He had also lingered at this corner of the house. Not for quite such a long time, apparently. Then the footprints showed that he had walked towards the stone wall, climbed over and disappeared through the neighbour’s garden.

Selma was tempted to follow, but ditched the idea. She could always get away with prowling around in her own former property. A nocturnal visit to her neighbour would be more difficult to explain, and after a moment’s hesitation she therefore returned the same way she had come.

No one woke. No light was switched on. As quietly as Selma could manage, she again opened the garage door down by the road, clambered into the Amazon and turned on the ignition while murmuring a prayer. Two further attempts, two more prayers, and the engine started.

She slipped out on to the narrow road and drove towards the city. To Ensjø, where the Poker Turk had offered her garage space in exchange for help with his tax return in a few months’ time. She did not dare to leave the Amazon parked in the street in Grünerløkka, so she had accepted with alacrity. It would at least be more accessible to her in Ensjø than out on Ormøya.

The footprints in the garden had made her feel uneasy.

She drove slowly. If she were stopped with summer tyres on these slippery roads, her driving licence would be at stake. It would be easier as soon as she emerged on to Mosseveien, where the traffic kept the asphalt perpetually clear. From there it would only take minutes to reach Ensjø.

It could all be coincidence. Most things happened by chance, as Selma was well aware. She seldom searched for connections when there was no necessity to do so, and no harm had been done either in Vettakollen or on Ormøya. Besides, there might well be credible explanations for someone having wandered through the garden in the same type of ski boots in the north and south of Oslo.

Within the space of a few days.

Despite both places being some distance from snow at this present time.

And the expensive boots were scarcely something anyone would roam around in without skis on their feet. It was entirely possible to use winter shoes on roller skis, Selma knew, but most people who trained so rigorously that they would be out on days like this would be wearing special boots.

At least she thought so.

As she drove along Ormsundveien, she tried to tear herself away from thoughts of the boots and instead imagine what the person in question had been after.

Supposing it had been the same person.

Supposing it had been a man, something the shoe size at least indicated.

A housebreaker might well do a recce before breaking in, but would also have checked doors and windows. Alarm installations. The residents’ sleeping patterns could be partially discerned through surveillance, but not on only one visit.

It was all quite simply incomprehensible.