Vanja became Selma’s friend on Monday 20 August 1973. In the photograph of the new Primary One class, they both had red satchels with white seams. Pigtails. And each with a ball under her arm, which the teacher hadn’t discovered until after the photo had been taken. Selma had defiantly got her own way and was wearing trousers. Vanja was dressed in a skirt and white lacy blouse, and they were placed side by side in the classroom to remain seated like that for ever afterwards. No matter what the teacher said. Many years later they both ended up in the national team, and Vanja would find Kristina. Selma met Jesso and got married, something Kristina and Vanja were unable to do until times changed when Haakon was three years old.

Selma made up her mind to leave before the press conference was under way. She had no business being here. It had been restlessness that had brought her here, she figured: an intense agitation and a hope that she might learn something more than the policeman had been able to impart last night. Bottolf Odda had moved into sight out there on the podium. He was waiting for something or someone, with his hands folded and his eyes cast down. Pale, and wearing a dark suit and tie, Selma could hardly remember ever seeing him dressed like this.

Two enormous vases of flowers were on display. Something that might be a book of condolence had been set up on a small table at the front corner of the room, with a lit candle beside it. This promised to be more of a memorial service than a press conference.

Selma stood up to leave before it all kicked off.

Indecisive, she sat down again.

It was Saturday, a storm was raging outside, and it wouldn’t be long until Christmas. She still hadn’t bought a single present. It didn’t matter; she didn’t even know where she would be at Christmas. It wouldn’t be on Ormøya, so she had hoped that Vanja and Kristina would invite her now that Vanja had discovered a tiny sliver of Selma’s secret.

That would hardly happen now.

Haakon was dead.