‘Selma Falck,’ he replied, sounding surprised. ‘Oh. Hello.’

The NCCSF president poked his head in and glanced towards the living room.

‘Is there … some sort of … party going on here?’

‘A viewing.’

‘What?’

‘A wake, if you prefer. A lot of people are here to grieve.’

‘Wa … no, no. I just wanted to …’

He retreated a couple of steps.

‘Are his mothers here?’

‘Yes, of course. We’re holding a viewing, as I said. Come on in.’

Selma opened the door wider and spread her arms out in a gesture of encouragement.

‘No,’ Bottolf Odda said firmly. ‘I’m not invited. I just came to …’

He ran a rough hand over his unshaven face. His suit hung badly on him and raindrops glittered on his shoulders. His red tie had a dark stain and he reeked of fast food.

‘I just wanted to give them a little …’ he began, ‘… warning. A heads-up, so to speak.’

‘I see. What about? Or isn’t it a bit silly of us to be speaking out here in the hall?’

He brusquely grabbed her elbow and steered her out into the stairwell.

‘This is probably best,’ he mumbled.

‘What is?’

‘That I tell you. Then you can tell them.’

His hand was raised lethargically towards the front door that had almost slid shut behind them.

‘OK,’ Selma said, nodding obligingly. ‘I’m a sort of family lawyer, you might say. What’s this about?’

‘The A-test,’ he whispered.

‘The drugs test? On Haakon? Was a sample really taken?’

‘Yes. It’s …’

‘He died on Friday,’ Selma interrupted. ‘Surely there aren’t any results yet? It usually takes at least a fortnight!’

‘Jan Morell,’ he said so softly that she had to ask him to repeat it. ‘Jan Morell! He has so many strings he can pull that it’s really scary. As soon as the rumours began to do the rounds on Saturday, after the press conference, he started to work his magic.’

Bottolf Odda pushed his hand under his jacket.

‘Now we’re doing all we can to delay the B-test.’

‘What? Are you planning to sabotage …’

‘No, no, no!’

He waved his left hand about while the right hand was still fumbling for something that was apparently tucked into his inside pocket.

‘Not sabotage. On the deceased’s behalf, we have requested analysis of a B-test. To prevent this becoming public knowledge before the funeral. Or cremation. What is it to be?’

Selma did not answer. She grasped one side of his jacket and held it out.

‘What is it you want to show me, Bottolf?’

‘This.’

He handed her an A4 sheet, and she opened it out. Read. Read yet again.

‘Clostebol,’ she murmured, running her tongue over her lower lip. ‘Extremely minimal quantities. But obviously present.’

She calmly folded the sheet of paper and gave it back to him.

‘The same substance that Hege has been caught using,’ she said. ‘This is starting to turn into a real crisis.’