldn’t afford to lose.

‘You must eat,’ he said. ‘Are you eating?’

Without replying she picked up her quilted jacket from the back of the chair.

‘You don’t need to drive me,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk.’

‘But it’ll only take me three minutes to-’

‘I’ll walk,’ she broke in.

In the doorway she turned back and looked at him.

‘You didn’t believe me,’ she said. ‘You didn’t believe me when I said something terrible had happened to Marianne.’

He examined his nails without saying a word.

‘I hope that haunts you,’ she said.

He nodded, still without looking up.

It doesn’t haunt me at all, he thought. It doesn’t haunt me because Marianne was long dead by the time you came to us.

But he didn’t say anything.

She couldn’t complain about the efficiency. The police sketch artist had produced not only a full-face picture but also a profile, a full-length picture from the front, and a detailed drawing of some kind of emblem or pin which Martin Setre claimed the man had been wearing on his lapel. Silje Sørensen leafed quickly through the drawings before laying all four out on the desk in front of her.

She was sceptical about sketches like these, even though she was the one who had requested them.

Most people made terrible witnesses. Exactly the same situation or exactly the same person could be described afterwards in completely different ways. Witnesses would talk about things that didn’t exist, events that had never taken place. Animatedly and in detail. They weren’t lying. They just remembered incorrectly and filled the gaps in their memory with their own experiences and fantasies.

At the same time, facial composites could sometimes be absolutely key. The artist had to be skilful and the witness particularly observant. There were advanced computer programs that could do the work more easily and in certain cases more precisely, but she preferred drawings done by hand.

And that was what she’d got.

She studied the portrait.

The man was white, and probably somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. From the notes in the file she could see that Martin Setre wasn’t absolutely sure whether the man had shaved his head or had actually lost his hair. He was bald, at any rate. Round face. Dark eyes, no glasses. The nose was straight and the chin broad, almost angular. A narrow double chin framed the lower part of his face. He was heavily built, she could see that from the full-length drawing too, but not necessarily overweight. His height was estimated at around one metre seventy.

A short, stocky man who was smiling.

Silje presumed the picture had been drawn like that because the man had been smiling all the time. She glanced through the notes and her theory was confirmed.

Nice teeth.

His clothes were dark. A dark overcoat and a dark shirt. The tie was also dark, and the knot seemed loose. The drawing was in black and white, and all the monochrome tones made her feel pessimistic. When she held up the full-length picture and examined it more closely, it struck her that there must be thousands of men who looked more or less like this. Admittedly, Martin had said that the man spoke English or American, but using a different language from one’s own was an old and well-established trick.

He had just a suspicion of dimples.

Knut Bork came in without knocking, and she gave a start.

‘Sorry,’ he said in surprise. ‘I didn’t know you were here. Haven’t you got anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon?’

‘If I hadn’t been here, the door wouldn’t have been open, would it?’

‘I…’

Knut Bork was tall and fair-skinned, almost pale, with red-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes. When he blushed he did it properly: he looked like a traffic light.

‘It’s fine,’ said Silje, holding out her hand. ‘What did you want to leave me?’

‘This,’ he said amiably, handing her a thin folder. ‘It’s to go in the Marianne Kleive file.’

She took the papers and put them down next to the sketches without looking at them more closely.

‘Exactly what we needed right now,’ she said. ‘A spectacular murder at one of the city’s best hotels. Have you seen the evening papers?’

He raised his eyebrows and let out a long, slow sigh.

‘Anything new?’ she asked, nodding at the folder.

‘Only a couple of new witness statements. Half of Oslo seems to have been at that bloody hotel that night. And you know how it is – everybody thinks they have something interesting to pass on. The phones are red-hot with people wanting to talk.’

Silje picked up her cup of coffee.

‘Sometimes no witnesses are better than a thousand witnesses,’ she said. ‘The worst thing is that we have to take them all seriously. Someone might actually have seen something relevant. Cheers!’

The coffee was bitter and lukewarm.

‘Shouldn’t you be going home soon?’

‘The same applies to you,’ he said. ‘You got the drawings? Can I have a look?’

He came around the desk and leaned over the sketches.

‘No particular distinguishing features,’ he murmured.

‘No. He’s below average height, but the very word “average” tells you he’s not the only one-’

‘Do you think we’re barking up the wrong tree here?’

He held one of the pictures up at eye level.

‘Maybe,’ she sighed. ‘But it’s the only tree we’ve got.’

‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to the sketch of a lapel. ‘A pin?’

‘Something like that. Do you recognize it?’

‘It’s a clover leaf, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘All the pictures are black and white, but the clover leaf is red.’

‘Martin insisted he was absolutely certain. We generally prefer not to have any colour in these sketches, because it can be confusing. But this pin – or whatever it is – was evidently red, no doubt about it.’

‘And these… flourishes, what are they supposed to be?’

They both examined the picture. On each leaf was a shape that might possibly be a letter in an unfamiliar alphabet.

‘Martin said there was a letter on each leaf,’ said Silje. ‘But he couldn’t remember what they were.’

Knut Bork picked up a box of lozenges from the desk.

‘Can I have one?’ he asked, sticking his finger in the box before she had time to answer.

‘Help yourself,’ Silje mumbled. ‘Have five. There’s something familiar about that logo, isn’t there?’

‘Yes,’ said Knut Bork, and suddenly he started to laugh. ‘You’re right there! My grandmother has one on every single jacket she owns!’

His laughter broke off abruptly. Silje looked up at him. His face was bright red once again, and he was gasping like a fish on dry land.

‘Knut,’ she said tentatively. ‘Are you all right? Have you…’

She got up so quickly that the desk chair rolled away and crashed into the wall behind her. Knut Bork was considerably taller than her. For a moment she thought about climbing up on to the desk, but dismissed the idea. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and linked her hands in front of him with her right thumb pointing in towards his body. Then she squeezed with every scrap of strength she could summon.

Three black projectiles flew out of his mouth.

He coughed and took a deep breath, and she let go.

‘Thanks,’ he panted. ‘I couldn’t get… Look at that!’

He pointed to the wall opposite them. The throat lozenges had stuck to the wall in a triangle, with less than half a centimetre between them.

‘Bang on target,’ he puffed.

She looked at him, her eyebrows raised, and sat down again. ‘Perhaps now you can tell me about this logo?’

His voice still sounded hoarse as he cleared his throat and said: ‘Norske Kvinners Sanitetsforening.’

‘What?’

‘The letters are N, K and S. Norske Kvinners Sanitetsforening – the Norwegian Women’s Public Health Association.’

She pulled the drawing of the logo towards her, as if he had insulted her. A red clover leaf with a stalk, and a letter on each leaf.

‘I need to check,’ she muttered as she put down the sheet of paper and typed the name of the association into the search box on her computer.

‘There you go,’ said Knut Bork. ‘What did I tell you?’

She was staring at the association’s homepage.

The logo was a red clover leaf with the letters NKS in white. One on each leaf.

‘What the…?’

She couldn’t marshal her thoughts.

‘A punter who pays for sex, and a possible murderer,’ she began, the words coming out in a staccato rhythm. ‘Of the male gender. Going around. Pulling young lads. In the middle of Oslo.’

She swallowed and moistened her lips with her tongue.

‘With a membership badge of the Norwegian Women’s Public Health Association clearly visible on the lapel of his jacket. What the hell is going on? Is he taking the piss or what?’

Knut Bork picked up the drawing and walked over to the notice-board by the window. He pinned it up and took two steps back. He stood there for a while, his head tilted to one side, then he suddenly turned to Silje and nodded.

‘Perhaps that’s exactly what he’s doing, Silje. Perhaps this guy is trying to take the piss.’

When the man on the phone said he was from the police, Marcus Koll Junior thought for a confused moment that someone was trying to play a joke on him. When he realized a few seconds later that he was mistaken, he got up and started pacing back and forth across the living room. To begin with he was concentrating so hard on sounding unconcerned that he didn’t grasp what the man was actually saying.

They couldn’t possibly know anything.

It was simply unthinkable, he tried to convince himself.

He stopped by the big windows looking south.

The sloping garden was lit up. Fir trees heavy with snow were an almost fluorescent ice-blue against the dense darkness beyond the fence. Low cloud hid the city and the fjord. From where he was standing, the world beyond his own domain did not exist.

Except on the telephone.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Marcus, trying to put a smile into his voice. ‘I wonder if you could possibly go over that again? The connection isn’t very good.’

‘The information,’ the voice said, clearly impatient. ‘You called us on Monday with information about that series of break-ins.’

A faint puff of wind brought the snow cascading down from the nearest tree. The dry crystals sparkled in the lamplight. Right down at the bottom of the garden stood two tall pine trees with bare, erect trunks and rounded crowns, like soldiers standing to attention on sentry duty.

Marcus tried to absorb the feeling of relief.

He’d been right. Of course they didn’t know anything

There was no cause for alarm.

‘Oh,’ was all he said, swallowing. ‘I don’t think that was me.’

‘Aren’t I speaking to Rolf Slettan?’ said the voice at the other end of the phone. ‘On 2307*****?’

‘No,’ said Marcus, concentrating on breathing calmly. ‘He’s my husband. Rolf. He was the one who called you. My name is Marcus Koll. As I said when I answered the phone.’

There was silence for a couple of seconds.

That brief moment of silent confusion, thought Marcus. Or disgust. Or both. He was used to it, just as everyone grows used to a stigma when they have carried it for long enough. Before little Marcus started school, Marcus Koll Junior had persuaded Dagens Næringsliv to do a profile on him, pointing out that he was the only gay man with a husband and a child on the list of the hundred wealthiest people in the country. He hoped that little Marcus would be protected by the fact that everyone knew, and didn’t need to whisper. That he wouldn’t need to deal with it all later, when they found out.

It occurred to him several weeks later that not everyone read Dagens Næringsliv.

‘Oh yes,’ the voice at the other end of the line said eventually. ‘Is… is he at home? Rolf Slettan?’

‘Yes, but he’s just putting our son to bed.’

This time the silence lasted so long that Marcus thought they’d been cut off.

‘Hello?’ he said loudly.

‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘I’m here. Could you ask him to ring me? The information he gave has just been left lying around here, and I’ve got a couple of questions I’d like to-’

‘Is it the number that came up on the display?’ Marcus interrupted.

‘Er… yes, that’s fine. Tell him to ask for Constable Pettersen. Is he likely to ring this evening?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Marcus. ‘We have plans for this evening. But of course, if it’s important I can ask him to call you. In half an hour or so.’

‘That would be great, if you could. There was another break-in last night, and it would be-’

‘Certainly. I’ll tell him.’

He ended the conversation without any further farewell phrases, and put the phone down on the coffee table. It struck him that the room was too dark. He slowly walked around, from one source of light to the next, until the room was so well lit that the view of the garden almost disappeared in the sharp contrast between outside and inside.

Rolf had told him about the tyre tracks by the gate. To begin with Marcus had been surprised, almost annoyed that Rolf was getting so worked up about the fact that someone had pulled into the small area by the side of the road. It wasn’t fenced off, and was a natural place to give way to oncoming traffic. Since the snow had started falling heavily after New Year, he had seen tracks there all the time.

It wasn’t until Rolf had the chance to explain more clearly that Marcus was prepared to discuss the matter. He had to admit that it seemed strange for someone to stay there for a while, as the varying depth of the tracks and the number of cigarette butts seemed to indicate. When Rolf stubbornly maintained that the same car had been parked further up the road while he was examining the tracks by the gate, and had taken off as soon as he showed interest in it, Marcus fell silent.

Rolf’s strong feeling that someone had been watching them fitted all too well with his own growing sense of unease. More and more often he caught himself looking over his shoulder for something, although he didn’t know what it was. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he was looking for someone. Up to now he hadn’t been able to put his finger on anything concrete, but ever since before Christmas the impression that he had a living shadow had grown stronger and stronger. Only after New Year had he realized that the panic attack that had almost brought him to his knees four days before Christmas, after remaining at bay for many years, was not only due to the pangs of conscience with which he had been wrestling.

It was as if someone were keeping an eye on him.

The problem, as Marcus Koll Junior saw it, was that this surveillance presumably had nothing whatsoever to do with gangs of thieves and a spate of housebreaking.

If someone were spying on him, of course.

‘No,’ he said out loud, and sat down in the armchair again.

It was bound to be his imagination.

It had to be his imagination.

He was easily frightened at the moment, much too easily frightened, and Rolf’s observations could just as easily be linked to a couple of young lovers who had stopped for a cuddle. A kiss and a smoke. Or perhaps a responsible driver who had stopped to answer his mobile.

The doorbell rang.

The babysitter, he thought, and closed his eyes.

It was ten o’clock, and he was really too tired to go out.

In three months and five days it would be ten years since his father’s death.

Marcus Koll opened his eyes, stood up and tugged hard on both his earlobes to perk himself up. The doorbell rang again. As he crossed the living room he decided that 15 April would be the day when all his troubles would come to an end. Despite the fact that the date had lost its original significance, he would still use it as a milestone in his life: 15 April would be the turning point, and everything would be the way it had been before. If he could just get there. The house on the ridge would once again become a fortress; his secure framework around his family, far beyond his father’s dominion.

It was a promise he made to himself, and for some reason it made him feel a little bit better.

Before the Day Dawns

Johanne felt remarkably contented when the alarm clock rang at the early hour of five-thirty on the morning of Monday, 12 January. At first she couldn’t work out why she was being woken up so early, and lay there in that pleasant no-man’s-land between dream and reality, while Adam hurled himself at the wretched thing and silenced it. The dry warmth beneath the covers made her draw them more closely around her. When Adam lay down again with a groan she wriggled up against his back.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he murmured. ‘The plane to Bergen leaves in two hours.’

‘Ragnhild’s asleep,’ she whispered. ‘Kristiane and Jack are at Isak’s. Can’t you stay for quarter of an hour?’

It cost him his breakfast, and as he sat in the car on the way to Gardermoen just after six-thirty, late and with grumbling pains in his stomach, he almost regretted it.

Johanne, on the other hand, felt better than she had for a long time. The evening with Karen Winslow had gone on until three o’clock on Saturday morning. It would have been even later if Karen hadn’t had to drive a good 200 kilometres to Lillesand the following day. Adam had taken Ragnhild to visit his son-in-law and his grandson Amund on Saturday morning, and stayed out all day. Johanne had slept for longer than she could ever remember. After a long breakfast and three hours with the Saturday papers, she had driven to Tøyenbadet and swum 1,500 metres. In the evening Sigmund Berli had called round. Uninvited. He had brought pizza and warm beer. The unwelcome guest gave Johanne a good excuse to go to bed before ten o’clock.

It had done her good.

She was still feeling happy after meeting up with her old friend. Ragnhild had gone to bed too late on the Sunday, and she had finally reached the age where she caught up on some lost sleep the following day. Johanne ambled around in Adam’s huge pyjamas, made a big pot of coffee and settled down on the sofa with the laptop on her knee. Her teaching commitments hadn’t yet started post-Christmas, and she had decided to spend the day at home. She would leave Ragnhild to sleep until she woke up, despite the fact that the woman who ran the nursery got annoyed if she wasn’t dropped off before ten.

Johanne checked her e-mail; she had nine new messages. Most of them were of no interest. One was from the police. She glanced through it quickly, and realized immediately that it was the same message Adam had received on Saturday morning about the murder of Marianne Kleive. The police had obtained a complete guest list from the wedding reception at the Continental, and were making routine enquiries as to whether any of the guests had noticed anything that might be relevant to the case. Johanne deleted the message straight away. Adam had already replied for both of them, besides which she wanted to devote as little thought as possible to that terrible evening when Kristiane had almost been hit by a tram.

Karen Winslow had already replied to the question Johanne had sent the previous day. She pulled the blanket more tightly around her and opened the message as she sipped the scalding hot coffee.

Dear Johanne,

It was so great to see you! A wonderful evening and an interesting(!) walk through the city! Meeting your husband was fantastic, and I have to say – my own man has one or two things to learn from him. His warmth and generosity when we showed up in the middle of the night exceeded all expectations.

I’m writing you from Oslo Airport. The wedding was unbelievable, but the drive to and from Lillesand a nightmare.

As we agreed, I’ll fill you in on some of the most relevant parts of our research / intelligence as soon as I can. Just to respond to the questions in your message of this morning: the name ‘The 25’ers’ is based on the sum of the digits in 19, 24 and 27 (did I tell you that?). Our theory is that the numbers 24 and 27 point to St Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, chapter 1 verses 24 and 27. Look it up yourself. The number 19 is claimed to have a somehow ‘magical’ significance in the Koran. It’s too complicated to explain here, but if you google ‘Rashad Khalifa’ you’ll figure it out. If our numerologists are correct, the name ‘The 25’ers’ is quite scary…

They’re calling my flight now, so I’ll have to run.

And don’t you forget – you and your family have PROMISED to come visit us this summer!

All the best and a big hug,

Karen

Johanne read through the message again. She needed a printout to remember the strange references. The printer was in the bedroom. As she opened the door the closed-in smell of sheets, sleep and sex hit her. Adam refused to sleep with the window open when the mercury dropped below minus five. Quickly she linked the computer to the printer. When the rasping sound told her that the document was being printed, she went over to the window and threw it wide open.

She closed her eyes against the fresh, cold air.

The Bible, she thought.

She wasn’t even sure if they had one, but she knew there was a copy of the Koran in Adam’s bookcase. He insisted on having a bookcase of his own in the bedroom, five metres of shelving containing an absurd mixture of books. The Book Club’s splendid series on holy scriptures stood alongside reference books on weapons, huge works on heraldry, almost twenty books about horses and bloodlines, an ancient edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, plus everything that had ever been drawn and published by Frode Øverli. Leaving the window open, she crouched down in front of the bookcase on Adam’s side of the double bed. The Koran was easy to find: its spine was adorned with gold leaf and Oriental patterns. The book standing next to it was so worn that the spine was missing. When she carefully took it out, the covers felt soft with age.

The Bible.

Slowly she opened it. There was ornate handwriting on the flyleaf: To Adam from Grandma and Granddad, 16 September 1956. She quickly worked out that it must have been the day of his christening; Adam was born on Midsummer’s Eve that same year.

She half-closed the window and tucked both books under her arm. With the printout in one hand and the laptop in the other, she went back to the sofa.

She saw that Adam’s Bible was the old translation. She found Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, and ran her finger down the page.

24. Wherefore God gave them up to the desires of their heart, unto uncleanness: to dishonour their own bodies among themselves.

She stopped.

… to dishonour their own bodies among themselves…

‘Presumably that means they had sex with one another,’ she murmured, before her eyes found verse 27.

… And, in like manner, the men also, leaving the natural use of the women, have burned in their lusts, one towards another: men with men, working that which is filthy and receiving in themselves the recompense which was due to their error.

Even though she basically understood what it meant, she closed the tattered book and pulled the laptop on to her knee. She should have thought of this in the first place, instead of rooting around in Adam’s bookcase. She had done something similar only once before, and he had been cross for hours afterwards.

It took her two minutes to find the same text on the Internet, but in the new translation.

Therefore God gave them over in the sinful desires of their hearts to sexual impurity for the degrading of their bodies with one another.

Much clearer, she thought, with a slight shake of her head.

Verse 27 was also clearer when clothed in more modern language.

In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their error.

Johanne regarded herself as an agnostic. For her that was just a more elegant word for ‘indifferent’. However, she had to deal with believers in her work and always tried to do so with due respect. Apart from a brief flirtation with religion in her teens, faith in God had never really interested her.

Until now.

Over the past few months she had been forced to develop a relationship with various religions on the most intense level. Texts such as the ones she had just read didn’t frighten her in themselves. As a researcher and a non-believer, she looked at them within the historical context and found them quite interesting. However, taken literally with relevance to people living in 2009, she thought Paul’s words were appalling.

If Karen and the APLC were right, and the name ‘The 25ers’ really could be traced back to these verses, then they must be an organization working directly against homosexuals and lesbians. Without paraphrasing. No church group. No religious community.

A pure hate group.

If ultra-conservative Christians really had joined up with radical Muslims in a new organization of their own, there was every reason to believe that their hatred was more violent than any she had spent the last few months examining more closely.

She read the last line again:

… received in themselves the due penalty for their error.

She shuddered and picked up the printout of Karen’s e-mail.

The number 19. The Arabic-sounding name Rashad Khalifa. Her fingers flew over the keyboard: 4,400 hits on Google.

‘Morning, Mummy. I need porridge.’

Ragnhild scurried across the living-room floor on bare feet. Johanne just had time to put the laptop on the coffee table before her daughter hurled herself into her arms.

‘I’m not going to nursery today,’ Ragnhild laughed. ‘Today you and me are going to have a Teddy Bear Day!’

Johanne gently pushed her daughter away in order to make eye contact, then she said: ‘No, sweetheart. You are going to nursery today. It’s Monday.’

‘Teddy Bear Day,’ Ragnhild said mulishly, pushing out her lower lip.

‘Another time, chicken. Mummy has to work today, and you have to go to nursery. Don’t you remember? You’re all going skiing in Solem Forest. You’ll be cooking sausages over the fire and everything!’

The sulky face split into a big smile.

‘Oh yes! And how many days is it till my birthday?’

‘Nine days. It’s only nine days until you’re five!’

Ragnhild laughed happily.

‘And I’m going to have the best birthday in the world, with bells on!’

‘So to make sure you get to be such a big girl, we’re going to make porridge. But first of all you and I are going to hop in the shower.’

‘Yess!’ her daughter replied, hopping off towards the bathroom like a rabbit.

Johanne smiled at the sight of her. It had been a lovely weekend, and she intended to enjoy an hour alone with her youngest daughter before she tackled a new week.

If only she could push away the thought of The 25’ers.

The last person to push open the door of the small chapel at Østre Crematorium was called Petter Just. He stood there for a moment, wondering if he was in the right place. It was three minutes to twelve, but there couldn’t be more than twenty people in the chapel. Petter Just, a classmate of Niclas Winter’s who hadn’t seen his old friend for many years, had thought it would be packed. Niclas had done very well in life, from what he had read. Sold his work to museums and private collectors. A year ago the local paper had run a big article about Niclas and his work, and Petter Just had got the impression that he was on his way to a major international breakthrough.

A thin, elderly man wearing glasses that suggested he was almost blind pushed a folded sheet of paper into his hand. A photograph of Niclas adorned the front page, with his name and the dates of his birth and death printed in an old-fashioned typeface underneath.

Petter Just took the small leaflet and sat down quietly right at the back.

The clock struck its last four chimes, then fell silent as the organ took over.

The chapel was simple, almost plain: slate slabs on the floor and beige stone walls that turned into severe, rectangular windows for the last few metres. Instead of an altarpiece, the front wall was adorned with a fresco that Petter Just didn’t understand at all. More than anything it reminded him of an old advertising poster for Senterpartiet, with trees and seeds, farmers and fields and a horse that looked an awful lot like a Norwegian fjord horse. At any rate, no animal like that had ever trotted around in the Middle East, he thought, as he tried to find an acceptable sitting position on the hard pew that was covered in red material with stains on it.

He really had thought that Niclas was famous. Not a celebrity like the people you see in magazines and on VG, of course, but fairly well known within his field. A real artist, kind of. When Petter decided to go to the funeral, it had been mainly because he had once had a lot of fun with Niclas. They’d had a pretty cool time for a while, in one way or another. Niclas had been completely crazy when it came to drugs and so on. He hadn’t been all that particular about who he went to bed with, either.

Petter Just almost blushed at the thought.

At any rate, he didn’t do that kind of thing any more. He had a girlfriend, a fantastic girl, and they were expecting their first child in July. He had never been like Niclas really, but when his mother happened to mention that his old friend was dead and the funeral was today, he wanted to pay his respects.

Hardly anyone was singing.

He didn’t even bother miming, which he suspected the two men sitting on the other side of the aisle three pews ahead of him were doing. Some of the time, anyway.

There was only one woman in the chapel, and she didn’t exactly seem crushed. Nor had she managed to dig something black out of her wardrobe. Her suit was elegant, fair enough, but red wasn’t really appropriate for a funeral. She was sitting there looking bored stiff.

The music came to an end. The priest stepped up to the pulpit, directly in front of the central aisle, which resembled an oversized bar stool that might fall over at any moment.

The two men in front of Petter started a whispered conversation.

At first he was annoyed. It wasn’t right to talk during a sermon. Well, maybe ‘sermon’ wasn’t the right word, but any rate it was rude not to keep quiet while the priest was talking.

‘… found several works of art… no children or siblings…’

Petter Just could hear fragments of the conversation. Although he didn’t really want to, he found himself concentrating on them.

‘… in his studio… no heirs…’

The priest indicated that the congregation should stand. The two men were so absorbed that they didn’t react until everyone else was on their feet. They kept quiet for a little while, then started whispering to each other again.

‘… lots of smaller installations… sketches… a final masterpiece… nobody knew that…’

The bastards were ruining the entire service. Petter leaned forward.

‘Shut up, for God’s sake!’ he hissed. ‘Show a little respect!’

Both men turned to look at him in surprise. One was in his fifties with thinning hair, narrow glasses and a moustache. The other was somewhat younger.

‘Sorry,’ said the older man, and both of them smiled as they turned to face the front.

He must have given them a real fright, because they didn’t say another word for the rest of the ceremony. It didn’t last much longer anyway. No one spoke, apart from the priest. Not like when Lasse died in a car accident two years ago; he had been one of three little boys racketing around in Godlia in the eighties. His funeral had been held in the large chapel next door, and there still wasn’t room for everyone who wanted to attend. There had been eight eulogies, and even a live band playing ‘Imagine’. A sea of flowers and an ocean of tears.

Nobody here was crying, and there was just one wreath on the coffin.

The thought brought tears to his eyes.

He should have got in touch with Niclas long ago. If it hadn’t been for the aspect of their relationship that he really wanted to forget, the aspect that had never really been his thing, he would have kept up the friendship.

Suddenly he didn’t want to be there any more. Just before the final note died away, he got up. He pushed the old, short-sighted man out of the way and yanked open the heavy wooden door.

It had started snowing again.

He started to run, without really knowing what he was racing towards.

Or from.

‘Changing the subject,’ said Sigmund Berli, before kicking off his shoes and putting his feet up on the little table between the two armchairs in Adam’s hotel room. ‘I’ve got myself a girlfriend.’

Adam held his nose, pulled a face and stabbed his index finger several times in the direction of his colleague’s feet.

‘Congratulations,’ he said, laughing behind his clenched fist, ‘but your socks stink to high heaven. Take them away! Put your shoes back on!’

Sigmund leaned forward as far as he could towards his own feet. Sniffed hard and wrinkled his nose slightly.

‘They’re all right,’ he said, settling down again. ‘I haven’t had any complaints from my girlfriend, anyway.’

‘Who is she?’ asked Adam, moving over to the bed, as far from Sigmund as possible. ‘And how long has this been going on?’

‘Herdis,’ Sigmund said eagerly. ‘She’s… Herdis is… Guess! Guess what her job is!’

‘No idea,’ Adam said impatiently. ‘Are you actually going to offer me a drink or what?’

Sigmund fished a plastic bottle of whisky out of his inside pocket. He picked up one of the glasses Adam had fetched from the bathroom and poured a generous measure before handing it to his friend.

‘Thanks.’

Sigmund poured himself a drink.

‘Herdis,’ Sigmund repeated contentedly, as if just speaking her name was a pleasure. ‘Herdis Vatne is a professor of astrophysics.’

‘Hmff…!’ Adam sprayed whisky all over himself and the bed. ‘What did you say? What the hell did you say?’

Sigmund straightened up, a suspicious look in his eyes.

‘I suppose you thought I couldn’t pull an academic? The trouble with you, Adam, is that you’re always so bloody prejudiced. You defend those Negroes to the death. Despite the fact that they’re over-represented in virtually all the crime statistics we have, you’re always going on about how difficult things are for them, and-’

‘Pack it in,’ said Adam. ‘And don’t use that word.’

‘That’s a form of prejudice, too, you know! Always thinking the best of people just because they belong to a particular group! You never think the best of anyone else. You’re sceptical about every white person we pick up, but if their skin’s just a little bit darker than ours, you start pointing out how decent they probably are, and how-’

‘Pack it in! I mean it!’ Adam suddenly sat up straight on the bed.

Sigmund hesitated, then added sullenly: ‘And you don’t believe for a moment that I’ve got a girlfriend who works at the university. You think it’s funny. That’s definitely what I call having preconceived ideas. And it’s actually quite hurtful, to be perfectly honest.’

‘Sorry,’ said Adam. ‘I apologize, Sigmund. Of course I’m very happy for you. Have you…?’ He pointed to Sigmund’s mobile phone. ‘Have you got a picture of her?’

‘You bet!’

Sigmund fiddled with his phone and eventually found what he was looking for, then held it out to Adam with a broad grin.

‘Not bad, eh? Beautiful as well as clever. Almost like Johanne.’

Adam took the phone and examined the picture. A fair-haired woman in her forties was looking back at him with a big smile. Her teeth were white and even, her nose upturned slightly in an attractive way. She must be quite slim, because even on the little display screen he could see deep laughter lines, with a furrow running from the corners of her mouth down to her chin on either side. Her eyes were blue and she was wearing just a little bit too much eye make-up.

She looked like just about any competent Norwegian woman in her forties.

‘Not bad at all,’ he mumbled, handing back the phone.

‘I was going to tell you on Saturday, before Johanne suddenly went off to bed. But then I decided to wait, because yesterday Herdis was meeting my boys for the first time. Well, it wasn’t really the first time, because her son plays hockey with Snorre. They’ve been good friends for ages. But I had to see how things went when we kind of… met up privately. All of us. I mean, I can’t have a girlfriend who doesn’t like my boys. And vice versa.’

‘So I gather it went well?’

‘Couldn’t have gone better. We went to the cinema, then back to her place for a meal afterwards. You should see her apartment! Stylish and spacious. In Frogner. I almost feel like a stranger in that part of town. But it’s lovely there, I have to admit.’

He sipped contentedly at his whisky and leaned back in his armchair.

‘Love is a beautiful thing,’ he announced solemnly.

‘Indeed it is.’

They sat in silence for a while as they worked their way through about half of their generous drinks. Adam could feel the tiredness creeping up on him as he lay there on the bed, three pillows providing a soft support for his back and neck. He closed his eyes, then gave a start as he almost dropped his glass.

‘What do you think about our woman?’ said Sigmund.

‘What woman? Herdis?’

‘Idiot. Eva Karin Lysgaard.’

Adam didn’t reply. The two of them had spent the day trying to impose some kind of system on the vast amount of documents relating to the case. Nineteen days had passed since the Bishop was stabbed to death, and basically the Bergen police were no closer to a solution. You couldn’t actually blame them, thought Adam. He was just as much at a loss. So far they and Sigmund had worked well together, with no friction. To begin with Adam had taken responsibility for interviewing the witnesses who were most central to the case, while Sigmund had acted as a link between Kripos and Hordaland police district. This was a role he fulfilled admirably. It was difficult to find a more jovial soul than Sigmund Berli. He was a strong all-rounder who could usually sort out any potential conflict before things turned serious. For the last week they had both worked in a slightly different capacity, evaluating the material gathered so far. The Bergen police were responsible for all aspects of the investigation and coordination. They operated entirely independently, while Adam and Sigmund tried to gain an overview of all the information that came pouring in.

‘I think we’ve made a mistake,’ Adam said suddenly. ‘The opposite of the mistake we usually make.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve been looking at too wide an area.’

‘Rule Number One, Adam: keep all doors open at all times!’

‘I know,’ said Adam with a grimace. ‘But listen…’

He picked up a notepad and pen from the bedside table.

‘With regard to this theory about a madman, one of those ticking bombs that everybody is talking about all the time-’

‘An asylum seeker,’ Sigmund chipped in, and was about to expand on this theme when a crushing glance from Adam made him hold up his hands in a placatory gesture.

‘If that were the case, we would have found him long ago,’ said Adam. ‘That type of murder is carried out by psychotic individuals who happily roam the streets after doing the deed, spattered with blood and tormented by inner demons until we find them a few hours later. It’s been three weeks now, and we’ve seen no sign of any maniac. No one is missing from the psychiatric clinics, nothing suspicious has been discovered at the centres for asylum seekers, and I think it’s actually…’

He tapped the pad with his pen.

‘… out of the question that we’re looking for that kind of murderer.’

‘I should imagine that’s exactly what the Bergen police are thinking.’

‘Yes. But they’re still keeping the door open.’

Sigmund nodded.

‘That door should just be closed,’ said Adam. ‘Along with several other doors that are just creating draughts and chaos with all their possibilities. These poison-pen letters, for example. Have you ever been involved in a case where the murderer was one of the people who’d sent that sort of thing?’

‘Well,’ Sigmund said hesitantly. ‘In the Anna Lindh case the murderer was unhappy about-’

‘The Swedish Minister for Foreign Affairs was murdered by a madman,’ Adam interrupted. ‘In every practical respect, if not in the legal sense. A misfit with a psychiatric background who suddenly caught sight of a focus for his hatred. He was arrested two weeks later, and he left so many clues that-’

‘That you and I would have picked him up in less than twenty-four hours,’ Sigmund smiled.

Adam grinned back.

‘They’ve been really unlucky, the Swedes, in several really, really serious cases…’

Once again they fell silent. From the room next door came the sound of a running shower and a toilet being flushed.

‘I think that’s a blind alley, too,’ said Adam. ‘Just like this abortion business the papers are making so much of at the moment. It’s the anti-abortion lobby that sometimes commits murders in support of their point of view. In the US, anyway. Not the pro-abortionists. That’s just too far-fetched.’

‘So what are you thinking, then? You’ve gone through virtually every possibility we’ve got! What the hell are you sitting there pondering?’

‘Where was she going?’ said Adam, staring blankly into space. ‘We have to find out where she was going when she was murdered.’

Sigmund emptied his glass and stared at it briefly before resolutely opening the plastic bottle of Famous Grouse and pouring himself another decent measure.

‘Take it easy,’ said Adam. ‘We’ve got to make an early start.’

Sigmund ignored his warning.

‘The problem is, of course, that we can’t ask Eva Karin Lysgaard,’ he said. ‘And her husband is still flatly refusing to say anything about where she was heading. Our colleagues here have told him he has a duty to answer, and have even threatened him with a formal interrogation. With the consequences that could have-’

‘They’ll never subject Erik Lysgaard to a formal interrogation. It would be pointless. He has suffered enough – and is still suffering. We’ll have to come up with something else.’

‘Like what?’

Adam emptied his glass and shook his head when Sigmund lifted the bottle to offer him a top-up.

‘Door-to-door enquiries,’ Adam said tersely.

‘Where? All over Bergen?’

‘No. We need to…’ He opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out a map of the town. ‘We need to concentrate on a limited area somewhere around here,’ he said, drawing a circle with his index finger as he held the map up to show his colleague.

‘But that’s half of bloody Bergen,’ Sigmund said wearily.

‘No. It’s the eastern part of the centre. The north-eastern part.’

Sigmund took the map.

‘You know what, Adam? This is the stupidest suggestion you’ve ever come up with. It’s been made absolutely crystal-clear in the media that there’s a great deal of uncertainty about why the Bishop was out walking on Christmas Eve. If anyone out there knew where she was going, they would have contacted the police long ago. Unless, of course, they have something to hide, in which case there’s still no bloody point in going around knocking on doors.’

He threw the map on the bed and took a large swig from his glass.

‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘she might just have gone out for a walk. In which case we wouldn’t be any closer to finding an answer.’

Adam’s face took on the glassy expression Sigmund knew so well.

‘Any more bright ideas?’ he said, sipping his whisky. ‘Ideas I can shoot down right now?’

‘The photo,’ said Adam firmly, before glancing at his watch.

‘The photo. Right. What photo?’

‘It’s half past eleven. I need to get some sleep.’

‘Which photo are you talking about?’

Sigmund showed no sign of heading off to his own room. On the contrary, he settled himself more comfortably in the armchair and rested his legs on the bed.

‘The one that disappeared,’ said Adam. ‘I told you about the photograph that was in the “spare room”…’

He drew quotation marks in the air.

‘… where Eva Karin used to go when she couldn’t sleep, according to the family. There were four photographs in there the first time I saw the room, and three when I went back two days later. The only thing I remember is that it was a portrait.’

‘But Erik Lysgaard doesn’t want to-’

‘We’ll just have to forget Erik. He’s a lost cause. I’ve spent far too long thinking the key to finding out more about this mysterious walk lies with him. But we’ve reached stalemate there. Lukas, however-’

‘Doesn’t seem all that keen to cooperate either, if you ask me.’

‘No, you could be right there. Which means we have to ask ourselves why a son who is obviously grieving – and who really wants to find out who murdered his mother – is so reluctant to help the police. There’s usually only one explanation for that kind of thing.’

He looked at Sigmund with raised eyebrows, challenging him to follow his reasoning through to its conclusion.

‘Family secrets,’ said Sigmund in a dramatic tone of voice.

‘Bingo. They often have nothing to do with the matter in hand, actually, but in this case we can’t afford to make any assumptions. My impression of Lukas is that he’s not really…’

There was a long pause. Sigmund waited patiently; his glass wasn’t empty yet.

‘… he’s not really sure of his father,’ Adam said eventually.

‘What do you mean?’

‘They’re obviously very fond of each other. There’s a striking resemblance between them, both physically and in terms of personality, and I have no reason to believe there’s any problem with the relationship between father and son. And yet there’s something unresolved between them. Something new. You notice it as soon as you’re in the same room with both of them. It’s a long way from hostility, it’s more a kind of…’

Once again he had to search for the right words.

‘… broken trust.’

‘Do they suspect each other?’

‘I don’t think so. But there’s something unspoken between them, some kind of deep scepticism that…’

Once again, mostly as a reflex action, he looked at his watch.

‘I mean it, Sigmund. I have to get to sleep. Clear off.’

