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.

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.