Last night too she’d had difficulty sleeping. She hadn’t been training as much as usual. Twice yesterday journalists had turned up on the street, but none of them had taken the liberty of ringing the doorbell. Or planting footprints around the house.

Since she was under suspension, she couldn’t go to the team headquarters. The exercise studio in the basement was at least as good, but she was tired, unfocused and lacked motivation for anything other than a stint of running on the treadmill.

Yesterday evening she had finally embarked on the list Selma Falck had requested. When she woke two hours after bedtime from a nightmare she could not remember, she had surfed haphazardly on her phone.

Haakon was dead.

Going back to sleep was out of the question. The newspapers could not say much more than that it appeared to be an accident during training. Normally Hege would have phoned someone. She could rouse Hedda Bruun at least. Previously. Before the allegations. But not now. People she usually associated with had vanished from the scene in less than a week. Without a sound, and lacking specific facts, they had disappeared, almost as they had when her mother had died and everyone became remarkably silent every time Hege approached.

To pass the night, she had completed the list. Only to appreciate that it was worthless.

‘Why is that?’ Selma Falck asked.

The lawyer had arrived unannounced. She seemed restless and distracted, but looked a lot better than she had on Thursday. Her agitation could be connected to Haakon’s death, Hege thought, and she had offered Selma her condolences at the door. A number of online newspapers had emphasized that Selma Falck, the dead skier’s godmother, had been present at the Cross-Country Skiing Federation’s press conference.

‘Because it can’t be exhaustive,’ Hege answered with tears in her eyes as she suppressed a yawn. ‘I’ve just really been fooling myself, thinking that I had everything under control. That the Federation had everything under control. The fact is …’

She pushed the list, which ran to two pages, towards the settee on the other side of the polished concrete table, where Selma was seated.

The two pages still lay on the table. Selma Falck hadn’t even glanced at them. She sat twirling her wedding ring that appeared too large. In every sense. It was slack, Hege noticed, and also seemed unfashionably broad.

‘As far as the medical side is concerned, until the episode with Hedda I’d thought we were completely secure. Now it appears this was wrong. Food and suchlike? Beverages?’

Around her wrist she had an elastic band. She gathered up all her hair and fashioned a ponytail with deft, practised motions.