He began to open the bags that lay in some kind of systematic order around him. Eventually he found what he was looking for, at the bottom of a blue IKEA shopper.

‘Take this. I have two of them.’

She accepted the small, dog-eared book he handed her.

‘The Investigator’s ABC,’ she read aloud. ‘What’s this?’

‘It’s The Investigator’s ABC,’ he replied, grinning. ‘A book I wrote in 2002. Just before everything went haywire in my life. Published by a real publishing company, to boot. I was told the following year that 169 copies had been sold. Lucky dogs, all 169 of them, if you ask me. It’s worth its weight in gold.’

He nodded contentedly at the book.

‘Read it. I think you’ll have to go now. That phone of yours will be the death of me before too long. Don’t you notice anything?’

Selma got to her feet. She tried to find room for The Investigator’s ABC in her pocket, but it didn’t fit. So she tucked it under her arm as she fished out a one-hundred-kroner note and a twenty kroner coin from her purse.

‘Take a trip to the Tøyen Baths,’ she said, placing the money on his mitten. ‘You need a wash. Phone me if you need anything.’

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ he said with a smile. ‘You know where to find me without me having to send you a message. Don’t let too much time pass.’

‘Do I ever let too much time pass?’ she said, smiling back at him.

‘No. And you know what?’

‘No, what?’

Even in the semi-darkness in here he could see that her shining eyes were brown, almost black.

‘I did the right thing, didn’t I? It was right to kill him?’

And she came back, as she always did, before she left him every single time, she crouched down over him and gave him a hug and whispered in his ear through that huge cap of his: ‘You did the right thing, Einar. The bastard deserved to die.’

VETTAKOLLEN

Jan Morell’s home showed signs that someone had left in a hurry.

Some time ago. The old things were lovely. Not only the antiques, of which there was an abundance in the house. A large rose-painted chest in the hall, embellished with the date 1782, looked as if it had never been spoiled by renovation. A rocking chair, equally unmistakably advanced in years, sat in one corner of the living room, with beautiful damask cushions and a pile of books stacked on a small sideboard on the right. Here and there the furnishings looked like small enclaves of cosiness and solicitude, items chosen with care to suit the exposed log cabin walls of dark-stained, heavy timber.

The rest was hi-tech.