‘You always have to spoil the party,’ mumbled his colleague, putting his feet on the floor. His room was two doors away, and he couldn’t be bothered with his shoes. He picked them up with two fingers of his right hand, and carried the whisky bottle in the other.

‘What time are you having breakfast?’

‘Seven. Then I’m going out to Os. I want to catch Lukas before he goes to work. That’s what we have to hope for – that Lukas will agree to help us.’

He yawned and weakly raised two fingers to his forehead in a farewell salute. In the doorway Sigmund turned back.

‘I think I’ll get up a bit later,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll go straight down to the police station about nine. I’ll let them know you’ve gone to talk to Lukas again. They seem to think it’s OK for you to go off on your own here in Bergen. You’d never get away with it back home!’

‘Fine. Good night.’

Sigmund mumbled something inaudible as the door closed behind him with a muted bang.

As Adam undressed and got ready for bed, he realized he’d forgotten to ring Johanne. He swore and looked at his watch, even though it was only two minutes since he’d established that it was eleven thirty-six.

It was too late to call, so he went to bed.

And couldn’t get to sleep.

It was the number 19 that was keeping Johanne awake. She had spent the entire evening reading about Rashad Khalifa and his theories about the divine origins of the Koran. Whatever she tried to think about in order to tempt sleep, that damned number 19 popped up again, and she was wide awake once more.

After an hour she gave up. She would find something mindless to watch on TV. A detective programme or a sitcom; something to make her sleepy. It was already after one o’clock, but TV3 was usually showing some kind of crap at this time of night.

The sofa was a complete mess. Papers everywhere, every single one a printout from the Internet.

Johanne threatened her own students with death and destruction if they ever used Wikipedia as a source in a piece of academic work. She used it all the time. The difference between Johanne and her students was that she had the sense to be critical, in her opinion. This evening it had been difficult. The story of Rashad Khalifa made riveting reading, and every link had led her deeper into this remarkable story.

It was so fascinating.

She padded silently into the kitchen and decided to follow her mother’s advice. Milk in a pan, two large dessert spoonfuls of honey. Just before it boiled she added a dash of brandy. As a child she hadn’t had a clue about the final ingredient. As an adult she had confronted her mother, telling her it was totally irresponsible to give a child alcohol to get her to sleep. Her mother had waved away her objections, pointing out that the alcohol evaporated, and that in any case alcohol could be regarded as medicine. At least in these circumstances. Besides which they were very rarely given her special milk mixture, she had added, when Johanne still didn’t seem convinced.

She smiled and shook her head at the thought. Poured the milk into a big mug. It was almost too hot to hold.

She put it down on the coffee table and made some space on the sofa. Switched on the TV and flicked on to TV3. It was difficult to work out what the film was actually about. The pictures were dark, showing trees being blown down in a violent storm. When a vampire suddenly appeared among the tree trunks, she switched off.

Without really making a conscious decision, she reached for a pile of papers next to her mug of milk. Despite the fact that it was a stupid thing to do in view of the late hour, she settled down to read more about Rashad Khalifa and his peculiar theory about the number 19.

The Egyptian had emigrated to the United States as a young adult, and trained there as a biochemist. Since he found the English translation of the Koran unsatisfactory, he re-translated the whole thing himself. During the course of his work, towards the end of the Sixties, he got the idea that the book ought to be analyzed. From a purely mathematical point of view. The aim would be to prove that the Koran was a divine text. After several years and a great deal of work, he put forward his theory about the number 19 as a kind of pervading, divine key to the word of Allah.

Johanne didn’t have the requisite knowledge to follow the strange Muslim’s great leaps of thought. The whole thing seemed to be based on comparatively advanced mathematics, while in some parts it seemed utterly banal. For example, he noted that in the Koran, ‘Basmalah’ is mentioned 114 times, which is a number divisible by 19. In certain places he based his comments more directly on the text, such as when he referred to the fact that sura 74:30 said, ‘Over it is nineteen.’

Tentatively, she took a sip of the hot milky drink. Her mother’s theory didn’t stand up; the alcohol burned on her tongue and prickled in her nose.

Rashad Khalifa carried out an inconceivable number of calculations, she noted once more. The most ridiculous was to add up all the numbers mentioned throughout the whole of the Koran, and to show that this total was also divisible by 19. At first she really couldn’t understand what was special about that, but then she realized that 19 was a prime number, and therefore divisible only by itself, and that made things slightly easier to understand.

‘But then there are a hell of a lot of prime numbers,’ she muttered to herself.

The room was cold.

They had installed a thermostat with a timer on every radiator in an attempt to protect both their bank account and the environment. While Adam kept on turning up the radiators to maintain the heat overnight, she kept turning them down to allow the system to work as it was meant to. She regretted it now. For a moment she considered lighting a fire, but instead she went into the bedroom and fetched a blanket.

Her drink was beginning to cool down. She took a big gulp, then put the mug down again and started to read.

To begin with, the Muslim world had seemed delighted with the eccentric Khalifa’s discoveries. At first his work was taken seriously. Muslims the world over accepted the idea of mathematical evidence for the existence of Allah. Even the well-known sceptic Martin Gardner referred to Khalifa’s mathematical discoveries as interesting and sensational in one of his articles in Scientific American.

Then things went downhill for the Egyptian-American Rashad Khalifa.

He wrote himself into the Koran.

Not content with regarding himself as a prophet on the same level as the Prophet, he created his own religion. According to ‘The Submitters’, all other religions, including corrupt Islam, would simply die out when the prophet foretold in both the Koran and the Bible arrived, and Islam would rise again in a pure, unadulterated form.

She was going cross-eyed. Johanne put down the papers.

Perhaps she would be able to sleep on the sofa.

She wasn’t going to think about Rashad Khalifa any more.

Still, it was hardly surprising that he gained supporters, she thought, trying to get comfortable. Many modern Muslims welcomed his attack on the Muslim priesthood. On the other hand, numerology would always tempt those with a weakness for fanaticism – extremists of all kinds. Khalifa’s theories were still accepted, in spite of the fact that the man himself had been murdered in 1990.

By a fanatical Muslim, following a fatwa issued at the same meeting as the one against Salman Rushdie.

‘Oh my God,’ she mumbled, trying to close her eyes. ‘These religions!’

The number 19 was performing Riverdance on the inside of her eyelids.

It was ten past two.

Tomorrow would be terrible if she didn’t get to sleep soon. She got up abruptly, and with the blanket tucked under her arm she padded into the bathroom to take a sleeping tablet. The very thought that they were there was usually enough, but this time she took one and a half tablets, swilled down with running water from the tap.

Fifteen minutes later she was fast asleep in her own bed, untroubled by dreams.

Lukas Lysgaard had waited until everyone was asleep. He left a note for Astrid saying that he was worried about his father and was going to check that everything was OK, but would be back later that night. He had left the car parked on the street so that the garage door wouldn’t wake anyone.

The drive did him good. While his mother had always adored the light, Lukas was a man who felt comfortable at night. As a child he had always felt safe in the dark. The night was his friend, and had been ever since he was little and lived in the big house on Nubbebakken. From the age of six or seven he had often woken up and been fascinated by the shadows dancing on his bedroom wall. The big oak tree whose branches scraped against the window pane was illuminated from behind by a single yellow street lamp, making the most beautiful patterns on his bed. All of a sudden, when he could no longer sleep, he would tiptoe out of his room and up the steep stairs leading to the attic. In the semi-darkness, among trunks and old furniture, moth-eaten clothes and toys that were so old nobody knew who had owned them originally, he could sit for hours, lost in dreams.

Lukas Lysgaard drove from Os through the damp winter darkness into a Bergen that was heavy with sleep; he had finally made a decision.

When he thought back to his own childhood, he didn’t have much to complain about.

He was a much-loved child, and he knew it. His parents’ faith had been good for him when he was little. He accepted their God just as easily as all children accept their parents’ ideals until they are old enough to rebel. His rebellion had taken place in silence. From seeing the Lord as a comforting father figure – forgiving, watchful and omnipresent – he had begun to have his doubts at the age of twelve.

There was no room for doubt in the house on Nubbebakken.

His mother’s faith in God had been absolute. Her kindness towards others, regardless of their faith or conviction, her generosity and tolerance towards even the weakest among the fallen, all of this was firmly anchored in her certainty that the Redeemer was the Son of God. When Lukas became a teenager he discovered that his mother wasn’t a believer. She knew. Eva Karin Lysgaard was absolutely sure about her religion, and he never dared confront her with his own doubts. God stopped answering his prayers. Christianity became more and more of a closed book to him, and he started to seek the answers to the mysteries of life elsewhere.

After completing his military service he began to study physics, and abandoned his religion. Still without saying a word. He and Astrid had been married in church – what else would they do? Their children had been baptized. He was pleased about that now; his mother had been so happy each time she held up one of her grandchildren before the congregation, after administering the sacrament herself.

It had always been different at home with his parents, he thought, as he drew closer to his father’s house.

When he was a boy he had never noticed it. Since his mother’s death he had been trying to remember when it first arose, this vague feeling that she was hiding something. Perhaps it had happened gradually, alongside his own dwindling faith. Although she had always been there as a mother, always spiritually and often physically, as he grew older it had become increasingly clear to him that he was sharing her with someone else. It was like a shadow hanging over her. Something missing.

He had a sister. That must be the answer.

It was difficult to work out how and why, but it had to be connected in some way to his mother’s salvation as a sixteen-year-old. Perhaps she had been pregnant. Perhaps Jesus had spoken to her when she was thinking of having an abortion. That would explain the one area in which she was immovable and sometimes almost fanatical: it was not given to man to end a life created by God.

He quickly worked out that his mother had been sixteen in 1962.

It wasn’t easy to be pregnant and unmarried in 1962, and most definitely not for a young girl.

The woman in the photo was so like him; he remembered that, despite the fact that on the few occasions when he had paid any real attention to the picture he had felt an antipathy, almost a sense of loathing towards this nameless woman with the attractive, slightly crooked teeth.

Lukas was going to find that photograph. Then he was going to find his sister.

On Nubbebakken he parked a short distance from his father’s house. When he reached the front door, he tried not to rattle the bunch of keys.

Once inside, he stopped and listened.

It was never really silent in his parents’ house. The wood creaked, the hinges squealed. Branches scraped against the window panes when it was breezy. The ticking of the grandfather clock was usually so loud that you could hear it more or less anywhere on the ground floor. The pipes sighed at irregular intervals; his childhood home had always been a living house. The floors were old, and he still remembered where to put his feet so that he wouldn’t wake anyone.

Now everything was dead.

There wasn’t a breath of wind outside, and even when he stood on a floorboard that usually protested beneath his weight, he could hear nothing but his own pulse beating against his eardrums.

He walked towards the narrow staircase, holding his breath until he reached the top. The door of his father’s bedroom was ajar. The slow, regular breathing indicated that he was asleep. Lukas moved cautiously over to the door leading up to the attic. As usual the old wrought-iron key was in the lock, and he lifted the handle up and towards him while turning the key at the same time, which he knew was the trick. The click as the door unlocked made him hold his breath once more.

His father was still asleep.

With infinite slowness he opened the door.

Eventually he was able to slip through.

He placed his feet as close to the wall as possible on each step, as he had learned to do when he was only six years old. Silently he made his way up to the big, dusty room. He slipped the torch out of his waistband and began to search.

It was a reunion with his own childhood.

In the boxes piled up by the little round window in one gable he found clothes and shoes that had belonged to him when he was a little boy. Next to them were several boxes containing more clothes; his mother had thrown nothing away. He tried to remember when he had last been up here, and worked out that it must have been before they moved away for the first time, when he was twelve, and he had cried himself to sleep for two months at the thought of leaving Bergen.

And yet everything seemed so strangely familiar.

The smell was still the same. Dust, mothballs and rusty metal mixed with shoe polish and indefinable, comforting scents.

Suddenly he turned away from the boxes by the window and moved silently back to the staircase. He swept the beam of the torch over the floor at the top of the stairs. In the thick dust he could clearly see his own footprints. He could also see another impression, with no pattern on the sole, like the marks left by slippers. There were several when he looked more closely, and they went in both directions. Someone had been here recently.

Lukas couldn’t help smiling. His father had always thought the attic was a safe place. Every Christmas Eve when he was a little boy, Lukas had pretended to be surprised at his presents. His father had hidden them up here until Christmas Eve, but he had no idea that Lukas had become an expert at opening presents and sealing them up again without anyone being able to tell.

He stretched and looked around.

The attic was large, covering the same area as the ground floor of the house. A hundred square metres, if he remembered rightly. His courage almost failed at the thought of how long it would take to search through all this rubbish – all these memories – for something as small as a photograph.

Once again the beam of the torch danced across the footprints by the stairs.

The impressions left by the slippers- almost invisible – were pointing in the opposite direction from where Lukas had been. They led over to the western end of the attic, where the little window was nailed shut. He traced them carefully.

A sound from downstairs made him stiffen.

The sound of footsteps. The footsteps stopped.

Lukas held his breath.

His father was awake. He could almost hear him breathing, even though there must be more than fifteen metres between them. It sounded as if he was standing by the attic door.

Shit. Lukas’s lips silently formed the word. He hadn’t closed the door, simply because he was afraid of making a noise later, when he came down from the attic. Presumably his father was going to the toilet, and, of course, he had noticed that the attic door was open.

Sometimes, if they had forgotten to lock the door, it would open by itself. Lukas closed his eyes and prayed to God for the first time in living memory.

Let Dad believe the door opened by itself.

This time his prayer was answered.

He heard his father muttering to himself, then the door closed.

And the key was turned.

God hadn’t answered his prayer after all. Now he was locked in, and how the hell was he supposed to explain that? A stream of quiet curses poured out of his mouth before it occurred to him that he could use the roof light. He was only six years old when he climbed out of the little window in the roof for the first time; it was right next to the chimney, and he clambered down the sweep’s ladder, scrambled along the guttering and across to the big oak tree just outside his old bedroom.

From there getting down to the ground was a simple matter.

But first he must find the photo of his sister.

He waited for ten minutes to make sure his father had gone back to sleep. Then he crept quietly across the floor.

It was all so simple that he couldn’t really believe it. Underneath a banana box full of old newspapers – on top of a footstool he thought he remembered from when they lived in Stavanger – lay the photograph. The frame shone when the beam of the torch caught it. Only now did it occur to him that it was made of silver. The metal had oxidized over the years, but the weight and the quality of the chased frame convinced him.

A pang shot through him as he let the beam rest on her smiling face.

The woman was possibly in her twenties, although it was hard to tell. The only part of her clothing that was visible was a blouse with a small collar and something that might be flowers embroidered on the point at each side, white on white. On top of the blouse she was wearing a darker jacket – it looked like a thin, knitted jacket. One single colour.

Not particularly modern, he thought.

Quickly, he took the photograph out of the frame. He wanted to look for the name of the photographer or some other clue that might take him further in the hunt for the sister in whose existence he had believed for so long; now he had no intention of giving up until he found her.

Nothing.

The photograph was completely anonymous. He put down the frame and went over to an old armchair standing by the long wall on the southern side of the house. He sat down and balanced the torch on his shoulder so that the light was shining directly on the photograph.

If his mother had been pregnant in 1962, then this woman must be forty-six now, perhaps forty-seven; he had never known what time of year his mother had had her alleged revelation.

So the photograph must have been taken at least twenty-five years ago: 1984.

He had been five years old then. He didn’t know much about the fashion in those days, apart from the fact that his best friend’s older brother had worn pastel-coloured mohair jumpers which he tucked into his trousers, and his hair had been permed into fantastic curls.

His ran his fingertips over the woman’s face.

She didn’t have a perm, and although it was difficult to guess colours from a black-and-white photograph, he thought the jacket might be red.

Lukas had never missed having siblings. He grew up with a sense of being unique, the only child with whom his parents had been blessed. He found it easy to make friends, and they had always been welcome at home. His friends envied him: Lukas had his parents’ undivided attention, and he often had the latest thing before other parents had even had time to consider whether they could afford it.

He felt as if the woman in the photograph was talking to him. There was something between them, a mutual love.

Quickly, he tucked the photograph inside his shirt and secured it in the waistband of his trousers. He put the frame back where he had found it, then moved over to the roof light, hoping it would still open after all these years.

It did.

Cold, damp air poured in, and he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he began to wonder if it would still be possible for him to squeeze out through the narrow opening. He looked around for something to stand on, and caught sight of a small stepladder, which he remembered from the kitchen in Stavanger. He carefully unhooked it from the wall, opened it out and placed it directly under the roof light. He just about managed to squeeze his shoulders through the gap. Once his upper body was through, the rest wouldn’t be a problem.

However, there were other challenges.

He immediately realized that it would be madness to attempt to get over the roof and down the big oak tree in the dark. There was only a faint glow from the solitary street lamp, which didn’t provide enough light to see what he was doing. Since he needed both hands to make his way over the roof and into the tree, the torch wouldn’t be much use. Of course, he could fix it in his belt, but it wouldn’t be enough.

Lukas Lysgaard was a 29-year-old father of three, and no longer a boy with no fear and no sense. Carefully, he wriggled back down and managed to get back inside without making too much noise.

He sat down in the armchair again, fished out his mobile and keyed in a message to Astrid.

Spending the night at Dad’s. Will ring in the morning. Lukas.

Then he switched the phone to silent.

He would wait for daylight, even if the dawn came late at this time of year. Once again he took out the photograph of the person he now knew was his sister and studied it for a long time in the blue-white glow of the Maglite.

Perhaps he had nieces and nephews.

At least he had a sister.

The very thought made him dizzy, and suddenly tiredness crept up on him. His limbs were as heavy as lead, and he was no longer capable of holding the photograph steady. He tucked it back inside his shirt, switched off the torch and leaned back in the lovely, comfortable armchair.

In the small hours of the morning, he fell asleep.

Child Missing

Adam Stubo had been so tired when he woke up that he had wondered for a while whether he ought to be driving. He wasn’t under the influence of alcohol, having restricted himself to just one decent drink. And yet he felt a heaviness in his body, a stubborn sleepiness that made it difficult to get out of bed. Perhaps he was coming down with something.

But after three cups of coffee, two portions of scrambled eggs and bacon and a freshly baked croissant, everything felt much easier.

He had almost reached Os.

He had decided against warning the family in advance. It was a risk, of course, since there was no guarantee Lukas Lysgaard would be at home, but Adam wanted to maintain the psychological upper hand by making an unannounced visit. He had never been to Lukas’s house, and when the mechanical voice of the satnav kept on telling him to turn right when he was passing a field with not so much as a logging track visible, he decided it would be better to ask the way. A woman in her sixties hurrying along a cycle track looked as if she knew where she was going.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, pressing the button to open the side window. ‘Do you know this area?’

She nodded, her expression dubious.

He mentioned the address, but this didn’t make her any more inclined to talk.

‘Lukas Lysgaard,’ he said quickly as she was about to set off again. ‘I’m looking for Lukas Lysgaard!’

‘Oh, I see,’ said the woman, with a sad smile. ‘Poor boy. Third street on the right. Carry on for about three hundred metres. Turn left by a dilapidated little red house, then go straight on. When you see a white house on a bend, carry straight on up to the top of the hill, and there you are. It’s a yellow house with a double garage.’

Adam repeated the directions, and received a nod of confirmation. He thanked the woman politely and put the car into gear.

As he approached the house he glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 8.10. Perhaps he was too late.

Lukas worked in Bergen, so he probably left home early. Adam didn’t know much about the infrastructure in this part of the country, but when he was here after Christmas he had realized that the rush-hour traffic heading into Bergen from the south could lead to a complete standstill all the way from Flesland into the centre. Admittedly, Flesland lay to the north-west of Os, but as far as he could tell, you ended up in the same stationary queue as you drew closer to the city.

He stopped in front of a typical eighties house, large and painted yellow, with bay windows, small panes and every other characteristic of a practical and utterly unattractive dwelling.

He parked by the gate and walked up to the front door.

From inside he could hear the sound of a child crying, followed by an exhausted groan from someone he assumed to be Lukas’s wife. A pathetic little miaow made him move back at the bottom of the stone steps and look up. On the porch roof sat a small tabby. When he met its green eyes, the cat crept silently over to the drainpipe, down the wall, and managed to slide into the house just as the door opened.

‘Good morning,’ said Adam, holding out his hand as he climbed the three steps.

Astrid Tomte Lysgaard stared at him in surprise.

‘Morning,’ she said uncertainly, shaking his hand.

‘Adam Stubo. From NCIS. I’m working on the investigation into your mother-in-law’s murder and-’

‘I know who you are,’ said Astrid, making no move to let him in. ‘But Lukas isn’t here.’

‘Oh. Has he already left for work?’

‘Possibly. He spent the night at his father’s house.’

‘I see.’

Adam smiled. Astrid Tomte Lysgaard wasn’t yet dressed for the day. Her dressing gown was too big, and the milk-white legs revealed that she was as thin as a rake. Her eyes were surrounded by dry wrinkles, and the bags under her eyes were all too evident for a woman of her age.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, spreading her hands wide in a weary gesture. ‘We’re running a bit late this morning, so if there’s nothing else…’

A three-year-old stuck his head out from behind her.

‘Hello,’ the boy said in a friendly tone of voice. ‘My name is William, and Grandma is all dead.’

‘My name is Adam. I’m a policeman. Was that your cat I saw just now?’

‘Yes. Her name is Borghild.’

The boy couldn’t pronounce the name properly, and said ‘Boygil’.

Adam’s smile grew even wider.

‘That’s a good name for a beautiful fat cat,’ he nodded. ‘I think you’d better go and get dressed now. You’ll be off to nursery soon, won’t you?’

‘Did you hear that?’ Astrid gave a wan smile and ruffled her son’s hair. ‘The policeman says you have to go and get dressed. We have to do what a policeman tells us, don’t we?’

The boy turned and scampered away at once.

‘How are you doing?’ Adam asked quietly.

She still made no move to let him in, but nor did she close the door.

‘Oh, you know.’ The tears were threatening to spill over. ‘It’s hard for Lukas,’ she said, wiping her left eye with a rapid movement. ‘Losing Eva Karin is one thing. But it’s almost as bad seeing Erik so…’

Her hands were slender, with long, thin fingers. Her arms were wrapped around her upper body, and she kept tucking her hair behind one ear over and over again with a nervous movement.

‘And Lukas has got it into his head that…’

A car sounded its horn on the street. Adam turned and saw a car pulling out of next-door’s drive with the back seat full of children; the driver was waving to Astrid, who raised her hand slightly in response.

‘What has Lukas got into his head?’ Adam asked when she didn’t go on.

‘I… I don’t really know.’

Borghild appeared in the doorway, rubbing around her bare legs.

‘I really do have to go,’ she said, taking a step back. ‘I’ve got to get the kids ready for school and nursery. I’m sorry you’ve come all the way out here for nothing.’

‘It’s not your fault!’ Adam walked backwards down the steps. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you,’ he said. ‘I know exactly what these mornings are like.’

Astrid closed the door without another word. Adam walked back to the hire car and unlocked it with the remote. He got in and fiddled with the idiotic card Renault had decided was better than an ignition key. He inserted it into the slot and pressed the start button. Nothing happened.

Work, you bastard!

He snatched out the card and banged it hard against the dashboard before repeating the entire procedure. The engine started.

After he had been driving for five minutes with the intention of going back to Bergen, he changed his mind and decided to head over to Nubbebakken instead. Seeking Lukas out at the university would seem too dramatic. Astrid had made it clear that Erik’s condition was deteriorating, so Lukas might have decided to stay with his father rather than go to work.

He increased his speed.

It had started to rain, and behind the heavy cloud cover the sun had just started to colour the world grey.

Lukas was woken by the fact that the roof light was no longer black, but a sooty grey. His right arm was completely numb. He had twisted and turned in the armchair and fallen asleep on it. When the circulation returned it was as if he had stuck his hand in a wasps’ nest. It stung and ached, and he pulled a face as he stood up and started to shake his arm so violently that his shoulder protested.

It was already ten past nine in the morning, on Tuesday 13 January.

He should have been at a departmental meeting at nine o’clock. When he checked the display on his mobile, there were five missed calls: three from a colleague who would be at the same meeting, and two from Astrid.

He just hoped she hadn’t tried calling his father’s landline as well. It was unlikely; she couldn’t stand talking to her father-in-law at the moment.

He quickly stretched his body from side to side to shake off the aches and pains of the night.

There wasn’t a sound from downstairs. Perhaps his father was still asleep.

The photograph of his sister was still safe inside his shirt. It was bent, but not creased. He tightened his belt in order to keep the photograph in place before climbing the ladder and opening the roof light.

It was a miserable January morning.

Everything was wet. All the colours were in hibernation. The oak tree stood out, a black relief against the grey. Lukas wriggled through the narrow opening and pulled the rest of his body up using his arms. Once he was on the roof, he sat there for a few moments gasping for breath. He pushed his heels well in between the rungs of the chimney sweep’s ladder and felt significantly more frightened than he had done when he was a boy. When he was halfway down to the gutter, he heard a car approaching. He stiffened.

The engine was switched off and a car door opened and closed.

The gate squealed and Lukas could clearly hear footsteps approaching his father’s front door.

Someone rang the bell. He heard the sound from below, muted and distorted through two floors, but still clear. So far he hadn’t even dared to move his eyes, but eventually he looked down. From where he was sitting he could just see the little porch and the stone steps, with the metal grille at the bottom for wiping shoes.

He immediately saw who it was.

At last the door opened.

Lukas held his breath, his eyes firmly fixed on the man down below. If Adam Stubo should look up, he would see him at once.

The voices were crystal-clear.

‘Good morning,’ said the police officer. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m trying to get hold of Lukas. I just wanted to go over a couple of points with him. Is he here?’

As usual his father’s voice was expressionless and uninterested.

‘No.’

‘No? It’s just that I spoke to his wife and…’

Stubo took a step back. Lukas closed his eyes.

‘I do apologize,’ said the big man down below. ‘I could have phoned, of course. How are you? Is there anything we can-?’

‘I’m fine,’ his father interrupted, then the door slammed shut.

Lukas was already soaked to the skin. He had left his outdoor clothes in the car, and the ice-cold rain was hitting the nape of his neck and running down his back. Instinctively, he leaned forward to protect the photograph. He opened his eyes again.

Adam Stubo was standing five metres from the wall with his head tilted to one side. When their eyes met he beckoned several times with his right index finger. He smiled and shook his head, then pointed to the gate.

Lukas swallowed, then went hot and cold.

It would take him three minutes to get down from the roof, during which time he was going to have to come up with a bloody good explanation. He must also make sure his father didn’t see him. Having to explain himself to Adam Stubo was more than enough.

When he reached the ground after jumping two metres from a thick branch, he still hadn’t come up with anything to say.

The truth, perhaps, he thought for a moment before dismissing the idea. He crept around the house to meet Stubo, who was waiting by the gate.

Johanne had realized long ago that the truth was the first victim of every war. And yet it was still difficult to accept that reality could be distorted to the degree that was evident in the article she was trying to read as Ragnhild gave her teddy bear his breakfast.

‘Look,’ her daughter said delightedly, pointing at the bear’s nose, which was covered in a sticky mess. ‘Bamse loves his porridge!’

‘Don’t do that,’ Johanne mumbled. ‘Eat your breakfast.’

She took a sip of coffee. Her body still felt heavy and sluggish from the sleeping tablets, and she was short of time, yet she couldn’t tear herself away from the newspaper.

‘What are you reading, Mummy?’

Ragnhild had pushed the bear’s nose into the bowl of porridge, milk and strawberry jam. Johanne didn’t even look up. She didn’t know how to explain the war over the Gaza strip to a five-year-old.

‘I’m reading about some silly people,’ she said vaguely.

‘Silly people go to prison,’ Ragnhild said cheerfully. ‘Daddy takes them and puts them in the slammer!’

‘The slammer?’ Johanne peered at her daughter over the newspaper. ‘Where did you get that word from?’

‘Slammer, clink, jail, prison. They all mean the same thing. And then there’s something called custard.’

‘Custody,’ Johanne corrected her. ‘Did Kristiane teach you that?’

‘Mm,’ said Ragnhild, licking the bear’s nose. ‘Why are the silly people in the paper?’

‘It’s an interview,’ said Johanne. ‘With a man called…’

She looked at the picture of Ehud Olmert, and quickly turned the page.

‘We haven’t got time for this,’ she said with a smile. ‘Can you go and start cleaning your teeth, please? Then I’ll come and finish off.’

Ragnhild tucked her teddy bear under her arm and disappeared into the bathroom. Johanne was just about to fold up the newspaper when a brief item on the front page caught her eye; reluctantly she turned to page five.

MARIANNE CASE STILL A MYSTERY – OVER 300 WITNESSES INTERVIEWED SO FAR.

If there was one thing she didn’t need at this time in the morning, it was yet another terrible murder to think about, but she couldn’t help skimming through the article. The police still had no firm leads in the case, or at least nothing they wanted to reveal at this stage, but they were able to confirm that the murder had taken place at the hotel. There was nothing to indicate the body had been moved. Detective Inspector Silje Sørensen assured the public that the murder of the 42-year-old nursery school teacher Marianne Kleive was being treated as a matter of the highest priority, and that the investigation would be stepped up over the next few days. She had every confidence that the case would be solved, but she wanted to make it clear that this could take time. A long time.

Johanne had consciously avoided reading about the murder. Since the discovery of the body she had quickly flicked past the sensational headlines in the tabloid press and the more measured articles in Aftenposten. Her sister’s wedding reception had been bad enough without the burden of knowing that a murder had been committed in close proximity to Kristiane.

She didn’t really know what had made her turn to the article today. Crossly she tossed the paper aside.

A thought, a tiny little thought crossed her mind. She didn’t want anything to do with it.

Suddenly she got to her feet.

‘No,’ she said, clenching her fists. ‘No.’

Without clearing the table she marched into the bathroom, as if the sound of her footsteps on the parquet floor might chase away the terrifying seed of awareness that was making its presence felt.

‘Right, let’s get these teeth cleaned,’ she said unnecessarily loudly, and grabbed the toothbrush so briskly that Ragnhild burst into tears. ‘There’s no need to start crying, Ragnhild. Open wide.’

The lady was dead.

Johanne could hear Kristiane’s voice as clearly as if she were standing next to her.

‘Albertine,’ Johanne said out loud. ‘She meant Albertine.’

‘I don’t want a babysitter!’ Ragnhild yelled, clamping her teeth around the toothbrush.

The lady was dead, Mummy.

That’s what Kristiane had said, several times, when she was brought in from Stortingsgaten during her aunt’s wedding reception, frozen and confused.

‘Mummy!’ Ragnhild complained through clenched teeth. ‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Sorry,’ said Johanne, letting go of the toothbrush as if it were redhot. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. Silly Mummy!’

She dropped to her knees and flung her arms around her daughter, then pressed her face against Ragnhild’s neck and hugged her tightly.

‘Now you’re suffocating me! I can’t breathe, Mummy!’

Johanne let go and took hold of Ragnhild’s shoulders with both hands. She looked her right in the eye and forced a smile.

‘I need you to help me,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘Do you think you can help Mummy?’

‘Yeees…’ Ragnhild frowned, as if someone were about to trick her into doing something she wasn’t going to like.

‘Who does Kristiane call “the lady”?’ Johanne asked, trying to smile even more broadly.

‘Everybody she doesn’t know,’ said Ragnhild. ‘Unless they’re men, of course.’

‘And people she doesn’t know all that well?’

‘No…’

‘Yes – people like Albertine, for example. She’s only looked after you five or six times. Kristiane might call Albertine “the lady” sometimes, mightn’t she?’

Ragnhild laughed out loud. The tears on her eyelashes sparkled in the bright light in the bathroom.

‘Silly Mummy! Kristiane calls Albertine Albertine, of course. But we don’t need a babysitter today, do we Mummy? You’re going to be here and-’

The lady was dead.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Johanne. ‘I’m going to look after you today.’

She was no longer there.

It wasn’t Johanne who took out a fluoride tablet and popped it in Ragnhild’s mouth. It wasn’t Johanne Vik who walked calmly into the kitchen to pick up the lunch boxes without even glancing at the newspaper. As she approached the stairs leading down to the outside door, she could hardly feel the soft little hand in hers.

The soul. You can’t see it leaving.

Christmas dinner.

Kristiane’s words when they were talking about death.

‘Mummy,’ said Ragnhild when she had put her boots on. ‘I think you’re being really, really funny.’

Johanne couldn’t bring herself to reply.

Couldn’t even manage a smile.

Adam had always thought of Lukas Lysgaard as an extremely serious young man. Perhaps that wasn’t so strange; after all they had met in tragic circumstances. And yet he still thought he could detect something brooding, almost melancholy in Lukas’s demeanour. Something not necessarily related to his mother’s death.

He had never seen Lukas smile.

At the moment the man looked like a drowned cat, and the crooked smile seemed foolish.

‘Morning,’ he said, holding out his hand before changing his mind and withdrawing it. ‘Cold and soaking wet. I do apologize.’

‘We can go and sit in my car. It’s warm in there.’

Lukas obediently followed.

‘So,’ said Adam, sliding into the driver’s seat and placing his hands on the wheel without starting the car. ‘What was all that about?’

Lukas was still wearing the same expression, a silly teenager’s grin which suggested he hadn’t a clue what he was going to say.

‘Well,’ he said, taking his time. ‘I just wanted to… When I was little… before we moved to Stavanger, I used to do that sometimes. Climb across the roof. Playing the tough guy, perhaps. My mother was terrified when she caught me once. It was… cool.’

‘Mm,’ Adam nodded. ‘I’m sure it was.’ He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘And that’s why you decided to do the same thing again just before you turn thirty, in the pouring rain in January, a couple of weeks after your mother’s death, while your father is in the process of having some kind of breakdown?’

A sudden burst of hail rattled against the roof of the car. The noise was deafening. Adam took advantage of the pause in the conversation to start the car and turn the heating on full. He hadn’t really paid much attention to how the handbrake worked when the man at Avis was trying to explain, so he sat there with his foot on the brake pedal and the car in neutral.

‘Lukas, I have no intention of…’

Lukas snivelled and half-turned in the cramped seat.

‘I have no intention of handling you with kid gloves any more, OK?’ He looked the other man straight in the eye. ‘You’re an adult, a well-educated father of three children. It’s a little while now since your mother died. To be perfectly honest, I’m getting rather tired of the fact that you won’t answer my questions.’

‘But I’ve answered everything you’ve-’

‘Shut up!’ Adam snapped, leaning towards him. ‘A great deal has been said about my patience, Lukas. Some people say I’m too nice. Too nice for my own good, they sometimes maintain. But if you think for one moment that I’m going to let you leave here before you’ve explained to me what that performance up on the roof was all about, then you’re wrong. Completely, totally and utterly bloody wrong.’

The windows steamed up. Lukas didn’t speak.

‘What were you doing on the roof?’ Adam persisted.

‘I was coming down from the attic.’

Adam banged his fists on the steering wheel so hard that it shook.

‘What the hell were you doing in the attic, and why couldn’t you come down the stairs like a normal person?’

‘This has nothing to do with my mother’s death,’ Lukas mumbled, looking away. ‘It’s to do with something else. Something… personal.’

His teeth had begun to chatter, and he wrapped his arms around his body.

‘I’ll decide whether it’s personal or not,’ Adam hissed. ‘And you have exactly twenty seconds from now to come up with some satisfactory answers. Otherwise I promise you I’ll bloody well lock you up until you start cooperating.’

Lukas stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and something that was beginning to resemble fear.

‘I was looking for something,’ he whispered almost inaudibly.

‘What?’

‘Something quite… something that…’

He put his face in his hands.

‘A photo,’ said Adam. It was more of a statement than a question. ‘A photograph.’

Lukas stopped breathing.

‘The one that was in your mother’s bedroom,’ said Adam. ‘The one that was there when I came to see you the day after the murder, but then disappeared.’

The shower of hail had turned into torrential rain, huge drops exploding against the windscreen. The world outside the car was blurred and undefined. It was as if they were sitting inside a cocoon, and Adam could feel the unfamiliar, peculiar fury ebbing away as quickly as it had come.

‘How did you know?’ asked Lukas, his hands dropping to his knee.

‘I didn’t know. I guessed. Did you find it?’

‘No.’

Adam sighed and tried once more to find a comfortable sitting position in which he could relax.

‘Who is the photo of?’

‘I don’t know. Honestly. I really don’t know.’

‘But you have a theory,’ said Adam.

Once again silence fell. A car came towards them, its headlights transforming the windscreen into a kaleidoscope of yellow and pale grey, before leaving the interior in semi-darkness once more.

Lukas didn’t speak.

‘I’m perfectly serious,’ Adam said quietly. ‘I will do everything in my power to make life difficult for you unless you start communicating right now.’

‘I think I might have a sister somewhere. The photograph might be of my sister. My older sister.’

A child, thought Adam. The same idea had occurred to him several days ago.

A child that had disappeared. A child that perhaps hadn’t disappeared after all.

‘Thank you,’ he said almost inaudibly. ‘I just wish you’d found the photo.’

‘But I didn’t. Presumably my father got rid of it. What would you have done with it? If I’d found it, I mean?’

Adam smiled for the first time since Lukas came down from the roof. He ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head slightly.

‘If we had a photograph, Lukas, we’d find your sister in no time. If she’s still alive, and doesn’t live too far from Norway. If she is your sister, that is. We don’t know. We don’t know whether that photograph has anything whatsoever to do with the murder of your mother. But I can assure you that I would have devoted some time to finding out!’

‘But what would you…? How could you use an anonymous photograph to…?’

‘We have huge databases. Comprehensive computer programs. And if all the technology in the world wasn’t enough, then…’

The foot on the brake pedal was going to sleep, so he put the car in first gear and switched off the engine.

‘If I had to knock on every door in Bergen myself, if I had to put up posters with my own hands all over the country, ring round every single TV station and newspaper, I would find her. You can rest assured of that.’

