He obviously loved her dearly.

Maybe too dearly, if such a thing were possible.

What did she know.

Selma still couldn’t decide what she thought of the man.

‘Sorry to hear about that friend of yours,’ she said, picking up her coat and bag on the way out.

‘Friend of mine?’

‘Yes. That photographer who’s gone missing. Morten Karlshaug.’

‘Oh, Klaus, yes. He’s sure to turn up. As he always does. If I know him, he’ll be lying in a yurt on the other side of the earth, having fun with a little Mongolian number. Klaus is a real womanizer and has never settled down with anyone.’

Closing the door that locked automatically, he made an inviting gesture towards the elevator.

‘Why do you call him Klaus?’ Selma asked.

‘A nickname from childhood. Or …’

Jan applied a stubby finger to the elevator button.

‘More of a pseudonym, in fact. A bit unkind, but we’ve never called him anything else. He’s sick in the head. I usually say it’s reflected in his art. Wide-open landscapes as far as the eye and soul can see. He’s award winning, you know. Internationally. He has taken the most beautiful photograph you could ever imagine from the top of Mount Everest. You’ve probably seen it, it was the year’s …’

The elevator pinged and the doors slid open.

‘What do you mean by “sick in the head”?’ she asked as she entered the elevator.

‘He suffers from claustrophobia. Really hellish claustrophobia. So he got the name Klaus. He was only three when he accidentally managed to lock himself inside an antique rose-painted bridal chest. He lay in there for several hours, as far as I’ve been told. Was nearly suffocated and became totally disturbed. When we were young boys, once upon a time …’

The elevator doors slid soundlessly shut.

THE BEGINNING

As a black Audi A8 with Jan Morell in the back seat swung out of the parking space in front of the Fornebuporten, Selma closed her eyes and sent up a silent thanks to higher powers.

He hadn’t once mentioned the treatment she was about to start, according to a certificate from the Blue Cross. The paper had been delivered to him by yesterday’s deadline, and he had accepted it in silence. He couldn’t have given it more than a cursory glance, and that was worth her heartfelt thanks.

Of course no one at the Blue Cross could confirm that Selma Falck was actually attending a course of treatment for a gambling addiction. Quite simply because she was not undertaking any form of therapy. The random psychologist she had argued her way into a conversation with had been adamant. All he could stretch to was confirmation that she had sought him out. And that Selma Dorothea Falck, born 16 September 1966, had signed up for group therapy for a period of around four months.

In addition to receiving information about the website, self-help.no.