She didn’t make it. The next morning Jan had asked to transfer money that no longer existed.

Computer games, the kind that teenagers get hooked on and shut themselves indoors to play, had never interested her. She was expert at leaving a poker table in time. Right up until the last six months she had been in complete control. Marriage and children, friends and a demanding job: she had coped with it all, no problem, for years, and it was only circumstances and sheer bad luck that had turned everything on its head in the end.

She was not addicted to gambling, and never had been.

So, logically enough, she did not need any treatment either. All the same, she would have to produce a certificate stating that she was receiving help. By five p.m. tomorrow.

There was only one way out.

It took Selma an hour and a half to fashion a certificate. She chose the most famous specialist in Norway. Bjørn Kragh, clinical psychologist with an office in Akersgata and frequently used commentator every time some sports star allowed himself to be recruited as an ambassador for foreign gambling companies and NRK, the state broadcaster, felt responsible for sounding the alarm.

Bjørn Kragh was professional enough to comply with his duty of confidentiality. If Jan took it into his head to phone to check the authenticity of the document, the psychology specialist would neither confirm nor deny Selma’s status as a patient.

The clinic’s logo comprised three consecutive circles in shades of dirty yellow. The last and lightest of these dissolved obliquely on the right, with dwindling pixels. Selma managed to make a perfect copy at the top of the sheet of paper. She signed with what she felt was an acceptable signature for a man in his late sixties.

Perfect.

A rush of adrenaline made her breathe faster.

She simply couldn’t do this.

She stood up from the settee and stood with the paper in her hand for what felt like an eternity. Suddenly she went out to the kitchen and put the forged document down on the top of the kitchen cupboard. She changed the water in Darius’s bowl and dashed to the door. In her hurry she snatched up the blonde wig and glasses, both of which were in the hallway in an unopened box.

In the basement in Ensjø she was at least beyond Jan Morell’s control. The game at the Poker Turk’s place would be well underway, but she would undoubtedly be able to charm her way to the table.

THE MANUSCRIPT

401 OUTSIDE, OSLO CITY CENTRE, EVENING

The MAN is waiting in a city park. Early autumn, leaves and wet grass. Still fairly light in the evening. The MAN glances impatiently at the building on the opposite side of the street. The WOMAN comes walking along the pavement, on her way to the apartment block. The MAN crosses the street, jogging.

MAN: Hey! Vanja!

VANJA (turns around): Oh. You. I’ve sent you a message.