Lukas nodded.

‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what I thought you’d say. Can I go now? My car’s parked just up the road.’

Adam’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Lukas.

‘Yes. But don’t forget what I’ve said to you today. From now on it’s zero tolerance as far as I’m concerned when it comes to keeping secrets. OK?’

‘OK,’ Lukas nodded, opening the door. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Once outside the car, he turned and leaned in.

‘Thank you for not saying anything to my father,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ said Adam, waving as he started the engine, indicated and pulled away.

Lukas scurried to his own car, keeping one hand on his stomach where he could feel the outline of a photograph he had no intention of sharing with anyone.

Not yet, anyway.

‘School isn’t over yet,’ said Kristiane for at least the fiftieth time when they eventually got home. ‘School isn’t over yet.’

‘No,’ Johanne said calmly. ‘But I want to talk to you about something really important, sweetheart. That’s why I had to pick you up early today.’

‘School isn’t over yet,’ Kristiane repeated, walking up the stairs like a mechanical doll. ‘School finishes at four o’clock, and then I’m going to Daddy’s. I’m staying at Daddy’s today. School finishes at four o’clock.’

Johanne followed her without saying any more. Only when they were in the living room did she spread her hands encouragingly and confess: ‘We’re going to have a duvet day today, Kristiane! Just the two of us! Would you like some hot chocolate with whipped cream?’

‘Dam-di-rum-ram,’ said Kristiane as she slowly began rocking from side to side on the sofa.

Johanne went over to her daughter and sat down beside her. She pulled Kristiane’s sweater and vest out of the waistband of her trousers and allowed her fingers to dance gently over her daughter’s slender young back. Kristiane smiled and lay down across her knee. They sat there for several minutes until Kristiane began to sing a folk song.

‘Bind deg ein blomekrans, kom so til leik og dans, fela ho let no så vakkert i lund.’

‘That’s a lovely song,’ whispered Johanne.

‘Sit ikkje stur og tung, syn at du óg er ung…’

Kristiane stopped singing.

‘A lovely spring song,’ Johanne said. ‘A spring song in January. What a clever girl you are.’

‘If you sing about the spring, it will come.’

Kristiane’s laughter was as fragile as glass. Johanne ran her forefinger along the contours of her spine, all the way down from the nape of her neck.

‘That tickles,’ Kristiane smiled.

‘Do it again.’ ‘Do you remember Aunt Marie’s wedding?’

‘Of course. Where’s Sulamit, anyway?’

‘Sulamit was worn out, sweetheart. You remember that, don’t you?’

When she was one year old, Kristiane had been given a little red fire engine. She decided it was actually a cat, and called it Sulamit. It had been her faithful companion for more than eight years. The wheels had fallen off one by one, the colours had faded. The ladder on the roof was long gone. The eyes on the headlights were blind, and little Sulamit looked like neither a fire engine nor a cat when Adam reversed over it by mistake on the drive one day.

Kristiane had been inconsolable.

‘Sulamit was a wonderful cat,’ she said now. ‘Can I have another cat, Mum?’

‘But we’ve got Jack,’ said Johanne. ‘He’s not all that keen on cats, as you well know.’

‘I am the invisible child,’ said Kristiane.

Johanne’s fingers hovered like butterflies over the thin skin on her back.

‘Sometimes no one can see me.’

‘When?’ whispered Johanne.

‘Sulamit, sulamat, sulatullamit on the mat.’

‘Was it at Marie’s wedding that no one could see you?’

‘More. Tickle more, Mum.’

‘Did you see anyone? Even if they couldn’t see you?’

Johanne was desperately trying to remember what Kristiane had actually said that night at the hotel, when she herself had been terrified, furious and in no state to take in anything at all.

‘A lady was murdered there,’ said Kristiane, suddenly sitting up next to her mother. ‘Marianne Kleive. Nursery school teacher. Married to the noted award-winning documentary film-maker Synnøve Hessel! Women can marry each other in Norway. So can men.’

Her voice had suddenly reverted to a monotonous chant.

‘You read too many newspapers,’ smiled Johanne, putting her arm around her daughter and drawing her close.

‘Dearly loved, sadly missed.’

‘Have you started reading the death notices?’

‘A cross means the dead person was a Christian. A Star of David means the deceased was Jewish. What does the bird mean, Mum?’

At last Kristiane’s eyes met her mother’s gaze for a fleeting moment.

‘That you hope the dead person will rest in peace,’ Johanne whispered.

‘I want a bird in my death notice.’

‘You’re not going to die.’

‘I’m going to die one day.’

‘We’re all going to die one day.’

‘You too, Mum.’

‘Yes, me too. But not for a long time.’

‘You can’t know that.’

Silence. They were only whispering, sitting close together on the sofa, Johanne with her arm around the slender fourteen-year-old like a safety belt as the daylight poured in across the living-room floor, almost dazzling them. She could feel the budding breasts, the unavoidable signs that Kristiane, too, would become an adult, even if puberty had come late.

‘No,’ Johanne said eventually. ‘I can’t know that. But I don’t think it will happen for a long time. I’m healthy, Kristiane, and not so very old. Have you ever seen a dead person?’

‘You’ll die before me, Mum.’

‘I hope I do. No parent wants their child to die before them.’

‘Who will look after me when you die?’

Johanne had been asking herself that same question, over and over again, ever since Kristiane was just a few hours old, and Johanne was the only one who realized there was something wrong with her child.

‘You’ll be an adult by then, sweetheart. You’ll be able to look after yourself.’

‘I’ll never be able to look after myself. I’m not like other children. I go to a special school. I’m autistic.’

‘You’re not autistic, you’re…’

Johanne quickly sat up straight and placed her hand beneath Kristiane’s chin.

‘You’re not like other children. That’s quite true. You are just yourself. And I love you so much, just for being you. And you know what, Kristiane?’

Kristiane responded to her smile, her eyes focusing on Johanne.

‘I’m not exactly like other people either. Actually, I think we all feel that way. None of us feels exactly like other people. And there will always be someone to look after you. Ragnhild, for example. And Amund, too. He’s your nephew, after all!’

Kristiane’s laughter was brittle and as clear as a bell.

‘They’re younger than me!’

‘Yes, but by the time I die they’ll be grown up. And then they can look after you.’

‘I’ve seen a dead person. The soul weighs twenty-one grams. But you can’t see it leaving.’

Johanne said nothing. She still had her hand under Kristiane’s chin, but her daughter’s gaze was turned inward again, focused on a place no one else could reach, and her voice was expressionless and mechanical once more as she went on: ‘Marianne Kleive, forty-two years old, died 19 December 2008. Bishop Eva Karin Lysgaard, dearly loved, sadly missed, unexpectedly taken from us on Christmas Eve 2008. Funeral arrangements to be notified at a later date. The cross means she was a Christian.’

‘Stop,’ Johanne whispered, quickly drawing the girl close. ‘Stop now.’

It was exactly twelve o’clock, and a cloud drifted across the unforgiving January sun. A pleasant darkness filled the living room. Johanne closed her eyes as she held her daughter tightly, rocking her from side to side.

‘I am the invisible child,’ Kristiane whispered.

Fear

Perhaps he should never have had children.

The very thought made the acid in his stomach eat away at his duodenum. He drew up his knees and placed both hands on the spot where in his younger days he had been able to feel the end of his ribs and the beginning of his stomach. Now it was all just one soft mass, in spite of the fact that he was lying on his back: a flabby belly that was far too big, with a stabbing pain deep inside a layer of fat.

Marcus Koll’s entire life revolved around his son.

His work, his company, his extended family – it was all meaningless without little Marcus. When Rolf came into their lives they were already a twosome, but the three of them soon became a family, and Marcus would do anything to protect that family. But the boy remained the very hub of Marcus Koll’s family wheel.

Little Marcus quickly accepted Rolf, and the love was mutual. After a while Rolf had tentatively raised the question of whether he might adopt his stepson.

As time went by, he dropped the subject.

Marcus had never told anyone about the dreams he used to have when he was young.

He wanted children.

He had been a strong boy; breaking with his father had taken real courage. It had cost him surprisingly little to come out as what and who he was. As a teenager his wilfulness could sometimes make him appear stubborn, but as an adult he became cleverer and more skilful. His obstinacy turned into purposefulness. Arrogance turned into pride. He took the sting out of his unconventional inclination with self-irony, and had never felt the need to seek out the gay haunts he knew existed in both Bergen, where he attended business college, and in Oslo when he returned home after completing his studies. On the contrary, he had always regarded seduction as a challenge. Until he met Rolf, he had seduced only heterosexual men. He was quietly proud of the fact that before him they had slept only with women. He wasn’t quite so thrilled when they then returned to their straight lives.

Marcus Koll Junior hadn’t exactly been a typical gay man of his time.

In addition, he wanted a child more than anything. His only sorrow – when, aged sixteen or seventeen, he had decided to stop pretending to be something he was not – was that the future would not bring him any offspring. He had never shared this sorrow with anyone, although his mother had been aware of it in the way that mothers can sometimes read their child better than the child himself. But they had never talked about that little empty space in Marcus’s heart: the lack of a child of his own to love.

However, for many years Marcus Koll had been a contented young man anyway.

Things went well for him, and he never felt that his sexuality was being used against him, neither professionally nor among friends and colleagues. For a long time he served as their politically correct alibi. During the late eighties and early nineties, open homosexuality was not at all common, and his presence in the lives of other people somehow gave them something to show off about.

He was so happy with his life that he didn’t even notice he was starting to burn out. He became so popular that he didn’t realize he was putting too much energy into dealing with his status as an outsider. In the entirely heterosexual life he was leading – with the minor difference that he went to bed with men without lying about it – his soul slowly crumbled until he collapsed with exhaustion; he hadn’t even seen it coming.

Then his friends started to have children.

Marcus Koll wanted children, too.

He had always wanted children.

He made the decision.

When he travelled to California to sign a contract with a surrogate mother and egg donor, he had recently taken over the running of his father’s old company. The future lay before him. He had been blessed with money, and was able to explain away his frequent visits to America over the following year as essential business trips.

One evening in late January 2001 he had simply turned up at his mother’s apartment with the boy in his arms. As soon as she opened the door she understood everything, and burst into tears. Gently, she took her new grandchild, held him close to her breast and carried him into the spacious apartment which her children had bought her when they suddenly became wealthy. She had never quite got used to the apartment, but when Marcus arrived with the child she sat down right in the middle of the sumptuous sofa that no one had ever used. With her nose against the boy’s cheek she whispered almost inaudibly: ‘Grandma’s home, little one. Grandma’s home at last. And you’re at home with Grandma.’

‘His name is Marcus,’ Marcus said, and his mother had wept and wept. ‘Not after me, after Grandfather.’

The idea of losing little Marcus was unthinkable.

Perhaps he should never have had him.

‘Are you awake?’ Rolf murmured, turning over in bed. ‘What time is it?’

‘Go back to sleep,’ Marcus whispered.

‘But why aren’t you sleeping?’ He turned on his side, resting his head on his hand. ‘You lie awake almost every night,’ said Rolf with a big yawn.

‘No I don’t. Go back to sleep.’

Only the glow from the digital alarm clock made it possible to see anything in the room. Marcus stared at his own hands. They looked green in the darkness. He tried to smile.

The fear had arrived with his son. The fact that he was different; the incontrovertible fact that he wasn’t like everybody else and never could be became much clearer. He had always believed it was easy to protect himself. When his son came into his life, he realized how helpless he sometimes felt when he encountered prejudices that he would have ignored in the past and dismissed as the attitudes of a bygone age. He had always thought the world was moving forwards, but when little Marcus arrived he sometimes had the feeling that the development of society was actually describing an unpredictable, asymmetric curve, and that it was difficult to keep up. The joy and love he felt for his son were all-encompassing. The fear of not being able to protect him from the evils and prejudices of the world tore him apart. Then Rolf came along, and many things became much better. Never perfect. Marcus still felt like a marked man in every sense. But Rolf brought strength and happiness, and little Marcus had a fantastic life. That was the most important thing, and as time went by Marcus chose to keep the periods of helplessness and depression to himself. They became more and more infrequent.

Until Georg Koll, his own deceased, accursed father, had played one last trick on him.

‘What is it?’ said Rolf, more fully awake now.

The duvet had partly slipped off his body. He was naked, still lying on his side with one knee drawn up and the other leg stretched out. Even in the faint light the contours of his stomach muscles were clearly visible.

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, I can tell there’s something wrong!’

The duvet rustled as Rolf impatiently pulled it over his athletic body.

‘Surely you can tell me! You just haven’t been yourself recently. If it’s to do with work, if it’s something you can’t talk about, then at least tell me that’s what it is! We can’t-’

‘There’s really nothing wrong,’ said Marcus, turning over. ‘Let’s get back to sleep.’

He could hear that Rolf wasn’t moving, and he could feel Rolf’s eyes burning into his back.

He should have talked to Rolf as soon as the problem arose. Now, so many months and so many worries later, it struck him that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of sharing his troubles with his husband. That frightened him. Rolf was one of the most sensible people he knew. Rolf would surely have found a way out. Rolf would have calmly analysed the situation and talked things over until he came up with a solution. Rolf was a positive person, an optimist with an indomitable belief that everything – even the darkest tragedy – has a silver lining if you just take the time to find it.

Of course he should have talked to Rolf.

That was the first thing he should have done.

Together they could cope with anything.

Rolf was still lying there in silence. Marcus kept his eyes fixed firmly on the clock. He blinked when the numbers changed from 3.07 to 3.08. Suddenly, he took a quick breath and searched for the words that could support the weight of the painful story they should have shared long ago.

Before he could find the words, Rolf turned over.

They were lying back to back.

Just a few minutes later, Rolf’s breathing was once again heavy and even.

Suddenly, Marcus realized why it was too late to say anything to Rolf: he would never forgive him.

Never.

If he confided in his partner, their life as Marcus knew and loved it would be over. He wouldn’t just lose Rolf; he would lose little Marcus. The fear shot through him, and he lay there wide awake until the numbers switched from 06.59 to 07.00.

When Johanne woke with a start, she was soaked in sweat. The bedclothes were sticking to her body. She tried to escape from their damp embrace, but merely succeeded in getting her feet caught in the opening of the duvet cover. She felt trapped, and kicked desperately to free them. The duvet fought back. In the end she was free. She tried to remember what kind of nightmare she might have had.

Her head was completely empty.

Her hands were shaking as she reached for the glass of water on her bedside table and emptied it. As she was putting it back, it fell on the floor. She screwed up her eyes and pulled a face until she remembered that Kristiane was at Isak’s. Ragnhild never woke up this early.

She was still having some difficulty breathing as she flopped back against the pillow and tried to relax.

Despite the fact that she had spent more than twenty minutes talking to Adam on the phone the previous evening, she hadn’t mentioned the conversation with Kristiane. Nor had she said anything to Isak when he turned up after school, feeling rather annoyed. She had forgotten to tell him that she had picked Kristiane up, contravening all their plans and agreements. When he came up the stairs with an uncharacteristically angry expression on his face, she simply said that she had taken some time off work and for once had seized the opportunity to spend some time alone with Kristiane.

She naturally apologized for forgetting to let him know.

As usual Isak accepted everything, and when he set off home with his daughter he was just as good-humoured as always.

Kristiane had witnessed something in connection with the murder of Marianne Kleive. That much was certain. She must at least have seen the dead woman on the evening she was murdered. But still Johanne hadn’t really known what to say to Isak and Adam. Her daughter hadn’t actually told her what had happened. It was her body language and facial expression, her choice of words and the tone of her voice that had been crucial.

Exactly the kind of thing that made Isak laugh at Johanne, and made Adam try to hide how exhausted he was.

And if either of them had believed – against all expectation – that she might be right, then Adam, at least, would have insisted on contacting the police straight away. Isak, too, probably. He was a good father in many ways, but he had never understood how infinitely vulnerable Kristiane was.

If there was one thing she wouldn’t be able to cope with it was strangers trampling about in her own little sphere, asking her questions about something she had obviously managed to lock away, somehow. Clearing up a murder was important, of course, but Kristiane was more important.

This was something Johanne would have to tackle by herself.

Her pulse was steadier now. She was beginning to feel cold because of her night sweat, and decided to change the bed. She got out clean sheets and a duvet cover, and with practised hands she had a dry, cool bed in just four minutes. She hadn’t the energy to change Adam’s duvet. The bed looked odd with covers that didn’t match, but it could wait until tomorrow.

She settled down and closed her eyes.

She was wide awake. Turned over. Tried to think about something else.

Kristiane had seen something terrible. A crime, or the result of a crime.

Someone was watching Kristiane.

She flung herself on to her other side. Her pulse rate increased.

Suddenly she sat bolt upright. Things couldn’t go on like this. Right now there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t ring anyone at this time of the day, besides which Kristiane was perfectly safe with Isak. Somehow she had to get through the night.

Tomorrow she would talk to Adam.

The decision made her feel calmer.

She would ask him to come home. She didn’t have to say why. He would know from the sound of her voice that he had to come. Adam would return from Bergen, and she would tell him everything.

She couldn’t tell him anything.

If he believed she was right, it would destroy Kristiane.

This was impossible. She grabbed Adam’s pillow, placed it on her stomach and hugged it close, as if it were some part of her child.

She could get up and do some work.

No.

There were three books on the bedside table. She selected one of them. Turned to the page with the corner folded down and began to read. The Road by Cormac McCarthy didn’t make her feel one jot calmer. After three pages she closed both the book and her eyes.

Her mind was racing, and she felt physically ill.

For a long time Adam had wanted to have a television in the bedroom. Now she regretted not giving in. She was incapable of watching anything attentively, but she had an intense need to hear voices. For a moment she was tempted to wake Ragnhild. Instead, she switched on the clock radio. It was tuned to NRK P2 and classical music filled the room – music that was every bit as melancholy as McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel. She moved the dial until she found a local station that played chart music all night, then turned the volume up as loud as she dared; the neighbour’s bedroom was directly below theirs.

Dagens Næringsliv had fallen on the floor.

She bent down and picked it up. It was the current edition, and she hadn’t read it. Not that there was a great deal to read; the leading article and every other headline on the front page was about the financial crisis. Up to now the collapse of the world’s financial markets had felt largely irrelevant to her, even if she was reluctant to admit it. Both she and Adam were employed within the public sector, neither of them was in danger of losing their jobs, and interest rates were in free fall. They were already noticing that they had more disposable income than they’d had for a long time.

She started reading from the back as usual.

The main news on the stock market page was to do with the death of the installation artist Niclas Winter. Johanne had seen several of his pieces, and Vanity Fair, reconstruction in particular had made an impression when the whole family went into the city one day and spent an hour among Winter’s three installations on Rådhuskaia. Kristiane had been completely fascinated; Ragnhild had been more interested in the seagulls and the fountain; and Adam had snorted and shaken his head at the idea that this kind of thing was regarded as art.

It seemed Winter had no heirs.

His mother and maternal grandparents were dead. He had no siblings, and his mother had also been an only child. There was quite simply no one to inherit the small fortune Niclas Winter had unknowingly left behind. Apart from the completed piece I was thinking of something blue and maybe grey, darling, it turned out there were four more large installations in the deceased artist’s studio.

Connoisseurs in the art world were expressing themselves in particularly high-flown terms about CockPitt, a homo-erotic homage to Angelina Jolie’s husband. Evidently there had already been an anonymous bid of four million kroner for the work. Dagens Næringsliv’s sources claimed that the actor himself wanted to buy it.

In spite of the financial crisis, it seemed there was no shortage of money when it came to Niclas Winter’s art now that he was dead. Statoil-Hydro had already put in a claim for the installation that they had ordered then cancelled, and only gave up when the administrator of the estate was able to produce the relevant documentation. His approximate and preliminary valuation of the sculptures was around 15 to 20 million kroner. Maybe more. The article mentioned that, ironically, Niclas had lived on a small income and the goodwill of various patrons of the arts, and only became a wealthy man after his death. A not uncommon fate among artists, as the businessman and art collector Christen Sveaas pointed out. He had two smaller installations by Niclas Winter in his extensive collection in Kistefos, and was able to confirm that the value of both pieces had risen dramatically.

A background article made it clear that Niclas certainly had his demons. He was HIV positive, but the condition was kept in check with the help of medication. Since the age of eighteen he had ended up in rehab three times. His last stay, four years ago, had been a success. His best work had been created since then, and two of his collaborators expressed great surprise at the fact that Niclas had started using heroin again. He was on the brink of a major international breakthrough, and particularly in the last few weeks before his death he had seemed contented, almost happy. Previous relapses had occurred as a result of artistic setbacks, so it was difficult to understand why he would have sought refuge in drugs at this point.

Johanne was aware that she was breathing more calmly, and was actually starting to feel tired. Reading about the misfortunes of others could sometimes provide a new perspective on things. She allowed the newspaper to drop on to the bed, and her eyes closed.

Kristiane is safe, she thought, feeling that sleep was on its way at last.

She didn’t even dare to lie down and turn out the light. She just wanted to slip into the darkness inside her eyelids. Sleep. Just wanted to sleep.

Kristiane is safe with Isak and tomorrow I will speak to Adam. Everything will be fine, we’ll all be fine.

When she woke up four hours later the newspaper was still lying in front of her on the bed, open at the article about the dead installation artist Niclas Winter.

‘Have you seen this article?’

Kristen Faber looked up reluctantly from his documents and took the newspaper his secretary was holding out to him.

‘What’s it about?’ he mumbled, trying to cram the rest of the Danish pastry in his mouth without making too many crumbs.

A fine shower of greasy dough and almond paste landed on his shirt front and he leaned forward in an attempt to brush it off without leaving a stain.

‘Isn’t that yesterday’s paper?’

‘Yes,’ said his secretary. ‘I took it home after work, as usual, and I found this. It’s hardly surprising that your client didn’t turn up! He’s dead.’

‘Who?’

He carried on chewing and held the paper up in front of him with one hand.

‘Oh,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Him. Jesus. Wasn’t he quite young?’

‘If you read the article,’ said his secretary with an indulgent smile, ‘then-’

‘I never read the stock market page. Let’s see. Niclas Winter. Aha. An overdose, eh? Poor sod. It looks as if…’

He stopped chewing now.

‘Bloody hell. He was famous. I’ve never heard of the bloke. Except as a potential client, I mean.’

As he put the newspaper down on the desk, his secretary went off to find a dustpan and brush. He carried on reading as she swept the floor around him, and he was still reading when she went away and returned with a Thermos of freshly brewed coffee.

‘Your breakfast isn’t particularly nutritious,’ she said gently, filling his cup. ‘You ought to eat before you leave home. Wholemeal bread or cereal. Not Danish pastries, for heaven’s sake! When did you last drink a glass of milk, for example?’

‘If I needed a mother around here I’d employ my own. Where are those bloody documents?’

He had started shuffling through the heaps of current material. He was certain he’d placed the sealed brown envelope in the pile on his desk before he went home for a shower, after an eventful return flight from Barbados. Now it was nowhere to be seen.

‘Shit. I’m due in court in fifteen minutes. Can you try and find his papers? They’re in a sealed envelope with Property of Niclas Winter and his date of birth on it.’

He stood up, pulled on his jacket and grabbed his briefcase on the way to the door.

‘And Vera! Don’t open it! I want to have that pleasure myself!’

The door slammed behind him, and once again silence descended on the office of Kristen Faber, solicitor.

Astrid Tomte Lysgaard didn’t really know if she liked the depth of silence in the house when Lukas had gone to work and the children had been dropped off at school and nursery. None of her friends were housewives, apart from the obligatory year after each birth, but she had the impression that most of them envied her the peace they assumed must descend on the house each day between 8.30 and 4.15.

For a long time she had felt the same way.

The daily housework rarely took more than three hours, often less. Although she took the children each morning and picked them up each afternoon, and did all the family shopping, there was still a lot of time left over. She read. She enjoyed going for walks. Twice a week she went to the Nautilus gym on Idrettsveien. Occasionally, she would feel a pang of unhappiness, but it never lasted long.

The fact that everything was done and dinner was on the table when Lukas got home made the afternoons calm. Made their life together more enjoyable. Family life much better. They could spend time with the children instead of worrying about the housework, and Lukas showed her every single day how grateful he was that she had chosen to stay at home.

Since her mother-in-law’s death, everything had changed.

Lukas was grieving in a way that frightened her.

He seemed so distant.

Mechanical.

He said very little, and was prone to losing his temper, even with the children. Under normal circumstances he was the one who sat down and helped their eldest son with his schoolwork, but at the moment he was clearly unable to concentrate on the complexities of Year 2 homework. Instead, he had started clearing out the garage, where he was intending to to build new shelves along one wall. It must be freezing cold out there every evening, and when he finally did come in he would eat his evening meal in silence, then go to bed without even touching her.

It was so quiet in the house, and she didn’t like it.

She set down the iron and went over to the window to switch on the radio. Another miserable day was pressing itself against the wet glass. Surely it had to stop raining soon. January was always a desolate month, but this one was worse than usual. The low pressure was actually having a physical effect on her; for several days she had been troubled by a slight headache, and now it had got worse. Her temples were pounding, and she tried massaging them gently. It didn’t help at all. She would go to the bathroom and take a couple of Alvedon before finishing the ironing.

There were no painkillers in the locked medicine cabinet. She searched in despair among Asterix plasters and Flux, bottles of Pyrisept and Vademecum. Not a painkiller in sight, apart from suppositories for children.

It was as if not being able to find any tablets had made the headache worse.

Lukas’s migraine tablets, she thought.

They would help.

The problem was that they weren’t in the medicine cabinet. Lukas thought the lock was too easy to force, and strong medication could be dangerous for a curious eight-year-old. Instead, he kept the box locked in the drawer of the big desk in his study. Astrid knew where the key was: behind a first edition of Around the World in Eighty Days, which his parents had given him on his twenty-first birthday.

She had never opened the drawer, and hesitated before inserting the key in the lock.

They had no secrets from one another, she and Lukas.

Perhaps she ought to ring and ask him first.

He was her husband, she thought wearily, and she only wanted one tablet. Lukas had never told her not to look in the drawer. The very idea of telling each other not to do something was completely alien to them.

The lock opened with an almost inaudible click. She pulled out the drawer and found herself staring down at a photograph. A woman, and the photograph must be quite old. For a while she just stood there looking down at it, then eventually she picked it up, cautiously, and held it under the brighter light of the desk lamp.

There was something familiar about the face, but Astrid couldn’t quite place it. In a way the shape of the face and the straight nose reminded her of Lukas, but that had to be a coincidence. The woman in the photograph also had the same funny teeth, one front tooth lying slightly on top of the other, but after all lots of people had teeth like that. The singer Lill Lindfors, for example, as Astrid had often pointed out when they were young and she was besotted with everything about Lukas.

Despite the fact that she had no idea who the woman was, it struck her in some odd way that she had seen this photograph before. She just couldn’t remember where. As she stared at the woman she realized her headache had disappeared. Quickly, she put the photograph back, closed and locked the drawer and returned the key to its hiding place.

When she left Lukas’s study she closed the door carefully behind her, as if she really had done something forbidden.

The depressing piles of unsolved crimes in Silje Sørensen’s office were getting her down. There was barely room for a coffee cup on her crowded desk, even though everything was in neatly sorted files. She sat down on her chair, pushed aside a bundle of newspaper cuttings and put down the cup, before starting to go through the whole lot.

She had to reprioritize.

Her list of things to do was growing.

The Police Officers’ Association’s more or less legal actions and protests against terrible working conditions, low pay, inadequate staffing and the threat to pension entitlement had led to a somewhat acerbic tone in any dealings between the government and the police. Officers were no longer so willing to work overtime. Things didn’t get done as quickly nowadays. The organization’s 11,000-plus members were gradually beginning to take a fresh look at their priorities. Although the statistics hadn’t yet been processed, it looked as if the clear-up rate for 2008 had fallen dramatically in comparison with previous years – and it was only January. Employees were demanding their right to free time, and were off sick more frequently. Sometimes this coincided noticeably with public holidays and weekends, when major challenges awaited those who were charged with maintaining law and order.

The criminals were having an easier time all round.

People felt less and less safe. The police had always scored highly when it came to credibility and trustworthiness, but now they were losing the sympathy of the public. More and more frequently the papers were running stories about victims of violent crime who had been unable to report the offence because their local police station wasn’t manned, rural stations that were closed at weekends, and victims of crime who had to wait several days for the police to turn up and look for any clues. If they turned up at all, that is.

Silje Sørensen was a member of the union, but she had long since abandoned any attempt to keep a record of her overtime. The only yardstick she used was the reaction at home. When her sons became too much of a handful and her husband became more and more taciturn, she tried to spend more time at home. Otherwise, she sneaked off to work outside normal working hours as often as she could.

As the only child of a shipping owner, her decision to train as a police officer hadn’t exactly been expected. Her mother had gone into a state of shock and hysteria when she learned of her daughter’s career choice. This lasted throughout Silje’s first year in college. We’ve wasted a fortune on boarding schools in Switzerland and England, her mother wailed, and now my daughter is going to throw away her future working in the public sector! If she must get her hands dirty dealing with violent criminals and the like, then why on earth couldn’t she become a solicitor instead? Or a legal advisor within the police service, if the worst came to the worst?

That was exactly the reaction Silje had wanted.

Her father had beamed and kissed her on the forehead when she told him she had got into the Police Training Academy. That wasn’t exactly the idea.

Silje Sørensen had never rebelled as a child or a teenager. Never protested. Not when she was forced to move abroad at the age of ten, only seeing her parents during the holidays. Not when she had to spend two months at a French language school in Switzerland at the age of fifteen, where the working day began at 6.30 in the morning and the Catholic nuns had no qualms about using punishments that were probably forbidden under the Geneva Convention. Silje didn’t even argue with her father when he decided that she should squeeze five school years into two and a half; she gained a degree in English by the time she was nineteen. By then she had come of age, and as a reward for her silent patience and remarkable hard work, her father had transferred more than half of his fortune to his only daughter.

Training as a police officer was Silje Sørensen’s first deliberate act of rebellion.

When she was allocated to work with the legendary Hanne Wilhelmsen during her first year, she quickly realized that this stubborn, rebellious choice of career was going to make her happy. She loved it. The majority of what she knew about police work she had learned from her reluctant, uncommunicative mentor. Although Hanne Wilhelmsen had made herself more and more unpopular through her own headstrong approach, Silje had never ceased to admire her. When Inspector Wilhelmsen was shot during a dramatic incident in Nordmarka and paralysed from the waist down, Silje had grieved as if it had happened to a sister. She never really got over the fact that Hanne had then turned her back on the few remaining friends she had in the big shabby police headquarters on Grønlandsleiret.

Silje Sørensen was proud of her profession, but accepted with resignation the parameters within which she was forced to operate.

She decided to sort the cases in order of seriousness. Minor knife crimes and pub brawls with no life-threatening injuries she placed in a separate pile.

You’ll probably get away with it, she thought wearily, and tried to forget that several of the cases involved known perpetrators. Their victims would regard any attempt to abandon these investigations as highly provocative. However, that was the way it was, and according to every directive from both the public prosecutor and the National Police Board, she was perfectly justified in prioritizing more serious cases. The public might have some difficulty in understanding the police definition of serious, but that couldn’t be helped.

After about an hour the files had been sorted into five piles.

Silje finished off the dregs of her tepid coffee, then picked up three of the piles and placed them in the cupboard behind her.

Two left.

The smallest contained murders. Three files. The first very thin, the second almost as slim. The third was so fat that she had put two rubber bands around it to keep everything together.

Suddenly, she got up and went over to the noticeboard on the wall opposite her desk. She quickly scanned every piece of paper before placing one on the desk and dropping the rest into the large waste-paper basket beside it. She took three sheets of A4 out of the cupboard. They fitted next to each other perfectly at the top of the noticeboard.

Runar Hansen, she wrote with a red felt-tip on the first sheet.

19/11/08 .

On the next sheet she wrote Hawre Ghani.

24/11/08 .

She chewed the cap of the pen and thought for a moment before adding a question mark.

24/11/08?

It wasn’t possible at this stage to say exactly when Hawre Ghani had been murdered, but at least they had confirmation that he had, in fact, been murdered. The pathologist had found clear signs of garrotting. It was hardly likely that the boy had hanged himself with a steel wire until his head almost came away from his body, then thrown himself in the sea. They were only able to hint at the time of death, but so far the investigation had found no evidence to suggest that the boy had been alive after he went off with a client outside Oslo’s central station on Monday 24 November. All the CCTV cameras had, of course, been checked. No joy. This matched Martin Setre’s story: the man had approached them just outside the entrance.

Clever bastard, thought Silje with a sigh.

Marianne Kleive, she wrote on the last sheet of paper.

19/12/08 .

She put the cap back on the pen and took two steps back. She felt the edge of the desk behind her legs and sat down.

Three murders. All unsolved.

Runar Hansen was her guilty conscience. She couldn’t even bring herself to look through the thin file. Instead, she stared at the name, the anonymous name of a drug addict who had been beaten and abused in Sofienberg Park, apparently without anyone taking much notice. All Runar Hansen had merited was a quick examination of the crime scene some hours after his body had been found, a post-mortem report, and a brief mention in the evening paper. Plus two interviews with witnesses, whose only contribution was that Runar Hansen had no fixed abode and was unemployed, and that he had a sister called Trude.

At least something was happening in the investigation into the murder of Hawre Ghani. The sketch by the police artist had been distributed internally. It had been decided not to make it public yet, because experience indicated this would lead to a flood of calls. The man’s appearance was so ordinary that there would be a deluge of callers insisting that they recognized him. Instead, Knut Bork was still working on the prostitution angle. Silje had ordered a new and extensive investigation into the boy’s life since he came to Norway. If possible, she was hoping to obtain a clearer picture of Hawre Ghani’s tragic fate.

Work on the Marianne Kleive case was proceeding at full throttle.

The murder of the 42-year-old nursery school teacher had all the ingredients of a juicy media story. The private pictures obtained by Verdens Gang just two hours after the murder was made public showed an unusually attractive woman. Thick, wavy blonde hair, a slim figure with long legs and an athletic appearance. Exactly the kind of lesbian the media loved. There was something of Gro Hammerseng about her, Silje thought, as she pinned up the front page she had torn out of VG a few days earlier. And even if her wife, Synnøve Hessel, wasn’t exactly a celebrity, she occupied such a central position in the Norwegian film world that the papers were able to use their favourite phrase ‘the noted and award-winning’ when writing about the victim’s grieving widow – who also looked pretty good, incidentally, even wearing a padded jacket with her hair blowing all over the place at a height of 5,208 metres at North Base Camp in Nepal.

The fact that the murder had taken place in the respectable Hotel Continental also helped. Two days after the body had been found, VG dedicated an entire page to an ‘at home with’ report on a man named Fritiof Hansen, an insignificant individual who was some kind of caretaker at the hotel. He had found the body, and thanks to his passion for the TV series CSI he had managed to keep everyone away from the scene until the police arrived to secure any evidence. In the picture he was sitting in his best armchair with a glass of beer and a small packet of crisps, looking as if all the cares of the world were resting on his shoulders.

Sometimes Silje Sørensen wished the mass media didn’t exist. Sometimes she would have liked to abolish the freedom of the press.

She reached for her coffee cup.

It was empty.

She frowned and looked from one name to the other. She groped for the felt-tip without taking her eyes off the noticeboard. Quickly, she pulled the cap off with her teeth, went over and wrote SOFIENBERG PARK beneath Runar Hansen’s name and the date of his death. Under Hawre’s name she wrote UNDERAGE MALE PROSTITUTION, and finally – across the top of the photo of Marianne Kleive on Gaustatoppen Mountain in the sunshine, wearing a bikini top, cut-off jeans and sturdy walking boots – she wrote CIVIL PARTNERSHIP.

As she was settling back on her desk, there was a knock on the door. She took the cap of the pen out of her mouth and shouted: ‘Come in!’

Knut Bork did as he was told.

‘Hi,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I thought I’d just-’

‘Stand here,’ said Silje Sørensen. ‘Come and stand next to me.’

DC Bork shrugged his shoulders and obliged.

‘What are you up to? What’s that?’ He nodded in the direction of the noticeboard.

‘Those are the three murders I’m dealing with at the moment,’ said Silje.

‘Three is too many.’

‘I had four. I turned one down. Does anything strike you about those three?’

‘Does anything strike me? Well, I’d need to look through the files and-’

‘No. You’re familiar with the cases, Knut. Just look at what’s up on the board.’

He frowned without saying anything.

‘Look at what I’ve written underneath the names!’

‘Sofienberg Park,’ he read. ‘Underage male prostitution. Civil partnership.’

He still couldn’t see any connection.

‘What’s Sofienberg Park famous for?’ she asked.

‘Well… I know! Those ambulance drivers who-’

‘No. Well, that too, but what else? I’m not thinking about the area to the west of Sofienberg Church, but the part behind it. On the eastern side.’

‘Gay sex,’ he said immediately. ‘Buying and selling and mutual exchanges. Not a place I’d want to go in the dark.’

‘Exactly,’ said Silje with a wan smile. ‘That’s where Runar Hansen was found. He was murdered on a raw, wet November night at some point between midnight and half past. That’s about all we’ve managed to accomplish in his case. Establishing when he was killed, I mean.’

‘Was he gay?’

‘No idea. But for the time being, just focus on the reputation of the place. Do you see where I’m going with this?’

She looked at him. A shadow of surprise passed over his eyes as he suddenly got the point.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said, running a hand over his fair stubble. ‘It’s strange that LHH haven’t started shouting the odds!’

For a long time, LHH – the gay and lesbian movement – had been trying to get the justice department to take violence against homosexuals seriously. The problem, Silje Sørensen had always thought, was that attacks on homosexuals rarely differed significantly from all the other attacks that happened when people had been drinking. Attacks on women. On men. On heterosexuals and homosexuals. People drank. Became aggressive. Fought, stabbed, raped and murdered. For every homosexual victim, Silje could come up with a hundred heterosexuals. She couldn’t understand why they made such a fuss about it.

