Selma peered at her mobile to see if Lars Winther had answered the text she had sent from Jan’s office. He had.

Can’t meet you tonight. Half past seven tomorrow morning suits. Same place as last time. L.W.

She stuffed the phone into her bag and started walking. Intending to hail a taxi if she saw one, but first she needed a breath of air.

It was cold enough, and she turned up her coat collar against the north wind.

The psychologist had recognized her the moment she entered his office. He tried in vain to hide a smile when she gave her full name. Complying with Jan Morell’s demand for proof that she had sought help was a humiliating low point in Selma’s life. Which, after the events of the past few weeks, was not saying much.

It made no odds.

Everything was falling apart, anyway, she thought as she picked up speed.

Too many people knew. Or thought they knew. Jan had discovered Selma’s secret, and that was the beginning of the end. Now the bloody psychologist knew about it too. And Lars Winther, even though, to be honest, he knew no more than that she wasn’t averse to a game of illegal poker.

It had all gone so fast.

The contours around her dissolved.

For so many years her existence had been full of sharp lines. Her family separate. Her work in a different space. Friends. Handball, the best time in Selma’s life, was rigidly framed by tangible medals and achievements for all eternity. And all these frames were populated by people.

Gambling was Selma’s private space.

A blessed sanctuary where she was completely alone. For a long time it had also been an important source of income: some of the speculation in shares had been especially profitable. They were easy to live with, simpler than betting and cards. In every way. Jesso knew about a good deal of Selma’s so-called wise investments, and had always admired her for everything in which she had learned the ropes.

The very first pure bet was also met with enthusiasm by Selma’s social circle. She had been in London with a group of girls in the late winter of 1992 and managed to put a hundred pounds on Denmark becoming European Champions in football that summer. Since they hadn’t yet qualified for the tournament, the odds were staggering. Selma had a vague notion that the blood-bath in the Balkans might also have consequences in sport, and risked all she could afford to lose. Only ten days before the final stage of the competition kicked off in Sweden, she was proved right. UEFA acceded to a request by the UN not to allow any involvement in sport by Yugoslavia, then ravaged by civil war. The country was disqualified and Denmark, runner-up in their group, was awarded the last place in the tournament.

And beat Germany in the final.