‘What?’

‘What if Haakon and Hege have both been the victims of sabotage, but by different perpetrators? And therefore for different reasons? Quite apart from the fact that they both move incredibly fast on skis, they have lived very different lives.’

The metal pen drew an angry zigzag between the two names on the board.

‘Everything isn’t always connected to everything else,’ Selma said. ‘Not all the time.’

‘To tell the truth, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard.’

Jan bent down to pick up the glass. Raising it to his mouth, he hesitated for a second, shook his head and drank it down.

‘Wait a minute now,’ Selma said.

‘No,’ Jan Morell retorted as he got to his feet.

He grabbed the remote control from the wall unit. Pressed a button. The screen suddenly turned white again.

‘But listen to me,’ Selma insisted. ‘Listen to me now.’

He was becoming enraged, she saw. The hand holding the glass was trembling a little, and narrow, white stripes were etched at each side of his nose. She smiled as warmly as she could, turned the two chairs to face each other, and sat down in one of them. Crossing her legs, she tucked her hair behind her ear. And folded her arms.

‘I’ve defended clients who have looked guilty solely because the circumstances were simply unbelievable,’ she said calmly. ‘Logical links to events that, taken together, build into weighty circumstantial evidence. So convincing that the person in question is convicted. Or acquitted because I succeed in picking apart the chain into its individual components and put them back together again in a way that is equally credible. And that justifies acquittal.’

‘Let me tell you one thing.’

Jan flopped into the other chair and looked her straight in the eye.

‘I don’t give a damn about Haakon Holm-Vegge. He’s only of interest to me in so far as his case seems to have something to do with Hege’s. To the extent that the explanation for sabotaging her is somehow connected to him. And it …’

He leaned forward without relinquishing eye contact.

‘… obviously does.’

‘Then that’s what we’ll say,’ Selma said, sounding upbeat. ‘For the time being. However …’

She unscrewed the lid of the bottle.

‘Would you like a glass?’ Jan snapped.

‘No, thanks. The fizz disappears. But all the same …’

She took a swig.

‘I honestly think we should concentrate on the Trofodermin.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I believe that bloody ointment is the culprit. Or, as a matter of fact … I don’t believe it, as such, because at the moment I’ve no idea what I should believe. But I have a hypothesis. A possible scenario, if you like. Can I use the board?’

Jan grunted his approval. Selma went over and wrote TROFODERMIN in bright orange on the glass screen.