But this was striking.

‘Runar Hansen is in a park where it’s well known that homosexual services are bought, sold and exchanged,’ she said slowly. ‘Hawre Ghani disappears with a male punter. Marianne Kleive is married to a woman. They were all murdered in different ways, in different places, and none of them had any connection with each other while they were alive. As far as we know, that is. But…’

Her eyes narrowed.

‘I’m responsible for three completely independent murder investigations, and each one has a possible link to homosexuality. What are the odds on that?’

‘Bloody long,’ said Knut Bork, starting to chew on a thumbnail. ‘What the fuck is going on? And seriously, Silje, why hasn’t anybody noticed a possible link before?’

She didn’t reply. They stood in silence gazing at the noticeboard. For a long time.

‘Nobody cares about the first case,’ she said suddenly. ‘Nobody knows anything about the second case. People might have read in the paper about a body being found in the harbour, and there might have been a few lines saying that the dead man turned out to be a young asylum seeker. But that’s all. As far as Marianne Kleive is concerned, that case is…’

She hesitated for such a long time that he carried on for her: ‘That case is so unusual and absurd that nobody has actually made a connection with the fact that the victim is a lesbian.’

Silje went over to the board, took down the sheets of paper and the newspaper article, screwed them up and threw them in the waste-paper basket. Knut Bork remained standing there with his arms folded as she walked around the desk and sat down.

‘You and I,’ she said firmly, ‘are going to keep this to ourselves. For the time being. It could all be a coincidence, just as every connection can be pure chance; on the other hand it could be…’

‘Something very nasty indeed,’ Knut Bork supplied; his thumb had started to bleed.

For the second time in three weeks Johanne was at home alone, and it felt almost frightening. The apartment always seemed so different without the familiar sounds of the children. She noticed that she was moving cautiously across the floor, so as not to make any noise.

‘Pull yourself together,’ she muttered to herself, putting on a CD that Lina Skytter had compiled, burned and given to her for Christmas. Kristiane was at Isak’s until Friday, and every other Wednesday Ragnhild went to visit her maternal grandparents and stayed over.

She had been trying to get hold of Adam for several hours, but her calls went straight to voicemail. Presumably, he was in a meeting. When the day had finally dawned after the restless, fearful night, she had realized she had to talk to him. There was no more room for doubt – unlike last night when she kept changing her mind. She had made her decision now, and that very fact made her a little more optimistic about the whole thing.

If only she knew what Kristiane had actually seen.

Even though she realized there must be something, she was still unsure what it was. It didn’t feel right to press her daughter any further. Later, perhaps, she thought, as she tiptoed around in her stocking feet, not really knowing what to do.

The music Lina had put together wasn’t entirely to Johanne’s taste. She went over to the CD player and turned down Kurt Nilsen’s voice right in the middle of the chorus of one of his ballads.

She ought to eat something, but she wasn’t hungry.

Adam’s meeting must be taking a long time; it was three hours since she left the first message asking him to call her.

She could sit down and do some work, of course.

Or read.

Watch a film, perhaps.

She reached for the phone and keyed in Isak’s number without even thinking about it. He answered right away.

‘Hi, it’s Johanne.’

‘Hi.’ She could hear him smiling on the other end of the line.

‘I just rang to…’

‘To ask how Kristiane is,’ he supplied. ‘She’s absolutely fine. We’ve been to the pool at Bislett, even though children aren’t really allowed in except at weekends. She’s so quiet that the lady in the ticket office lets her in.’

‘Do you let her go into the women’s changing room on her own?’

‘Of course. She’s too big to come into the men’s with me! She’s starting to develop breasts, in case you haven’t noticed! And she’s got a little bit of hair down below too! Our little girl is growing up, Johanne, and, of course, I let her go into the women’s changing room on her own.’

She didn’t reply.

‘Johanne,’ he said wearily. ‘She’s fine! We’re making tacos, and she’s fried the mince all on her own. She’s chopping vegetables and doing a great job. When she’s with me we always cook dinner together. She’ll be fourteen this year, Johanne. You can’t treat her like a child all her life.’

She is a child.

She’s the most vulnerable child in the world.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Johanne mumbled. ‘I’m here. I’m glad you’re having a good time. I just wanted to check if-’

‘Would you like to speak to her? She’s standing right here.’

There was a terrible clatter in the background.

‘Oops,’ said Isak. ‘Something just fell on the floor. Can I ask her to call you later on?’

‘No, no. There’s no need. Have a good time. See you Friday.’

‘See you!’

He disappeared and she tossed the telephone down on the coffee table. As she walked over to the big window, Johanne was no longer tiptoeing. She stomped angrily across the floor, unsure whether her aggression was directed at herself or Isak.

She still hadn’t bought any curtains.

The snow was so deep that the fence on Hauges Vei was no longer visible. The piles left by the snowploughs were enormous. People had nowhere to put the snow they had cleared from their drives. Not knowing what else to do, they spread it out in the middle of the road, which meant that a considerable amount ended up right back where it came from every time the snowplough rattled past.

There wasn’t a soul in sight. The cold from the window pane made her shudder. The big snowman the children who lived opposite had made stared at her with his coal-black eyes. He had lost his nose. His birch-twig arms stuck out like witch’s talons. He wore an old hat; a bright red scarf covered half his face.

He reminded her of the man by the fence.

She stepped to one side.

Tomorrow she would get some curtains.

It suddenly struck her that she had been completely wrong.

The anxiety that had tormented her since Christmas had not started with the man by the fence. The feeling that someone was watching Kristiane had not started when a strange man came up and asked her what she’d had for Christmas. The reason why Johanne had reacted so strongly on that occasion was because the fear already had her in its grip. The search for those damned spare ribs and all the stress of organizing a Christmas Eve that would satisfy her mother had just temporarily pushed it aside.

It wasn’t the man by the fence who had triggered her anxiety. It had been there since the wedding. Ever since Kristiane had stood on the tram lines and Johanne had been certain she was going to die, she had felt that her own despair was linked to something more, something greater than the fact that her daughter had been in mortal danger. It had all worked out in spite of everything, and even if she was worrying unnecessarily, she couldn’t remember feeling like this since Wencke Bencke had threatened her in her subtle way almost five years ago.

Johanne hurried over to the computer and switched it on.

It seemed to take an eternity for the start page to appear, and when she keyed in the name of the world-famous crime writer, she got it wrong four times before she was finally able to google the name: 26,900 hits. She tried limiting her search. The only thing she wanted to know about the author was whether she was still living in New Zealand.

Wencke Bencke had got away with murder. She had cold-bloodedly taken the lives of a series of celebrities during the winter and spring of 2004; Johanne had never fully understood her motives. Johanne had helped Adam and Sigmund with the wide-ranging investigation, but the only result was that the three of them became convinced that Bencke was guilty. They couldn’t prove a thing. The celebrated author had come to see her one beautiful spring day when it seemed clear that the murderer would never be caught. Johanne had been out pushing the newborn Ragnhild in her buggy when Wencke Bencke confessed, calmly and with a smile. Not that her confession would have stood up in a court of law, but it was clear enough to Johanne. The hidden threat she left hanging between them as she trudged away in the spring sunshine was also subtle, but it was sufficiently unambiguous to leave Johanne scared out of her wits. The fear didn’t really go away until the following year, when Bencke married a Maori man fifteen years her junior and emigrated to New Zealand. She had been back to Norway in connection with book launches, which made Johanne avoid the arts section of the newspapers for most of the autumn.

There.

An article from VG in September.

Wencke Bencke in the sunshine, surrounded by sheep. She and her husband had bought a farm in Te Anau. She hadn’t even come home last autumn when her latest book was published; VG had visited her instead.

‘This is my home now,’ says the world-famous writer, proudly showing off her enormous flock of sheep. ‘I write better here. I live better here. This is where I’m going to stay.’

Johanne breathed a little more easily.

This had nothing to do with Wencke Bencke.

The fear that plagued her now had started on 19 December, the evening when Marianne Kleive was murdered. Johanne blinked and saw the number 19 etched on the inside of her eyelids, shimmering and green.

The accursed number 19.

She opened her eyes and stared into space. The telephone rang.

Eva Karin Lysgaard was murdered on 24 December.

Niclas Winter, the artist she had read about last night, died on 27 December.

He died. He wasn’t murdered. He died from an overdose.

The phone kept on ringing. She reached out and picked it up. It was Adam.

19, 24 and 27.

The digital sum was 25.

Giving drug addicts an overdose was a well-known method of covering up a murder.

The phone fell silent. A few seconds later it rang again.

This time she answered it with a brief ‘Hello’.

‘Hi sweetheart. I see you’ve rung me loads of times. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you until now; I’ve been stuck in meetings all afternoon. We’re getting nowhere and-’

‘It’s absolutely fine,’ she mumbled. ‘It wasn’t anything important.’

‘Is everything OK? You sound a bit… odd.’

‘No, no. Yes. I mean, everything’s fine. It’s just… I was asleep. The phone woke me up. I think I might just go to bed, actually.’

‘At this time?’

‘Lack of sleep. Do you mind if we hang up? Only I don’t want to end up wide awake…’

‘Of course…’

His disappointment was so tangible she almost changed her mind.

‘Sleep well,’ he said eventually.

‘Bye darling. Speak to you tomorrow? Good night.’

She sat there for a long time with the silent telephone in her hand. Toni Braxton was emoting her way through Un-Break My Heart on the stereo. A car was revving its engine over on Hauges Vei. The wind must have changed direction, because the constant, distant roar from Maridalsveien and the heavy traffic on Ringveien was so clearly audible that it sounded as if a pipe had sprung a leak in the bathroom.

Even if there had been nothing about Niclas Winter’s proclivities in the article in Dagens Næringsliv, it was possible to read a great deal between the lines. The man was HIV positive. That could be a result of heroin abuse, but it could also be a consequence of unprotected sex with other men. The CockPitt installation certainly pointed in that direction.

Eva Karin Lysgaard was certainly a heterosexual woman, married and with children, but she had come out as a passionate defender of the rights of homosexuals.

Marianne Kleive was married to another woman.

Johanne got up from the sofa, suddenly ravenous.

But she was no longer afraid.

Clues

‘I’m afraid Niclas Winter’s envelope has simply disappeared,’ said Kristen Faber’s secretary as she came into his office on the morning of Thursday 15 January. ‘I’ve looked everywhere, but I just can’t find it.’

‘Disappeared? You’ve lost a client’s file?’

Kristen Faber was talking with his mouth full of a chocolate croissant, from which he had acquired a brown moustache along his upper lip.

‘I haven’t actually touched the file since last Monday,’ she replied calmly. ‘And that was when I gave it to you. In this room.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Kristen Faber. ‘How difficult can it be to find a big envelope?’

‘I haven’t looked in your drawers, of course,’ she said, equally unperturbed. ‘You can check those yourself.’

Crossly, he started yanking out one drawer after another.

‘I put the envelope on that pile on the corner of my desk,’ he mumbled. ‘You must have lost it.’

She didn’t bother to reply; she simply picked up the plate and left.

‘Hang on!’ he shouted before she reached the door. ‘This drawer’s stuck! Have you been messing with my desk?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘As I told you, I haven’t touched your drawers. But I can try to help you.’

She put down the plate and tried to help him. Instead of tugging at the drawer as he had done, she attempted to work it free. When that didn’t work, she suggested they should pick the lock.

‘With a letter opener,’ she said, thinking for a moment. ‘Or a screwdriver. We’ve got a toolbox in the filing cabinet.’

‘Are you mad?’

He pushed her aside and tried once again to open the uncooperative drawer.

‘Have you any idea how much this desk cost? Get hold of a carpenter. Or a locksmith. I’ve no idea who we need to call to sort this out, but I want it fixed by the time I get back this afternoon, OK?’

Without looking at her he started stuffing files into his briefcase. He grabbed his winter coat and barrister’s gown from a hook by the door.

‘I don’t suppose we’ll finish today, but the judge might want to go on a bit longer, so it might get late. You’ll still be here, won’t you? I’ll have a lot of things for you to check after today’s proceedings, and you should have plenty to get on with until then.’

His secretary smiled and gave a brief nod.

The door closed, and she settled down to take her time over her morning coffee and the day’s newspapers. When she had finished she logged on to the Internet version of Passing Your Driving Test the Easy Way. Her husband was beginning to have problems with his eyes, and it was time to get herself a driving licence before her faithful chauffeur lost his sight completely.

You’re never too old for anything, she thought, and she had oceans of time.

Johanne was waiting impatiently for eight o’clock. The last half-hour had crawled by, and she couldn’t settle to read the papers. But she couldn’t ring any earlier. She had been wide awake at five, after seven hours of deep, continuous sleep. On a sudden whim she had taken out her skis and driven to Grinda for a little early morning skiing. She turned back after 500 metres. The illuminated track was snowed in, and the narrow super-skis Adam had given her for Christmas were useless on that kind of surface. She had asked for cross-country skis, but the shop assistant had convinced Adam that skating was the in-thing in Nordmarka right now. When Johanne finally got back to the car she was wondering if it was possible to take these bloody chopsticks back and exchange them. Not to mention the trousers; they felt tight around her ankles, and seemed more like slalom pants. She had never learned how to skate and had no desire to do so.

But at least the adventure had done her good.

She had eggs and bacon when she got back, and couldn’t remember a breakfast ever tasting better. With a cup of coffee in her hand she went over to the sofa. The telephone was on the floor, on charge. She reached down and pulled out the cable, then scrolled through her address book until she found the number.

The call was answered after just one ring.

‘Wilhelmsen,’ said an expressionless voice.

‘Hi Hanne. It’s Johanne. How are you?’

Of all the ridiculous ways to start a conversation with Hanne Wilhelmsen, asking how she was had to be top of the list.

‘Fine,’ the voice said, and Johanne almost choked on her coffee.

‘What?’ she coughed.

‘I’m absolutely fine. And thank you for Ida’s Christmas present – much appreciated. And how about you? How are you?’

Hanne Wilhelmsen must have been given a crash course in normal good manners for Christmas, Johanne thought.

‘OK, more or less. But you know how it is. I’ve got my hands full. Adam’s in Bergen practically all week at the moment, so most of the stuff involving the kids lands on my shoulders.’

There was complete silence at the other end of the line. Hanne evidently hadn’t got very far in her course.

‘I won’t take up too much of your time,’ Johanne said quickly. ‘I just wondered if you could help me with something.’

‘Like what?’

‘I need… I need to talk to a reliable person in the Oslo police. Preferably someone who works in violent crime and vice. Someone with a bit of authority.’

‘Me six years ago, in other words.’

‘You could say that, but I-’

‘Why are you asking me? Surely Adam can help you?’

Johanne gained some time by taking a sip of coffee.

‘As I mentioned, he’s in Bergen,’ she said eventually.

‘There are telephones.’

‘Yes, but-’

‘Is it something to do with Kristiane?’

Hanne laughed. She actually laughed, Johanne thought with increasing amazement.

‘Not really, but…’

Yes, she thought.

I don’t want to talk to Adam yet. I don’t want any critical questions. I refuse to answer all his objections, all his counter-arguments. Kristiane must be protected if it’s at all possible. I want to find out about this for myself first.

‘He just has this tendency to assume I’m…’

‘Moderately hysterical?’

Once again that same light, unaccustomed laugh.

‘A bit too quick to assume that something’s wrong,’ Hanne clarified. ‘Is that the problem?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Silje Sørensen.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Talk to Silje Sørensen. If anyone can help you, it’s Silje. I have to go now. I’ve got a lot to do.’

‘A lot to do?’

The thought that Hanne Wilhelmsen had a lot to do in her self-imposed exile in her luxury apartment was absurd.

‘I’ve started doing a bit of work,’ she explained.

‘Work?’

‘You have a very odd way of speaking on the telephone, Johanne. You keep coming out with individual words followed by a question mark. Yes, I’ve started working. For myself. On a small scale.’

‘Doing… doing what?’

‘Call round one day and we’ll have a chat. But now I really do have to go. Ring Silje Sørensen. Bye.’

Silence. Johanne couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard.

Her friendship with Hanne Wilhelmsen had come about by chance. Johanne had needed help with one of her projects, and had sought out the retired, taciturn inspector. In some strange way she had felt welcome. They didn’t meet often, but over the years they had developed an unassuming, careful friendship, completely free of any demands or obligations.

Johanne had never heard Hanne like this.

She was so taken aback that she hadn’t even asked who this Silje Sørensen was. She was annoyed with herself, until she remembered reading about her in the paper. She was responsible for the investigation into the murder of Marianne Kleive.

Perfect.

It was probably still too early to get hold of her. Adam was rarely at work before 8.30, and she presumed the same applied to senior officers in the Oslo police district.

And so she stayed where she was, cradling her coffee cup in her hands as she waited for the daylight, wondering what on earth had happened to Hanne Wilhemsen.

‘What’s happened?’ Astrid Tomte Lysgaard whispered as she opened the door and saw Lukas standing outside.

It was only eleven o’clock and he should have been at work. He looked as if he’d just found out that someone else had died.

‘I’m really ill,’ said Lukas, almost tottering into the hallway. ‘Throat. Temperature. I need to lie down.’

‘You scared me,’ said Astrid, clutching at her chest with her slender hands before reaching out to stroke his cheek. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I’m just ill,’ he said curtly, turning away. ‘I feel rotten.’

‘That’s what happens when you spend all evening out there in the garage. Obviously, you’re bound to come down with something.’

He didn’t even look at her as he headed for the living room. It suited him perfectly if she blamed his evenings working in the damp garage. He wasn’t particularly keen on telling her about his idiotic scramble over the roof of his father’s house in the ice-cold January rain. He was even less keen to explain that he’d spent more than fifteen minutes sitting in a barely warm car, soaking wet and frozen to the marrow while Adam Stubo told him off.

‘Have we got any Alvedon?’ he said pathetically. ‘And Coke? Have we got any Coke?’

‘Yes to both. I bought some Alvedon yesterday after I-’

She broke off.

‘The Coke’s in the fridge,’ she said instead. ‘And there’s some Alvedon in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Would you like a hot-water bottle?’

‘Yes please. I feel absolutely…’

It wasn’t necessary for him to go into any more detail about his condition. His eyes were red and his skin paler than the time of year warranted. His nostrils were inflamed and caked in snot, and his lips were dry and flaky. There was a thick white coating at the corners of his mouth, and when she moved towards him to get out a glass, Astrid was struck by a sour, tainted smell coming from his mouth.

‘You’re not very good at coping with illness, Lukas.’

She ventured a smile.

His back radiated self-pity as he shambled towards the stairs.

She followed him into the bathroom. As he fumbled with the lock of the medicine cabinet she let the water run for a while, so that it was really hot by the time she filled the hot-water bottle.

‘To be perfectly honest, Lukas,’ she said, ‘you’re not actually dying. You need to pull yourself together.’

Without replying he pushed three tablets out of their foil packaging, placed them in his mouth and swilled them down with half a bottle of Coke. His face contorted in a grimace of pain as he swallowed. He started to undress as he walked, leaving a trail of clothes behind him along the landing and into the cool bedroom. He sank down on the bed as if he had used up the very last of his strength, pulled the covers right up to his chin and rolled over on his side.

‘Here’s your hot-water bottle,’ she said. ‘Where would you like it?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Lukas,’ she said hesitantly. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

Yesterday she had refrained from asking who the woman in the photograph in the drawer was. She had been on the point of asking several times, but other things kept on coming up. All the time. The kids. Dinner. Homework. That eternal bloody garage. When the two of them were alone at last and it was gone half past ten, Lukas insisted on watching a TV programme about a tattoo parlour in Los Angeles. Astrid had gone up to bed and fallen asleep before he joined her.

Today it had struck her that she should have asked him anyway. She had allowed everything else to get in the way, because she was ashamed at having opened his drawer without permission. She was annoyed with herself. She had nothing to be ashamed of; looking for tablets that were responsibly locked away lay well within the parameters of the permissible.

‘I feel absolutely terrible,’ came a whimper from beneath the covers.

‘I just want to ask you something,’ she said firmly.

‘Oh, Astrid… I’m losing my voice! Can I have some warm milk with honey in it? Please?’

For a while she stood there, trying to work out what she actually felt.

Exhaustion, she thought. Irritation, perhaps.

Anxiety.

‘Of course,’ she said wearily. ‘I’ll go and get you some milk and honey.’

She closed the door quietly behind her and went down to the kitchen. By the time she got back with the drink, Lukas had fallen asleep.

‘There you go,’ said Silje Sørensen, handing Johanne a cup of hot chocolate. ‘I get a bit boss-eyed from all the coffee I drink, so I keep some of this in reserve.’

‘Thanks,’ said Johanne. ‘And thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’

‘I was curious!’

Silje Sørensen’s laugh was somehow out of proportion with her slender body.

‘I’ve heard of you and read about you,’ she continued, ‘but I’m also happy to see anyone Hanne Wilhelmsen sends in my direction. How is she, by the way?’

Johanne opened her mouth to reply, then changed her mind. Hanne wouldn’t like being talked about.

‘Oh, you know,’ she said with a shrug, hoping that the noncommittal response would make Silje Sørensen change the subject. Actually, she ought to be doing that.

‘The thing is,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘I don’t really know where to start.’

‘No?’

‘I’m a criminologist and I work-’

‘As I said,’ Silje interrupted her, ‘I know who you are. Is it OK if I call you Johanne?’

‘Of course. I’m working on a research project on hatred at the moment.’

‘Interesting.’

It almost looked as if she meant it. Her gaze was direct and she shook her head as if to clear her mind.

‘Hate crime,’ Johanne corrected herself. ‘The National Police Board has asked me to undertake a major investigation into hate crime.’

Silje Sørensen blinked. She put her cup down on the desk and slowly pushed it away. Her eyes narrowed and the tip of a pink tongue flicked across her lips.

‘I see.’

‘Attacks on individuals where the crime is motivated by-’

‘I’m well aware of what hate crime is.’

Silje Sørensen had a bad habit of interrupting, Johanne thought.

‘Of course,’ she nodded. ‘Of course you are.’

They sat like that for a surprisingly long time. In silence, each waiting for the other to say something. Johanne tried to guess how old Silje Sørensen might be. She must be younger than her, but not much. Thirty-five, perhaps. Maybe even younger. She was well-groomed and smartly dressed without seeming out of place in this environment.

Dainty, thought Johanne. She had never felt dainty in her entire life.

Silje’s hands were slender and her nails so perfectly manicured that Johanne hid her own by putting down her cup and sliding her hands under her bottom.

‘Are you looking at hate crimes directed against one particular group, or are you looking at the bigger picture?’

Silje was leaning forward, her elbows resting on the desk.

‘The thing is,’ Johanne said, taking a deep breath. ‘I think I need to start from the beginning. Can you spare half an hour to listen to a very strange story?’

A large diamond on the ring finger of Silje Sørensen’s left hand sparkled in the bright light as she made a generous and inviting gesture.

‘Fire away,’ she said. ‘I’m all ears.’

Johanne knocked back the rest of her hot chocolate and started to tell her story, unaware that she now had a large, brown, seriously unflattering milk moustache.

Adam still hadn’t heard anything from Johanne, and it worried him. He was back in his hotel room picking up some notes he had forgotten when the temptation to lie down for a few minutes grew too much. Deep down he suspected he had left the papers behind on purpose. Lunch at the hotel was significantly better than anything the Bergen police had to offer, and since it was included in his full board he didn’t even feel guilty.

Except when it came to the chocolate pudding.

He had eaten two helpings, and a slight feeling of nausea persuaded him that he really did need just a tiny little rest. He kicked off his shoes and threw himself on the bed. It was a bit too soft, particularly lying on top of the covers, but if he could just find the right position he would fall asleep.

He didn’t want to sleep.

He wanted to get hold of Lukas.

Ever since the episode on the roof it was as if the guy was playing cat and mouse with him. Adam had decided not to disturb Astrid unnecessarily after their melancholy encounter out in Os. Therefore he had only called Lukas on his mobile, but it always went straight to voice-mail. Lukas never called him back. In the end Adam had rung the university, but they seemed to have virtually no idea where Lukas might be. He was clearly being given considerable leeway after his mother’s tragic death.

Adam’s eyes closed.

The fact that Johanne hadn’t called worried him. She had sounded so peculiar on the phone last night.

He sat up abruptly.

He didn’t have time for this.

His irritation over the Bishop’s uncooperative son made him feel wide awake.

‘You might not want to, but you’re going to have to,’ he mumbled crossly as he searched for the number of the house in Os. He keyed it in. The phone rang for so long that he was on the point of giving up when a subdued female voice eventually answered.

‘Lysgaard.’

‘Good afternoon, it’s Adam Stubo. I apologize for disturbing you on Tuesday. I hope you-’

‘It’s fine. No need to apologize. I assume you found Lukas eventually.’

‘I did, yes. But now I need to talk to him again, actually. There’s no answer on his mobile, and I wondered if you’d have any idea where he might be?’

‘He’s here.’

‘At home? At this time of day?’

‘Yes. He’s ill. It’s only a sore throat, but he’s got a temperature and… he’s really not very well at all.’

‘Oh.’

In a flash Adam saw the drenched, shivering figure of Lukas Lysgaard from two days ago in his mind’s eye.

‘Anything I can help you with?’ said Astrid.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

He could hear running water and the slamming of a cupboard door.

‘Then again, there might be,’ he said suddenly. ‘It’s just one small detail. Nothing important, really, but perhaps you could help me, then I won’t need to disturb a sick man. It’s about your mother-in-law’s… sanctuary.’

He laughed. There was silence at the other end of the line.

‘You know, the room on the ground floor where she used to go when she couldn’t sleep. The room where-’

‘I know the room you mean. I’ve hardly ever been in there. A few times, maybe. What’s this about?’

‘There are four photographs in there,’ Adam said, keeping his tone casual. ‘Two or three family photos and a portrait, as far as I remember. I just wondered who the portrait might be?’

‘The woman with…’

Her voice disappeared abruptly, as if it had been snipped off with a pair of scissors.

‘Hello?’ said Adam. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes. I don’t know who she is. I can ask Lukas when he wakes up.’

‘No, no, there’s no need. Don’t bother him with details. I’ll give him a call in a couple of days.’

‘Was there anything else?’

‘No. Say hello from me and tell him to get well soon.’

‘Thank you, I will. Bye.’

The connection was broken before he had time to say goodbye. He put down the phone and lay back on the bed, his hands linked behind his head.

At least now he knew the photograph was of a woman.

He felt slightly guilty at having deceived Astrid, but the feeling quickly disappeared when it struck him that she had probably lied to him in return. The way she had suddenly broken off in the mid-sentence suggested something had occurred to her.

Something she didn’t want to share with him.

If nothing else, it suggested he was on the right track.

The Reluctant Detective

His underpants were lying on the floor. The skid marks showed up with revolting clarity, even against the dark green cotton fabric. She grabbed the waistband between her thumb and forefinger and went into the bathroom to drop them in the laundry basket. Since he had obviously had a bad stomach, his trousers could go in there, too. They were lying just outside the closed bedroom door. She had picked up his socks on the way. With the clothes bundled underneath her arm, she quietly opened the door and went in.

The room smelled of a sick person.

Bad breath, sleep and flatulence combined to produce a stench that made her fling the balcony door wide open. She filled her lungs with fresh air a couple of times before turning to look back at him.

He was so deeply asleep he didn’t even notice the racket as she struggled with the awkward door, nor the blast of freezing cold air. The covers were moving slowly and evenly up and down, and she could see just the top of his head. He was starting to lose his hair. The lines on his face had grown deeper in the last few years, but this was the first time she had noticed he was getting a bald patch. It touched her; he looked so vulnerable lying there.

‘Lukas,’ she said quietly, moving over to the bed.

He didn’t wake up.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked his hair gently.

‘Lukas,’ she said again, louder this time. ‘You have to wake up.’

He grunted and tried to pull the covers over his head.

‘I want to sleep,’ he mumbled, smacking his lips. ‘Go away.’

‘No, Lukas. I’m going to pick the children up soon, and there’s something I have to talk to you about while we’re on our own. Something important.’

‘It can wait. My throat is…’

He swallowed loudly and whimpered.

‘… really, really sore!’

‘Adam Stubo rang.’

The covers were no longer moving up and down. She noticed that his body was suddenly tense, and she stroked his head once more.

‘He had a very strange question,’ she said. ‘And there’s something I want to ask you.’

‘My throat. It hurts.’

‘Yesterday,’ she began, and cleared her throat. ‘Yesterday morning I had a headache. We’d run out of Alvedon, so I thought I’d take one of your migraine tablets.’

He sat up quickly.

‘Are you mad?’ he snapped. ‘Those tablets are on prescription, and they’re meant for me and me alone. I don’t even know if they’re any good for headaches that aren’t migraine!’

‘Calm down,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t take one. But I have to confess that I opened the drawer of your desk and-’

‘You did what?’

His voice shot up to a falsetto.

‘I was just going to-’

‘We do everything we can in this house to teach the children to respect other people’s property,’ he said, his voice beginning to fail him. ‘We tell them not to open other people’s letters. Not to look in other people’s drawers. And then you… you go and…’

His fists thudded dully against the bedclothes.

‘Lukas,’ Astrid said calmly. ‘Lukas, look at me.’

When he finally looked up, she was shocked.

‘We have to talk to each other,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve started keeping secrets from me, Lukas.’

‘I have no choice.’

‘That’s not true. We always have a choice. Who’s the woman in the photograph from your mother’s room? And why have you taken the picture out of the frame and locked it in your drawer?’

She placed her hand on his. It felt cold and damp, even on the back. He didn’t pull away, but neither did he open his hand to take hers.

‘I think I’ve got a sister,’ he whispered.

Astrid couldn’t grasp what he was saying.

‘I think I might have a sister,’ he repeated, his voice hoarse. ‘An older sister who was my mother’s child, at least. Perhaps my father’s, too. From when they were really young.’

‘I think you’ve gone completely mad,’ Astrid said gently.

‘No, I mean it. That photo has been there for so long, and I’ve never known who the woman was. I once asked my mother…’

A coughing attack made him bend forward. Astrid let go of his hand, but didn’t get up.

‘I asked her who it was. She didn’t tell me. She just said it was a friend I didn’t know.’

‘Then I expect that was true.’

‘Why would my mother have a photograph by her bed of someone I’ve never met, unless she’s my sister? The other photos are of me and my father.’

‘I knew your mother for twelve years, Lukas. Eva Karin was the most honest, most beautiful and utterly decent person I’ve ever met. She would never, ever have kept a child secret. Never.’

‘She could have had her adopted! There’s nothing wrong with that! On the contrary, it would explain her intractable attitude on the issue of abortion, and…’

His voice gave way completely, and he rubbed his throat.

‘What did Stubo want?’ he whispered.

‘He wanted to know who was in the photo.’

‘And what did you tell him?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘I said I didn’t know. It’s true. I don’t know who she is. But if this might have any significance for the investigation, you have to talk to Stubo.’

‘It can’t possibly have anything to do with my mother’s death! I don’t want any publicity about this. That’s the last thing she would have wanted.’

‘But Lukas,’ she said, pressing his hand once more, ‘why do you think Stubo is so interested in that photograph? He obviously thinks it’s important. And we do want this cleared up, don’t we Lukas? Don’t we?’

He didn’t reply. His stubborn expression and lowered eyes reminded her so strongly of their eldest son that she couldn’t help smiling.

‘Dad put it away,’ he mumbled.

‘When?’

‘The day after the murder. It was there when Stubo came round the first time. He wheedled his way into Mum’s room a few days later, and evidently noticed it had gone.’

He grabbed a handful of tissues out of a box she had placed on the bedside table, and blew his nose thoroughly and for a long time.

‘So how did you get hold of it?’ she asked. ‘If Erik had put it away?’

‘It’s a long story,’ he said, waving dirty tissues around. ‘And now I have to go back to sleep, Astrid. I mean it. I really do feel terrible.’

She stayed where she was. There was such a strong draught from the open balcony door that the newspaper on the bedside table was flapping. It had started raining again, and the patter of heavy raindrops on the balcony floor made her raise her voice as she patted the covers twice and said: ‘OK. But we’re not done with this.’

He shuffled back under the covers and turned his back on her.

‘Any chance you could close the door?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

The wood had warped during the constant rain, and it was impossible to close the door completely. She left it slightly ajar and went out of the room with Lukas’s dirty trousers and socks under her arm.

Downstairs the telephone was ringing.

She almost hoped it was Adam Stubo.

‘Have you spoken to your husband about… Does Adam Stubo know about this?’

Silje Sørensen had been listening to Johanne for almost three quarters of an hour. From time to time she had jotted something down, and once or twice she had interjected a question. The rest of the time she had listened, her body language becoming increasingly tense. A few moments into Johanne’s cogent and incredible story, a faint flush had begun to spread up the inspector’s throat. Johanne could clearly see the pulse beating in the hollow at the base of her neck.

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘He’s in Bergen at the moment.’

‘I realize that, but this is…’

Silje ran her fingers through her medium-length hair. The diamond sparkled.

‘Let’s see if I can summarize this correctly.’

She was balancing a blue pen between her index and middle fingers.

‘So The 25’ers,’ she began, ‘are an organization we know very little about. You think they’ve come to Norway, for reasons of which you are unaware, and have started to murder homosexuals or sympathizers according to a more or less fixed calendar based on the numbers 19, 24 and 27. Which are supposed to be cryptic numbers relating to the Koran and to two Bible verses from St Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, respectively.’

She looked up from her notes.

‘Yes,’ Johanne said calmly.

‘You realize how crazy this sounds?’

‘Yes.’

‘Aren’t you wondering why I’ve sat here listening to this for almost…’

She glanced at her Omega watch made of gold and steel.

‘… an hour?’

‘Yes.’

Johanne sat on her hands again. She was bitterly regretting coming here. It was Adam she should have spoken to, naturally. Adam, who knew her and how she reasoned and what she knew. Now she was sweating and feeling grubbier than she had for a long time, sitting here with the detective inspector with the long nails and hair that must have been styled by a hairdresser this morning.

Silje Sørensen was on her feet.

She opened a drawer in her desk. She was so short she hardly needed to bend down. It struck Johanne that it must have been difficult for her to fulfil the physical criteria for acceptance into the Police Training Academy. She stood in silence for a while, staring at something. Johanne couldn’t see what it was from where she was sitting. Then the drawer slammed shut, and Silje Sørensen went over to the window.

‘And there wasn’t actually a murder on 27 December,’ she said, her back to Johanne. ‘That’s just a guess, the idea that this…’

The pause lasted such a long time that Johanne mumbled: ‘Niclas Winter.’

‘That this Niclas Winter was murdered rather than died of an overdose.’

Johanne wondered if she should just say goodbye and leave. Her shoulder bag was lying at her feet, half-open, and she could see that she had three missed calls on her mobile.

‘Besides which,’ Silje Sørensen said so suddenly and loudly that Johanne jumped, ‘the experience of the Americans suggests that they murder only homosexuals, not sympathizers. Isn’t that right?’

‘But so little is known about them, and they’ve-’

‘Do you actually know if they feel constrained by those dates?’

‘Yes!’

Johanne almost screamed the answer.

‘I rang my…’

She changed her mind. She had enough problems when it came to credibility without referring to a friend.

‘I rang Karen Winslow, a solicitor at APLC,’ she corrected herself. ‘That’s the centre I mentioned.’

It was true. On her way to police headquarters she had felt the need to put a little more flesh on the bones of her meagre story, and had called Karen in the States. It wasn’t until her friend answered that Johanne realized it was still night in Alabama. Karen had assured her it really didn’t matter, as she was still suffering from jet lag anyway.

‘As I said, it was numerologists who worked out the background to the name The 25’ers,’ Johanne continued. ‘Naturally, they had something to build on. Something around which to base their theories. All six murders currently linked to the organization were committed on the 19th, 24th or 27th. According to Karen Winslow.’

She wiped her nose and added with a touch of embarrassment.

‘Today. This morning.’

Silje Sørensen went back to her desk. Opened the drawer, looked down.

Suddenly she sat down, leaving the drawer open.

‘If you’d come here a week ago,’ she said, ‘I would have politely got rid of you after five minutes. I didn’t do that today because…’

They looked at each other. Johanne bit her lip.

‘I don’t know whether I ought to tell you this,’ said Silje, holding her gaze. ‘You’re not attached to the police. In a purely formal sense, I mean.’

Johanne didn’t speak.

‘On the other hand, I’m aware that you have a kind of general approved status from the relevant authorities in connection with your research project. I presume you must have been given extensive sanctions regarding access to our cases, at least in those instances where we suspect hate crime is involved.’

Johanne opened her mouth to protest, but Silje held up a hand to stop her.

‘I presume, I said! I’m not asking you. I’m simply telling you what I presume. So that I can show you this.’

She took a single sheet of paper out of the open drawer and looked at it for a moment before passing it across the crowded but well-organized desk to Johanne.

She took the piece of paper and adjusted her glasses.

Three names and three dates.

‘I recognize the name Marianne Kleive,’ she said. ‘But I have no idea who the other two-’

‘Runar Hansen,’ Silje interrupted. ‘Beaten and killed in Sofienberg Park on 19 November. Hawre Ghani. Underage asylum seeker who-’

‘Sofienberg Park?’ Johanne broke in. ‘The east or west side?’

‘East,’ said Silje with an almost imperceptible smile. ‘And you might have heard of Hawre Ghani as the body we pulled out of the harbour on the last Sunday in Advent.’

Johanne’s mouth was dry. She looked around for something to drink, but all that was left of her chocolate was a brown, congealed mass in the bottom of her cup.

‘Among many other things,’ Silje said, holding her breath as she paused for effect, ‘he was a prostitute.’

