Once again she drew quote marks in the air, more animated now.

‘For us Norwegians, cross-country skiing is a matter of national pride. It’s about being Norwegian. About our great society. Of course it can’t be said about Hege that she is “gloriously Norwegian”. Because she’s not. And yet you certainly couldn’t assert that she was un-Norwegian. That would be stretching things. In that respect Hege was always a rare bird on the ski trails. Not to her teammates. Not to the Federation. But to those who lay down the real foundations of popular sports: the majority.’

‘The men’s national football team has lots of …’

‘Cut it out. Football is a world sport. On the football field, the spectators have scarves, banners and noisy rattles. And traipse around in their team colours. Along the ski trails, what do you see there? Knitted sweaters, plus fours and Norwegian flags, Jan. Markers of national identity. Flag upon flag upon waving fucking flag! All over the place. Any ordinary Sunday at Holmenkollen looks like a seventeenth of May parade on rotten snow. This year a gang of women from Bærum had even put on national costumes. National costumes! On a ski trail!’

A furious blush had spread from her neck upwards. She was really unrecognizable.

Selma Falck had built her career as a lawyer and celebrity on the basis of never taking a position on political questions. A kernel of the strictly politically correct was all she ever allowed herself to express. She had fronted several fundraising campaigns, but only to benefit totally uncontroversial causes. Save the Children and UNICEF, as Jan could recall. He had read one solitary interview in which the journalist had pressed her harder to find out where she stood. The only thing she would say, after a great deal of pressure, was that she had never voted for the party her husband represented in parliament.

Selma Falck was known for her direct manner, forthright character and no-nonsense approach. But if you analysed interviews with her, listened more closely when she spoke on TV or radio, it was as if the real Selma Falck was well hidden behind the armour of threadbare phrases and invulnerability.

There was only one arena in which a hard-hitting Selma expressed definite opinions.

In a court of law.

Now, however, she was in full flow in Jan Morell’s living room.

‘Football’s all about winning,’ she went on. ‘Fundamentally it’s a dreadfully boring sport for eighty-five of the ninety minutes. It matters not a jot whether the players are yellow, brown or white as far as the vast majority is concerned, as long as their shirts have the Norwegian flag on their chests. And they win. Football has a long tradition of multi-ethnicity. Cross-country skiing hasn’t, as you well know. Until yesterday I was reasonably sure that Hege was sabotaged because she’s different. Some madman or other who …’

The spaceship doors opened. Maggi moved towards the coffee table.

‘Have you had enough?’