Selma took a lighter from a woman she had never clapped eyes on before, and lit one of the many candles on a table beside the coffin. Most were already lit, maybe thirty of them, slim as cake candles, in tiny candlesticks. The flames flickered in the draught. People came and went.

Selma already wanted to leave.

Vanja and Kristina sat on the other side of the coffin, by Haakon’s head. They glanced up when she approached. Vanja sobbed silently, with Kristina’s hand clasped in hers. With the other she stroked Selma’s cheek gently. Without uttering a word. Few people were. One or two in hushed conversation and the hum of the December traffic in Pilestredet were the only sounds to be heard.

Selma recognized most people here. Not a single skier, she noted. No one from the Federation. Elise and little William, Haakon’s son, hadn’t come either. Most of those present were well over forty. Just Vanja and Kristina’s people. Some of them were well known to Selma, other friends, and several of them approached to speak to her. Two hours ago, the Dagbladet newspaper had published a short article stating that Selma Falck had unexpectedly sold herself out of the law firm Falck & Partners ANS. It also suggested that they had been unable to contact Selma herself for comment. Fortunately it did not mention anything about a serious illness.

They would scarcely come here, the journalists, and the occasion also did not lend itself to intrusive questions from the others.

Selma really wanted to get away from here as fast as possible.

This was new. All the time, no matter where she was – with the exception of the Poker Turk’s basement joint – she felt a strange urge to flee. As soon as she had arrived anywhere, she wanted to turn around. This bewildered her. All her life she had been drawn to others and had felt that others were drawn towards her.

For someone unable to really love anyone, she was actually incredibly social.

And popular.

Selma Falck filled her life with other people, and had been more alone in the past four weeks than the last ten years. Until Monday 13 November, when Jan Morell had confronted her with the continuous embezzlement from his client account, she would have taken a gathering like this in her stride. She would probably have arranged it. Ordered food and organized drinks and been the person who had made the sign in the hallway requesting everyone to switch off mobile phones and put them out of sight.

Before she had been exposed, she would have walked quietly around a room like this. Chatting. Tidying up. Making sure that Vanja and Kristina had everything they needed, at a time when they really wanted nothing except to turn the clock back three days.

But that was before.