‘I need a drink of water,’ said Johanne.

‘We don’t know exactly when he was murdered, but there is every indication that the murder took place on 24 November. We have a confirmed sighting on that date when he went off with a punter. No one saw him after that. It fits in with the estimate from the pathologist.’

‘I’m just going to the loo,’ said Johanne. ‘I really do need a drink.’

‘Here,’ said Silje, passing her a bottle of mineral water from the cupboard behind her. ‘I can understand how you feel. You put two and two together more quickly than we did. This is all to do with-’

‘There’s a murder missing for 27 November,’ said Johanne. She was getting hotter and hotter. She couldn’t get the bottle open.

‘This could all be coincidence,’ she went on, her voice almost breaking.

‘You don’t believe that. And you’re wrong. There isn’t a murder missing for 27 November. Last Tuesday, when my colleague and I spotted a clear connection between the three cases I’m working on at the moment…’

She quickly leaned across the desk, waving her fingers at the bottle. Johanne passed it to her and Silje opened it with one quick movement. She passed it back and went on.

‘It’s tricky when one inspector is responsible for three murder investigations. I actually had four, but I passed one over to a colleague. I hadn’t done very much work on that particular case before I handed it over. It’s to do with suspected sabotage on a car. It came off the road in Maridalen, and since nobody sticks to the speed limit on what is an extremely dangerous stretch of road, the driver died. At first the case was treated as an ordinary road traffic accident. Then it turned out that someone might have… tampered with the brakes. I knew this before, of course, but what I didn’t know was that the victim, a Swedish woman by the name of Sophie Eklund, lived with Katie Rasmussen.’

Johanne needed a few seconds. She had already drunk half the mineral water.

‘The MP,’ she said eventually. ‘The spokesman on homosexual issues for Arbeiderpartiet.’

‘I think she prefers “spokeswoman”.’

‘Do you think… was the sabotage aimed at her? Was… was her partner murdered by mistake?’

‘I don’t know, and I have no opinion on that. I’m just telling you that your absurd theory seems a little too close to the mark for me to sit here and dismiss it.’

‘It could be someone else, of course,’ said Johanne. ‘Another organization. Or a copycat. Or-’

‘Listen to me,’ said the inspector. ‘I want you to listen very carefully.’

She rested her elbows on the desk and interlaced her fingers.

‘You have a good reputation, Johanne. A lot of people in this building are aware of the work you’ve done for NCIS, without taking any credit for it. I noticed you in particular when NCIS solved the case of those murdered children a few years ago. It’s no secret around here that it was your input that saved the life of at least one girl who had been kidnapped.’

Johanne stared at her, her face expressionless. She couldn’t work out where the inspector was going with this.

‘But people also say you can be quite…’

She straightened her back and her eyes narrowed before she found a word she liked.

‘… reluctant,’ she said. ‘Do you know what they call you inside NCIS?’

Johanne put the bottle to her mouth and took a drink. A long drink.

‘The reluctant detective.’

Silje’s laugh was big, warm and infectious.

Johanne smiled and put the top back on the bottle.

‘I didn’t know that,’ she said candidly. ‘Adam never mentioned it.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t know. Anyway, my point is that you’re sitting here, living proof that your nickname is well-earned. First of all you come out with a theory that’s like something out of an American B-movie, then you try to distance yourself from the whole idea when I tell you there could be something in it. So it’s hardly surprising that-’

Loud voices out in the corridor. A male voice bellowed, then a woman screamed, followed by the sound of running footsteps. Johanne looked in horror at the closed door.

‘Someone trying to do a runner,’ Silje said calmly. ‘Unlikely to succeed.’

‘Shouldn’t we help? Or-’

‘You and me? I don’t think so!’

Someone must have caught the would-be runaway and rendered them harmless, because suddenly everything went quiet. Johanne was fiddling with the cuffs of her sweater when she caught sight of a calendar just behind Silje. There was a red magnetic ring around Thursday 15 January.

‘Irrespective of my theory,’ she said slowly, ‘the fact is that during November and December we have six murders with… some kind of homosexual link, I think we could call it. 19, 24 and 27 November. The same dates in December. And today is 15 January.’

Johanne kept her eyes fixed on the red ring. When she blinked it had etched itself firmly on her mind’s eye as a green O.

‘Yes,’ said Silje Sørensen. ‘In four days it will be 19 January. We may not have much time.’

The thought hadn’t struck Johanne until now. It gave her goose-flesh on her arms, and she pulled down her sleeves.

‘Do you have anything to go on? Anything at all? From what Adam says it sounds as if they’re not really getting anywhere over in Bergen.’

Silje Sørensen pushed out her lower lip and shook her head slightly, as if she didn’t really know whether what she was searching for could really be called a clue. She opened three drawers before she found the right one and took out a pile of drawings. The drawer slammed shut as she stood up. She went to the empty noticeboard.

‘We’ve got this,’ she said. ‘Sketches of the man who was trying to buy sex from Hawre Ghani when he was last seen alive.’

She fixed the images to the board with bright red drawing pins. Johanne stood up and waited until all four sheets were in place: a full-length picture, a full-face portrait, a profile and a peculiar drawing of something that looked like a pin with an emblem on it.

‘Is everything all right?’

Silje’s voice sounded as if it was coming from a long way off.

‘Johanne!’

Someone grabbed hold of her arm. Her head felt so light that she thought it might come loose and float up to the ceiling like a helium balloon unless she pulled herself together.

‘Sit down! For God’s sake sit down!’

‘No. I want to stand here.’

Even her own voice sounded distant.

‘Have you…? Do you know who this man is, Johanne?’

‘Who did these?’

‘Our usual artist, his name is-’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. Which witness helped to produce these sketches?’

‘A boy. Homeless. A prostitute. Do you know the man in the drawings?’

She was still holding Johanne’s arm. Her grip tightened.

‘I slapped this man across the face,’ said Johanne.

‘What?’

‘Either your witness is playing games, or he’s the most observant person in the world. I’ll never forget this man. He…’

The blood had returned to her head. Her brain felt clearer than for a long time. A remarkable sense of calm came over her, as if she had finally decided what she wanted and what she believed in.

‘He saved my daughter’s life,’ she said. ‘He saved Kristiane from being hit by a tram, and I slapped him across the face by way of thanks.’

Kristen Faber’s secretary had finally found the time to open the drawer in her boss’s desk. There had been no need to call a locksmith or a carpenter, of course. All it took was a little skilful poking at the lock with an ornamental penknife that she kept on her own desk. Click went the drawer and it was open.

And there was the envelope. Large and brown, with Niclas Winter’s name written on it just above his ID number. The envelope had an old-fashioned wax seal and, as an additional security measure, someone had scrawled an illegible signature diagonally across the flap where the envelope was stuck down.

When Kristen Faber took over the practice from old Skrøder, there had been a lot to deal with. Ulrik Skrøder had been completely senile for the last six months before his son finally managed to have the poor old soul declared incapable of managing his affairs, and the firm could be sold. At least that was what everyone said. Kristen Faber’s secretary, having taken on the task of going through all the papers and following up every case where the time limit had elapsed or was about to do so, had the impression that Skrøder must have been confused for many years. There was no order to anything, and it took her months to sort out the worst of it.

When everything was finally finished, Kristen realized he had paid too much for the practice. The ongoing cases were far fewer in number than he had been led to believe, and most of the clients turned out to be around the same age as their solicitor. They simply died, one after the other, ancient and advanced in years, with their affairs in pristine order and with absolutely no need of the assistance of a solicitor. Eighteen months later Kristen managed to get back half the money he had paid out.

The secretary could well understand his frustration at having bought a pig in a poke. However, she couldn’t help reminding him from time to time about all the sealed envelopes in a heavy oak cupboard in the archives. Some of them looked positively antique, and Skrøder’s son had maintained that they could be extremely valuable. They had been handed over for safe keeping by some of the city’s oldest and wealthiest families, he told them. His father had always said that the oak cupboard containing these documents provided proof of his good judgement. Every envelope was sealed, with the name of the owner of the contents neatly written on the front, and when he was in deep despair at having bought a portfolio that offered him little profit Kristen Faber had restricted himself to opening a dozen or so.

He found shares in companies that no longer existed, marriage settlements between couples long dead, a wad of banknotes that was no longer legal tender, and the outline of a novel by an unknown author, which, after reading just ten pages, he realized was completely worthless. After that he had closed the cupboard, decided to forget his crippling losses and build up the practice himself.

Since then the cupboard had just stood there.

The secretary had opened it for the first time in almost nine years when young Niclas Winter rang. He seemed frustrated and was quite rude when he asked if they might possibly have an envelope with his name on it in their archives. As she had little to do, and curious by nature, she had gone to have a look. And there it was. On closer inspection it looked newer than the rest.

Now she was holding the envelope up to the light.

It was impossible to see what was inside. Nor had Niclas Winter said anything about the contents as he showered her with noisy kisses over the phone before Christmas, when she rang to tell him she had found it.

The temptation to break the seal was almost too much for her. She placed the palm of her hand on the thick paper. It was usually possible to steam open envelopes like this, but the seal presented a problem.

With a small sigh she placed the envelope on Kristen Faber’s desk and went back to her own office.

She would at least make sure she was there when he opened it.

‘We can’t go public on this,’ said Silje Sørensen, covering the image of the mystery man with the palm of her hand. ‘Not yet, anyway. If we publish the picture it will lose a significant amount of its value. Everybody will form their own opinions. People will start calling in with sightings, and experience suggests that we’ll be completely stuffed before that approach turns up anything useful. Now, however…’

She contemplated the picture for a few more seconds before going back to her seat.

‘Now we have an ace up our sleeve. We’ve got something nobody knows about.’

Johanne nodded. When she had managed to pull herself together after recognizing the man in the sketch, they had gone through the case point by point one more time. She was halfway through a second bottle of mineral water, trying to suppress a belch.

‘And you’re absolutely certain?’

It was at least the third time Silje had asked.

‘I’m absolutely certain that the man in that drawing looks amazingly like the man who saved Kristiane, yes. It’s as if he’d posed for the picture. But as I said, I can’t guarantee that it’s actually the same man. The point is…’

Air forced its way up her oesophagus and she belched.

‘Sorry,’ she said, her hand to her mouth. ‘The point is that there are starting to be so many links here that it just can’t be a matter of pure coincidence. Placing the man who was the last person Hawre Ghani was seen with at the location where Marianne Kleive was murdered has to be a breakthrough, surely. In both cases, I might add.’

‘We could find you a job here.’ Silje smiled, then a new furrow appeared between her fine eyebrows and she said: ‘And since you’re firing on all cylinders, perhaps you can explain this emblem?’ She pointed at the drawing. ‘It’s really foxed us.’

‘I should think that was exactly the intention,’ said Johanne. ‘We’ve moved on from false beards and dyed hair. Have you seen Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train?’

The furrow deepened.

‘The one with the two strangers who meet on a train,’ Johanne reminded Silje. ‘Both of them want another person dead. One of them suggests they should swap murders, so that they can create watertight alibis. The murderer will have no motive whatsoever, and as we know the motive is one of the very first things the police try to establish.’

For the second time in just a few hours the thought of Wencke Bencke passed through her mind. She pushed it aside and tried to smile.

‘I… I don’t really watch that kind of thing,’ said Silje.

‘You should. Anyway – the emblem is there because it has nothing at all to do with the matter. Look at what else he’s wearing: dark, neutral clothes without a single distinguishing mark. Anyone who’s even vaguely observant will fix on that bright red logo. Which means you expend enormous amounts of energy on-’

‘But where did he get it from?’

‘Anywhere. And it could be anything at all. Something he found somewhere. If our assumptions are correct, this is a highly professional killer. His hair, for example. Is he bald, or has he shaved his head? I would assume the latter.’

‘It’s as if you’ve read this,’ said Silje, waving the sketch artist’s accompanying notes. ‘Martin Setre wasn’t sure.’

‘But he did think about it? I didn’t. I assume this man…’

She nodded in the direction of the noticeboard.

‘… actually has perfectly normal hair. Instead of going for a wig or dying his hair, neither of which ever really looks natural, he shaves it off.’

Silje gave a slight shake of her head.

‘We wondered if he was taking the piss,’ she said.

They both sat in silence for a moment. Johanne’s fingers were going to sleep, and she slid her hands from under her bottom. A quick glance revealed that they were no longer merely neglected, but also chalk-white with red blotches.

‘He can’t be acting entirely alone,’ said Silje. It was more of a question than a statement.

‘No. I don’t think he is. This is a group, and they operate as a group. But nothing is certain.’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘I need to get going,’ said Silje loudly, bringing the palms of her hands down on the desk. ‘We need to set up a formal collaboration with NCIS as soon as possible. And with the Bergen police. And…’

She took a breath and exhaled between lips that were almost compressed together.

‘This is so fucking difficult I hardly know where to start.’

Johanne was surprised when this slender, feminine individual swore.

‘I could be wrong,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes. But we can’t take the risk.’

They stood up simultaneously, as if responding to a command. Johanne picked up her capacious bag, heaved it over her shoulder, then grabbed her duffel coat and headed for the door.

She hadn’t said anything about her feeling that Kristiane was being watched. As she stood there shaking hands with Silje to say goodbye, it struck her that she should have mentioned it. Silje Sørensen was a stranger. Unlike Isak and Adam, she wouldn’t instinctively assume that Johanne’s anxiety was exaggerated. Silje was a mother herself, as far as Johanne could tell from the attractive family photos in the room.

Perhaps she should trust her.

It could be significant for the case.

‘Thank you for listening to me,’ she said, letting go of Silje’s hand.

‘We should be thanking you,’ said Silje with a joyless smile. ‘And I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.’

As Johanne got into her car two minutes later she realized why she hadn’t said anything about the missing file, the man by the fence and an indefinable, frightening feeling that there was someone out there who didn’t necessarily wish her daughter well.

It would be a betrayal if she didn’t speak to Adam first.

Now the Oslo police were taking her seriously, he would be more prepared to listen.

She hoped.

Astrid Tomte Lysgaard really, really wished Lukas had given her a different answer. She didn’t doubt that he was telling the truth; they knew each other too well. And yet something had come over him that she didn’t understand. She had admired Lukas ever since they got together in their first year at secondary school, initially because he was attractive, hard-working and kind. With the years came financial obligations, everyday life, and three children. Lukas took everything seriously. Bills were never left unpaid. He had attended every single parents’ evening since their eldest son started nursery, and volunteered as a member of the PTA as soon as the boy started school. Lukas was skilful and industrious, and had built both the extension and the garage himself. It would never occur to him to do anything underhand when it came to money. He always clamped down on any form of racism or gossip.

However, her friends sometimes mentioned that they found Lukas boring.

They didn’t know him as well as she did.

Lukas was anything but boring, but right now she didn’t understand him at all.

The shock of Eva Karin’s murder must have done something to him, something worse than plunging him into grief. The fact that he wasn’t doing all he could to help the police was incomprehensible.

Lukas never did anything wrong.

Not helping the police was wrong.

She poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa. She held the cup up to her face, feeling the dampness of the steam as it touched her skin and cooled.

Lukas didn’t have a sister. Of course he didn’t. If Eva Karin had had a daughter from a previous life – whether Erik was the father or not – she would have acknowledged her. If the child had been adopted, she would have told her family. Admittedly, Eva Karin could appear reserved in certain circumstances, almost unapproachable. Astrid had always put this temporary distance down to the fact that, as a priest, Eva Karin carried the secrets of so many other people. She inspired trust. Her voice was quiet, even in the pulpit, with a melodious, considered way of speaking that in itself invited confidences. And Astrid had never known Eva Karin to make a thoughtless remark, not once in all these years.

When it came to herself, on the other hand, Eva Karin was a generous person. She talked openly about things she had done wrong and mistakes she had made. She had an immense respect for life, which sometimes manifested itself in strange ways, making life difficult for others. Her deep faith in Jesus bordered on the fanatical, but never crossed the line. Some years ago she had shed tears of joy after spending a small fortune on the picture of the Messiah that was now hanging on the living-room wall in the house on Nubbebakken. It was said to be the sketch of an altarpiece from a church somewhere in the east of the country, but Eva Karin had explained that only in this particular image did the artist make the Saviour’s eyes ice-blue. Once or twice Astrid thought she might have caught her mother-in-law talking to the figure in the picture, with his short, blonde, tousled hair. Eva Karin had smiled and laughed at herself, before brushing the matter aside and making small talk about the weather.

As far as Astrid knew, the real Jesus must have been dark, with brown eyes and long hair.

Jesus was forgiveness, her mother-in-law used to say.

Jesus holds all life sacred.

Keeping a child secret would have meant showing a lack of respect for life.

Abruptly, Astrid put down her cup.

If Eva Karin had given up a daughter for adoption, then surely she would have a photograph of her as a baby.

Lukas wasn’t himself. He was usually the one who sorted things out for her when the world was a mess and everything got a bit too much. Now it was Astrid’s turn. She had to do the right thing for him.

She took her cup into the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher. If she waited, she might change her mind. As she picked up the telephone she noticed that her hands were shaking. Stubo’s number was still there, at the top of the list of incoming calls.

‘Hello,’ she said when he picked up almost at once. ‘It’s Astrid, Lukas’s wife. I think you should come over right away.’

‘You should have told me right away!’

If Rolf wasn’t furious, then he was unusually cross. In the back-ground Marcus could hear a dog barking and a woman’s voice trying to calm it down.

‘I forgot,’ Marcus said wearily. ‘We were going out for something to eat and I just forgot about it.’

‘The police asked me to ring on a serious matter almost a week ago – and it puts me in a fucking bad light if it looks as if I didn’t bother.’

‘I understand that, Rolf. As I said, I’m sorry.’

‘That’s not enough. What the hell’s got into you lately?’

Rolf’s voice had acquired an aggressive tone that Marcus had never heard before. He took a deep breath and was about to embark on another apologetic tirade when Rolf got in first.

‘You’re not really with us,’ he muttered angrily. ‘You forget the most routine things. Yesterday you hadn’t even done little Marcus’s lunch box when it was time for him to go to school, even though it was your turn. I found out by chance and just had time to make him a couple of sandwiches.’

‘All I can do is apologize. There’s… a lot to do. The financial crisis, you know, and…’

Marcus could hear rapid footsteps at the other end of the line.

‘Hang on,’ Rolf mumbled. ‘I’m just moving so I can talk freely.’

Scraping. A door slamming. Marcus closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly.

‘It’s only three weeks ago since you told me how happy you were about the financial crisis,’ Rolf said eventually, just as angrily as before. ‘You said you were the only person you knew who was making money out of it! You said the company was on the up and up, for fuck’s sake!’

‘But you know that-’

‘I know nothing, Marcus! I have no idea why you lie awake at night. I have no idea why you’ve become so short-tempered. Not only with me, but with Marcus and your mother and-’

‘I’ve said I’m sorry!’

By now Marcus, too, was raising his voice. He got up and went over to the window. The sun was glowing fiery red as it lay low on the horizon. The ice on the fjord was criss-crossed with furrows made by ships. The harbour directly in front of him was covered with slushy ice on top of the black water. The Nesodden ferry had just heaved to at the quayside, and a handful of shivering people poured out into the beautiful, ice-cold afternoon.

‘This can’t go on,’ Rolf said in a resigned tone of voice. ‘You’re at work virtually all the time. It can’t possibly be necessary to…’

He was right.

Marcus had always been proud of the fact that he worked more or less normal office hours. His philosophy was that if you couldn’t get everything done between eight and four, then the fault lay with your own inefficiency. Of course, he had to work late occasionally, just like everyone else. However, since nothing was more important than his family, he still tried to be home at the normal time every day, and to keep his weekends free.

These days he was staying at the office until late in the afternoon and into the evening more and more often. The office at Aker Brygge had become a refuge. A sanctuary from Rolf’s searching looks and accusations. When everyone had gone home and he was left alone, he sat down in the comfortable armchair by the window and watched the evening creep across the city. He listened to music. He read a little – or at least he tried to, but it was difficult to concentrate.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Rolf went on wearily. ‘You’re not one of those capitalists, Marcus! You’ve always said that the money was there for us, and not vice versa! If the firm is going to take up all our time, then we’d be better getting rid of the whole bloody lot and living a simpler life.’

‘It’s 15 January,’ Marcus protested feebly. ‘A couple of weeks’ stress at work isn’t enough for you to start drawing drastic conclusions, in my opinion. I also think, to be perfectly honest, that you’re being completely unreasonable. I can’t even begin to count all the evenings when you’ve suddenly had to dash off to splint the broken leg of some animal or help some over-bred bitch to pup when she’s not even capable of feeding her own offspring.’

There was silence at the other end of the phone.

‘That’s completely different,’ Rolf said eventually. ‘That’s about living creatures, Marcus, and my profession is very important to me. I’ve never said that animals don’t mean anything. You’re constantly insisting that money means nothing to you. And what’s more, we’ve always agreed that precisely because I sometimes get called out, you’ll be at home with little Marcus. I mean, we’ve… We agree on this, Marcus. But to be honest I don’t think we’re going to get much further. At least not on the phone.’

The coldness in his voice frightened Marcus.

‘I’ll be home early tonight,’ he said quickly. ‘And did you manage to sort things out with the police?’

‘Just now. They’re sending a patrol car to pick up the cigarette butts this evening. I’ve already e-mailed them the photos of the tyre tracks. Not that I think they’ll be any use, but still… See you later.’

He didn’t even say goodbye.

Marcus stared at the silent telephone, then slowly walked over to the armchair and sat down. He stayed there until the sky had turned black and the lights of the city had come on, one by one, transforming the view from the enormous window into a picture-postcard image of a wintry city night.

The worst thing of all was that Rolf had accused him of being a capitalist.

If only he knew, thought Marcus, wondering how he was going to summon up the strength to get to his feet.

‘Do you know what’s in it?’ Kristen Faber said pointlessly to his secretary.

The seal was unbroken.

‘Of course not,’ she said blithely. ‘You told me to leave it until you could open it yourself. But… isn’t that actually illegal? I mean, the name of the addressee is written clearly on the envelope, and even if he’s dead-’

‘Illegal,’ Kristen Faber mumbled contemptuously as he rummaged around in the mess on his desk, searching for a letter opener. ‘It’s hardly illegal to open an envelope I found in my own office, for which I paid a fortune! How did you get the drawer open anyway?’

‘Here,’ she said, handing him a long, sharp knife. ‘I used my womanly wiles.’

He slit the envelope open, stuck two fingers into the gaping hole and fished out a document. It consisted of only two pages, and at the top of the first sheet it said LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT in capital letters.

‘It’s a will,’ he said, disappointed and once again completely superfluously, because the secretary was standing right next to him. He turned away irritably and demanded a cup of tea. She nodded stiffly and went into the outer office.

The name of the testator seemed familiar to Kristen Faber, even if he couldn’t quite place it. Niclas Winter was the sole heir. A quick glance suggested an extensive estate, even if phrases such as ‘the entire portfolio’ and ‘all property’ didn’t actually say very much.

The document met all the legal requirements. The pages were numbered and it had been signed by both the testator and two witnesses who did not stand to benefit from the contents. When the solicitor saw the date the will had been drawn up, he frowned for a moment before making a brief note on a Post-it.

The secretary was back with a cup of tea. Irritating, thought Faber. It must have been ready before he even asked. Quickly, he slipped the will back in the envelope and sealed it with a wide strip of sticky tape. He put the yellow Post-it note on the front.

‘Put this in the safe,’ he said. ‘I need to work out what to do with it. Niclas Winter is dead, but he might have heirs.’

‘No,’ said the secretary. ‘It said in the paper that he hasn’t got a single heir. As far as I understood, the state will get the lot.’

‘Right,’ said Kristen Faber, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Well, that’s not such a bad thing. The state bloody well takes enough from most people. But anyway, I think this document ought to be handed over to the State Inheritance Fund. I’ll look into it tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow you’re in court with a new case,’ she reminded him. ‘Perhaps I could-?’

‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘You do it. Ring the inheritance fund and ask what we should do.’

‘Of course,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll do it first thing in the morning. Is your tea all right?’

He couldn’t even bring himself to answer.

‘Thank you so much for taking the trouble to come all the way out here again,’ she said, smiling uncertainly at the tall police officer. ‘I’ve sent the two older ones across to the neighbour’s, and William is just about to fall asleep. Lukas, poor soul, has slept all day.’

Adam Stubo kicked off his shoes and handed her his jacket, then went into the light, comfortable living room. There were toys and children’s books lying around, and a woollen sweater had been draped over the back of a dining chair to dry, and yet the room gave the impression of being tidy. Very pleasant, thought Adam, noticing the enormous framed child’s drawing hanging above a beige sofa piled high with brightly coloured cushions.

‘Who’s the artist?’ he smiled, nodding at the picture.

‘The middle one,’ she said. ‘Andrea.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Six.’

‘Six? Goodness, she’s talented!’

Astrid waved in the direction of the sofa.

‘Please sit down. Would you like a coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Not this late in the day.’

She glanced at a wall clock above the worktop in the open-plan kitchen. It was just after seven.

‘Water? Something else?’

‘No thanks.’

He moved a couple of cushions before sitting down. There was a faint smell of lemon and freshly baked bread, and the tinder-dry wood was burning brightly in the open fireplace. There was something very special about this home. The atmosphere was somehow more peaceful than he was used to in families with small children, and in spite of the slight untidiness everything seemed to be under control. He looked up when she put a cup of coffee, a jug of milk and a plate of buns in front of them, in spite of the fact that he had said no.

‘This sort of thing isn’t good for me,’ he said, taking one of the buns.

She smiled and went over to a shelf by the window looking out over the garden. When she came back she hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to him on the big, deep sofa. Adam was already halfway through his bun.

‘Absolutely delicious,’ he mumbled with his mouth full. ‘What’s inside?’

‘Ordinary jam,’ she said. ‘Strawberry jam. Here.’

She was holding out a photograph. Confused, he put the rest of the bun down on the plate and wiped his fingers assiduously on his trouser legs before taking the photograph and carefully placing it on his right knee.

The paper was thick and slightly yellowed, and the photograph had been taken at quite close quarters.

‘I hope I’m doing the right thing,’ she said almost inaudibly.

‘You are.’

He studied the picture in detail. Even if the woman wasn’t exactly beautiful, there was something appealing about the young face. She had big eyes, which he guessed were probably blue. She had a lovely smile, with the hint of a dimple in one cheek. One upper front tooth lay slightly on top of the other, and for a moment he frowned, deep in concentration.

‘I feel as if I’ve seen her before,’ he murmured.

Astrid didn’t reply. Instead, she looked at him with her mouth half-open, not breathing, as if she were about to say something, but couldn’t quite bring herself to.

He pre-empted her.

‘She looks a bit like Lukas, doesn’t she?’

She nodded.

‘Lukas thinks she’s his sister,’ she said. ‘That’s why he didn’t want to show you the photo. He wants to find her himself, and he doesn’t want any publicity about this. He thinks the family has had a hard enough time without this being plastered all over the papers. I’m sure he’s thinking mainly of his father, but also his mother’s reputation. And himself, to a certain extent.’

‘A sister,’ Adam said thoughtfully. ‘An unknown sister would definitely fit in with this story, but she’s-’

‘It’s just not possible,’ Astrid interrupted, sitting up very straight.

She sat like a queen beside him, erect and with no support for her back, legs close together.

‘Eva Karin would never have kept the existence of a sister secret from Lukas.’

‘I believe you,’ said Adam, without taking his eyes off the photograph. ‘Because if this woman is still alive, she’s too old to be Lukas’s sister.’

‘Too old? How do you know? There’s no date on the photo, and-’

It was Adam’s turn to interrupt.

‘In fact, we’ve already considered the possibility there might be a child. The story about meeting Jesus when she was sixteen was clearly crucial in Eva Karin’s life. It’s easy to imagine that she might have been pregnant at the time, and that she was saved in that context. The usual practice in those days was for young, unmarried mothers to give up their child for adoption. But…’

He grimaced and shook his head slightly.

‘I’ve formed a pretty good picture of the Bishop over the past few weeks. And I have to say I agree with you. If there was a child from those days, she would presumably have told Lukas. When he was grown up, at least. Today nobody would criticize her in any way. On the contrary, a story like that would back up everything she says… everything she said about abortion.’

Astrid took the photograph and held it up in front of her.

‘The resemblance could be pure coincidence,’ she said. ‘I’ve always thought Lukas looked like Lill Lindfors, and they’re definitely not related.’

‘Lill Lindfors?’ Adam grinned and shook his head as he examined the photograph once more. ‘She looks like her, too,’ he said in surprise. ‘And now you come to mention it, I can see the resemblance with Lukas. A dark-haired, male version of Lill Lindfors.’

‘And you look like Brian Dennehy,’ said Astrid with a smile. ‘You know, the American actor. Even though I’m sure he’s not your brother.’

‘You’re not the first person to say that,’ grinned Adam, sitting up a little straighter. ‘But he’s a bit fatter than me, don’t you think?’

She didn’t answer. He took another bun.

‘How do you know she’s too old?’ she asked.

‘A woman born in 1962 or 1963 would be…’

He did a quick calculation.

‘Somewhere around forty-six today. Forty-six years old. How old do you think she was when this photograph was taken?’

Astrid held it up once again.

‘I don’t really know,’ she said dubiously. ‘Twenty-three? Twenty-five?’

‘Younger, probably. Perhaps only eighteen. People looked a little bit older in those days when they had a professional portrait taken. Something to do with clothes and hairstyles and so on, I should think. I was born in 1956 and I’d put money on the fact that the woman in that photograph is older than me.’

‘But how…? You can’t-’

‘To begin with, there’s the quality of the paper,’ he said, gently holding one corner of the photo. ‘If this woman really was born at the beginning of the sixties, then the picture would have been taken…’

Once again he did a rapid calculation in his head.

‘Around 1980. Is there anything about this photo that suggests it was taken so late?’

Astrid slowly shook her head.

‘No,’ said Adam. ‘I think it was taken somewhere around the early sixties. Perhaps as late as 1965, but no later. Look at the clothes! The hairstyle!’

‘I was born in 1980,’ she said feebly. ‘I don’t know much about fashion in the sixties. But that means this woman… this lady… she must be the same age as Eva Karin!’

‘Yes,’ said Adam, stopping himself as he was about to take another bun. ‘And that means…’

He placed the photograph on his knee again. He leaned forward, examining the facial features. The straight, slender nose. The forehead, high and curved and completely unlined. The cheeks were smooth, and the hair looked as if it could have been painted on her head, in neat waves with a curl over the temple.

‘Could it be a sister?’ he murmured as he straightened up at last. ‘She doesn’t look like Eva Karin, but in a way it could explain the resemblance to Lukas. Sometimes our genes follow a strange, roundabout route, and-’

Astrid was staring at him in horror.

‘A sister? Eva Karin has two siblings, both younger than her. Einar Olav, who must be around forty-five, and Anne Turid, who turned fifty last year – no, the year before. That isn’t her!’

They heard a noise in the hallway. High, childish voices. Someone laughed and the front door banged shut.

Astrid quickly slipped the photograph back in its envelope. She hesitated only for a second before handing it to Adam.

‘Calm down, both of you!’

She didn’t take her eyes off him.

‘Daddy and William are asleep. Quiet, please.’

Adam got up. He headed for the hallway, and was almost bowled over as two children came racing in. They looked at him with curiosity.

‘Who are you?’ asked the younger child.

‘My name is Adam. And you’re Andrea, the new Picasso.’

The girl laughed. ‘No, I put the ears and the feet in the right places.’

‘That’s good,’ said Adam, ruffling her hair. ‘It’s always good to have those in the right place.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Astrid.

She was leaning on the door frame, her arms folded. She seemed somehow relieved. Her smile was no longer quite as guarded as it had been when he arrived, and she laughed when the eight-year-old showed her a pretend tattoo covering the whole of her lower arm

‘I’m the one who should be thanking you,’ he said, raising the envelope in a gesture of farewell as he stepped outside.

The door closed behind him and he hurried to the car. Before he had time to start the engine, Astrid came running after him. He rolled down the window and looked up.

‘I thought you might like these,’ she said, handing him a plastic bag containing the rest of the buns. ‘They’re really best eaten fresh, and you seemed to like them.’

He didn’t even manage to say thank you before she was hurrying back up the drive. He sat there for a moment, then opened the bag and took out one of the delicious buns. As he was about to sink his teeth into it, he felt a pang of guilt.

But there was something very special about freshly baked buns.

And the strawberry jam was the best he’d ever tasted.

Shame

Marcus was trying to think about the good things in life. Everything that was beautiful and wonderful and had made his existence worth the effort so far. Everything that had existed before – before the brutal realization that his life was built on a mistake. A misunderstanding.

A theft.

The whole thing was stolen, and it overshadowed everything he was trying to think about and made it impossible to sleep.

Rolf was snoring gently.

Marcus sat up slowly in bed, pausing briefly between movements. Eventually, he was on his feet and padded cautiously towards the bathroom. The door leading from the landing creaked, so his plan was to go through the spa next door to the bedroom. He made it and managed to close the door behind him without waking Rolf.

A faint light was still burning. Little Marcus had his own bathroom, but preferred to use his parents’ if he needed to get up during the night.

Even in the dimness Marcus looked terrible. He gave a start when he saw himself in the mirror. The dark shadows under his eyes were turning into thick folds of flesh, and his skin was so pale it looked almost blue. He was getting heavier and heavier, and hadn’t kept to his New Year resolution for even one of the fifteen days of 2009 that had passed so far. His own body odour made him recoil: night sweat, unwashed pyjamas and fear. He turned away from the ghostly reflection and went out on to the landing.

The door to little Marcus’s room was ajar. Marcus could move more easily out here. The house could fall down around the boy’s ears at this time of night, and he still wouldn’t wake up. Marcus stood in the doorway, watching the sleeping child.

The room rested in the faint blue chilly glow of the night light above the bed, a spaceship on its way through the galaxy. The shelves along one wall were packed with books and toys, and the computer monitor glimmered with stars on a screensaver the boy himself had downloaded. The shabby teddy bear Marcus still had to have with him in bed in order to get to sleep lay helpless on the floor. It had lost one eye long ago. The other stared blindly up at the ceiling. Marcus tiptoed across the floor without treading on any of the numerous items lying around, and picked up the bear. He held it to his nose for a moment, inhaling the smell of everything that meant something.

Silently, he bent over his son, placed Freddie in the crook of his arm and adjusted the covers. The child grunted, smacked his lips and suddenly turned over, hugging the bear tightly.

An almost irresistible urge to crawl into bed with him overcame Marcus so suddenly that he gasped for breath. He wanted to be strong again. He wanted to be the daddy who comforted his son when he was occasionally woken by a nightmare and needed him. He wanted to lie down with his arm around little Marcus, quietly telling him stories about the olden days or outer space. The boy would snuggle up close and smile, his hair tickling Marcus’s nose. There would be nobody in the whole world except the two of them, just like it had been before Rolf came, before they became three.

The way it had been before the terrible thing crept up on him.

Slowly, he backed out of the room.

He had no idea what he was going to do.

Not with his life, and not with the nights. Not with this night. The darkness grinned scornfully at him out of the corners, and he could feel his pulse rate increasing. Quickly, he began to move towards the stairs. He would go down to his study. Close the door. Watch TV. Switch on all the lights and pretend it was daytime.

He stopped himself just as he was about to slam the door behind him when he finally arrived safely in his study. Breathlessly, he smacked the panel that controlled the lighting. Nothing happened. He pulled himself together and pressed all the sensors firmly with one finger. At last the room was bathed in light, and the television came on. It was pre-programmed to NRK, which was showing Dansefot Jukeboks. He picked up the remote from his desk and turned down the sound, then switched over to CNN. He sank down on the broad, heavy desk chair and leaned his head back. His stomach ulcer was painful and he had a bitter, acrid taste in his mouth. Pain radiated from below his breastbone, and his whole body hurt. His mind was racing, and he was so frightened that his bladder felt full to bursting, even though he’d been less than half an hour ago.

This was no kind of life any more.

Suddenly, he sat up straight and found the key to the heavy corner cupboard that had come with the house. As time went by he had learned to like the Kurbits-style painting, which at first he had thought bizarre and somewhat vulgar. It helped that the cupboard was eighteenth-century, in excellent condition and worth a fortune. Now it was as if the ranks of fat, grotesque flowers were reaching out to grasp him as he put the antique key in the lock and turned it.

Inside were five small drawers. He opened the top one. There lay the tablets he had never mentioned to Rolf. It hadn’t been necessary. Both these and the box in his office had remained untouched for many years. He tipped them into the palm of his hand and went back to his chair, where he let them trickle on to the calf-skin desk mat.

He still didn’t know if drugs lost their effect once the use-by date had passed. Hardly. At least, not completely. If he took the lot, it would probably do the job. He placed one tablet experimentally on his tongue.

The taste was the same. Insipid, slightly salty.

Things would be better for little Marcus if he wasn’t around any more.

Rolf would look after him.

Rolf was a better father than he was. Through his actions Marcus had not only committed a crime; he was no longer worthy of being a father. His whole life was being a father, and his life as a father was over.

The tears poured silently down his cheeks as he placed another tablet in his mouth.

And another.

A slight feeling of sleepiness made him lean back in the chair and close his eyes. He moistened the tip of his index finger with saliva and pressed it down on the desk without looking. Another tablet stuck to his finger, and he placed it on the tip of his tongue.

The last thing he did before he fell asleep was to open the desk drawer and sweep the rest of the tablets inside with the back of his hand.

You can’t even manage to kill yourself, he thought listlessly before blessed sleep finally overcame him.

Adam Stubo woke up on Friday 16 January at 7.40 feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. Every time he had been on the point of dropping off, he had seen the picture of the woman from Eva Karin’s bedroom in his mind’s eye. The idea that their theory about a child who had disappeared or been disowned might have been correct, but with the proviso that all the circumstances had to be moved back a generation, had left him wide awake over and over again. The theory seemed more and more credible as the hours went by. The idea that the Bishop wanted to protect the memory of her parents was considerably more likely than the idea that she had wanted to avoid the shame of having a child as an unmarried sixteen-year-old.

