Unless skiers had taken to trudging through all of Oslo’s gardens for the time being, it was also impossible to understand the link between the footprints in Vettakollen and the ones in Ormsundveien. As far as Selma knew, no one apart from Jan Morell, Hege, the home help up there and herself had any notion of the assignment she had been given. Other than Einar Falsen, of course, but he never spoke to anyone except her. Quite literally.

Selma was the only link between the two properties. One was owned by her client, and the other had belonged to her until very recently.

Practically no one knew she had moved out less than a week ago.

Next to no one.

The car rolled quietly over the bridge to the mainland. The traffic was sparse, and when she reached Mosseveien a couple of minutes later, the lights flashed yellow and let her swing towards the city centre without stopping.

She should speak to Jan Morell. Find out if he had told anyone about their unusual wager. It was close to midnight, so she dropped the idea of ringing him now.

She would contact him tomorrow. As early as possible, she decided, as she speeded up across the Ekeberg hillside. In the middle of the bend leading to Gamlebyen, a thought struck her so suddenly that she forgot to check in her mirror before changing lane. A collision with a German camper van was avoided only by the skin of her teeth, and she saw the driver give her the finger.

The tracks in the two gardens had been left deliberately, Selma realized.

There had been no attempt to hide them.

On the contrary.

Every single day in the past ten-to-twelve days had featured the same, bleak weather alternating between rain and frost, between wet snow and sheet ice. The media reported that the orthopaedic department at Ullevål hospital was catastrophically overcrowded, and the newspapers were filled with daily moans about the council’s failure to spread grit on streets and pavements.

The man in the ski boots had left clear footprints. He had chosen to wear distinctive boots: an ordinary bootprint would not have identified him so emphatically in both places. In Vettakollen and Ormsundveien, he had chosen to turn up while the slush was still thick enough to leave a trail, but late enough so that they would freeze fairly rapidly to leave identifiable prints. They were placed in the middle of the driveway in both places as well as distinctly across the lawn.

There had been no intention to stake out the place or steal anything, Selma realized, tenaciously struggling to focus on her driving.

The man in the ski boots wanted to cause fear and alarm.

He was determined to frighten someone, and that someone could not be anyone other than Selma.

To be honest, he had succeeded.

THE BONFIRE

‘To think it’s possible. To think it’s at all possible, Hege. Bloody hell.’