‘I tried that,’ she said. ‘But it was pointless. I’m too short of time. I simply have to begin with the hypothesis that she’s been sabotaged. I have to take any shortcuts going. If she wasn’t sabotaged, but has taken drugs either intentionally or by accident, I won’t be able to get her exonerated anyway. At least not in time for the Winter Olympics.’

She licked her lips. Hesitated.

‘And then I found an interesting chapter in that book of yours.’

Einar smiled broadly with his mouth full of food.

‘The Investigator’s ABC,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Brilliant! What are you referring to? Which of my many pearls of wisdom did you find interesting this time?’

Selma Falck didn’t read literature. She’d barely opened anything other than textbooks all her life. Seldom went to the cinema. If she had a free evening, something she rarely had, she watched TV. Eight years ago she had come across the first season of The Walking Dead, a post-apocalypse series so full of action that she actually succumbed to its fascination. Deeply enough that she had watched every season since, twice over, and she had an expensive figure of Michonne on her office desk. Purchased in London and brought home with a good deal of loot. When Selma had read in a newspaper article somewhere that the series was strongly inspired by Albert Camus’s The Plague, she had bought a novel for the first time ever. And never got further than page six.

If she wasn’t keen on written fiction, she was nonetheless good with facts. She had completed her law degree in the normal length of time in parallel with a handball career, and had ended up among the top ten per cent in her year.

That had won her 50,000 kroner in a bet with her brother.

Selma knew her professional literature, and The Investigator’s ABC was a piece of junk.

Muddled and unfocused, repetitive and pretty badly written into the bargain. She suspected the so-called publisher of being a kitchen worktop affair. Even Einar’s spelling mistakes had survived editing and correction. Since Einar Falsen had undoubtedly been a competent and clear-thinking policeman, Selma assumed that his illness had already affected him at the time the book was issued.

‘Qui bono,’ Selma said.

‘Who benefits,’ Einar replied, nodding. ‘Marcus Tullius Cicero’s speech in defence of Titus Annius Milo. Who was actually convicted, despite Cicero’s efforts.’

Tossing the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, he chewed it up and washed it down with the scalding-hot coffee.

‘Have you brought any dessert?’

Selma handed him a packet of Smil chocolates she took from the bottom of the Camelbak bag.