Leaving aside the fact that there was no longer any shame attached, and that the photograph couldn’t possibly be of a woman born in the early sixties.

It must be a sister, Adam thought as he swung his leg over the side of the bed. The last time he looked at the clock it had been just after five, so he must have had two and a half hours’ sleep in spite of everything.

Another thing that had kept him awake was the fact that Johanne hadn’t called. They hadn’t spoken for a day and a half. He had tried to ring her three times yesterday evening, but all he got was the mechanical sound of her voicemail asking him to leave a message after the tone. The first time he called he had left a message, but she still hadn’t called back. He felt a mixture of intense irritation and anxiety as he plodded into the bathroom.

He was tired of living in this hotel.

The bed was too soft.

The soap made his hands dry, and he had lost his appetite.

Adam wanted to go home.

Someone was banging on the door. With a stab of annoyance he flushed the toilet, wound a towel around his waist and went to see who it was. The acrid smell of morning urine surrounded him. He opened the door a fraction and put his face to the gap.

‘What the fuck’s wrong with your phone?’ said Sigmund Berli, trying to push the door open and holding up a newspaper in the other hand. ‘Have you seen this? We’re going home, by the way, on the first available plane. Get your clothes on and start packing.’

‘Good morning to you, too,’ Adam said sourly, letting his colleague in. ‘Do you think you could possibly take one thing at a time? Start with the phone.’

‘I’ve called you five times since yesterday evening. You know perfectly well you’re not supposed to make yourself unavailable.’

‘I haven’t,’ said Adam. ‘Try again now.’

He picked up his mobile from the bedside table as Sigmund keyed in his number on his own phone.

‘It’s ringing,’ said Sigmund with the phone to his ear. ‘Have you got it on silent?’

‘No.’

Adam stared at the display. Nothing was happening. So Johanne might have tried after all.

‘Why didn’t you ring me on that?’ said Adam, pointing to the hotel phone on the small desk by the window.

‘Never occurred to me,’ Sigmund said blithely. ‘But forget that. We’re going home. Now. Just take a look at this and you’ll see why!’

Adam took the copy of VG as if the newspaper might suddenly bite him.

HATE GROUP BEHIND SIX MURDERS, screamed the front page. The subheading read: Police horror theory – Bishop Lysgaard one of victims.

‘What the hell?’ said Adam, raising his voice by several decibels. ‘What the fuck is this?’

‘Read it,’ said Sigmund. ‘And you will discover that the Oslo police have found a possible link between the murders of Marianne Kleive and some Kurdish kid who was floating around in the harbour just before Christmas, as dead as a doornail and badly disintegrated.’

‘What? But what’s this got to do with Eva Karin?’

Adam sank down on the bed and turned to pages five and six. He was finding it hard to focus. His eyes flew across the article. After a minute and a half he looked up, flung the newspaper at the wall and bellowed:

‘How the hell did VG get hold of this before me? I mean, I’ve learned to live with the fact that they know way too much way too soon, but this is…’

He got up so quickly that the towel slipped off. He ignored the fact that he was stark bollock-naked and hissed at Sigmund, his fists clenched: ‘Are we supposed to start reading the paper every morning just to find out what’s fucking going on? This is… this is… For fuck’s sake, Sigmund, this is fucking scandalous!’

Sigmund grinned.

‘You’re stark naked, Adam. You’re getting fat, boy!’

‘I couldn’t give a fuck!’

He marched into the bathroom. Sigmund sat down on the chair by the desk and switched on the TV. He turned to TV2 as he listened to Adam banging about behind the closed door. Thirty seconds later Adam emerged, grabbed some clean clothes out of his suitcase and got dressed with surprising speed.

‘The news is on in five minutes,’ Sigmund said. ‘We’ll watch it before we go.’

‘A gang from the US,’ Adam growled as he tried to knot his tie. ‘That’s the most ridiculous fucking thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Not a gang,’ Sigmund corrected him. ‘A group. A hate group.’

‘That’s even more insane. Who the hell came up with something so utterly… idiotic!’

He picked up a bag of dirty laundry and stuffed it in his suitcase, having given up on his tie.

‘Johanne,’ said Sigmund with a laugh. ‘It’s Johanne’s theory!’

‘What? What are you saying?’

Adam stormed over to the newspaper, which was lying in a crumpled heap on the bed. Once again his eyes flew over the article.

‘It doesn’t say anything about her here,’ he said without looking up from the report, which was illustrated with pictures of Marianne Kleive and Bishop Lysgaard. ‘It doesn’t mention Johanne at all.’

He exhaled and dropped the paper on the floor.

‘I spoke to a… Silje Sørensen,’ said Sigmund. ‘She’s with the Oslo police. She rang me at six o’clock. She’d tried to get hold of you, but with no luck.’

‘Has everybody gone mad or what? I’m staying in a hotel for fuck’s sake! This…’

He reached the white, old-fashioned telephone in three strides. He picked up the receiver in one hand and the body of the phone in the other, and held it five centimetres from Sigmund’s face.

‘This is a telephone!’

‘Calm down, Adam. Take it easy.’

‘Take it easy! I don’t want to fucking take it easy! I want to know what all this crap is about, and why-?’

‘Well, listen to me then! Listen to what I have to say instead of rushing around like a lunatic. We’ll get thrown out in a minute if you don’t calm down.’

Adam took a deep breath, nodded and sat down heavily on the bed.

‘Start talking,’ he mumbled.

Sigmund clapped his hands almost silently.

‘That’s better. I don’t know a great deal. Silje Sørensen was just as furious as you about the fact that VG has got hold of this, and they’ve turned the whole of Grønlandsleiret upside down to try and find the leak. She did tell me that this does, in fact, involve six murders. Some artist who died around Christmas, apparently from a heroin overdose, turns out to have minute traces of curacit in his blood. We were lucky. Curacit is broken down incredibly fast, and the guy had already been cremated. However, because it was routinely regarded as a suspicious death, they had some of his frozen blood in the lab, and the curacit-’

‘What?’

‘Curacit. You know, it’s a poison, a muscle relaxant that paralyzes the breathing-’

‘I know perfectly well what curacit is! What I’m wondering is-’

‘Just hang on, Adam. Listen to me. So this artist had been murdered. And he’s also… he was also gay. And then there was a young man who was killed in Sofienberg Park some time in November, and we all know what people get up to in Sofienberg Park at night, don’t we?’

Without giving Adam time to respond, he went on.

‘Then there was a woman everybody thought had died in an RTA, but on closer inspection it turned out that someone had tampered with the brakes of her car. And I’m sure you can guess what her preferences in the bedroom were!’

Adam merely stared at him with a resigned expression.

‘That Silje Sørensen really is paranoid,’ Sigmund continued, unabashed. ‘She called me from home. On her son’s mobile. But whether those journalists have reliable sources or are bugging the police or whatever it is they might be doing, VG has named only three of the victims. The Bishop, Marianne Kleive and the kid in the water. I can never remember those Hottentot names.’

Adam felt so floored by the whole thing that he didn’t even protest at this expression.

‘Anyway, Sørensen told me Johanne had come to see her with some questions and a theory relating to her research. That stuff she’s doing on hate crime. Something that… I don’t know, actually. Anyway, her theory fitted in so well with the material Oslo are sitting on that they’ve now put together a team to work on a major investigation, with the Oslo police and NCIS collaborating. That’s where we’re going. And that’s more or less all I know. Ssh! News!’

‘Ssh?’ Adam repeatedly sourly. ‘I haven’t said a word!’

Sigmund turned up the volume.

TV2 led with the newspaper story.

They had obviously been short of time, because the report was illustrated with archive clips. They hadn’t even managed to find winter pictures; police HQ was bathed in sunshine, with people dressed in summer clothing going in and out of the main entrance. The reporter had nothing more to add to what had been in the newspaper.

‘Ssh!’ Sigmund said again as the camera showed a slim woman in uniform with gold stripes and two stars on her shoulders.

‘We are unable to comment on the case at this stage,’ she said firmly, turning away from the microphone.

It followed her.

‘Can you confirm the information in today’s edition of VG?’ asked the journalist.

‘As I said, I have no further comment on this matter.’

‘When will you be informing the public about this story, which seems to be particularly serious and far-reaching?’

‘As I said, I am unable to comment on-’

Sigmund switched off.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’m starting to get really curious about this whole thing. I’ll fetch my bags and see you downstairs in two minutes. What’s that, by the way?’

He nodded in the direction of the bedside table, where Adam had placed the photograph of the unknown woman.

‘That’s the photo I told you about,’ he said.

‘What photo?’

‘The one that was in Eva Karin’s room. We need to call in at the police station with it. I want to know who she is. They’re probably best placed to find out.’

‘How did you find it?’ Sigmund asked.

‘Long story.’

‘Spare me the details. See you downstairs?’

Adam nodded. He remained sitting on the bed. He was finding it hard to digest everything he had heard in the past half-hour, and felt slightly dizzy. He couldn’t remember ever being caught so off-guard. When he did eventually stand up, exhaustion forced him to take a step to one side to keep his balance.

The fact that VG knew significantly more than he did in a case he was investigating was a blow. Far worse was the knowledge that Johanne had gone to the Oslo police with information he didn’t even know about.

Adam picked up his small suitcase and his coat and headed for the door. As it closed behind him he realized that the gnawing pain in his stomach wasn’t due to hunger.

He felt humiliated by his own wife, and he couldn’t even manage to feel angry any longer. He just had a pain in his stomach.

Just like when he was a little boy, ashamed of something he’d done.

Kristen Faber’s secretary wasn’t in the least ashamed of the fact that she occasionally made copies of documents to take home. Her husband loved to hear about the cases she came into contact with, and sometimes they had great fun with a police interrogation where the suspect tried to wriggle out of things even when it was obvious he or she was guilty, or with a hopeless performance in court by some poor sod who couldn’t afford a brief. She never kept the documents for very long. They ended up on the fire as soon as the case was no longer exciting.

As far as the will from the big oak cupboard in the archive was concerned, it wasn’t exactly for fun that she made a copy and popped it in her bag. On the contrary, her husband had grown very serious when she told him about the case during dinner the previous evening. He didn’t know anything about poor Niclas Winter, but he had heard of the testator. He was very keen to take a look at the will, so this morning she had made two copies. Only one was placed in Kristen Faber’s archive.

It couldn’t do any harm if her husband took a little look.

She fastened the accompanying letter to the original will and slipped them both in an envelope. It had taken less than two minutes to establish that the inheritance fund was the right destination for such a document, and to make sure nothing went wrong she was going to take it to the post office and send it by registered mail. Best to be on the safe side in such matters. The court had once claimed that Faber had been late lodging an appeal, even though she was 100 per cent certain she had posted the papers in time.

Not that the will was as important as an appeal, but the dressing-down from her boss on that occasion had made an impression. There was going to be no doubt that this letter had been posted. She pulled on her coat, put the envelope in her bag and hummed a little tune as she locked the door and set off in the bright morning sunshine.

Sense and Sensibility

FOLDER FOUND this morning. Had been borrowed by Special Needs teacher and put back in the wrong place. Sorry to have bothered you Live Smith

Johanne read the text twice, not knowing whether to feel relieved or angry. On the one hand it was obviously a good thing that Kristiane’s file had been found. On the other, it frightened her that the school had such inadequate routines when it came to handling sensitive material. As she locked the door of her office behind her it struck her that she ought to be delighted. If Kristiane’s file really had simply been put in the wrong place, it ought to ease her anxiety that someone was watching her daughter.

She pushed her mobile into her bag and crept out of the building without being seen. It was only two o’clock and she couldn’t concentrate on anything but trying to get hold of Adam. She still hadn’t heard a thing, and he wasn’t answering his phone.

She had lost count of how many times she had tried to call him.

Kristen Faber’s secretary decided to ring through an order just to be on the safe side. Laksen’s Delicatessen in Bjølsen was the best place for calves’ liver, and her husband set great store by a good liver casserole for Sunday lunch. It had to be calves’ liver, otherwise the flavour was too strong. They might still have dried stockfish, too, even if the season was over. Fish on Saturday and beef on Sunday, she thought contentedly. The phone rang just as she was about to pick it up. She grabbed it quickly and reeled off the usual formula: ‘Mr Faber’s office, how may I help you?’

‘Hello, sweetheart!’

‘Hello yourself,’ she said amiably. ‘I was just about to ring Laksen’s to order some stockfish and calves’ liver, so we can have a lovely weekend.’

‘Fantastic,’ her husband said on the other end of the phone. ‘I’m looking forward to it. Is Mr Faber there?’

‘Kristen? You want to speak to Kristen?’

She couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d suddenly appeared in front of her. Her husband had never set foot in the office, nor had he ever met Kristen Faber. The office was her domain. Since her husband’s sight began to deteriorate and he took early retirement, he had suggested a couple of times that he might take a stroll down to the city centre to see what she got up to during the day. Out of the question, she said. Home was home, work was work. Admittedly, she enjoyed telling him what she’d been doing, and they laughed together at the documents she sometimes took the liberty of showing him, but she didn’t want any link between her husband and her rude, self-righteous boss.

‘What for?’

‘Well, it’s… There’s something not quite right about that will you brought home yesterday.’

‘Not quite right? What do you mean by that?’

She had read it aloud to him last night. He could still read, but the tunnel vision meant that he asked her to read to him more and more often these days. It was quite nice, actually. After the evening news she would read him bits and pieces from the newspaper, with pauses for major and minor discussions on the day’s events.

‘There’s something…’

Kristen Faber burst in through the door leading to the lobby.

‘I need something to eat,’ he puffed. ‘The lunch break will be over in half an hour, and I’ve got to sort out some documents. A baguette or something, OK?’

The secretary nodded, keeping her hand over the mouthpiece.

‘I’ll nip out right away,’ she said.

As soon as his office door closed, she went back to her conversation.

‘There’s absolutely no need to speak to Kristen, darling.’

‘But I have to-’

‘Look, we’ll talk about this when I get home, all right? I’m up to my eyes in work today. We’ll have a chat this afternoon.’

She hung up without waiting for an answer.

As she pulled on her coat as quickly as possible, she felt a pang of guilt for once. Perhaps taking confidential papers home wasn’t entirely legal. She had never really looked at it that way; after all, she had unrestricted access to all the papers here, and her husband could almost be regarded as a part of her after all these years.

However, it probably wasn’t quite the right thing to do, she thought, picking up her bag before dashing off to Hansen’s bread shop. At any rate, she didn’t want any contact whatsoever between her husband and Kristen Faber.

Bjarne had a habit of letting his tongue run away with him.

‘Have you been running, sweetheart? You’re all sweaty!’

Johanne hugged her daughter, who flung her arms around her and didn’t want to let go.

‘All the way from Tåsensenteret,’ she said. ‘And I had a really good week at Dad’s. Did you manage OK without me?’

‘I did,’ nodded Johanne, kissing the top of her head. ‘And how are you?’

The last remark was directed at Isak. He had put Kristiane’s bag down on the hall floor and was standing with his hands in his pockets. He looked tired. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay around or leave straight away.

‘Not too bad,’ he said hesitantly.

‘Do you want to come in for a while?’

‘Thanks, but…’

He took his hands out of his pockets and gave Kristiane a hug. ‘Could you pop up and see Ragnhild, chicken? I just want a word with Mum. Love you. Thanks for coming.’

Kristiane smiled, picked up her bag and dragged it up the steep staircase.

‘I’m going out on the mountains at the weekend,’ said Isak. ‘Is it OK if I hang on to Jack?’

‘Of course.’

The yellow mongrel sat down on the steps and shook his head.

‘What is it?’ asked Johanne. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, but…’

He took a deep breath and started again.

‘I really don’t want to worry you, but…’

Johanne took his hand. It was ice cold.

‘Is it something to do with Kristiane?’ she asked sharply.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Well… not really. She’s had a really good time. It’s just that…’

He shifted his body weight from his right to his left foot, and leaned against the opposite side of the door frame.

‘It’s so cold with the door open,’ Johanne said. ‘Come inside. Stay there, Jack. Stay.’

Both the dog and Isak did as they were told. He leaned against the wall, and Johanne sat down on the stairs opposite him.

‘What is it?’ she said anxiously. ‘Tell me.’

‘I think…’

He broke off again.

‘Tell me,’ Johanne whispered.

‘I’ve had a strange feeling that somebody is watching me. Or rather… that someone is watching…’

He looked like a little boy, standing there. His jacket was too big for him and he couldn’t stand still. His gaze flickered here and there before he looked her in the eye. She was just waiting for him to start scraping one foot on the floor.

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ she said calmly, getting up.

He took his hands out of his pockets again and spread them helplessly.

‘I can’t really explain it,’ he said in a subdued voice. ‘It’s so kind of-’

‘You’re staying here,’ she said, letting Jack in and locking the door.

She pushed the handle to double-check that the lock had clicked into place.

‘You need to speak to Adam.’

‘Johanne,’ he said, reaching out to grab her arm. ‘Does that mean I’m right? Do you know something that-?’

‘It means exactly what I say,’ she said, without trying to free herself from his grasp. ‘You need to tell Adam about this, because he wouldn’t believe me.’

He let go, and she turned and led the way up the stairs.

Not that I’ve ever given him the chance, she thought, and decided to try calling him for the sixth time in three hours.

He was probably furious.

She was so frightened she was having difficulty walking in a straight line.

The man in the dark-coloured hire car had had no difficulty finding his way. It was actually just a matter of following the same road all the way from Oslo to Malmö, then taking a right turn across the sound to Denmark.

Even though it got dark at such an ungodly hour in this country, and in spite of the fact that the snow had been coming down thick and fast ever since Christmas, it was easy to maintain a good speed. Not too fast, of course; a couple of kilometres over the speed limit aroused the least suspicion. The traffic had been heavy coming out of Oslo, even at three o’clock, but as soon as he had travelled a few kilometres along the E6, it eased off. The map showed that he was essentially following the coastline, so he assumed that Friday afternoons brought traffic chaos on this particular road in the spring and summer. Evidently, the sea wasn’t quite so appealing at minus eight and in a howling gale.

He was approaching Svinesund, and the time was ten to five.

He would drive to Copenhagen and leave the car with Avis on Kampmannsgade. Then he would walk a few blocks before asking a taxi driver to take him to a decent hotel on the outskirts of the city centre. He was too late to catch the last flight to London anyway. He had got rid of the dark clothes. It had taken him more than two hours to cut them into strips, which he divided into small piles and stuffed in the pockets of the capacious red anorak. It made him look fatter, which was good. In the space of just over an hour he had got rid of a bundle here and a bundle there in the public rubbish bins he passed on his stroll through Oslo.

He had had to leave at short notice.

He didn’t speak much Norwegian, just enough to send simple text messages. However, a passing glance at the newspaper stand next to the small reception desk this morning had made him realize there was no time to lose. Not that he rushed anything, but the instructions were clear.

No doubt the others were also on their way out of the country. He didn’t know how they were travelling, but purely to pass the time in the evenings he had come up with a number of alternative routes. Only in his head, of course; there wasn’t a single scrap of paper with his handwriting on it in Norway. Apart from the distorted signatures when he had used the Visa cards, which were actually genuine but issued under false names. The cold weather in Norway had been a blessing. He had made sure he signed only when he was wearing his outdoor clothes, so that it didn’t seem odd when he kept the tight pigskin gloves on.

For example, the individual or individuals who had been in Bergen should drive to Stavanger, in his opinion, and fly from there directly to Amsterdam. But it wasn’t his business to speculate on the travel plans of others, any more than it was his business to know who they were.

He operated alone, but knew he was not alone.

He was trained to lay a false trail and hide his own. He avoided surveillance cameras as far as possible. On the odd occasion when he had no choice but to pass through an area covered by cameras, he made a point of altering his gait, pushing his lips out slightly, flaring his nostrils. And looking down.

In addition, his appearance was perfectly ordinary.

It was as if he had never been in Norway.

The Svinesund Bridge lay ahead of him. There was no barrier, no checkpoint. There was a customs post on the other side of the road where a truck was just being checked over, but no one asked him for any documentation. When he passed the imaginary line separating Norway and Sweden in the middle of the high bridge, he couldn’t help smiling.

Naive Scandinavians. Stupid, naive Europeans. One reason why he had been allocated this task was because he had studied Scandinavian languages during his military training, but he had never actually been here before. Nor was he tempted to make a return visit.

He drove on for about fifteen minutes, then turned off at a suitable point. The road was narrow with very little traffic, and it wasn’t long before he spotted a small forest track leading off to the right. Slowly, he drove a hundred metres or so in among the fir trees, then stopped and switched off the engine. The snow was deep in spite of the dense forest, and only the day-old tyre tracks left by a tractor made it possible for him to drive here.

He got out of the car.

It was cold, but there was barely a breath of wind.

He drank in the clear, pure air and smiled. When he looked up he could see stars, and part of the waning moon between two gently swaying treetops.

He closed his eyes and leaned his upper arms on the car roof, then rested his head on his joined hands.

‘Dear Lord,’ he whispered, ‘thank you for all your blessings.’

The familiar warmth rose in his body like a feeling of intoxication as he whispered his prayer.

‘Thank you for giving me the strength to follow your word, dear Lord. Thank you for giving me the energy and courage to fulfil your commands. Thank you for allowing me to be a tool in the battle against the darkness of Satan. Thank you for giving me the ability to distinguish right from wrong, good from evil, true from false. Thank you for punishing me when I deserve it, and for rewarding me when I have earned it. Thank you for…’

He hesitated, then clasped his hands even more tightly and closed his eyes once more, his words sincere.

‘Thank you for allowing me to spare that beautiful young girl, that innocent angel. Thank you, O Lord, for enabling me to recognize the presence of Jesus. For everything is yours, and purity is the goal. Amen.’

Slowly he turned his face up to the sky. The strength that poured through him made him shudder; it was almost as if he had become weightless. A bird took off from a snow-laden branch hanging over the track, screeching eerily as it disappeared into the dark sky. The man stretched, breathed in the fresh smell of cold and fir needles, and fished a small red clover leaf in enamelled metal out of his pocket. He pushed his hands in a pair of gloves he had found in the underground station at the National Theatre, and rubbed the emblem thoroughly before drawing back his arm and hurling it in among the trees. As he got back in the car he felt happy.

He had to reverse the hundred metres back to the main road, but it wasn’t a problem. Fifteen minutes later he was back on the E6, heading towards Gothenburg. In two days he would be back in the States, and there wouldn’t be a single clue that he had ever been in Norway.

He was absolutely sure of that.

‘This is the best clue we have.’

Adam leaned back on the sofa and held the picture of Kristiane’s saviour up in front of him.

‘But that’s worth having.’

Johanne shuffled closer to him. He smelled of a long working day, and she pressed her nose against his arm and inhaled deeply.

‘Thank you for not being so cross any more,’ she mumbled.

He didn’t reply.

‘Or are you?’ She smiled and looked up at him.

‘No, no. I suppose I’m just… disappointed. Mostly disappointed.’

‘Now you sound as if you’re telling a child off.’

‘I expect that’s what I am doing, in a way.’

She sat up abruptly.

‘OK, Adam, that’s enough! I’ve said I’m sorry. I should have come to you first. It’s just that you… you’re so bloody… sceptical all the time! I knew you’d have doubts about my entire theory and I-’

‘Stop,’ he interrupted, waving his hand vehemently. ‘What’s done is done.’

‘And in any case, contacting Silje Sørensen turned out to be a lucky break.’

She forced an encouraging smile in the hope of evoking a smile in return.

It didn’t happen. Adam scratched his scalp with both hands and sighed wearily. Then he picked up the picture of the bald man in the dark clothes once again.

He examined it for a long time, then suddenly said: ‘You know, I have a good relationship with Isak. I’m perfectly happy for him to be here. However, I can’t accept the fact that you’re using him as a shield to protect yourself from me, that he’s sitting here waiting when I get home after working in another city for several days, when we haven’t spoken to one another for more than thirty hours, and we have a great deal that is… unresolved, to put it mildly. It must never, ever happen again.’

‘But you wouldn’t have believed me! I’ve had this horrible feeling ever since 19 December, and I haven’t dared say anything, either to you or to Isak! The conversation I had with Kristiane last Monday when I realized she was a key witness was so vague, with so little in terms of… concrete information that I… When Isak told me he also had the feeling that… You wouldn’t have believed me, Adam!’

‘It isn’t a question of believing or not believing, Johanne. Of course I have no problem believing that you – and subsequently Isak – had a feeling someone was watching Kristiane. Or that you believe she saw something significant with regard to the person or persons who murdered Marianne Kleive. But just because you have that kind of feeling, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s actually happened. Particularly when neither of you can come up with anything more concrete than “a feeling”.’

He was sitting up straight and drew quotation marks with his fingers on her cheeks.

‘The file was missing, and the man by the-’

‘The file is back, you said so yourself. It was just carelessness.’

‘But-’

‘OK, let’s just drop this, shall we? I’ve asked a patrol car to drive past a couple of times a day, just to be on the safe side. Beyond that, there’s not much we can do if you don’t want us to subject Kristiane to a formal interview, with the stress that would mean for her. So can we forget it? At least for the moment. Please?’

His hand grasped the wine glass.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t do that. I realize you’re hurt. I realize I should have come to you with all this right from the start. But listen, Adam, I’ve been thinking about-’

‘No,’ he broke in harshly. ‘Listen to me! If Kristiane really did witness something to do with the murder of Marianne Kleive, then why the hell didn’t they just kill her?’

His last few words were so loud that they both gave a start, then instinctively sat still as they listened for signs that Kristiane might have woken up. The only thing they could hear was the sound of Mamma Mia on DVD coming from the apartment below. For the tenth time since Christmas – or so it seemed to Johanne.

‘Because they believe,’ she said. ‘Because they believe in God.’

‘What?’

‘Or Allah.’

‘Because they believe – so what?’

He seemed more interested now. Or perhaps just confused.

‘Because they believe, they don’t kill blindly,’ Johanne said. ‘They believe with a sincerity which is probably alien to most people. They’re fanatical, but they have a deep faith. Taking the lives of adults who in their view are sinners who must be punished with death in accordance with a God-given imperative is something completely different from killing an innocent child.’

She spoke very slowly, as if these thoughts were new to her, and she therefore had to choose her words with the greatest care.

Adam’s expression was no longer so dismissive when he asked: ‘But these people, these groups, are they really… are they really religious? Aren’t they just lost souls using God and Allah as some kind of… pretext?’

‘No,’ said Johanne, shaking her head. ‘Never underestimate the power of faith. And in some ways my theory is made more credible because…’

She lifted her feet on to the sofa and grabbed hold of one of them, as if she were cold.

‘… because Kristiane did actually see something. The man who murdered Marianne Kleive presumably realized straight away that Kristiane isn’t like everyone else. If the man who saved her from the tram really is the murderer, at least that incident proved to him that she’s… different. And if there’s one thing that’s more striking about my daughter than anything else, it’s…’

The tears almost spilled over as she looked at Adam.

‘Her innocence,’ she said. ‘She is innocence personified. One of God’s little angels.’

‘The lady helped me,’ Kristiane said quietly from the doorway.

Adam stiffened. Johanne turned her head slowly and looked at her daughter.

‘Did she?’ she whispered.

‘Albertine was asleep,’ said Kristiane. ‘And I wanted to find you, Mum.’

Adam hardly dared breathe.

‘I had to hide from all the people, because I didn’t want to go to bed without you. And then suddenly I came to a door that was open. There were some stairs. I went down the stairs, because I thought you might have been there, and at least there was nobody else around. It was so quiet when I got to the bottom. It was really a cellar, and it wasn’t at all posh. And then the lady was standing at the top of the stairs. “Hello,” said the lady.’

Kristiane was wearing new pyjamas. They were too big and the sleeves came down over her hands. She started tugging at them.

‘I think I’d better go to sleep,’ she said.

‘What did you do when the lady said hello?’ Johanne asked with a smile.

‘I think I’d better go to sleep. Dam-di-rum-ram.’

‘Come over here and be my little girl.’ Adam turned to her at last and gave her a little wave.

‘I’m Daddy’s girl,’ she said. ‘And actually, I’m not a girl any more. I’m a young woman. That’s what Daddy says.’

‘You can be my girl and Daddy’s girl,’ Adam said with a laugh. ‘You always will be. However old you are. Haven’t you heard Grandpa calling Mum his little girl?’

‘Grandpa calls all women his little girl. It’s one of his bad habits. That’s what Granny says.’

‘Come here,’ Johanne whispered. ‘Come to Mum.’

Kristiane walked hesitantly across the floor.

‘She called to me,’ she said, settling down on the sofa between them. ‘She didn’t know my name, because of course she didn’t know me. She just called out “Come here” and then she smiled.’

‘And what happened next?’ said Johanne.

‘Adam,’ Kristiane said in a serious tone of voice. ‘You must weigh…’

She thought quickly.

‘About 230 per cent more than me.’

‘I think that’s exactly what I weigh,’ replied Adam, with an embarrassed glance in Johanne’s direction. ‘But I kind of wanted to keep that as my little secret.’

‘I weigh thirty-one kilos, Mum. So you can work it out.’

‘I’d rather hear what happened, sweetheart.’

‘The lady called me and I went back up the stairs. She had really warm hands. But I’d lost one of my slippers.’

‘Slippers?’ said Adam. ‘I thought you weren’t wearing any-’

‘Did the lady go back to fetch it?’ Johanne quickly interrupted.

‘Yes.’

‘And where were you in the meantime?’

‘Dam-di-rum-ram. Where’s Sulamit?’

‘Sulamit died, sweetheart. You know that.’

‘The lady was dead, too. Dam-di-rum-ram.’

Adam held her close, resting his cheek on the top of her head.

‘I’m so sorry I ran over Sulamit,’ he whispered. ‘But it was a long time ago.’

‘Dam-di-rum-ram.’

She had drawn her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs as she slowly rocked from side to side. She bumped into Johanne, paused for a moment, bumped into Adam. Over and over again.

‘Let’s get you to bed,’ Johanne said eventually.

‘Dam-di-rum-ram.’

‘Off we go.’

She got up and took her daughter’s hand. Kristiane happily went with her. Adam reached out to her, but she didn’t see him. He sat there listening to Johanne’s patient small talk and Kristiane’s strange chatter.

It struck him that realizing Johanne was right was almost worse than the fact that Kristiane had witnessed something traumatic. Overcome with fatigue, he sank back against the cushions.

He had believed what Johanne told him, but not what she thought it implied. Once upon a time he had cynically drawn her to him precisely because of her judgement. Because he needed it. He had drawn her into an investigation she really didn’t want to get involved in by forcing her to imagine every parent’s nightmare. Children were being kidnapped and murdered, and he was completely at a loss. It was Johanne’s unique experiences with the FBI and her sharp eye for human behaviour that solved the case and saved a little girl’s life. He had fallen in love with Johanne for many reasons, but whenever he thought back to the time after the dramatic search for the missing child, it was Johanne’s ability to combine intellect and intuition, rationality and emotion that had attracted him with a power he had never experienced before.

Johanne was the perfect blend of sense and sensibility.

But this time – so many difficult years later – he just hadn’t believed in her.

The feeling of shame made him close his eyes.

‘Now do you believe me?’

Her tone wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t even reproachful. On the contrary, she sounded relieved. It made him feel even smaller.

‘I believed you all along,’ he mumbled. ‘I just thought that-’

‘Let’s forget it,’ said Johanne, sitting down beside him. ‘What do we do now?’

‘I don’t know. I have no idea. The best thing might be to wait. She talked to you on Monday, and to us just now. We should probably wait until she decides to tell us more.’

‘There’s no guarantee she ever will.’

‘No. But do you want to put her through an interview?’

She placed one hand on his thigh and picked up his wine glass with the other.

‘Not yet. Not unless it becomes absolutely necessary.’

‘Then we’re agreed.’

She felt a wave of tenderness for him that was unusual these days, a deep gratitude for the fact that his immediate instinct was to protect his stepdaughter, even though she might have vital information in an ongoing murder enquiry.

‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

‘Why are they here?’ Adam said, so quietly that she almost didn’t hear.

‘What?’

‘Why are they here?’ he repeated. ‘The 25’ers. Here. In Norway.’

She swirled the wine around the glass. The beat of Money, Money, Money thumped up through the floor from down below. For a moment she considered thumping back. If Kristiane didn’t fall asleep properly now, it was going to be a long night.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But of course, they could be in other places as well.’

‘No.’

He took the glass from her and had a sip.

‘Interpol has no information on similar cases anywhere else in Europe. In the US, however, the FBI is working on a case where-’

‘Six gay men have been murdered and it turns out there’s a connection between all of them,’ she finished off for him. ‘And that particular case is a hard nut to crack.’

He laughed.

‘Do you know everything that’s going on in that bloody country?’

‘America is not a bloody country. It’s a wonderful, wonderful country, the USA.’

His laughter grew louder, positively hearty. He pulled her close. She was smiling, too. It was a long time since she’d heard him laugh like that.

‘It could be just a coincidence, of course,’ she said.

When he didn’t reply, she added: ‘But I don’t believe that for a second.’

‘Why not?’ Adam asked. ‘If they’ve decided to… export their hatred, I suppose we’re as good a country to start in as any. In fact, if you think about it…’

He tried to get more comfortable.

‘… perhaps we’re better than any other country. We’ve got the most liberal laws in the world when it comes to gay rights, we’ve got-’

‘Along with several other countries,’ she broke in. ‘And a number of states in the US. So they’ve got no real reason to come here, in fact. I just don’t believe…’

Adam was shifting about so much that she sat up and undid his belt.

‘I love you however much you weigh,’ she said. ‘But it does look a little bit ridiculous when you start literally tightening your belt. Couldn’t you perhaps buy yourself some bigger clothes, sweetheart?’

She could have sworn he was blushing. But he left the belt hanging open.

‘I think they’re here for a very definite reason,’ she said.

‘Which is?’

‘If only we knew. But there’s something.’

‘Shit,’ said Adam, lumbering to his feet.

‘What are you going to do?’

He mumbled something she didn’t catch and headed towards the hallway. She could hear Super Trouper coming from below, and realized she was humming along. In order to get the enervating melody out of her head, she picked up a pen from the coffee table and took a newspaper out of the basket on the floor. She jotted down a few notes in the margin of the front page of Aftenposten. When she had finished she sat there brooding so intently that she didn’t even notice Adam until he flopped down beside her. He was wearing generous pyjama bottoms and a big American football shirt.

‘Look at this,’ she said, tapping the paper with her pen.

‘I can’t make head or tail of it,’ he said, wrinkling his nose at her incomprehensible scrawl.

‘The methods,’ she said succinctly.

‘Yes?’

‘Sophie Eklund was killed after someone sabotaged her car. So there was an attempt to cover up a murder.’

‘Yes…’

‘Niclas Winter was written off as the victim of an overdose. Which he was – to be fair – but all the indications are that he was killed with curacit. In other words, another attempt to cover up a murder.’

‘How do you actually inject curacit into an adult, relatively healthy man?’ Adam muttered, still trying to decipher what she had written down. ‘I would have fought like the devil.’

‘The first thing that occurs to me is that he might have been fooled into thinking it was something else. Heroin, for example.’

‘Yes…’

‘Or he was taken by surprise. Curacit works incredibly fast. If you inject into the mouth where there are a lot of blood vessels, it’s only a matter of seconds before the effect kicks in.’

‘Into the mouth? But you can’t force someone to open wide so you can inject a little curacit, surely?’

‘I’m afraid we’ll never know the answer to that. He’s been cremated. But listen to me, Adam. Pay attention. The point is there was an attempt to cover up the next two murders, exactly like the ones I’ve just mentioned.’

She chewed her pen.

‘Runar Hansen, poor soul – nobody really bothered too much about him. Drug addicts who get beaten up and die as a result of their injuries don’t attract much attention these days. And as far as Hawre Ghani is concerned, he was thrown in the water and was virtually unrecognizable by the time they pulled him out. To be perfectly honest, I think his case would have ended up well down the pile at police headquarters if Silje Sørensen hadn’t… felt something for the boy.’

‘Where are you going with this, Johanne?’

‘I want my own wine. Can’t you go and get me a glass?’

He got up without a word.

Johanne stared at her scribbles. Six murders. Two covered up, two almost ignored, simply because the victims were right at the bottom of the scale of humanity in every way. She suddenly drew a thick ring around the last two names.

‘There you go,’ said Adam, handing her a half-full glass. ‘Not exactly the usual Friday night. Apart from the wine, I mean.’

‘What we can almost definitely say,’ said Johanne, taking the glass without looking up, ‘is that something unforeseen happened when Marianne Kleive was murdered. The killer was surprised by Kristiane. In other words, we can’t actually be certain whether this murder would also have been covered up. As an accident. An illness. Something. To make sure the alarm wasn’t sounded straight away, the murderer sent text messages from her mobile. That gave him a whole week.’

‘Does this just mean they don’t want to get caught, that they just want to buy themselves time, or that they want-?’

‘But let’s look at the Bishop,’ said Johanne, suddenly realizing that the page she was writing on had a picture of Eva Karin in the right-hand column.

She turned the old paper ninety degrees and drew a square around the small portrait on the front page.

‘There was no attempt to disguise this murder,’ she said, mostly to herself.

Adam was sensible enough to keep quiet.

‘Quite the reverse,’ she went on. ‘Stabbed out in the street. True, it happened on the only day of the year when you can be fairly sure nobody is out and about, but still… The intention was that she should be found quickly. The intention was that the murder of…’

She held her breath for so long that Adam wondered if something was wrong.

‘Of course!’ she said suddenly in a loud voice, turning to look at Adam. ‘Let’s assume that my theory is correct. The other murders are perceived as something else. The objective was quite simply…’

She stared at him as if she had only just noticed that he was sitting there.

