‘As you know,’ he continued at last, ‘Haakon was struggling with a minor shoulder injury that had prevented him from travelling to Davos this weekend. The rest of our women’s and men’s teams are there for the World Cup races today and tomorrow. It is up to each individual whether or not to continue. Those who wish to do so will be permitted to travel home as soon as possible.’

It was no longer just as quiet. The sound of fingers racing over keyboards combined with the rumble of the storm that had eased in the past half-hour.

‘We do not intend to provide any details about what happened in Maridalen. The police will make a more comprehensive statement at the appropriate time. Today I shall simply give a brief explanation of the consequences Haakon’s passing will have for the national team, both in the days that lie ahead and for the remainder of the season. After all, Haakon Holm-Vegge was Norway’s best cross-country skier of the past two years, and we had all been looking forward to seeing him in PyeongChang in February.’

Once again he had to take a moment.

‘But that is not going to happen now,’ he mumbled and cleared his throat.

Someone sniggered. Others shushed.

‘Well.’

The man straightened his back, took a deep breath and prepared to launch into another speech. That lasted for exactly three minutes, but then he was finished. However, he had not been particularly informative. It was unclear both whether and how this would influence the composition of the team that would travel to Toblach the following weekend. No decision had been taken about how the NCCSF would mark the young skier’s far too early death, other than that all skiers would wear black armbands this and next weekend. It was still too premature to set a date for the funeral. That the Crown Prince would, however, be present was something that Bottolf Odda, obviously moved, was pleased to announce.

Selma was far from certain that Vanja and Kristina would allow anything of the kind.

Bottolf Odda had finished speaking. He patted his breast pocket, for no apparent reason, and opened the conference to a brief round of questions. Twenty or so hands shot into the air. The questions that followed were uninteresting, and answered in an even more boring fashion. Finally Selma made a serious effort to stand up and move towards the door.

‘Carl Ole Hansgård here, DG Sport!’

The journalist’s voice was lighter, higher and far more insistent than the others had been.

Selma stopped and glanced over her shoulder. The man who had got to his feet was young and fairly short in stature, with red hair, close cropped to a couple of millimetres over his entire head.

‘Will the Federation request a drugs test be carried out on the body of the deceased?’ he asked.

‘What?’

The Cross-Country President stared at him, uncomprehending.