‘I don’t think we’re going to gain much from this little meeting,’ she said, smiling as she picked up her phone from the table. ‘Thanks for coming, and sorry for wasting your time. Really.’

She put her mobile in her handbag. She pushed the chair back and made to stand up. With a hand gesture and something that might resemble an apologetic expression, he persuaded her to remain seated all the same.

‘It wasn’t a new theory for the police,’ he said softly. ‘That there had been a vehicle in the picture, I mean.’

Selma drew her chair a little closer to the table again and leaned forward.

‘No?’

‘They weren’t exactly communicative, you might say. But thanks to me giving them the wildlife camera, I did at least get to know that. They probably thought, like all the rest of us, it seemed strange that things could go so wrong for a really well trained athlete. He’s fallen before, and the worst thing that happened was a serious abrasion.’

Selma made no sign of filling the ensuing pause.

‘However, they hadn’t found any evidence of a collision,’ he continued at last. ‘Not until now, at least. After all, he was pretty battered and bruised, but all his injuries were consistent with the actual fall.’

Selma maintained eye contact, and remained silent.

‘I don’t know, but I assume they’re having his clothes examined now,’ he said, as if her silence was making him feel self-conscious. ‘For traces of car paint and so forth.’

‘The clothes were sent for examination by Saturday morning,’ Selma said. ‘Together with his roller skis, poles and ski helmet. But what did they say about the film clip?’

‘Nothing. Of course they didn’t.’

‘Excuse me,’ a ponytailed girl of twelve or thirteen in a dark-blue Svea jacket interrupted them. ‘Could I have your autograph, please?’

Selma gave her a friendly smile and took the receipt for three buns, a cola and two mocha coffees. Turning over the paper, she accepted the pen she was offered and asked the girl her name.

‘Marthe. With TH. I play handball.’

‘What about school, then? Do you have time off?’

‘I’m … sick.’

‘I see.’

The pen scraped across the paper as Selma dictated the message to herself.

‘To Marthe, handball player, with best wishes from …’

The signature was illegible.

‘Here you go!’ she said, returning the note. ‘Good luck with everything! Especially school.’

The young girl disappeared.

‘Must be a nuisance,’ Lars said sotto voce. ‘As things are.’

‘No, not at all. Do you think there’s a connection?’

‘Between what?’

Two other truants had got up from their table at the other end of the premises as the first girl returned, triumphantly waving her receipt. They glanced hesitantly across at Selma, who quickly pulled her cap down over her ears and donned a pair of reading glasses from a case in her coat pocket.