Six months ago she had suffered a greater setback than she was used to. A predicament the previous month had made it necessary for her to borrow from Jan Morell’s account. One false step followed another until an overconfident stake had upset the applecart. It could have saved her, the whole amount all at once. When one late night after five terrible months of losses, she finally dared to check how much Jan’s account was in debit, she had decided to make one last effort to regain the money. She had read, speculated and reasoned her way into a shorting chance on the New York stock exchange that had huge potential.

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.