It reveals a man in a tightly tied grey bathrobe. Yngve Formby is neither particularly tall nor wide, but there’s something about the way he places himself in the middle of the doorway, at the edge of the threshold, that says this home is his castle and no one, not even the police, can enter without his permission. This home, into which a newborn baby boy was once welcomed, only to be kicked out again fifteen years later when he turned out not to meet the Formbys’ expectations.

Karen tries to hide her disgust behind a stiff smile.

‘Yes?’ Yngve Formby says. ‘Are you the ones who called?’

What the fuck do you think? Are you expecting more visitors at this hour?

She extends her hand and takes a step towards him.

‘Detective Inspector Karen Eiken Hornby. This is my colleague, Detective Inspector Karl Björken. We apologise for disturbing you at this ungodly hour.’

Perhaps it’s her choice of words or the fact that the woman in front of him has now moved in too close that makes Yngve Formby take a step back and stick out his own hand.

‘I assume you have a good reason for coming here in the middle of the night. Like I said on the phone—’

‘We do,’ she responds curtly.

Yngve Formby backs up further and steps aside. Only now does Karen realise there’s a woman behind him, a little bit further down the hall. Instead of just pulling on a bathrobe, she has apparently used the time while they were waiting to put on a skirt and blouse, as well as socks and shoes. Yngve Formby could pass for a regular old man, grumpy about being woken up, but his wife exhibits all the signs of being a woman of God. Her skirt reaches well below her knees, her blouse is buttoned all the way up, her brown shoes are modestly low-heeled, and her long hair is demurely gathered at the nape of her neck. A cross around her neck completes the picture.

‘Welcome,’ she says with something akin to a stiff smile. ‘Would you like to come through to the great room?’

‘The great room’ turns out to be just that. A rectangular space of approximately 350 square feet with oversized windows overlooking the garden. At least, Karen assumes a garden is lurking behind the meticulously closed curtains. The décor is old-fashioned; the Formbys clearly see no reason to mix family heirlooms and modern touches. The piano at the far end may, Karen muses, have been built during her lifetime. The rest of the furniture consists of simple but well-cared for sofas, tables, and chairs from the previous century. No pictures on the walls, no bookshelves, but they do have a TV, she notes. Probably slightly younger than the piano, but not by much.