‘Smart move.’

‘I don’t experience any other racism.’

‘I see.’

‘You must be feeling very sad.’

‘What?’

‘About Haakon. Maybe it would be better to talk about this another time?’

At last Selma sat still. She exhaled loudly, slowly, and clasped her hands on her lap. Her eyes were turned to the side, as if contemplating something or other.

‘I read the online newspapers just before you arrived,’ Hege said.

Selma did not react.

‘It said that a journalist came out with a question about Haakon and drugs. At the press conference. Where you were.’

Now Selma at least looked up, but she had started to scratch her left elbow again. Beneath her sweater, it looked as if a lively ferret was playing a game of hide and seek.

‘It also mentioned that on the internet,’ Hege said by way of explanation. ‘That you were there, I mean.’

Selma nodded, still silent.

‘What was that about, actually?’

‘I don’t know. The journalist was interrupted.’

‘Haakon didn’t take drugs. That’s a certainty, at least. He was one of the most gutsy when it came to demanding severe action against drugs in sport. His post-mortem will show that he was clean.’

‘Yes. If he hasn’t been sabotaged, you know. Like you. Maybe the entire national team has been subjected to a colossal sabotage operation.’

Hege stood up.

‘Come here.’

Selma looked at her with raised eyebrows and did not stand up.

‘Come here,’ Hege commanded, so loudly that the kitchen door gave a soft, long sigh and slid open.

Maggi’s sad figure appeared.

‘Everything’s fine.’ Hege waved her away and headed towards a door at the far end of the living room, behind the bleak, enormous hole where a fire should have blazed.

She registered that Selma was following in her wake.

‘This is Dad’s home office,’ Hege said, opening the door and stepping inside.

Selma was still following her.

The room was spacious and square, with a huge desk in the middle of the floor. A dead iMac was placed in front of a black leather office chair. The desk surface was tidy, almost bare, and there was a faint smell of aftershave and furniture oil.

‘That’s Mum and me,’ Hege said.

She was pointing at a picture. It was hanging on a wall covered in photographs, old and new, black-and-white and colour, big, small and many sizes in between. This one hung in the centre and was largest of all.

‘I was eight,’ Hege went on. ‘That was three years before Mum died.’

A girl with dark hair and slanted eyes narrowed with laughter. Crooked, pearl-white smile; one of the big front teeth had still not emerged, the other still had a ragged edge. The woman was around forty, and just as fair as the youngster was dark. She had her arm around her daughter and her forehead tilted towards the girl’s hair.

The mother was smiling.