Selma fixed her gaze on his. Shrugged imperceptibly. Tasted her tea. It was almost cold, and the skin that had formed on top attached itself to her upper lip. She licked it away slowly and said: ‘Think about it. Clostebol, Lars. An active ingredient used by no one except suspect athletes in heavy sports beyond the control of the official organizations. A substance that demanded a regime such as the East German one to achieve maximum efficacy. Closed, uninhibited, and with no thought for the long-term effects it must have on the athletes. They made women into men. With an anabolic-androgenic steroid we’ve scarcely heard of since the Berlin Wall came down, despite an increased focus on cheating in sports. And then, in the course of only a few days, we get two cases in the same environment, with the same obscure active ingredient. Coincidence? Well, I ask you. It does at least provide a basis for further thought in the direction of … system error? Isn’t that what you call it in DG? Or maybe it centres on something entirely different. Sabotage isn’t inconceivable, is it? Many envy us our medals. It’s only two months until the Winter Olympics. The way things look now …’

She lifted a finger to correct herself.

‘The way things looked a week ago, we were ready to make a clean sweep. In cross-country, at least.’

Lars Winther still hadn’t written anything. He still sat with his fingers poised.

‘You’re a damn slippery customer,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You didn’t ask for this meeting to obtain information.’

‘Well, I …’

‘You wanted to give me some information.’

‘That too. Both, in fact. In the hope that this might be the start of a beautiful friendship.’

Selma peered at him over the rim of her glasses before taking them off with one hand and leaning forward.

‘You’re not the first journalist I’ve spoken to in my life,’ she said without taking her eyes off his. ‘And you’re not the only one who builds networks. Swaps info. We’re after the same thing, you and I.’

‘Which is?’

‘The truth,’ she answered, with a smile.

He folded the cover of his iPad without having made a single note. He shoved it into his shoulder bag and wrapped a long, thin scarf several times around his neck.

‘Who knew about the first drugs test?’ he asked as he stood up. ‘The negative one?’

‘The top brass in the Federation, at any rate. Me. And now you. Are you going home to catch some sleep?’

‘After learning of this? No. I need to get back to work.’

He was so tall that Selma inevitably had to lean back when she looked up at him. A certain reluctance had come over his whole demeanour. His jacket was still halfway on, hanging over one shoulder with the collar partly turned.

‘See you again,’ Selma said cheerfully.