‘There’s not much that man doesn’t know about what goes on in the Federation. As the Director of Finance, he might have been difficult to persuade when it came to the appointment of a new doctor. As you know, they didn’t fire Stian. That would be expensive.’

‘Reidar, Severin, Hallgeir, Mathias and Mons are all trainers. Two of them for the women, three for the men.’

‘That’s right. But what reason the trainers might have for sabotaging their own athletes is beyond my comprehension.’

‘Wait up a second. Bottolf is the big cheese, then, and Stian the doctor who made a mess of things. And who, in my opinion, should have got the boot long ago. Knut is a physiotherapist. A kind of head physio, isn’t he?’

‘Well, a senior one, at least. And definitely the best of the lot.’

‘Contact,’ Selma said, stopping the pen on its way to her mouth.

‘What?’

‘Knut Nilssen does at any rate have all the opportunity in the world for physical contact with the skiers. It’s in the nature of the work.’

‘Eh … yes?’

‘If we consider that the substance is ingested through the skin, I mean. It would be easy for him to have done something like that.’

‘Yes. Hege’s sample was taken on 7 November. Out-of-competition. She was in Oslo. That was …’

It took him less than thirty seconds of tapping his mobile before he went on: ‘… also Knut. Of course I don’t really remember whether he treated Hege in the days before the drugs test, but I can find that out.’

‘Do that.’

‘But he can hardly have sabotaged Haakon,’ he said in an undertone.

‘Don’t you think so?’

‘Haakon only uses Anita. Anita Ulvestad. They’re childhood friends, and Anita managed to sort his shoulder the last time it was a problem. He thinks she has miraculous powers.’

‘OK. Not Haakon, then. So we’re no further forward, unless you’re willing to accept my theory about two different sets of circumstances.’

‘Give over,’ he said. ‘The idea that two autonomous individuals got it into their heads to dope two different elite athletes on the sly is absurd. Of course there’s a connection.’

With a sigh, Selma switched off the screen and crossed to the window. Jan was right. They were going around in circles. The list of people who knew of the unfortunate episode during the autumn run-up was virtually useless. First of all it was unthinkable that the story had stopped at the few who originally knew about it. It was unfathomable that no journalists had learned of Stian Bech’s unforgivable carelessness, but Selma nevertheless refused to believe that all of the eleven mentioned on the list had kept the story entirely to themselves.

That sort of thing just didn’t happen.

People talked. With their spouses. With close friends. In bed. In a drunken rant. Anywhere. As a means to ingratiate themselves. Make themselves interesting. Don’t tell anyone was probably the most frequently broken request in the history of humankind.