That could not be called in for at least ten years.

It crossed her mind that it did not matter as she stood there looking up at the building. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had left. The only sound to be heard was the constant hum of traffic from Mosseveien on the other side of the water and the lazy lapping of the waves on the foundations of the boathouse behind her. The air was filled with the tang of the sea, wood smoke and a faint hint of engine oil.

For eighteen years she had called this place home. She knew the sounds and the smells, the plants and trees and every stone on the solid perimeter wall on the western side that she and Jesso had built the summer Johannes turned four.

It was good to be rid of it all.

Liberating, Selma realized: this was not her life. She did not know where her life truly lay. Not yet, but the sight of the ridiculously expensive villa by the fjord, with its projections, mullioned and dormer windows, and eaves that were far too deep, made her suddenly appreciate it was not just her marriage that, deep down, she was glad to be finished with.

They were all asleep.

Selma did not need to go up to the house. At the bottom of the property, right beside the road, there was an ancient garage that should have been demolished a decade ago. They had let it remain because they probably didn’t want to build a replacement so close to the fjord. Only the most necessary maintenance was carried out on the sagging, red-painted building, and the door springs were so stiff that Selma was afraid it would be difficult to open.

Up in the double main garage, flush with the house, was a Volvo XC90 T8, 2017 model. Jesso had been allowed to keep that, in accordance with an agreement with a list no lawyer in the world would have advised Selma to sign. As far as she was concerned, the car she had bought in January for almost 1.3 million kroner was of absolutely no interest, as long as she was allowed to keep the vehicle that came into sight as soon as she, with surprising ease, opened the manual garage door.

A Volvo Amazon 123 GT from 1966.

The year of her birth.

Even in the sparse light from the street lamp, the red paint-work shone with an intensity that made her shudder. The roof was covered in a thin layer of dust, she noticed as she ran her fingers over the dull, black material that looked like leather and was actually synthetic fabric.

‘Are you taking out your swanky car in this weather?’

Selma bumped her head on an old bicycle hanging on the wall.

An ugly dog wagged its tail and pulled on the lead, anxious to make friends.

‘Do you have winter tyres on it, then?’