Selma considered taking a chance. She could easily come up with a credible story about why she had taken the camera. She was on a good footing with the police, and they would have more faith in her than a sports journalist. The downside of such a solution was however obvious: Lars Winther would know that she was lying. He had by all accounts seen her cut down the apparatus. No journalist should have such a hold on her. So she had given her mumbled consent and then spent the precisely twenty minutes of silence on the bus trying to formulate a plan.

When at last they were sitting in Starbucks in Nydalen, each with a big cup of black coffee, she still hadn’t come up with anything.

‘We can watch it together,’ Lars suggested.

‘Here? Now?’

Selma took a sip of her coffee.

‘I suppose so, or we could go somewhere else.’

He scanned the room. The place was almost deserted. The barista was bored to death, and an old woman with a trolley bag was struggling to make up her mind about something to eat.

That took some time.

‘What would we actually be looking for?’ Selma asked.

The journalist raised his eyebrows in a condescending grimace.

‘Seriously? Shall we start with that, then?’

‘The camera was more than thirty metres away from the spot where Haakon had his accident. The filming won’t be activated by movement at such a far distance.’

‘That depends how it’s set up. Let me have a look at it.’

He held out an open hand.

‘No. And it’s a basic camera. Belonging to the roads authority. Believe me, it’s triggered by movement within ten metres. Maximum. Five, maybe.’

Lars Winther kept his hand held out. Impatiently.

‘So? Don’t fool around. Let’s look at it. How can you know what kind of wildlife camera this one is?’

‘I’m a hunter. Are you?’

He smiled for the first time since, uninvited, he had sat down beside her on the bus.

‘That too, I see. What do you hunt?’

‘Hunted, past tense. Big game. For years and years. Gave up eight to ten years ago.’

‘Why?’

‘I no longer found it exciting.’

At last he withdrew his hand. Drank some coffee, wriggling restlessly in his chair.

‘This is getting too silly,’ he said. ‘We’re both after the same thing.’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes. We both find it pretty astonishing that the world’s best athlete on skis should die in this way. How many hundreds of kilometres had this guy put behind him on roller skis?’

‘Many,’ Selma replied. ‘And he fell a few times, too.’

‘Exactly! They sometimes fall. They hurt themselves. Get a few scratches here and there. Dislocate a shoulder, maybe. But die from their injuries? Come off it.’

He held out his hand again.