‘The payment was also made into a savings account,’ he added. ‘Not to his current account.’

‘A savings account? Are you sure? If it had been an incorrect entry from the Federation, it would surely have gone into his current account? Why would the Federation even have had access to his savings account number at all?’

That had been four question marks in rapid succession, and Karsten Kvelde chose to answer them all by first shrugging his shoulders.

‘It was his savings account. If you like, I can take a closer look at the whole thing.’

‘Do that,’ Jan Morell almost barked at him. ‘At once.’

The security consultant nodded and made for the door. Not until he had closed it behind him did it dawn on him that he had forgotten to tell Morell about Arnulf Selhus’s trip to Milan with his wife ten days ago. She worked part-time in a boutique in the Paleet shopping arcade in Karl Johans gate and was attending a fashion show in Italy. Karsten Kvelde slowed down a little, but finally set his mind at rest by remembering that everything was written down in the papers his boss had in his possession.

And walked on.

Jan Morell was left sitting on his own, doing nothing but staring out the window for almost half an hour.

Arnulf Selhus had wasted his second chance, and that had to have consequences.

It would have consequences, Jan Morell decided, and stood up to look for an old agreement and promissory note. That Arnulf had obviously had cold feet and paid the money back after a week didn’t improve matters in the slightest.

There was never room for a third chance.

Never.

THE ALL-POINTS BULLETIN

It was exactly twelve noon when Selma Falck started the engine of her red Volvo Amazon with black roof and leather seats. She switched on the radio: it was preset on channel P2. She put the car into gear, rolled out of the parking space and listened with only half an ear. Until the news bulletin was almost over.

‘In connection with the death of the cross-country skier Haakon Holm-Vegge, the police are on the lookout for …’

Selma turned up the volume.

‘… a Peugeot 206. The colour may be red or burgundy. The car was seen in Maridalen on Friday evening, and police would like to make contact with the owner. Information can be given to the nearest police station or by phone …’

Her mobile rang.

Selma put a hand into her bag on the passenger seat. The engine lost power as she fumbled to find her phone and she had to increase speed over an intersection without changing gear.

‘Selma Falck,’ she said, clamping the phone between her ear and shoulder.

‘It’s Lars Winther here.’

‘Hi. I’m busy right now, driving my car without hands free. Could I call you back later?’

‘We still have an agreement, don’t we? That I’ll get your story when the time comes?’