‘There’s always someone who turns up to obscure the picture,’ he said. ‘To mess things up. And who turns out to have nothing to do with the case in hand. It happens in every single investigation. It’s only on TV that the detectives stay on the motorway. A straight road, sort of thing. Full steam ahead to a solution and a far too rapid confession. In reality, there are always a few unnerving dead ends and people who suck all the energy out of you without it leading to anything. People like that and liars, Mariska, are an investigator’s worst enemies. People who make themselves look important. Push themselves forward. People who lie about things that don’t really matter too much. That at least the police don’t give a toss about. Infidelity and smoking hash. Fuck off, I say. If people would only tell the truth to the police and the courts, we’d have a far more impressive clear-up rate and zero miscarriages of justice.’

‘Who can have left the footprints in the gardens, then?’

‘I’ll bet it’s the same person who’s after the boys in the photograph.’

‘But why?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s nobody. Maybe just a random skier. Looking for a cat or something.’

‘Yes, it certainly was somebody. I just can’t fathom why.’

‘Maybe the first time was sheer chance. He wanted to check how Hege was doing. And then he caught sight of you. Through the window. And got worried that the renowned Selma Falck was now on the scene. You have a reputation, you know. But as I write in The Investigator’s ABC, such things often cause an investigation to grind to a halt. Forget those fucking footprints. Now I think I really do need some sleep.’

He shook a pillow that had once been white. Now the colour was indefinable, a brownish-grey batik pattern. Einar plumped up the pillow and laid it down between the stones.

‘Maybe he didn’t like the idea of you working on Hege’s case. He’s probably heard of you.’

‘Everyone’s heard of me. But why …’

‘I need to sleep,’ Einar told her, and stretched out.

He closed his eyes and tried to find a comfortable position where he could find rest.

‘You don’t need to watch over me now,’ he whispered. ‘The gypsies have gone. I did the right thing, didn’t I? It was right to kill him?’

Selma had scrambled to her feet. She folded the pale-blue blanket and placed it on a stone so close to him that he would be able to reach it without getting up.

‘You did the right thing, Einar. The bastard deserved to die.’

THE MANUSCRIPT

701 INTERIOR, THERAPY ROOM, HOLMENKOLLEN, EVENING