For the rest of that season, Sølve Bang had participated in the age-appropriate classes. And won most of them. His next season was not so glorious, and when he turned eighteen, it looked as if it was all over. He wasn’t injured, and he had trained tenaciously, but it was as if he had shot his bolt. All at once, in an explosion of effort, in the later fabled race in which a rosy-cheeked boy with fuzz on his upper lip had shown the elite of the world how to ski a fifteen-kilometre course.

When he retired at the age of nineteen, the skiing fraternity shrugged their shoulders. History was full of early bloomers, talents that never became any more than that. However, they had not quite managed to forget his name when that same autumn, only a few months after hanging up his skis, he made his debut as a novelist with a book that was sold to thirty-two countries and snatched up most of the existing literary prizes in 1985 and 1986.

Forgotten Tracks was the name of the book, a historical romance about the unknown, extremely young Birkebeiner Sturla Tryggvasson, supporter of Norway’s King Sverre, the true hero of the race to bring the king’s son, Håkon Håkonsson, to Nidaros in 1206. Incredible invention! cheered the reviewer in Dagens Gang when the book was published, while others gave it top marks and splashed it on the front pages.

That mostly took care of things.

So far, so good.

Since then Sølve Bang had produced a book around once a decade, without ever repeating the success of the time when he hadn’t yet turned twenty. All the same he had established a name for himself, or perhaps more accurately retained it, as one of the major figures of Norwegian literature. Selma Falck did not know why, but then she didn’t have much of a clue about books.

About sports, on the other hand, she was fairly expert.

Fortunately Sølve had not caught sight of her, and she tried to duck down in her chair. It was too late to make a serious attempt at escape. The lady with the tight skirt had closed the door and stood sentry there, rigid and serious.

Silence fell.

Bottolf Odda picked up the microphone.

‘Welcome,’ he said in a sombre voice, and cleared his throat. ‘The Cross-Country Skiing Federation has called this brief press conference to mark the tragic accident yesterday evening in which our national team member, Haakon Holm-Vegge, lost his life.’

It grew even quieter in the Dæhlie auditorium, if that were possible.

‘At this time, our thoughts go first and foremost to Haakon’s close family. His partner Elise and their one-year-old son William, of course, and also Haakon’s parents, Vanja Vegge and Kristina Holm. We. Share. Your. Grief.’

He seemed about to break down. The pause was so lengthy that it would have been embarrassing in any other circumstances.