One minute later he was heading out the door.

And almost fully dressed.

SATURDAY 9 DECEMBER 2017

THE PRESS CONFERENCE

Selma quickly realized she shouldn’t have come.

Despite not being a journalist, of which everyone was well aware, she had been able to enter without difficulty one of the biggest conference rooms in the Norwegian Cross-Country Skiing Federation’s glass palace below the Holmenkollen national ski complex. The room, named the Dæhlie auditorium after the famous cross-country skier, Bjørn Dæhlie, had windows facing north-west. A December storm had roared in from that direction several hours earlier. The vast glass panes were now monochrome grey and dripping wet, and they were visibly moving with each powerful gust of wind. As more journalists kept swarming into the room, a young woman in an overly tight skirt struggled to make the mechanical curtains work.

Without success.

As soon as Selma sat down in one of the furthest-back seats, a microphone was thrust into her face.

‘Dagbladet here! Who do you represent, Selma Falck? What’s the reason for …’

She pushed the microphone carefully away.

The night had lasted a lifetime, and she had not slept.

The pastor had disappeared from Vanja’s apartment when Selma asked him to. The police inspector had stayed until he had contacted a doctor. The doctor had arrived, talked to Selma in hushed tones, left three pills in a small envelope and then left with the policeman.

Only Selma had stayed until morning came.

At ten a.m., Kristina had landed at Gardermoen airport, just in time before the entire airport was closed because of the bad weather. She was chalk white and red-eyed, with a shapeless mouth distorted by crying. During the night, in quiet spells while Vanja dozed, Selma had contacted their closest friends. Two of them had booked plane tickets, met Kristina at the airport and brought her home. In the meantime, several of them had silently set up camp in their apartment. Most of them old teammates, and they had come for the long haul. Selma could finally leave.

Only after 2,000 metres in the swimming pool at the Tøyen Baths had she felt somewhat restored. She had gone home and picked up some clothes from the only box Darius hadn’t yet peed into, and felt presentable for the first time in ages.

‘Selma Falck,’ whispered a middle-aged man in jeans and an orange padded waistcoat.

He had assumed a sympathetic expression, but nevertheless failed to disguise his curiosity.

‘Condolences. Truly. Haakon was your godson, wasn’t he?’

Selma didn’t want to answer. But Selma Falck always gave an answer.

‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘And thank you.’

She really shouldn’t have come.