‘Yes. But now …’

‘Haakon’s clothes were contaminated.’

‘Eh … what?’

‘Forensics have detected Clostebol on his clothing. His underwear.’

Selma almost forgot to turn off from the E6 down on to the Store Ringvei ring road. At the very last minute she wrenched the wheel to make the exit road, to furious honking from a car behind her.

‘What do you actually mean by that?’ she asked, switching her phone to loudspeaker.

‘His underwear was impregnated with Clostebol. I have it from a reliable source in the police. Most likely they won’t publicize it yet, but I know they’re searching for a number of items of clothing he had stored in the Glass House. Since his wife … his widow, I mean, is at the funeral, they don’t expect to get that done until this afternoon.’

‘I’m on my way from there just now.’

‘Oh. Eh … condolences. You were his godmother …’

The mobile slid down from the dashboard.

‘Wait,’ Selma said loudly, struggling to get hold of it without having to take her eyes off the road.

It was impossible, and she drove blind on the ring road at ninety kilometres an hour for three whole seconds.

‘Now,’ she said, out of breath, as she put the phone on her lap. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes. According to what I’ve heard, his wife has already had everything Haakon had stored in his locker up there delivered to her.’

‘But what does that mean?’

The phone crackled as he gave a hearty laugh.

‘That Hege’s not the one who was sabotaged, as you theorized, but Haakon! It looks like that, at any rate. He’s had his clothes smeared with Clostebol, for fuck’s sake! In some substance or other, I don’t know which one yet. But we can trade information, Selma. The reason I’m phoning is that I want to ask you about …’

Selma saw that she was driving at 110 kilometres per hour. An environmental speed limit of 60 had been introduced on 1 November. She braked hard.

‘I’ll call you later,’ she said, and hung up.

Over the course of two days, she had watched a picture slowly take shape. It was no longer just the edge pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that fitted, but the beginnings of a legible picture.

And now it had started to dissipate again.

THE TIP-OFF

As Lars Winther emerged from the DG building in Akersgata and began walking towards Grensen, he heard someone shout his name. He stopped and wheeled around.

‘Agnes,’ he said, smiling at the petite twenty-three-year-old with blue hair in high pigtails.

‘Hi there,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ve found out who sent the text message tip-off about Haakon Holm-Vegge. The editor said you’d just gone out, so I ran to catch you up.’

Lars opened his eyes wide.

‘Have you? Good work. How on earth …’

‘Do you really want to know?’ she interrupted.

‘Eh … no. Who was it?’