But in the case of Selma Falck, it was completely different.

On Saturday evening, while the rest of the house slept, he had Googled for pictures of her. She had been everywhere during those years, and her internet archive ran to almost 200,000 photographs. In sweaty running gear and elegant evening gowns, at the palace, on a climbing wall, on ice rinks and in court. She seemed equally well dressed in all of these, even in her lawyer’s robes. In some photos, especially when she was dressed to the nines, she was with her husband. Jess Olav Mork was his name, also originally a lawyer, but he had now been the MP for Venstre for the past twelve years. He had held his seat by the skin of his teeth in that autumn’s general election. One of the most recent images was from Thursday 26 October, only a couple of weeks before Jan had exposed Selma’s crime.

The photograph had been taken as the guests arrived at the annual parliamentary dinner at the palace. Selma was wearing a midnight-blue evening dress that, according to the blurb, was designed by Ove Harder Finseth. The neckline was plunging and her arms were bare. Her long, dark hair was half up, half down, and she was looking straight at the camera with the same broad smile as everywhere else.

Her husband, on the other hand, was staring directly at her.

Of all the pictures Jan Morell took the time to peruse that evening, in the company of three glasses of whisky and finally a cigar on the doorstep, there was only one photo that showed eye contact between Selma and Jess Olav. That one had been taken in 1988 at the Olympic Games in Seoul. The final was just over and lost, and the image from Aftenposten depicted the young couple as they were about to kiss.

Almost thirty years ago.

‘The Cross-Country Skiing Federation,’ Selma said, picking up a roll. ‘You think someone’s out to destroy the NCCSF. Per se, so to speak.’

Jan nodded.

‘So you think that …’

She examined the bread roll and took a bite. Chewing silently, she swallowed and then said: ‘That the Russians have sabotaged the Norwegian national team by sneaking drugs into the bodies of our best male and female skiers? Or maybe you suspect Sweden? Or maybe it’s our friends the Danes who are pissed off about having only one skier among the million best in the world?’

She took yet another bite of the snack and chewed slowly. Watching him.

‘Not necessarily them,’ he said acerbically. ‘It doesn’t have to be foreigners.’

‘Have you any other suggestions? Our Telemark skiers?’

He had never known her to be sarcastic. Her eyes narrowed and even though she was chewing, he could see that she was smiling.

‘Have you been in contact with a psychologist?’ he asked.

She did not answer.

‘The deadline runs out today. In …’

He drew back his sweater and peered at his wristwatch.