He drank half the contents of the glass, poured in more and crossed to the empty fireplace. Leaning his elbow on the mantel-piece, he took another gulp.

Selma approached the drinks cabinet. She opened it and took out the decanter. The golden liquid twinkled behind the richly embossed glass.

‘I’ve never tasted alcohol,’ she said softly.

‘Why not, actually?’

‘I just never started. Trained too much. Wanted to go too far. Later I discovered I needed to be in control. Of myself. More than most people, in fact.’

Jan smiled for the first time since Selma had arrived.

‘You’re right there. Combining compulsive gambling with alcohol would be catastrophic.’

‘What’s the worst thing that could happen to you, Jan?’

Selma was still holding the decanter. She lowered her gaze. Turned the beautiful decanter around. Shades of deep yellow and brown danced and vibrated behind the intricate pattern on the crystal. He did not answer.

‘The very worst thing,’ she repeated.

‘Losing Hege.’

‘Yes, but after that.’

‘For Hege’s career to lie in tatters. In other words, I’m living a nightmare.’

Selma nodded.

‘Have you enemies, Jan?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘Bitter foes?’

‘More than likely. I don’t spend much time thinking about that sort of thing. I apply my energy to MCV instead. It goes without saying that I’ve broken a few eggs along the way.’

‘Can I have a look at your office, please?’

He had raised his glass, but froze on the spot.

‘Why on earth?’

‘Can we?’

Selma made a peremptory gesture towards his office door.

‘Preferably not,’ he muttered, but all the same he put his glass down on the mantelpiece. ‘Come on, then.’

The last time Selma had been in Jan’s home office, it had smelled of aftershave and furniture oil. Now there was a faint residue of cigarette smoke in the room.

‘Klaus took that picture,’ Jan said, pointing lethargically at the large photograph of Hege and Katinka. ‘I like it.’

‘It’s fantastic. But this one here …’

Jan was standing with his posterior against the substantial writing desk in the centre of the room, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on the portrait of mother and daughter. Selma stood just inside the door, pointing.

‘This is you, Morten Karlshaug and Arnulf Selhus, isn’t it?’

Yet again the corners of his mouth curled into something resembling a smile.

‘Yes. It was taken just before I met Katinka. It was in the newspaper, after a cross-country competition in Marka. I was seventeen, and the others a year younger.’

‘Had you been together throughout your childhood?’

‘Yes, in a way.’

‘In a way?’

Jan came across to her. Studied the picture. His stubby finger touched the ski helmet.

‘I got that skiing cap from Kupper’n himself,’ he said. ‘And wore it out. I wore out a cap, Selma, wore it until it fell apart. That was what my childhood was like.’

‘I’ve noticed you don’t talk about it.’

‘About the ski helmet?’

‘About your childhood.’