An exercise studio occupied the whole of the ground floor, but that was not where she was headed.

At home she had a completed certificate stating that she was attending a course of treatment for compulsive gambling. She could give it to Jan Morell and in all likelihood get away with it.

‘In all likelihood’ was far from being a sure thing.

‘One chance’ was what Jan had said. He gave people a second chance.

Selma took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she let the air exhale slowly out of her nose. With a shrug, she decided to go in.

The Blue Cross, a well-respected interdenominational organization, offered a number of options.

Selma did not intend to avail herself of any of them. A certificate was all she needed. Proof of some kind, that she was taking her compulsive gambling seriously. With a certificate in the bag her agreement with Jan had been fulfilled, and no one could force her to go through with it.

All she needed was a wretched certificate.

She opened the door and stepped inside.

THE TRAIN JOURNEY

Hege Chin Morell ran faster than she had ever done before.

She had trainers on her feet, but sprinted without hesitation over ice and slush, on muddy paths and roads, traversing gardens where she had to jump over fences in order to pass through. She had leapt off the tram as soon as it reached Gulleråsen, one stop earlier than her usual.

It was almost time for dinner, and she was running for her life.

She had been awake since four a.m. When she couldn’t fall asleep again, she had got up. With not a single plan for the day, she had crept into the kitchen and taken bacon and eggs out of the fridge.

Admittedly she normally had to consume more than five thousand calories per day, at least during the periods of toughest training, but pork fat did not feature on the list of acceptable food. This morning she had fried a whole packet.

Three eggs. An enormous glass of milk, and for dessert she had helped herself to one of Maggi’s coconut buns from a box in the dried foods larder. Before she was finished, it was nearly five o’clock. Everything was still quiet. She had wrapped up warmly, pulled a cap down over her forehead and gone out. In plain clothes, hat and scarf, she was seldom recognized. Whereas the other girls in the national team quickly gathered a gaggle of autograph hunters wherever they went, Hege was just an ordinary skier.

The best cross-country skier in the world when dressed in national team colours.

But someone scarcely anyone recognized without them.

That’s how it had always been, and anyway, she was all alone in the world when she left the timber house in Vettakollen.

No animals by the apple tree. No journalists down on the road. Not even a stray dog to be seen, and the houses were shuttered all the way down to Smestad.