‘… that they should die,’ she said in surprise. ‘The only objective was that they should die! Death itself was the goal!’

Adam thought it was fairly obvious that a person was murdered because someone wanted them dead, but he kept quiet.

‘They’re sinners,’ said Johanne, waxing almost enthusiastic. ‘And they must be punished for their sins! It doesn’t matter to The 25’ers whether the rest of us can see a link, or whether we even realize a crime lies behind their deaths. The most important thing is that they must die, and then that the murderers – God’s instruments, so to speak – are not subject to our worldly legislation.’

‘Yes,’ Adam ventured tentatively.

‘Only one of these victims is known to the public,’ Johanne went on. ‘Eva Karin Lysgaard. And she was the only one who was murdered in a way that positively cries out for attention. Why would that be, Adam?’

She knelt on the sofa and turned towards him. Her face was glowing. Her eyes were shining, her mouth half-open. She took his hand and squeezed it so hard it almost hurt.

‘Why, Adam?’

‘Because,’ he said. ‘Because…’

‘Because they want us to start digging into her life! The investigation into the murder of Eva Karin Lysgaard is an investigation they wanted to happen, Adam! The whole point was for us to turn her life upside down, just as all murder victims have their lives turned inside out in the hope that something will turn up!’

‘In the hope that something will turn up,’ he repeated quietly. ‘Hang on a minute.’

Johanne followed him with her eyes as he padded into the hallway. She was out of breath, and her palms prickled when he came back and handed her a photograph before sitting down again.

‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know who she is,’ he said. ‘But this is a copy of a photograph that went astray.’

He told her about the room that had been Eva Karin’s sanctuary at night. About the photograph that had been there the day after the murder, but had disappeared when he went back a couple of days later. When he got to the part about Lukas scrambling across the roof in the January rain, he started to laugh. At the end he took back the photograph and laid it on his knee.

‘Lukas thought she might be his sister,’ he said. ‘But you can tell from both the quality of the picture and the clothes she’s wearing that it’s hardly likely it was taken around 1980. And her hairstyle isn’t exactly typical of the eighties either.’

‘So what do you think?’ said Johanne, without taking her eyes off the photograph.

‘I’ve been wondering whether she might be an unknown aunt rather than sister to Lukas. Eva Karin’s illegitimate sister. That would explain the fact that she looks a bit like Lukas.’

‘Does she? I think she looks like Lill Lindfors.’

Adam grinned. ‘You’re not the only one. Anyway, it won’t be long until we know who she is. Both the Bergen police and NCIS are working on it. If this woman is still alive, we’ll know who she is in a few days. If not sooner.’

‘And where will that lead?’

‘What? Finding out who she is?’

‘Yes. How can you be sure she’s got something to do with the case?’

‘I suppose I can’t be sure,’ Adam said hesitantly. ‘But you have to admit it’s weird that Erik Lysgaard put it away as soon as he had the chance.’

‘Have you asked him about it?’

‘No… It gives me the upper hand if he doesn’t even know I’ve discovered the photograph, and I want to keep it that way.’

In the apartment below the film had reached Knowing Me, Knowing You. The neighbours had turned down the volume at last, but the bass still vibrated through the floor. Johanne took back the photograph.

‘What an exciting face,’ she murmured. ‘Strong, somehow.’

Adam leaned forward and grabbed a handful of crisps. So far he’d managed to resist temptation.

‘Can you move those out of the way, please,’ he mumbled as he crunched away. ‘Crisps are the work of the devil.’

Instead of doing as he asked, she got up and started to walk around the room with the photograph in her hand.

‘Adam,’ she said expressionlessly, almost absent-mindedly. ‘Eva Karin’s murder is different from the others in terms of the method. What else distinguishes this case from the rest?’

‘I… I don’t really know.’

‘There’s reason to believe that all the other victims were gay. Or at any rate that they had a direct link to homosexual or lesbian activities.’

Adam stopped chewing. The crisps suddenly felt like an unappetizing, sticky calorie bomb in his mouth. He picked up a used serviette from the table, spat the revolting, yellowish-brown mass into it and tried to screw it up. A little bit fell on the floor, and he bent down sheepishly to retrieve it.

Johanne took no notice whatsoever. She had stopped by the window. She stood with her back to him for a long time before turning around and pointing at the photograph.

‘Eva Karin is the only heterosexual,’ she said. ‘At least, she’s the only one who is apparently heterosexual.’

‘What do you mean by…? What do you mean by “apparently”?’

‘This,’ said Johanne, holding the photograph up to face him. ‘This is neither Lukas’s nor Eva Karin’s sister. This is the Bishop’s lover.’

There was complete silence in the building. The film must have finished in the apartment below. The wind had dropped. The floor-boards didn’t even creak as she walked back to the sofa and carefully – as if she didn’t want to lose a complex chain of thought – sat down beside him.

‘It’s not possible,’ Adam said eventually. ‘We haven’t heard a single rumour. That kind of thing leads to gossip, Johanne. People talk about that kind of thing. It’s not possible for…’

He grabbed the photograph, a little more roughly than he had intended.

‘In that case, why does she look so much like Lukas?’

‘Pure coincidence. Besides which, both you and no doubt Lukas have studied this photograph so intently to try and find a clue that even the slightest resemblance would strike you. It happens. People look like one another sometimes. For example, you look a lot like-’

‘But if it hasn’t occurred to us that Eva Karin might have been living a double life, then how could The 25’ers know about it? If you’re right about this completely absurd… If you’re right about…’

He swallowed and ran his fingers through his hair in an uncertain, resigned gesture.

‘Nobody knew about it! How can The 25’ers have known about a… a lesbian lover…’

He spat out the words as if they had a bitter taste.

‘… when nobody else knew?’

‘Somebody knew. One person knew.’

‘Who?’

‘Erik Lysgaard. Her husband. He must have known. You don’t live together for forty years without knowing that sort of thing. They must have had… some kind of agreement.’

‘And then he would have… told… he would have… if he had any idea that…’

It almost seemed as if the big man was about to burst into tears. Johanne still hadn’t noticed a thing.

‘He must have told someone,’ she said. ‘Not The 25’ers, obviously, but someone close to them. That’s why they wanted this case investigated, Adam. They wanted us to discover Eva Karin’s… sin. And that’s what we’ve just done.’

Adam put his hands to his face. His breath was coming in short gasps. Johanne had never noticed it before, but his wedding ring was digging so deep into his finger that he probably wouldn’t be able to get it off.

‘You have to find this woman,’ she whispered, moving so close to him that her lips brushed his ear. ‘And then you have to get Erik to tell you the name of the person to whom he revealed this great secret.’

‘The first part will be easy,’ he said from behind his hands, his voice muffled. ‘I think the second part will be impossible.’

‘But you have to try,’ said Johanne. ‘At least you have to make an attempt to talk to Erik Lysgaard.’

The Bishop’s widower was sitting in his usual old armchair staring blankly out into the living room, which was almost in darkness. Only a lamp next to the TV and a candle on the coffee table cast a soft, yellow glow over the room. Lukas was sitting in his mother’s armchair. It was as if he could feel the warmth of her on his back, the contours of the mother he missed with an intensity he couldn’t possibly have imagined before she died.

‘So at least we know the reason,’ he said quietly. ‘Mum died because she took a stand. She died for her generosity, Dad. For her faith in Jesus.’

Erik still didn’t answer. He had barely said a word since his son had arrived three hours ago, and he had refused to eat any of the food Lukas had brought with him. A cup of tea was all he had managed to get down, and that had taken some persuasion.

He had, however, agreed to read the newspaper. In a way that was a sign of life, Lukas thought.

‘Why hasn’t anybody contacted me?’ his father said, so unexpectedly that Lukas spilt a little of his own tea. ‘I don’t think I should have to read about this in the paper.’

‘They rang me. I had Inspector Stubo on the phone this morning, from Flesland. He had to go back to Oslo, and I didn’t think it was a good idea for them to send somebody else to talk to you. You’ve kind of… got used to him. I knew you wouldn’t be listening to the radio or watching TV, and you don’t answer the phone either, so I thought it was best if I came myself. I came as soon as I could, Dad.’

Erik gave him a long, lingering look. His eyes were red-rimmed, and from the corners of his mouth a deep, dark furrow ran down either side of his chin. His nose was narrower now, and seemed bigger. In the flickering candlelight he looked half-dead.

‘You don’t sound very well,’ he said. ‘You sound as if you’ve got a cold.’

‘Yes.’ Lukas smiled wearily. ‘I’m not on top form. But it’s good to know this, Dad. To know there was a particular reason why she was murdered. We should be proud of the fact that she…’

His father gasped. Snorted, snivelled audibly and covered his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said in a loud voice.

‘But Dad, things will be easier now. Stubo thinks this is a major breakthrough, and they’re almost bound to clear up the case. It’ll be easier for both of us to move on when we know what-’

‘Did you hear me? Did you hear what I said?’

His father was trying to shout, but his voice wouldn’t hold.

‘I don’t want to talk about this! Not now. Not ever!’

Lukas took a deep breath and was about to say something, but changed his mind. There was nothing more to say.

Sooner or later his father would reach a turning point in his grief. Lukas was sure of it. Just as he himself had felt a strange sense of relief when Stubo rang while they were getting William dressed, in time his father would also find comfort in the knowledge that Eva Karin had died for something she believed in.

There was no longer any point in going on at his father about the photograph.

When Astrid told him late last night that she had given the photograph to Adam Stubo, he had yelled, ranted and sworn at her. In the middle of his outburst he had hurled a glass vase on to the kitchen floor. It exploded into a thousand pieces, and only when he saw her terrified expression and realized she was afraid he was going to attack her did he manage to calm down.

It didn’t matter so much any more.

His mother’s murder would be cleared up, and it evidently had nothing to do with a missing sister. Adam Stubo had promised him over the phone that the photo would be returned as soon as they had made copies, and had said it was probably less central to the murder than he had first thought. The body would be released and the funeral could take place in just five days.

That would help all of them.

His father, too, he thought. It was more important for his father than for any of them to be able to draw a line under this before too much longer.

When all this was over, Lukas could look for his sister in peace. Whatever Astrid thought. At any rate, there was no need to bother his father about why the photograph had been moved from his mother’s room and hidden in the attic.

He still had a sore throat. The tea tasted bitter, and he put down the cup.

His father was asleep. At least it looked that way: his eyes were closed, and his scrawny chest was moving up and down with a slow, even rhythm.

Lukas decided to stay. He closed his eyes, pulled his mother’s old tartan blanket over him and fell asleep.

Long Day’s Journey into Night

When the telephone rang it was as if someone were tugging at him. Adam grunted, turned over and tried to get whoever was holding his calf to let go. He kicked out at thin air, pulled the covers over him and groaned again. The sound of the mobile grew louder, and Johanne put the pillow over her head.

‘It’s yours,’ she said sleepily. ‘Answer the bloody thing. Or switch it off.’

Adam sat up abruptly and tried to work out where he was.

He fumbled around on the bedside table in confusion. His old mobile had turned out to be beyond repair, and he wasn’t used to the ringtone of the new one.

‘Hello,’ he mumbled, and noticed that the glowing numbers on the clock were showing 05:24.

‘Good morning, it’s Sigmund! Were you asleep? Have you read VG yet?’

‘Of course I haven’t read the bloody paper, it’s the middle of the night.’

‘Do you know what’s in it?’

‘Of course I don’t,’ Adam growled. ‘But I assume you’re intending to tell me.’

‘Go away,’ Johanne groaned.

Adam swung his legs around and rubbed his face with one hand to wake himself up.

‘Hang on,’ he said, pushing his feet into a pair of dark blue slippers.

Johanne and Adam had sat up until three. When they finally stopped discussing the case, they decided to wind down with an old episode of NYPD Blue. Detective series always made him sleepy.

Now he was practically unconscious.

He stumbled into the bathroom and the stream of urine splashed against the bowl of the toilet as he held the phone up to his ear and said: ‘Right, I’m listening now.’

‘Are you pissing? Are you pissing while you’re talking to me?’

‘What’s going on with VG?’

‘They’ve got every single bloody name. Of the victims.’

Adam closed his eyes and swore, silently and with feeling.

‘I can’t get my head round this at all,’ said Sigmund. ‘But all hell has broken loose here, as you can imagine! There are journalists everywhere, Adam! They’re calling me and everybody else non-stop, and-’

‘Nobody’s called me.’

‘They will!’

Adam shambled into the kitchen, trying not to make a noise as he picked up the kettle with one hand.

‘I realize we’re in deep shit when it comes to leaks,’ he said with a yawn. ‘But did you really have to wake me before half past five on a Saturday morning to tell me?’

‘That’s not the main reason why I’m calling. I’m calling because…’

The cafetière was full of coffee grounds. As he rinsed it out under the tap, the water made such a noise splashing against the glass that he couldn’t really hear what Sigmund was saying.

‘I didn’t quite get that,’ he muttered, the telephone clamped between his shoulder and ear. He pushed the measuring spoon down into the coffee tin.

‘We’ve found the woman in the photo,’ said Sigmund.

It was as if the very aroma of the coffee suddenly made Adam feel wide awake.

‘What did you say?’

‘The Bergen police have found the woman in your photograph. It probably doesn’t mean as much as you’d like to think, but you’ve been so keen to-’

‘How did they find her?’ Adam interrupted him. ‘In such a short time?’

‘Somebody who works there actually recognized her! Here we are with our databases and our international collaboration and Lord knows what else, and it’s actually the old methods that-’

‘Who knows about this?’ said Adam.

‘Who knows about what?’

‘That we’ve found her, for fuck’s sake!’

‘A couple of people in Bergen, I presume. And me. And now you.’

‘Let’s keep it that way,’ Adam said decisively. ‘For God’s sake don’t let anybody at headquarters know! And nobody with NCIS either. Ring your man in Bergen and tell him to keep his mouth shut!’

‘It’s a woman, actually. You’ve got so many preconceptions that I-’

‘I couldn’t give a toss about that! I just don’t want this to end up in the paper, OK?’

The water was boiling; Adam measured out four spoonfuls of coffee, hesitated, then chucked in a fifth. He poured in the hot water and headed back towards the bathroom.

‘So who is she?’ he asked.

‘Her name is…’

Adam could hear papers rustling.

‘Martine Brække,’ said Sigmund. ‘Her name is Martine Brække, and she’s alive. Lives in Bergen.’

Adam stopped in the middle of the living room. The almost empty wine bottle from the previous night was still on the table. The newspaper with Johanne’s scribbles was lying on the floor, the bowl of crisps tipped over beside it.

‘How old is she?’ he asked, feeling his pulse rate increase.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sigmund. ‘Oh yes, there it is! Born in 1947, it says here. She lives in-’

‘Sixty-two this year. Johanne was right. Johanne might be bloody well right!’

‘About what?’

‘I have to go to Bergen,’ said Adam. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Now? Today?’

‘As soon as possible. Come and pick me up, Sigmund. Straight away. We have to go to Bergen.’

He rang off before Sigmund had time to reply.

Adam managed to shower, get dressed and drink a pitch-black cup of coffee without waking either Johanne or the children. When Sigmund’s car obediently drove along Hauges Vei and parked outside the apartment block half an hour later, Adam was waiting by the gate.

It was Saturday 17 January, and he was standing there with no luggage.

The man who had saved a girl from being hit by a tram on Stortingsgaten in Oslo twenty-nine days earlier was drinking expensive mineral water from a long-stemmed glass and wondering if his suitcase had made it on to the plane. He had been late arriving. Now he was sitting on board British Airways flight BA 0117 from Heathrow to JFK in New York, one of only three passengers in first class. The other two were already well into their third glass of champagne, but he politely refused when the flight attendant offered him more water.

He was enjoying the generous amount of space he had, and the calm atmosphere in the front section of the plane. The curtain separating them from the other passengers transformed the racket from behind into a low murmur, which combined with the even hum of the engines to make him sleepy.

On this final section of the journey home he was travelling under his own name. The high-level security measures within US air travel and border controls following 9/11 made entering the country under false papers a risky business. Since he hadn’t booked in advance, and everything but first class was sold out, he had had to pay out more than $7,000 for a single ticket to the United States. It couldn’t be helped. He was going home now. He had to go home, and he was travelling under his real name: Richard Anthony Forrester.

During the two months he had spent in Norway, he hadn’t called the United States once. The National Security Agency monitored all electronic traffic in and out of the country, and it was unnecessary to take such a risk. The instructions were clear from the start. If he needed to contact the organization for some unexpected reason, he could ring an emergency number in Switzerland. He hadn’t needed to.

However, during Richard A. Forrester’s stay in Norway, there had been a considerable amount of lively activity on his laptop. It was in Britain, being looked after by a short, stocky man with chalk-white teeth and a dark, close crewcut, who was visiting various rural communities presenting a new holiday offer from Forrester Travel. The company belonged to Richard. He had set it up two years after his wife and young son had been killed by a drunk driver, who had left the scene of the accident and killed himself in another crash four kilometres down the road.

As far as it was possible to check in practical terms, Richard A. Forrester had been in England since 15 November. It was only a safety measure, of course; no one would ever ask.

He lowered the back of his seat and covered himself with the soft blanket. It was only nine o’clock in the morning, but he hadn’t slept much the previous night. It felt good to close his eyes.

When Susan and little Anthony died, his life had ended.

He had tried to follow them to heaven in a suicide attempt. It achieved nothing, apart from the fact that he could no longer count himself a US Marine. They had no use for suicidal soldiers, and Richard had to face the future without work as well as without his wife and child. All he had was a small pension, a suitcase full of clothes, and an insurance payout which he didn’t really want from the accident.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ asked the attractive flight attendant. She leaned across the empty seat beside him and smiled. ‘Coffee? Tea? Something to eat?’

He returned her smile and shook his head.

In the three months after the accident he had more or less become a tramp, usually drunk and constantly possessed by a blind, white-hot rage. One night he had quite rightly been thrown out of a bar in Dallas. He lay semi-conscious on the ground in some back street until a man appeared out of nowhere and offered him a meeting with God. Since Richard wasn’t due to meet anyone else, he allowed himself to be helped up and led to a little chapel just two blocks away.

He met the Lord that night, just as the stranger had promised.

Richard Forrester ran a hand over his hair. It was nice to let it grow again, but he still had only a few millimetres of stubble covering his scalp. He was blessed with thick hair with no sign of bald patches yet, and he always kept it short. However, when he shaved his head his appearance changed considerably.

He settled down more comfortably, turned off the light above his head and pulled down the blind.

The God he had met in Dallas that November night in 2002 was completely different from the one he knew from home. His parents were Methodists, as were most people in the neighbourhood of the small town where he grew up. As a child Richard had thought of his religion as a kind of social participation in a closed community more than as a personal relationship with God. There was a service every Sunday, and the odd church bazaar. There was the football team and the Mothers’ Union, barbecues and Christmas parties. Richard had mainly grown up with a pleasant God who made little impression on him.

When the stranger took Richard along to the chapel, he met the omnipotent God. He had a revelation that night. God came to him with a violence that made him think he was going to die at first, but eventually he passed into a state of peace and total surrender. That night in the chapel was Richard Forrester’s catharsis. By the time the new day dawned, he was reborn.

His life as a soldier for his country, as a married man and a father, was over.

His life as a soldier of God had begun.

He never touched alcohol again.

Richard Forrester listened to the low hum of the engines, and saw the pretty girl in his mind’s eye.

She had seen him. When the woman who was going to die went down into the cellar on her own, it provided him with a chance he just had to take. When the child appeared he was in despair for a moment, because of what he knew he must do.

Then he realized that this was a pure and honest child.

Just like Anthony, who had been born prematurely and with brain damage, which would have prevented him from ever maturing mentally. The girl was the same kind of child. Richard had understood that after just a few seconds.

He allowed her to run away, up the cellar steps.

In order to be completely sure, he had kept an eye on her. After he had saved her from being hit by the tram, it was easy to get one of the agitated observers dressed in his party clothes to tell him who she was. Richard had simply stood there on the opposite side of the street until the mother had carried the child inside. A man who was busy entertaining the constant stream of smokers with a dramatic eyewitness account had willingly given Richard the mother’s name when he said he wanted to send her some flowers. He had found the address on the Internet.

Unfortunately, the girl had prevented him from killing the woman in the way he had originally intended, camouflaged as an accident. But it wasn’t the child’s fault. Fortunately, he had had the presence of mind to search through the woman’s pockets and her bag; he had found the ticket to Australia and taken her mobile phone. Then he had gone into her room, collected her luggage and paid the bill. The chaos in reception suited him perfectly; he virtually disappeared among the crowd of partying guests and drunks. He had hidden her suitcase right at the back of an unlocked storeroom full of rubbish, underneath a big cardboard box that was so dusty it couldn’t have been touched for years. He had to prevent her disappearance from being discovered immediately, and by sending a couple of short, nondescript texts over the next few days he had bought himself a decent interval. Every minute that elapsed between the murder and the start of an investigation reduced the chances of the case being solved.

‘Can I get you a pillow?’ he suddenly heard the flight attendant whisper.

Without opening his eyes he shook his head almost imperceptibly.

The child’s mother had been hysterical. First of all she had slapped him across the face, once the girl was safe. In the period between Christmas and New Year he had once stood just a few hundred metres from the white building where the family lived. A man had come out of a neighbouring property and stopped by the fence to chat with the two girls playing in the garden. The mother was standing at the window, watching them. She was frightened out of her wits, and seemed beside herself when she came out to fetch them inside.

A bit like Susan, he thought, although he didn’t allow himself to think about Susan very often. She was always anxious about Anthony, too.

It wasn’t the first time he had noticed how the people he observed had a horrible feeling they were being watched. They never saw him, of course, just as the mother of the pretty girl hadn’t seen him when he followed her to school in his neutral hire car, where he finally found confirmation that the child was different. He was too well trained ever to be seen. But she sensed his presence. It had taken Richard a little while to identify the girl’s father, but he had become uneasy the very first time. Richard had wanted to find out if the child behaved differently away from her mother, and had observed them together on three separate occasions. The man started looking over his shoulder at an early stage.

The man who lived on a hill high above the city in a twisted caricature of a family had reacted in much the same way. Felt persecuted. His lover had been completely hysterical, rushing around photographing tyre tracks on the Monday almost two weeks ago. Richard had been standing at a safe distance, watching the whole thing. Two dark-skinned lads had driven up in a big BMW. Pakistanis, he guessed. Oslo was crawling with them. They obviously had something to sort out between themselves, because they had driven into the little pull-in outside the gate of the house where the so-called family lived and stayed there for a good while, gesticulating violently and smoking countless cigarettes before they drove off.

The sodomite had sensed Richard’s presence, but hadn’t seen him. Just like the others.

They didn’t see him and, come to think of it, they didn’t sense his presence either.

What they sensed was the presence of the Lord, Richard Forrester thought. And even if that perverted travesty of a father had escaped on this occasion, his time would come.

Richard Forrester smiled and fell asleep.

The house looked as if it was lying at rest on the steep hillside. The windows were small and divided into four panes. The wooden building was tucked in between two similar but larger houses, and was a modest dwelling. Almost shy. A narrow opening led into a little back garden. A lady’s bike was propped up against a stone wall, and a collection of brightly coloured ceramic pots had been piled up in one corner for the winter. Stone steps led up to a small green door, beside which hung a porcelain nameplate. The name, and the meadow flowers surrounding it, had faded to pale blue in the wind and rain and sunshine over the years.

M. Brække, it said in ornate letters.

Adam Stubo hesitated. He stood on the stone steps with his back to the simple, wrought-iron fence and tried to think the whole thing through one more time.

He was about to deprive this woman of a secret she had kept for almost half a century, as far as he could tell. By placing his finger on the brass bell below the nameplate he would intrude upon a life that had been difficult enough already. The woman who lived in the little white house had made her choice and lived her whole life in the shadow of another’s marriage.

The female employee at Bergen police station who had recognized the woman in the photograph had briefed him during the drive from Flesland. Martine Brække was a tutor at Bergen’s cathedral school, unmarried and childless. She lived a quiet life, cut off from most things, but she was a respected teacher and also gave private piano lessons. She had once been a promising concert pianist herself, but at the age of nineteen she had been struck by a form of rheumatism which put an end to the brilliant career she had envisaged.

Fragile, tentative music could suddenly be heard from somewhere inside. Adam shook his head and listened to the piece being played on the piano. He didn’t recognize it. It was light, dancing, and it made him think of the spring.

He lifted his hand and rang the doorbell.

The music stopped.

When the door opened, he recognized her at once. She was still beautiful, but her eyes were red-rimmed and the area around her mouth was puffy from crying.

‘My name is Adam Stubo,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m a police officer. I’m afraid I need to talk to you about Eva Karin Lysgaard.’

The fear in her eyes made him glance to the side, as if he could still change his mind and leave.

‘I’m alone,’ he said. ‘As you can see, I’m completely alone.’ She let him in.

‘I really don’t want to hear any more about that will, thank you,’ Kristen Faber’s secretary said to her husband as she was making sandwiches for lunch. ‘It has absolutely nothing to do with you.’

Bjarne was sitting at the kitchen table with the photocopy in his hand, peering short-sightedly at the small writing.

‘But you have to understand,’ he said crossly, which was unusual for him, ‘that this could actually mean the man has been conned out of a considerable inheritance!’

‘Niclas Winter is dead. There are no heirs. That’s what it said in the paper. A dead man can’t be conned out of anything. Except life, of course.’

She snorted decisively and placed a generous portion of salmon on top of the mountain of scrambled eggs.

‘So that’s the end of that. Lunchtime!’

‘No, Vera, that’s not the end of anything!’

He banged his fist down on the table.

‘This could involve a crime! I mean, it says here…’

He slapped his other hand down on that day’s copy of VG, which was lying open at a double-page article about some terrible gang from America that had killed six people out of blind hatred for homosexuals and lesbians. Bjarne Isaksen was shocked. Admittedly, he wasn’t too keen on the sordid things that kind of person got up to, but there had to be limits. You couldn’t just go around killing people in the name of God just because you weren’t a fan of their love lives.

‘It says here that Niclas Winter was murdered!’

Vera turned to him, put her hands on her hips and cleared her throat, as if bracing herself for what she intended to say.

‘That will has nothing to do with Niclas Winter’s death. I’ve read the article to you three times now, and there is no mention of money, an inheritance or a will. Those lunatics from America have just been killing indiscriminately, Bjarne! They can’t possibly have known anything about a document that was lying in a dusty old cupboard in Kristen Faber’s office!’

She was getting more and more angry as she went on.

‘I’ve never heard anything so stupid in my entire life,’ she said crossly, turning back to the worktop.

‘I’m going to call the police,’ Bjarne said obstinately. ‘I can call them without saying who I am, then I can suggest they get in touch with Faber and ask him about a will with Niclas Winter as the beneficiary. They have those information lines, where you can ring up without saying who you are. That’s what I’m going to do, Vera. And I’m going to do it now.’

Vera groaned theatrically and ran her slender hand over her hair.

‘You are not going to call the police. If anyone in this house is going to speak to the police, it’s me. At least I can explain how I…’

Another nervous adjustment of her well-groomed coiffure.

‘… have legal access to the will,’ she concluded.

‘Go on, then, do it!’ Bjarne said agitatedly. ‘Ring them!’

She banged the butter knife down on the worktop and fixed him with the sternest look she could muster, but he wasn’t giving in. He stared back like a stubborn little boy, refusing to back down.

‘Right then,’ she said, and went to fetch the telephone.

‘That was Adam Stubo,’ Lukas said, slightly surprised. He put the phone down on the coffee table. ‘He’s on his way over.’

‘Why? I thought you said he’d gone back to Oslo.’

At least his father had started talking again. A little bit.

‘Evidently he came back today.’

‘Why did he phone?’

‘He wanted to speak to you. In person.’

‘To me? Why?’

‘I… I don’t know. But he said it was important. He said he’d tried to call you. Have you unplugged the landline?’

Lukas bent down and peered behind his father’s armchair.

‘You mustn’t do that. It’s important that people can get hold of you.’

‘I have a right to peace and quiet.’

Lukas didn’t reply. A vague sense of unease made him start wandering around the room. Only now did he notice that the house hadn’t been cleaned since before Christmas. Apart from the fact that the pile of newspapers by the television was about a metre high, the place was tidy. His father kept things in order, but nothing else. When Lukas ran his finger over the smooth surface of the sideboard, it left a shiny streak. The nativity crib was still on display. The bulb inside the big glass box was broken, and the once atmospheric tableau was reduced to a gloomy memory of a Christmas he just wanted to forget. As he walked quickly around the corner and went over to the sofa in the L-shaped living room, the dust bunnies swirled silently across the floor. He stopped just outside his father’s field of vision and sniffed the air.

It smelled of old man. Old house. Not exactly unpleasant, but stuffy and stale.

Lukas decided to do some cleaning, and went into the hallway to fetch a bucket and detergent from the cupboard. As far as he recalled, the vacuum cleaner was in there as well. When he remembered that Adam Stubo was on his way, he changed his mind.

‘I think we could do with a bit of air in here,’ he said loudly, walking over to the living-room window.

He fought with the catch and cut his thumb when it finally opened.

‘Shit,’ he said, sticking his thumb in his mouth.

The fact that Adam Stubo was already back in Bergen could be a good sign. Obviously, the investigation had picked up speed. Lukas hadn’t heard any news bulletins or read the papers yet today, but Stubo had sounded optimistic on the phone.

There was a sweet, metallic taste on his tongue, and he examined his injured thumb. He was on his way to fetch a plaster from his mother’s bathroom cabinet when the doorbell rang.

With his thumb in his mouth he went to open the door.

‘Come in,’ Silje Sørensen said loudly, looking over towards the door.

Johanne pushed it open hesitantly and poked her head in.

‘Come in,’ the inspector repeated, waving at her. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come over. These stories in the papers are making me totally paranoid, and Adam thought you could give me an update. I daren’t even trust my own mobile.’

‘That’s probably the last thing you should trust,’ said Johanne, sitting down on the visitor’s chair. ‘Have you any idea who the leak is?’

‘No. The press knowing too much has always been a problem for us, but this is the worst example I can remember. Sometimes I wonder if the journalists are blackmailing someone. If they’ve got something on one of us, I mean.’

She gave a fleeting smile and placed a bottle of mineral water and a glass in front of Johanne.

‘You’re usually thirsty,’ she said. ‘Right, I’m curious. Adam said the case in Bergen seems to have taken a completely fresh turn.’

‘Well, I’m not…’

The telephone rang.

Silje hesitated for a moment, then made an apologetic gesture as she answered it.

‘Sørensen,’ she said quickly.

Someone had a lot to say. Johanne felt more and more bewildered. The inspector didn’t say much; she just stared at her from time to time, her gaze expressionless, almost preoccupied. Eventually, Johanne decided to go out into the corridor. The unpleasant experience of listening to a conversation not intended for her ears was making her sweaty. She was just getting up when Silje Sørensen shook her head violently and held up her hand.

‘Is she bringing it over here?’ she asked. ‘Now?’

There was a brief silence.

‘Good. Straight away, please. I’ll stay in my office until you get here.’

She hung up, a furrow of surprise appearing across the top of her straight, slender nose from her left eyebrow.

‘A will,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘What?’

‘A woman who is evidently the secretary at a legal practice here in the city called the information line to say that she’s sitting on a will that has Niclas Winter as the beneficiary, and that it could have some relevance to the investigation into his murder.’

‘I see… so…’

‘Fortunately the information was picked up relatively quickly, and one of my team has got hold of this woman. She’s on her way over with the will right now.’

‘But what…? If the theory about The 25’ers is correct, what would a will have to do with anything?’

Silje shrugged her shoulders.

‘No idea. But it’s on its way here, so we can have a look at it. Now, what was it you were going to tell me? Adam made me really curious, I have to admit.’

Johanne opened the bottle and poured herself a drink. The carbon dioxide hissed gently, tickling her upper lip as she drank.

‘Eva Karin Lysgaard wasn’t just sympathetic towards gays,’ she said eventually, putting down the glass. ‘She was, it appears, a lesbian herself. Which strengthens our theory about The 25’ers.’

Judging from the expression on Silje Sørensen’s face, Johanne might as well have said that Jesus had come back to earth and sat down on the bed in Kristiane’s room.

Marcus Koll sat up in bed in confusion, mumbling something that neither Rolf nor little Marcus could make out.

‘Lazybones,’ Rolf grinned, placing a tray of coffee, juice and two slices of toast topped with ham and cheese on the bedside table. ‘It’s gone one o’clock!’

‘Why did you let me sleep so late?’

Marcus moved to avoid their hugs; he was sweaty, and smacked his lips to try to get rid of the sour taste of sleep.

‘I don’t think you got a wink of sleep last night,’ said Rolf. ‘So when you finally dropped off, I didn’t have the heart to wake you.’

‘We’ve been flying the helicopter,’ little Marcus said excitedly. ‘It’s so cool!’

‘In this weather?’ Marcus groaned. ‘It says in the instructions that the temperature is supposed to be above zero when you fly it. Otherwise the oil freezes.’

‘But we couldn’t wait until spring,’ Rolf smiled. ‘And it was brilliant. I had full control, Marcus.’

‘And me!’ said the boy. ‘I can fly it all by myself!’

‘At least when it’s up in the air,’ Rolf added. ‘Here you go: today’s tabloids. That’s a terrible story – the one about that gang who’ve been murdering people! We’ve been shopping, too. Lots of good food for this evening. You haven’t forgotten we’re having guests?’

Marcus didn’t remember anything about any guests. He reached for VG. The front page made him gasp out loud.

‘Are you ill, Dad? Is that why you slept so late?’

‘No, no. It’s just a bit of a cold. Thank you so much for breakfast. Maybe I can enjoy it and have a look at the papers, then I’ll come down in a little while?’

He didn’t even look at Rolf.

‘OK,’ said the boy, and headed off.

‘Is everything all right?’ asked Rolf. ‘Anything else you need?’

‘Everything’s fine. This is really kind of you both. I’ll be down in half an hour, OK?’

Rolf hesitated. Looked at him. Marcus forced himself to adopt an unconcerned expression and licked his finger demonstratively as he prepared to turn the page.

‘Enjoy,’ said Rolf as he left the room.

It didn’t sound as if he meant it.

‘I was really intending to speak to you alone,’ said Adam Stubo, looking from Erik to Lukas and back again. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’d be much happier with that arrangement.’

‘To be perfectly honest,’ Erik replied, ‘what makes you happy isn’t the most important thing right now.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Adam mumbled.

Erik had certainly perked up. In their earlier encounters his indifference had bordered on apathy. This time the scrawny widower had something aggressive, almost hostile about him. Adam hesitated. He had prepared himself for a conversation with a man in a completely different frame of mind from the one Erik was clearly in at the moment.

‘I’m rather tired,’ said Erik. ‘Tired of you constantly turning up here with nothing to tell us. From what Lukas tells me, there has been a breakthrough in the investigation, in which case I would have thought you might have better things to do than coming out here yet again. If you’re going to start on about where my wife was going so late at night, then…’

It was as if he had suddenly used up all his reserves of energy. He literally collapsed; his shoulders slumped and his head drooped down towards his flat, bony chest.

‘I’m not going to say anything I haven’t said already. Just so we’re clear.’

‘There’s no need,’ Adam said calmly. ‘I know where Eva Karin was going.’

Erik slowly lifted his head. His eyes had lost their colour. The whites had taken on a bluish tinge, and it was as if all the tears had washed away the blue from the irises. Adam had never seen an emptier gaze. He had no idea what he was going to say.

‘Lukas,’ Erik said, his voice steady. ‘I would like you to leave now.’

At last time could begin to move again, thought Martine Brække as she struck a match.

The portrait of Eva Karin, which normally stood in the bedroom where no one ever saw it, had been moved into the living room. It had been the police officer’s suggestion. He had asked her if she had a photograph. She had fetched it without a word, and the big man had held it in his hands. For a long time. He almost seemed to be on the point of bursting into tears.

She held the match to the wick of the tall white candle. The flame was pale, almost invisible, and she went and switched off the main light. She stood for a moment before picking up a little red poinsettia and placing it next to the photograph in the window. The glitter on the leaves sparkled in the candlelight.

Eva Karin was smiling at her.

Martine moved a chair over to the window and sat down.

A great sense of relief came over her. It was as if she had finally, after all these years, received a kind of acknowledgement. Until now she had borne her grief over Eva Karin’s death all alone, in the same way as she had borne her life with Eva Karin for almost fifty years all alone. When Erik turned up the day after the murder, she had let him in. She had regretted it immediately. He had come for company. He wanted to grieve with the only other person who knew Eva Karin as she really was, but she had quickly realized they had nothing in common. They had shared Eva Karin, but she was indifferent to him now, and had sent him away without shedding a tear.

The big police officer had been another matter.

He treated her with respect – admiration almost – as he walked around the small living room talking to her quietly, occasionally stopping at some item he found fascinating. The only thing he really wanted to ask her about, and the reason for his visit, was whether she had ever told anyone else about her relationship with Eva Karin Lysgaard.

Of course she hadn’t. That was the promise she had once made, that sunny day in May 1962 when Eva Karin promised never to leave her again – with the proviso that their love be a secret, a secret only the two of them knew.

Martine would never break a promise.

The policeman believed her.

When he told her that the funeral was to be held on Wednesday and she replied that she didn’t want to go, he had offered to call in when the ceremony was over. To tell her about it. To be with her.

She had said no, but it was a kind thought.

Martine moved her chair closer to the window and ran her finger gently over Eva Karin’s mouth. The glass felt cold against her fingertips. Eva Karin’s skin had always been so soft, so unbelievably soft and sensitive.

They would do all they could to keep the story out of the public eye, Adam Stubo had said. As far as the investigation was concerned, there was probably nothing to be gained by publicizing details of this kind, he added, although of course he couldn’t guarantee anything.

