‘Yes,’ he nodded, his voice breaking so much that his answer became a squeak. ‘Not only for Hege and for Haakon’s post-humous reputation. But also for …’

His hand rested under the left side of his jacket for so long that Selma feared momentarily that he was about to have a heart attack. His face was grey and damp, but the moisture could be from the rain outside.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said, stroking his face. ‘Bloody hell, Selma Falck. This is primarily a crisis for the Norwegian Cross-Country Skiing Federation. Death and drug-taking. Damn and blast.’

All of a sudden, he inhaled loudly. Almost gasped for air, and then repeated: ‘Death and drug-taking!’

His eyes were brimming. His lower lip trembled before he abruptly straightened up, adjusted his jacket and tie and ran both hands over the few wet strands of hair he still possessed.

‘And less than two months till the Winter Olympics,’ he said in an exaggeratedly light tone of voice as he forced a grimace that might resemble a smile. ‘I’ve got enough to do, you might say. Thank you very much.’

‘Thank you.’

He began to move towards the stairs. Selma stood there watching him.

‘Now it’s come to me,’ he said suddenly, turning around. ‘Who you look like. A bloody strong likeness, really.’

‘I know.’

His smile was wan, but now at least it seemed genuine.

‘You must have heard it. All the time.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s really striking. I like it, by the way. The series. And the actress.’

He turned up his jacket lapels and trudged down the stairs.

THE CONVERSATION

‘This is actually impressive.’

Jan Morell was a man of few compliments. He had grown up with a single mother who told him every morning, always equally dispassionately, that he would never amount to anything. Just like his father, she said, although Jan never really knew what had become of him. Then his mother tossed in a line or two about Jan being the reason for everything painful and difficult in her life, before lighting a cigarette and going back to bed. Not until he was seventeen years old did Jan meet anyone who spoke nicely to him. Her name was Katinka, and he made up his mind to take care of her for the rest of her life.

She died twenty-five years later.

Jan Morell was a man of action. He had fought his way through his childhood, when he was not skiing or skating with equipment that was old-fashioned and heavy as lead. He bought it himself, with hard-earned cash from bottle deposits, at the Stampen second-hand store in Prinsens gate. Or at a flea market. His mother hadn’t got him so much as a proper cap: for eight winters in a row he had roamed around in a knitted ski helmet he had been given by his hero Knut Johannesen, better known by his nickname Kupper’n, one time when as a little boy he had sneaked on to a tram and a bus all the way to the petrol station in Bøler to get the old speed-skating star’s autograph.