DTV’s logo fills the large screen the second Smeed plugs in his laptop. In silence, they watch the breaking news story that’s going to play all day, every thirty minutes, and that will probably crash DTV’s website.

Jon Bergman’s voice briefly summarising the police operation, the same old hackneyed phrases, such as ‘DTV can now reveal that . . .’, ‘. . . according to police sources’, along with pictures of Luna at the height of her fame. Flashing blue lights, sweeping shots of the barracks, a pan towards the house where Luna was kept, a uniformed officer barring the way before the camera can get inside.

And then two harshly lit faces with wildly staring eyes, Luna’s and Karen’s, before the ambulance doors are slammed shut.

‘What the fuck? I told them they weren’t allowed to—’

Karen breaks off and hears scattered laughter. Mirthless laughter. Everyone knows exactly what’s coming.

All hell is going to break loose. Right now, the press office seems to be holding firm, but it’s a rickety shield, doomed to break. And the media won’t be the only ones hounding them. Every last one of their colleagues is going to want to know what really happened and how it really played out. Curious relatives, friends who want the inside scoop, neighbours who suddenly stop by for a chat instead of just nodding and passing as usual.

Jounas Smeed clears his throat.

‘Well, I don’t think I need to tell you what everyone here no doubt already knows, but I will anyway,’ he says. ‘We have freedom of the press in this country. We also have an obligation to the people we are here to serve, be it an assaulted pensioner in Gaarda or a world-famous popstar. No one, and I mean no one is well served by more leaks.’

Silence. Everyone knows that.

Everyone also knows that there will probably be more leaks than ever now. Granted, DTV doesn’t offer money in return for tips, but the evening papers do. And the foreign journalists who are about to invade are likely to have deep pockets.

‘OK. We’re going to let you guys get out of here, then. Thank you again for a well-executed operation,’ Smeed says with a nod to the uniforms, who take the hint and shuffle out, looking disappointed at having been invited to the party only to be so summarily dismissed.

That they were allowed to be present for any part of the meeting is entirely in line with the new staff directives that stress the importance of ‘participation and the explicit recognition by senior management of all colleagues after the completion of a major operation or operation of particular significance’.

So, Smeed, I guess you did take that course, after all, Karen muses with a weary smile.

‘Is there any risk of the media making the connection with Billy Formby?’ Karl Björken asks the moment the door closes.