As she sat here by her own window looking out over the city beyond the portrait of the only love of her life, she felt as if it wasn’t really important. Naturally, it would be best for Erik if their secret was never revealed. And for Lukas, too. It struck her that as far as she was concerned, it didn’t matter at all. She was surprised. She straightened her back and took a deep breath.

She felt no shame.

She had loved Eva Karin in the purest way.

Her, and her alone.

Slowly she got up and blew out the candle.

She picked up the photograph.

Martine was almost sixty-two years old. Her life as it had been up to this point was over. And yet there could be more waiting for her – a whole new life as a wise old woman.

She smiled at the thought.

Wise, old and free.

Martine was free at last, and she put the photograph back on the bedside table. Adam Stubo had told her about his own grief when he found his wife and child dead after a terrible accident, an accident for which he felt he was to blame. His voice shook as he quietly explained how life had begun to go round in circles, a constantly rotating dance of pain from which he could see no escape.

She closed the bedroom door.

Time could begin to move again, and she said a quiet prayer for the kind police officer who had made her realize that it was never, ever too late to start afresh.

DC Knut Bork shook hands with Johanne before passing a document over to Silje Sørensen.

‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had time to look at it yet.’

Silje opened a drawer and took out a pair of reading glasses.

‘According to the woman who brought it in, we’re talking about a considerable amount of money here,’ Bork went on. ‘Apparently, the testator died a long time ago, and Niclas Winter hasn’t seen any of the inheritance to which he’s entitled under the terms of this will.’

‘May I see?’ Johanne asked tentatively.

‘We need a lawyer,’ said Silje without looking up. ‘This is sensational, to put it mildly.’

‘I’m a lawyer.’

Both Knut Bork and his boss looked at her in amazement.

‘I’m a lawyer,’ Johanne repeated. ‘Although I did my doctorate in criminology, I have a law degree. I don’t remember much about inheritance law, but if you’ve got a statute book I’m sure we can work out the general gist.’

‘You never cease to impress me,’ said Silje Sørensen. She passed her the will, then went over to the shelf by the window and picked up the thick red statute book. ‘But if you know as much as I do about this particular testator, then I’m sure you’ll agree that we’re going to need a whole heap of lawyers.’

Johanne glanced through the first page, then turned to the last.

‘No,’ she said. ‘The name rings a bell, but I don’t know who it is. However, what I can see is that this will becomes invalid in…’

She looked up.

‘In three months,’ she said. ‘In three months it won’t be worth the paper it’s written on. I think so, anyway.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Silje, putting her hands on her hips. ‘Now I don’t understand anything. Not a bloody thing.’

Richard Forrester realized another meal must be on the way. The aroma of hot food had woken him. Perfect. Even though he was still a little befuddled after his deep sleep, he was hungry. The menu, which the attendant had thoughtfully left on the empty seat next to him rather than waking him up, looked appealing. He studied it carefully and decided on duck with orange sauce, wild rice and salad. When the fair-haired woman leaned over to take the menu, he asked for fresh asparagus as his starter.

He held up his hand to refuse the white wine she was offering.

‘Water, please.’

When he opened the little blind, an intense light poured in through the window. It was half past twelve, Norwegian time. He half stood up to look down at the Atlantic, but the view below was made flat and uninteresting by dirty white cloud cover like an endless carpet. Only another plane, away to the south and heading in the opposite direction, broke the monotonous whiteness. The light bothered him, and he pulled the blind halfway down again.

He felt a blessed sense of peace.

It was always like that after a mission.

He hated those who were perverted with an intensity that had led him back to life, when he was hell-bent on drinking himself to death. He had come across a few of them in the military, cowardly curs who tried to hide the fact they did unmentionable things to each other, while somehow imagining they were good enough to defend their country. Back then – before he was saved – he had contented himself with reporting their activities. Three cases had disappeared into the bureaucratic machinery of the military, but he didn’t lose any sleep over them. He had at least inflicted on them the unpleasant experience of coming under scrutiny. The fourth sodomite did not escape. He received a dishonourable discharge. Admittedly, the reason was that he had approached a young private, who threatened to sue the entire US Marine Corps, but Richard Forrester’s report on immoral pornography had certainly not done any harm.

The aroma of food was getting stronger.

He dug the Bible out of his shoulder bag.

It was soft and shabby, with countless small notes in the margins on the thin paper. Here and there the text was marked with a yellow highlighter. In certain places the words were so unclear they were difficult to read, but it didn’t matter. Richard Forrester knew his Bible, and he knew the most important passages off by heart.

When he was twelve years old, one of them had tried it on with him.

He closed his eyes, allowing his hand to rest on the book.

Life since his redemption had convinced him that Susan and Anthony had died for a reason. They had to be taken home to God, so that the Lord could reach him. With a wife and child he was deaf to His call. Richard had to be tested before he could become a worthy servant in the struggle for what was right.

When the man who had picked him up in that Dallas back street introduced him to Jacob a few months later, Richard was ready. Jacob was called only Jacob, nothing more, and Richard had never met anyone else in The 25’ers. As far as he knew, there could be several individuals like him on board this plane, and he caught himself stealing a glance at the woman across the aisle.

In fact, he had had to wait a couple more years before he was told the name of the organization, and its significance. At first he was furious when he realized he was working with Muslims in a common cause. Jacob had tried to convince him that this collaboration was right and necessary. They had common goals, and the Muslims had experience vital to the organization. This argument cut no ice with Richard. Nor did it help when he learned that The 25’ers received significant financial support from Muslim extremist groups. Richard Forrester knew they were practically self-financing, and couldn’t grasp the idea that they were accepting money from terrorists. By that time he had killed two people in God’s name, but he could never countenance taking innocent lives. He had been just as shocked as everyone else when two planes hit the World Trade Center, and he hated Muslims almost as vehemently as he hated sodomites. He had only conceded when he was woken one night by the intense presence of God, and was given an order by the Lord Himself.

After each mission a considerable sum of money was paid into his bank account. This was supposed to cover travel and accommodation, and was reported to the tax authorities as such. In the beginning he felt slightly uncomfortable. The generous payments made him feel like a contract killer.

Quickly, he put the Bible on his knee.

The flight attendant folded down his table and served the starter.

He got paid, he thought as he watched her quick, practised hands. But that wasn’t why he killed.

Richard Forrester killed because the Lord commanded him to do so. The money was necessary only to carry out the missions he was given. Like now, when it was impossible to get home quickly enough unless he travelled first class.

Occasionally, he wondered where the money came from. It had kept him awake for a while during the odd night, but his trust in God was infinite. He quickly got over the slightly unpleasant feeling in his stomach when he realized with surprise from time to time how much was in his bank account.

‘Thanks,’ he said as the flight attendant refilled his glass.

He started to eat, and decided to think about something completely different.

‘You need to think carefully, Erik. This is absolutely crucial.’

Adam had chosen to sit in Eva Karin’s armchair this time. A faint scent lingered in the yellowish-brown upholstery, a half-erased memory of a woman who no longer existed. The fabric was soft, and a few fine strands of dark grey hair had stuck to the antimacassar. Adam had never called the widower by his first name before, but in view of the circumstances it seemed inappropriate to use a more formal form of address. Almost disrespectful, he thought, as he tried to get the man to look up.

‘Eva Karin believed she had Jesus’s blessing,’ Erik wept. ‘I’ve never really been able to come to terms with the idea that this was right, but-’

‘You have to listen to me, Erik,’ said Adam, leaning towards the other man. ‘I have no desire, no need and no right to sit in judgement on the life you and Eva Karin shared. I don’t even need to know anything about it. My job is to find out who killed her. Which means I have to ask you once again: who else knew about this… relationship, apart from you, Martine and Eva Karin?’

Erik suddenly got to his feet. He clutched at his head and swayed.

Adam was halfway out of his chair to help him when Erik kicked out at him, making him lean back.

‘Don’t touch me! It couldn’t be right! She wouldn’t listen. I allowed myself to be persuaded that time, it was so…’

It was thirty-two years since Adam Stubo started at the Police College, as the Training Academy was called in those days. In all those years he had seen and heard most things – experiences he thought he would never get over. His personal tragedy had almost broken him – and yet in many ways telling other parents that their child had been killed, that a husband or wife had been murdered, or parents mown down by a police car during a car chase was far worse. His own suffering was manageable, in spite of everything. Faced with other people’s grief, Adam all too often felt completely helpless. However, over the years he had come up with a kind of strategy when he encountered bottomless despair, a method that made it possible for him to do the job he had to do.

But he wasn’t up to this.

Over half an hour ago he had told Erik Lysgaard that he knew. He had tried to explain why he had come. Over and over again he had interrupted the widower’s long, disjointed story of a life built on a secret so big that he had never really had room for it. It was Eva Karin’s secret, Eva Karin’s decision.

Erik Lysgaard was yelling at the top of his voice. He stood there in the middle of the floor wearing clothes that were too big and not very clean, bellowing out accusations. Against God. Against Eva Karin. Against Martine.

But most of all against himself.

‘How could I believe in that?’ he wailed, gasping for breath. ‘How could I…? I didn’t want to be like them… not like that teacher, Berstad, not like… You have to understand that…’

Suddenly he fell silent. He took two steps towards Adam’s armchair. His greasy, grey hair was sticking out in all directions and his lips were blood-red. Moist. His eyes were sunken and his chin trembled.

‘Berstad killed himself,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘In the spring of 1962. Eva Karin and I were in the third form. I couldn’t be like him. I couldn’t live like him!’

Heavy, viscous drops of saliva spurted out of his mouth; some trickled down his chin, but he took no notice.

‘I’d seen the looks. I’d heard the ugly words, it was like… like being lashed with a whip!’

He had foam all around his mouth. Adam held his breath. Erik looked like a troll, scrawny and bent, and he was gasping for breath.

‘We came to an agreement,’ he panted. ‘We agreed to get married. Neither of us could live with the shame, with our parents’ shame, with… I was fond of Eva Karin. She gradually became my life. My… sister. She was fond of me, too. She loved me, she said, as recently as the evening when she… While I chose to live… alone, for ever, she wanted to keep Martine. That was the agreement. Martine and Eva Karin.’

Slowly he went back to his armchair. Sat down. Wept silently without hiding his face in his hands.

‘There had to be a punishment,’ he said. ‘There had to be a punishment eventually.’

‘Who did you tell?’

‘I’m the one who has to bear the punishment,’ Erik whispered. ‘I’m the one who is living in hell. All the time, every day. Every night, every second.’

‘I have to know who you told, Erik.’

‘Here.’

Erik’s outstretched hand was holding a book with a worn leather cover. It had been lying on the coffee table when Adam came in, shabby and stained and without a title. Adam hesitated, but took it when Erik insisted.

‘Take it! Take it! It’s my diary. If you read the last twenty pages, you’ll understand. You’ll find what you want to know in there. Read it all, in fact. Try to understand.’

‘But I can’t, I mean I can’t just-’

‘I’d like you to leave now. Take the diary and go.’

Adam just stood there with the book in his hand, the book containing all of Erik Lysgaard’s thoughts. He had no idea what to do, and still hadn’t come to terms with the chaotic impressions crowding in on him after the grieving widower’s outburst. Just as he was about to ask if there was anything he could do for him, he finally understood: there was nothing anyone in the whole world could do for Erik Lysgaard.

He tucked Erik’s life under his arm and slipped silently out of the house on Nubbebakken for the very last time.

Rolf had crept along the landing as quietly as possible. Perhaps Marcus had fallen asleep again, it was so quiet in there. With all the sleepless nights he had suffered, it would be fantastic if he could get some rest. Rolf slowly pushed down the door handle. Too late he remembered the hinges squeaked, and he pulled a face at the harsh sound as the door opened.

Marcus was awake. He was sitting up in bed staring into space, the newspapers in a neat pile beside him. The food was untouched, the glass still full of orange juice.

‘Weren’t you hungry?’ asked Rolf, surprised.

‘No. I have to talk to you.’

‘Talk away!’ Rolf smiled and sat down on the bed. ‘What is it, my love?’

‘I want you to send little Marcus away. To my mother or to a friend. It doesn’t matter which, but when he’s safe and sound I would like you to come back here. I have to talk to you. Alone. Without anyone else in the house.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Rolf, with a strained smile. ‘What’s wrong, Marcus? Are you ill? Is it something serious?’

‘Please do as I ask. And I would very much appreciate it if you could do it straight away. Please.’

His voice was so different. Not hard, exactly, thought Rolf, but mechanical, as if it wasn’t actually Marcus who was talking.

‘Please,’ Marcus said again, more loudly this time. ‘Please get my son out of the house and come back.’

Rolf got up hesitantly. For a moment he considered protesting, but when he saw the unfamiliar look in Marcus’s eyes, he headed for the door.

‘I’ll try Mathias or Johan,’ he said, keeping his tone as casual as possible. ‘A school friend will be easier than driving him all the way to your mother’s.’

‘Good,’ said Marcus Koll Junior. ‘And come back as soon as you can.’

‘Georg Koll knew my father,’ said Silje Sørensen. ‘They were business acquaintances. Even though I only met him a couple of times when I was a child, it was enough to realize the man was a real shit. My parents didn’t like him either. But you know how it is. In those circles.’

She looked at the others and shrugged her shoulders apologetically.

Neither Johanne nor Knut Bork had any idea what it was like to move in the circles of the wealthy. They exchanged a quick glance before Johanne once again immersed herself in the document the solicitor’s secretary had brought in.

‘As far as I can see, this is a completely valid will,’ she said. ‘Unless a new will was made at a later date, then…’

She gave a little shake of her head and held up the papers.

‘… this is the one that applies.’

‘But Georg Koll died years ago,’ Silje said in bewilderment. ‘His children inherited everything! The children from his marriage, that is. I had no idea Georg had another son. That is what it says, isn’t it?’

Johanne nodded.

‘My son Niclas Winter,’ she quoted.

‘Nobody must have known about him,’ said Silje. ‘I remember my father laughing up his sleeve when the inheritance was due to be paid out, because Georg lost touch with all his children after he left his wife when they were little. He really was a complete bastard, that man. His ex-wife and kids lived in poverty in Vålerenga, while Georg lived in luxury. It’s Marcus Koll Junior, the eldest son, who runs the whole company now. I think they reorganized slightly, but…’

She turned to the computer.

‘Let’s google Georg,’ she murmured, staring expectantly at the screen. ‘Bingo. He died… on 18 August 1999.’

‘Almost exactly four months after this was drawn up,’ said Johanne, growing increasingly thoughtful. ‘So it’s hardly likely that he would have made a new will after that. I think our friend Niclas Winter was done out of his inheritance, simple as that!’

‘But you can’t just disinherit children born within a marriage in this country, surely?’ Knut Bork exclaimed.

‘If the estate is big enough…’

Johanne leafed through the thick red book.

‘The legitimate share to the children is one million kroner,’ she said, searching for inheritance law. ‘How many siblings does this Marcus Koll have?’

‘Two,’ said Silje. ‘A sister and a brother, if I remember rightly.’

‘According to this will,’ Johanne said, ‘the three of them should have received a million each, and Niclas should have inherited the rest.’

Silje gave a long drawn-out, shrill whistle.

‘We’re talking big money here,’ she said. ‘But surely there has to be…’

Knut Bork leapt up and grabbed the document.

‘Surely there has to be a statute of limitation,’ he said agitatedly, as if it were his own fortune they were discussing. ‘I mean, Niclas couldn’t just turn up after all these years and start demanding…’

He broke off and adopted a posture that made him look like a keen lecturer.

‘Why the hell did I let that woman go?’ he said. ‘She mentioned something about Niclas Winter ringing around various solicitors more or less at random. He said his mother had just died, and she had told him on her deathbed that there was an important document addressed to him held by a legal practice in Oslo. It would secure his future. Perhaps he didn’t…’

They looked at each other. Johanne had found the section on inheritance law, and was sitting with her hand between the pages.

‘There’s a lot that needs checking, of course,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But at the moment it looks as if he didn’t know about the will.’

‘Why did his mother keep the fact that he was going to be rolling in money a secret from him? Shouldn’t she have made sure that…?’

‘Perhaps she didn’t want him to find out his father’s identity until after her death,’ said Silje. ‘There’s so much we don’t know. There’s no point in speculating any further, really.’

‘But we do know something,’ Johanne interjected. ‘There have been a couple of articles in Dagens Næringsliv about Niclas Winter since he died. His installations have shot up in price, at a time when sales of modern art are virtually non-existent. It said in the paper that he had no heirs, and that he was… fatherless. His mother was an only child, and his maternal grandparents are dead.’

‘So we can draw the conclusion that Niclas had no idea who his father was, or that he was the rightful heir,’ said Knut Bork, perching on the windowsill with one foot on Johanne’s chair.

‘Not at the time, anyway,’ she said. ‘In which case the statute of limitation doesn’t run out until…’

The thin paper rustled faintly as she turned the pages.

‘Paragraph 70,’ she said vaguely. ‘He’s got six months. From when he finds out about the will, I mean. But I agree with you, Knut. As far as I know there is a definite statute of limitation… I think it’s…’

The rest disappeared in an unintelligible mumble as she read. Knut waggled his foot impatiently, and leaned forwards to try and see the book for himself.

‘Paragraph 75,’ Johanne suddenly said loudly, following the text with her finger: ‘The right to claim an inheritance lapses when the heir does not validate such a claim within ten years of the death of the testator. That’s what I thought.’

‘Fifteenth of April this year,’ said Silje. ‘That’s when the statute of limitation would run out.’

The computer’s screen saver suddenly burst into a silent firework display. Johanne stared at the red magnetic ring around Saturday 17 January. It had an almost hypnotic effect on her. In two days it would be the nineteenth once more, and she felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. Knut put his feet on the floor and stood up.

‘But could Niclas come along and claim everything his siblings have owned for almost ten years?’ he exclaimed. ‘Isn’t that bloody unjust, actually?’

Johanne was lost in thought.

‘Why did he fall out with the children?’ she said quietly, staring blankly into space.

‘Georg Koll?’

‘Yes.’

‘As I said, he was an absolute shit most of the time. And I’m sure there was something about Marcus – he didn’t like the fact that Marcus was gay. The other two children sided with their brother. Marcus Koll was probably one of the first who really… Well, he was the first person I knew who was openly gay. There was quite a bit of talk about it. In those circles. You know.’

Knut still knew very little about those circles, and Johanne looked as if she had barely heard what the inspector had said.

‘Niclas was gay as well,’ she said expressionlessly.

‘Georg can’t possibly have known that.’

‘In the case in the US there’s a link between…’

Her eyes suddenly focused.

‘So these two men are brothers,’ she said, so quietly that Knut had difficulty hearing her. ‘Half-brothers. In a similar case in the US it turned out there was a remarkable link between the victims. Could…?’

She looked from one to the other.

‘Could Marcus Koll be the next victim?’

Her eyes slid from Knut to the calendar.

‘The nineteenth of January is the day after tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Could it be…?’

‘Do you believe in your own theory?’ Knut broke in irritably. ‘Or have you already dropped it? If The 25’ers really are behind these murders, I’m sure they’ll have made sure they got their people out of the country long ago! VG gave away virtually everything we know, and the perpetrators must be idiots if they… For fuck’s sake, NCIS has been in constant contact with the FBI for the last twenty-four hours! The Americans might be bowing and scraping and thanking us for putting all our resources into the investigation, and sending people over tomorrow to help us, but they’re making no effort to hide the fact that they think the perpetrators are on their way home!’

Johanne slammed the statute book shut with a dull thud.

‘If we really do believe they intend to go on murdering people,’ Knut said harshly, ‘then we ought to do what they suggest in this rag…’

He waved the newspaper around.

‘… and warn every gay man and woman about next Monday. And the twenty-fourth. And the twenty-seventh. There’ll be total-’

‘It can’t do any harm to send a patrol car,’ Silje said reprovingly. ‘An unmarked car. With plain-clothes officers. Nothing to attract attention. Marcus Koll ought to be informed about the fact that-’

‘He ought to be informed about as little as possible,’ Johanne interrupted. ‘Or at least he shouldn’t be told anything whatsoever about this will. I think he should be confronted with that particular piece of information under different circumstances and by different people, not during a visit by a couple of plain-clothes officers. We don’t even know if he’s aware he has a brother.’

‘We’ll send someone round anyway,’ Silje said firmly. ‘They’re not going to say anything about the will, because so far we’re the only ones who know about it. They can… express a general concern for homosexuals with a public profile. Everyone knows about this case now. It should be fine.’

She smiled and stood up, signalling that the meeting was over.

Johanne remained seated, lost in her own thoughts, until Knut Bork had left the room and Silje was standing with her hand on the light switch.

‘Are you thinking of staying here?’ she asked. ‘If so, it could get a bit lonely.’

Marcus Koll was all alone in the big house on Holmenkollen, apart from the dogs who were fast asleep in their basket next to the open fire. He had showered and put on clean clothes. Since he didn’t know how long Rolf was going to be away, he had used the electric shaver instead of bothering with foam and a razor. When he was ready he had spent a few minutes in his study before sitting down in one of the soft, wing-backed armchairs in front of the picture window that looked out over the city and the fjord.

He was waiting.

He felt calm. Relieved, somehow. A faint tingling in his body reminded him more of being in love than of the sorrow he felt, and he breathed deeply through his nose.

It was the view he had fallen for once upon a time.

The garden sloped gently down towards the two tall pine trees by the fence right at the bottom. The other trees along the boundary provided privacy from the neighbouring house down below, but in no way detracted from the glorious panoramic view. Living up here was like living well outside the city, and it was this feeling of isolation combined with the view that had made him buy the house.

‘Are you sitting here in the dark?’ said a voice from behind him.

One by one the lamps in the living room were switched on.

‘Marcus?’ Rolf came and stood in front of him, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. ‘You’re ready. But it’s only half-past two, and-’

‘Come and sit down, please.’

‘I can’t make you out at all today, Marcus. I hope this won’t take long, because we’ve got a lot to do. Marcus has decided to sleep over at Johan’s, so that’s-’

‘Good. Sit down. Please.’

Rolf sat down in the matching armchair a metre away. They were half-facing the view, half-facing each other.

‘What is it?’

‘Do you remember that hard drive you found?’ asked Marcus, coughing.

‘What?’

‘Do you remember finding a hard drive in the Maserati?’

‘Yes. You said… I can’t remember what you said, but… what about it?’

‘It wasn’t broken. I took it out of my computer so nobody would be able to see which websites I’d been surfing that night. If anyone happened to check, I mean.’

Rolf was perched on the edge of the chair, his mouth half-open. Marcus was leaning back with his feet on a matching footstool, both arms resting on the soft upholstery.

‘Porn,’ Rolf said with an uncertain smile, taking a guess. ‘Did you…? Have you downloaded something illegal that-?’

‘No. I’d read an article in Dagbladet. It was quite harmless, in fact, but I wanted to be on the safe side. Absolutely on the safe side.’ He snorted, a mixture of laughter and tears, then looked at Rolf and said: ‘Could you possibly sit back a bit?’

‘I’ll sit how I want! What’s the matter with you, Marcus? Your voice sounds strange and you’re behaving… oddly! Sitting here in your suit and tie early on a Saturday afternoon, talking about illegal surfing… in Dagbladet! How the hell can it be illegal to-?’

Marcus got up abruptly. Rolf closed his mouth with an audible little click as his teeth banged together.

‘I’m begging you,’ said Marcus, running both hands over his head in an impotent gesture. ‘I’m begging you to listen to what I have to say. Without interrupting. This is difficult enough, and at least I’ve found a way to begin now. Let me get through this.’

‘Of course,’ said Rolf. ‘What’s…? Of course. Carry on. Tell me.’

Marcus stared at the armchair for a few seconds, then sat down again.

‘I came across a story about an artist called Niclas Winter. He was dead. The suggestion was that it was due to an overdose.’

‘Niclas Winter,’ said Rolf, clearly puzzled. ‘He was one of the victims of-’

‘Yes. He was one of the people murdered by the American hate group that VG has been writing about over the past few days. He was also my brother. Half-brother. My father’s son.’

Rolf slowly got to his feet.

‘Sit down,’ said Marcus. ‘Please sit down!’

Rolf did as he asked, but once again he perched on the very edge of his seat, one hand on the armrest as if ready to leap up if necessary.

‘I didn’t know about him,’ said Marcus. ‘Not until last October. He came to see me. It was a shock, of course, but mostly I was pleased. A brother. Just like that. Out of the blue.’

Outside the sky was growing dark. In the west the sun had left a narrow strip of orange behind. In half an hour that, too, would be gone.

‘I wasn’t pleased for very long. He told me he was the rightful heir to everything. The whole lot.’

He took a quick, deep breath. There wasn’t a sound.

‘What do you mean the whole lot?’ Rolf dared to whisper.

‘All this,’ said Marcus, with a sweeping gesture around the room. ‘Everything that is mine. Ours. The entire estate left by his father and mine.’

Rolf started to laugh. A dry, peculiar laugh.

‘But surely he can’t just turn up and claim that he’s a long-lost son who-’

‘A will,’ Marcus broke in. ‘There was a will. Admittedly, he hadn’t managed to get hold of it at that point, but his mother had told him such a document existed. All he had to do was find it. I thought he was a thoroughly unpleasant individual, and I didn’t really believe him either, so I threw him out. He was furious, and swore he would have his revenge when he found the will. He seemed almost…’

Marcus covered his eyes with his right hand.

‘Crazy,’ he murmured. ‘He seemed crazy. I decided to forget about him, but after just a few hours I started to worry.’

He took his hand away and looked at Rolf.

‘Niclas Winter was not unlike my father,’ he said hoarsely. ‘There was something about his appearance that made me check out his story. Just to be on the safe side.’

‘And how did you do that?’

Rolf was still sitting in exactly the same position.

‘By asking my mother.’

‘Elsa? How the hell would she be able to-?’

Marcus held up his hand and shook his head.

‘As soon as I told her I’d been visited by a man who not only insisted he was my brother, but also thought he had a claim on Georg’s entire estate, she broke down completely. When I eventually got her to talk, she told me she had seen my father five days before he died. She had gone to see him to beg for… to ask for money on behalf of Anine. My sister had split up with her partner, and she didn’t want to lose her little apartment in Grünerløkka. She couldn’t afford to keep it on the money she earns from working in a bookshop.’

‘I think you should stop now,’ said Rolf, swallowing audibly. ‘You look like a living corpse, Marcus. You ought to go and lie down, you ought to-’

‘I ought to finish telling my story!’

He banged the arm of the chair with his clenched fists. The dull thud made Rolf sink back in his own chair.

‘And you are going to listen!’ Marcus hissed.

Rolf nodded quickly.

‘Georg threw my mother out,’ said Marcus, taking a deep breath.

Keep calm, he thought. Tell your story and do what you have to do.

‘But he did manage to tell her that he had made a will in favour of… the bastard, as my mother refers to him. She had known about him all along. My father had no relationship with him either. He just wanted to punish us. Punish my mother, I assume.’

One of the setters stood up in its basket. The wicker creaked and the dog gave a long drawn-out yawn before padding over to Marcus and laying its head on his knee.

‘When I realized the man was telling the truth, I didn’t know which way to turn.’

He placed his hand on the soft head.

Rolf was breathing with his mouth open. A wheezing noise was coming from his throat, as if he were about to have an asthma attack.

‘I’ll cut a long story short,’ said Marcus, pushing the dog away.

Slowly, as if he were an old man, he got up from his chair. He took a step forward and stopped, half-facing away from Rolf. The dog sat down beside him, as if both of them were looking for the same thing out there in the darkness.

‘Three days later I was in the US,’ said Marcus. His voice had acquired a metallic quality. ‘It was business as usual, but I didn’t feel too good. I got drunk one night with one of the directors of Lehman Brothers, who had just lost his job. I’d intended to…’

The pause lasted for a long time.

‘Forget it. The point is that I told him the story. He had a solution.’

An even longer pause.

The dog whimpered, and the very tip of his tail swept across the floor.

To the south the flashing light of a plane moved slowly across the sky.

‘What kind of…?’ Rolf had to clear his throat. ‘What kind of solution?’ he said.

‘A contract killer,’ said Marcus.

‘A contract killer.’

‘Yes. A contract killer. As I said, I was drunk.’

‘And the following day you laughed it off, of course.’

The dog looked up at his owner and whimpered again, before getting up and ambling back to his basket.

‘Marcus. Answer me. The next day you both had hangovers and laughed about it, the way you laugh at a joke. Didn’t you? Didn’t you, Marcus?’

Marcus didn’t answer. He just stood there, shoulders slumped, arms hanging by his side, in his suit and tie and a state of total apathy.

‘I set a monster free,’ he whispered tonelessly. ‘I couldn’t have known I was setting a monster free.’

Rolf finally made his leap and grabbed Marcus by the arm.

‘What are you telling me?’ he roared, squeezing hard.

Marcus ignored both the pain in his arm and Rolf’s violent outburst.

‘Tell me you didn’t order a fucking murder, Marcus!’

‘He was going to take everything away from me. Niclas Winter was going to steal everything I deserved. Everything. Anine’s money. And Mathias’s. Ours. Everything that will go to little Marcus one day.’

His voice was nothing more than a monotone now, as if every word were being recorded individually on tape, to be edited into sentences at a later stage. Rolf raised his other hand, clenching his fist until the knuckles turned white. He was taller than Marcus. Stronger. Considerably fitter.

‘If you’re standing here telling me that you paid a contract killer, then I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you Marcus, I swear it! Tell me you’re lying!’

‘Two. Million. Dollars. For two million dollars, my problem would disappear. I paid. The man from Lehman Brothers organized the rest. The whole thing was so… impersonal. A transfer to the Cayman Islands, and neither the money nor the… order had anything to do with me any longer.’

Suddenly Rolf let go of his arm.

‘That night,’ Marcus went on, not even noticing that the dogs had started circling around them, yelping and whimpering, ‘I got the confirmation I needed. A great deal is being written about The 25’ers at the moment, and doubtless quite a lot of it is unreliable. But the serious web pages gave me the confirmation I needed.’

‘Of what?’ Rolf sobbed, backing away slowly, as if he no longer wanted or dared to stand next to Marcus any longer. ‘Confirmation of what?’

‘The 25’ers commit murder for payment. Just like the Ku Klux Klan and The Order and…’

He gasped for breath.

‘They earn money by killing people they would like to eliminate anyway,’ he whispered. ‘I was the one who brought them here. My contact – or whoever he contacted – must have found out that the person I wanted killed was gay, and passed the job on to The 25’ers. So simple. So… clinical. I’m the one who has financed the murders of six Norwegians. I didn’t even know that Niclas Winter… my brother… was gay too. I set a monster free. I…’

He staggered backwards as the huge window exploded. A freezing cold wind rushed into the room. Shards of glass lay everywhere like fragments of ice. The dogs were howling. Rolf stood there with the heavy floor lamp in his hand, ready to strike again.

‘You killed someone for this?’ he yelled. ‘You decided to buy a murderer? For a fucking Nazi place in Holmenkollen? For expensive cars and a bloody wine cellar? You’ve turned into one of them, Marcus! You’ve turned into a fucking capitalist!’

With a roar he braced himself, lifted the two-metre tall lamp with six kilos of lead in its base and smashed it into the next window with all his strength.

‘We would have managed without all this! I’m a vet, for fuck’s sake! You’re well educated! Things could have been just as good without…’

He was on the way to the next window when the doorbell rang.

He stood there, frozen to the spot.

It rang again.

Marcus heard nothing. He had sunk down into the armchair, among pieces of glass and broken lampshade. The dogs were running around barking. One of them had a badly cut paw, leaving a trail of blood across the floor as the terrified animal disappeared into the hallway.

‘I set a monster free,’ Marcus whispered, closing his eyes.

He registered voices from the hallway, but he didn’t hear what they were saying.

‘A monster,’ he whispered again, then stood up and walked across the room.

‘It’s the police,’ Rolf sobbed from the doorway. ‘Marcus! The police are here.’

But Marcus was no longer there. He had gone into his study and sat down on his calfskin-covered desk chair behind the desk made of polished silver birch. The door was closed but not locked. When he heard Rolf call out again, he opened the top drawer, where he had placed the pistol from the gun cupboard in readiness.

He removed the safety catch and placed the barrel to his temple.

‘Tell them the whole story,’ he said, even though no one could hear him. ‘And take good care of our son.’

The last thing Marcus Koll Junior heard was Rolf’s scream and just a fraction of the short, sharp report.

A short man accompanied by a fat African-American came towards Richard Forrester as he approached passport control at John F. Kennedy International Airport. The queue looked endless, and for a brief moment it occurred to him that they were perhaps going to offer him special privileges as a first-class passenger, allowing him to go ahead of all the other travellers. He smiled encouragingly as the smaller of the two men looked at him and asked: ‘Richard Forrester?’

‘Yes?’

The man took out an ID card, which was very easy to recognize. He began to speak. Richard’s voice disappeared. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and he felt so hot. Too hot. He tugged at his tie, he couldn’t get his breath.

‘… the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in…’

Richard Forrester closed his eyes and listened to the drone of the Miranda warning that seemed to be coming from somewhere far, far away. Something had gone wrong, and for the life of him he couldn’t work out what it was. There wasn’t a trace of him anywhere. No prints. No photos. He had only been in England, on a business trip relating to his small but well-run travel company.

‘Do you understand?’

He opened his eyes. It was the fat man who had asked. His voice was rough and deep, and he glared at Richard as he repeated: ‘Do you understand?’

‘No,’ said Richard Forrester, holding out his hands as the smaller man requested. ‘I don’t understand a thing.’

‘Adam,’ Johanne said quietly, moving close to his sleeping body. ‘Wasn’t there anything we could have done to prevent that suicide?’

‘No,’ he mumbled, turning over. ‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know.’

The time was 2.35 in the morning on Sunday 18 January 2009. Adam licked his lips and half sat up to have a drink of water.

‘I can’t sleep,’ Johanne whispered.

‘I’ve noticed,’ he smiled. ‘But it has been rather an eventful day, after all.’

‘I’m so glad you caught the last flight home.’

‘Me too.’

She kissed him on the cheek and wriggled into the crook of his arm. The worn old leather-bound diary was still lying on Adam’s bedside table. He had shown it to her, but hadn’t let her read any of it. No one else knew of its existence. The highly personal contents had affected him deeply. Religious musings, philosophical observations. Accounts of everyday life. The story of how a homosexual man had created a child with a lesbian woman, about the happiness and the pain of it, the shame. All in small, ornate handwriting that seemed almost feminine. As soon as Adam had landed at Gardermoen he had decided to write a report on the key elements relating to the murder of Eva Karin Lysgaard, and to make it look as if Erik had told him everything. No one else would ever see the diary.

‘I’m sure he’s not going to convert after this,’ Adam said quietly.

As early as their second meeting, Lukas had mentioned Erik’s fascination with Catholicism. The young man had actually smiled when he talked about his parents’ trip to Boston the previous autumn. Eva Karin was a delegate attending a world ecumenical congress, and Erik had visited the city’s Catholic churches. What neither Eva Karin nor Lukas knew was that he had gone to confession. He had a theological background, and could pass for a Catholic if he so wished. His conversation with the priest in the confessional was reproduced in detail in the brown leather-bound diary. It had been Erik’s very first confidential discussion about the great lie of his life that was so difficult to bear.

‘Do you think it’s the priest? Is he something to do with The 25’ers?’

Johanne was whispering, even though she had let the children stay over with her parents. They had looked after them while she was with Silje Sørensen, and both children had flatly refused to come home when she eventually turned up to collect them, puffing and panting.

‘Who knows? The priest or someone connected with him. Catholics have a certain… tradition when it comes to taking the law into their own hands, you could say. At any rate, it’s clear Erik never spoke to anyone else about this, and I think it’s out of the question that Eva Karin would have had another confidante apart from Martine. I’ve met Martine. Eva Karin didn’t need anyone else, believe me. A really lovely woman. Very wise. Warm.’

He smiled in the darkness.

‘Anyway, the Americans will clear things up now. It turns out the FBI had quite a lot of information already. They just needed this… key. We’ve given them so much information they think they’ll probably be able to blow the entire organization apart. Back here the investigation is firing on all cylinders. We’ll be mapping the movements of all American citizens over the past few months. We can combine and compare information from all six murders now we know they’re linked. We’ll be-’

‘The picture,’ Johanne interrupted him. ‘The artist’s sketch, that was what led to the breakthrough. For the Americans and for us. Silje told me it took the FBI only nine hours to establish the identity of one of the perpetrators. The driving licence register combined with information about travel between Europe and the States over the past few months was enough to identify the man. That drawing solved the entire case.’

‘True. It’s quite frightening to think how surveillance actually works. This will be grist to the mill for those who want to see more of that kind of thing.’

Adam kissed the top of her head.

‘The picture was important,’ he went on. ‘You’re right there. But it was mostly down to you, sweetheart.’

They both fell silent.

‘Adam…?’

‘Yes.’

‘If they do destroy The 25’ers, sooner or later a new organization will emerge that stands for the same thing. Thinks the same way. Does the same kind of thing.’

‘Yes. I’m sure you’re right.’

‘Here in Norway, too?’

‘In some ways that’s in our hands, I suppose.’

The silence went on for so long that Adam’s breathing fell into a slower, deeper rhythm.

‘Adam…?’

‘I think we should get some sleep now, sweetheart.’

‘Have you never believed in God?’

She could hear that he was smiling.

‘No.’

‘Why not? Not even when Elisabeth and Trine died and-’

He carefully moved his arm and gently pushed her away.

‘I really would like to go to sleep now. And you should do the same.’

The bed bounced as he turned on to his side with his back to her. She shuffled after him, feeling his body like a big, warm wall against her own nakedness. It took him less than a minute to get back to sleep.

‘Adam,’ she whispered, as quietly as she could. ‘Sometimes I believe in God. A little bit, anyway.’

He laughed, but in his sleep.