There were so many people that the bus had to make two journeys. Selma arrived with the first load and unfortunately had to sit beside Sølve Bang. He was unusually quiet, which suited both Selma and the occasion. She had tried to avoid the crowd waiting at Skjerven by standing at the roadside, engrossed in her mobile phone. Her fingers grew numb, and once on board the bus she regretted having worn chic gloves instead of warm mittens.

When the second bus had emptied, she thought there must be more than a hundred people present.

Selma recognized some of Vanja and Kristina’s friends from the previous day. There were also many skiers here, and as far as she could see, significant numbers of staff from the Cross-Country Skiing Federation. Arnulf Selhus, the Finance Director, looked as if it was his own son who had died. Tears flowed in silent weeping, and he was pale as a corpse. Stian Bach, the national team doctor who had almost cost Hedda Bruun a conviction for doping, looked livelier, in an inappropriate red anorak and clumpy boots. Selma also recognized Knut Nilssen. He was the oldest and best of the national team’s physiotherapists, a taciturn loner with a taste for Eastern philosophy. He stood on the outside edge of the large group, diffident and unassuming, in company with a couple of younger colleagues who just seemed ill at ease. Bottolf Odda was also in attendance, with his burly figure and ever-prominent chin. He looked better than he had on Monday, Selma thought, and in contrast with the physiotherapists, he was making a great display of his own presence. Elise, a slight figure in floods of tears, stood with her parents and parents-in-law in the centre of the huge semicircle of people now blocking Oslo’s longest road. Vanja had her arm around her daughter-in-law, while William had apparently been safely deposited elsewhere for the occasion.

One or two journalists had also been sent out at the crack of dawn. Selma could count at least four photographers, all keeping a suitable distance from the most distressed of the mourners.

It was ten past eight in the morning, and people had started to light candles.

She noticed at once that Jan Morell was standing in the innermost circle, wearing a dark coat and engaged in hushed conversation with Bottolf Odda. The information about Haakon’s drugs test had obviously not broken. The media was still overflowing with discussion of Hege Chin’s positive result, but Haakon’s tragedy had put a certain damper on the most outrageous coverage.

It was significant that no one approached Selma. She had been tempted not to come, but this would have been so obvious it would have given people even more to talk about.

Selma certainly didn’t want to be a subject of speculation any longer.