It was a long time now since he had received any food. Bizarrely enough he was hungry, though he had never felt the need for food in here. He had eaten just because he knew that he must. Thirst was never a problem. Although the trickling hole was ever so disgusting, the water that came out of it was fresh and cold. Food was delivered so seldom that he had actually managed to swallow down most of it. A few hours ago he had gobbled down a slice of bread from yesterday, with liver paté that had hardened at the edges and tasted of cod liver oil. Now there was nothing left.

The consolation was that it was just as long since the machine had been switched on.

The room was still square.

He thought about women. There had been many of them. They never stayed long. Once or twice they had been the ones to leave, but as a rule he had been the one to become bored. Not all the break-ups had been particularly dignified. A couple of them had been downright brutal, on reflection. To the best of his knowledge, however, he could not imagine having done anything to deserve a punishment like this.

A wicked hellhole such as this cell. At his age it was impossible not to have fallen out with anyone in the course of his life. A couple of colleagues, maybe, but never any really serious rift. A neighbour, he remembered now, involved in a furious row about the siting of a garage. The conflict had nearly landed up in court, but he had chosen to sell his childhood home and move to an apartment before it reached that stage.

The person who had put him in here knew of his worst nightmare.

Even though he had mentioned his phobia to the New York Times, he had refused to talk about it here at home.

He had been naïve.

The person who had kidnapped him must hate him.

After perhaps forty rounds of the little room – he had to change direction every other time to avoid becoming dizzy – he lay down on the bunk. Closed his eyes.

That was when it dawned on him.

The incident he had tried to forget for so long. He had forgotten.

Everyone had forgotten what had happened.

The fear that raced through him was so intense that he fainted. When he woke, he realized he was going to die.

THE WILDLIFE CAMERA

Selma Falck really had no choice.

Lars Winther had agreed to postpone discussion of the wild-life camera’s fate until the bus trip was over, but only if they could then find a coffee bar where they could sit down and talk. Of course she could ignore him, go home and lock her door, but in that case he would alert the police. At least that was what he threatened to do.