‘Can I come in, if you don’t mind?’ she said, and an irritated frown appeared between her eyebrows.

‘Where had the laptop been?’

The setters whimpered.

‘Sorry, but could you let me through to my own house, please?’

The police patrol car appeared from a northerly direction. The blue lights swept ever-closer and were already casting ice-cold reflections on the wet asphalt only twenty metres away from the two women. All of a sudden the sirens were cut off as the car parked. Lars Winther had also come down to the gate by now, and Benedicte Selhus’s eyes darted in fear from the two interlopers to the patrol car and back again.

‘Benedicte,’ Selma said, holding her tightly by the arm. ‘Where did you find the laptop?’

‘Under Storm Teodor’s bed! Silly Arnulf hadn’t turned on the screen lock, so Storm Teodor had hidden it and had a great time. There were no games on it yet, but he had learned how to access NRK-Super. He’s actually very advanced for his age, and had managed to plug it in and everything, and …’

Selma released her grip. Three policemen marched towards them and the wail of another siren pierced through the bleak grey afternoon.

‘Arnulf was over the moon,’ Benedicte said, looking at the police. ‘I found it this morning when I vacuumed the floor. He thought it had been stolen. But … what’s actually going on here?’

‘Who owns that car?’ one of the police officers asked brusquely as he approached.

He grabbed his shoulder and said something Selma couldn’t catch over the police radio.

‘My husband’s son,’ Benedicte said, by now as disconsolate as she was confused. ‘We’ve borrowed it for a couple of weeks because the dogs make such a mess in our expensive cars in this disgusting weather.’

She drew the dogs closer to her and burst into tears. The noise from the approaching police cars was unbearable, and she called out in despair: ‘Could someone please tell me what’s happening?’

THE SHOT

Selma enjoyed being with Lars Winther.

They were using each other. He was useful to her and she to him, and there was nothing more than that between them. They were bound to each other by an unwritten contract that either of them could break without any advance warning.

She wished it could be like that with everyone.

‘Here,’ she said, handing him a C4 envelope she had taken out of her bag before they drove off. ‘Give that to your wife. Didn’t you say she works in the news section?’

‘Eh … yes. What is it?’

‘A description of how Sølve Bang is trying to swindle Statoil. A blow-by-blow account, fully documented.’

‘Eh?’

‘Just give it to your wife, won’t you?’