She stood up unsteadily, with both palms resting on the table. With her feet planted well apart, without shoes, she saw now that she was wearing one black and one grey sock, and she had shot up from her chair when she heard Vanja scream.

At first she did not understand what it was. The sound was so unfamiliar and unexpected that her brain needed a few seconds to confirm that it was a human scream she had heard. Then the sound had to be placed in context: it came from the hallway in Vanja and Kristina’s excessively colourful apartment.

From Vanja’s throat.

Selma broke into a run.

‘What’s up?’ she said when she came to a sudden halt in the doorway of the long, narrow hallway.

Two men.

One was from the police, an older guy in uniform. An inspector, Selma could tell from the stripes on his shoulder. Experienced, she saw from the appropriately mournful face and the hefty hand on Vanja’s shoulder. The other man was far younger. He was wearing a dark suit and clerical collar. His glasses were threatening to slide off his small snub nose.

‘Is that you?’ the pastor blurted out. ‘Selma Falck?’

The policeman’s eyes darkened.

‘Unfortunately, there’s been an accident,’ he said quietly. ‘Is Kristina Holm here?’

Vanja tore herself loose from the inspector’s grasp.

She had started to howl.

‘No,’ Selma said, approaching Vanja with purposeful steps. ‘Kristina’s in Tromsø this weekend. What has happened?’

The howl became a shriek. Selma only just managed to catch hold of her friend as she began to fall. The wail grew gradually weaker and higher, like a band saw as it became hot.

The pastor seemed alarmed and pressed himself against the wall.

‘We asked to come in,’ he bleated. ‘It wasn’t our intention to talk about this out here in the hallway. Maybe we should sit down and … She just knew!’

Selma looked at the police officer. The police officer looked at Selma. His pale-blue eyes were as old as the hills, with a greyish film behind one pupil.

‘There’s been an accident,’ he said again. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Haakon Holm-Vegge is dead.’

Vanja fainted, but Selma held her tightly and would never let go.

THE TIP-OFF

It was only by a whisker that the young journalist – newly appointed to a six-month temporary post in the Dagens Gang newspaper’s sports section – even checked the text message on his mobile when it buzzed. The woman he had brought home from the city centre around eleven p.m. was already naked, and he himself was only in a sweater. Things were going well.

‘Wait a minute,’ he panted, reaching out towards the coffee table.

‘Forget that for now,’ she groaned, pulling him towards her with a firm grip on his buttocks.

The temptation was irresistible.

‘Two seconds,’ he said nevertheless. ‘Just two seconds.’