Everything was fate, everything was karma, and he had bought two tubes of Trofodermin and brought them back from Italy when he had learned, following the near-catastrophe with Hedda Bruun, what the ointment contained. He had only just made a start on the manuscript then, but he had realized that he would find a use for the cream. Karma.

Three treatments with the ointment on Hege Morell’s thigh had turned out to be sufficient.

Karma.

He had placed the second tube at the bottom of Hege’s sponge bag prior to the World Championship weekend in Lillehammer. He had hoped for a random search as soon as the result of the urine sample was made known.

Unnecessary, as things had turned out. And stupid. But no harm done.

Selma Falck was a far greater disappointment. She was the only real challenge fate had sent his way in his work of regaining balance. Following a ski trip on Norefjell the day Hege was exposed for all the world to see, he had gone up to Vettakollen to witness Jan Morell’s pain. To savour the anguish in the timber villa. He had waited until the journalists got fed up and packed up. Endorphins were pumping through his body as he witnessed the despair in the living room behind the vast panorama window. He had challenged fate by walking all the way across the lawn, but none of the people inside had spotted him.

Selma Falck should not have been there.

She was clever and dangerous.

He had seen her leave, together with Hege, who had been alarmed by the footprints. The ski boots were uncomfortable to drive with, but someone had stolen his trainers while he was out on the slopes.

Selma Falck had taken photos, he saw from his hiding place at the foot of the garden. He had sought refuge there when the two women got up from the settees. She had followed his footprints, but not all the way down to where he stood in the shadows holding his breath.

Karma.

Since then he had collated a folder of material on her. Considered including her in the manuscript. Hesitated, and decided against it. He had seen her house. Seen her son, he assumed, through the window on the upper floor, and an old woman in the kitchen, cooking pancakes for supper.

He had gone there on his roller skis. In December he went for lengthy runs every other day and could just as easily make use of the excursion. He had visited her house to get a look at her, but she wasn’t there. However, he knew where she lived and had almost written her into his manuscript.

His back had never given him any problems, but in order to look after the prisoner in the basement he had taken some sick leave.

‘Not this,’ he moaned, slapping his hand on all the paper in front of him. ‘Not this. Not this.’