‘In which case, I owe you from ages ago.’

‘Besides I’ve already put the potatoes on…’

‘Put them in the fridge for tomorrow.’

For some reason she allowed herself to be persuaded. Perhaps she had less resistance than before. Or perhaps the great panic had seized her: the knowledge that she had reached the age 197when if she said ‘no’ once or twice there wouldn’t be anyone else who would ask her.

I picked her up and enjoyed a peck on the cheek, the smell of apple flowers in my nostrils and a very relaxed evening into the bargain. We went to a Chinese restaurant which served generous portions for an affordable price. As I was driving I left it to her to drink wine. That made it easier for us both to keep the conversation going, and after I had paid the bill she wasn’t even offended to be given a note on which I had written: Anita, married to Solheim (Johnny), 1962–1975. Mother of Harry Kløve, born 1943, moved to care home probably in 1984–85 (perhaps before). Addresses now? She just glanced at it, smiled ironically, put the note in her handbag and said: ‘Call me early tomorrow and I’ll do it as soon as I’m at work.’

Afterwards I drove her home. Winter lay like a watchful beast around us, ready to pounce. But the prey wasn’t close enough yet.

In the car I gazed at her. Her short, ascetic hair brought out the stern contours of her face, and even the December darkness couldn’t hide the sad, almost bitter, expression on her mouth and the narrow yet sensitive lips. ‘You’re staring at me, Varg.’

I nodded. I leaned forward carefully and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

For a moment she hesitated. Then she kissed me back, as gently as if I were Chinese porcelain.

But she didn’t ask me up. Her sister had died recently, and it was too short a time after the funeral for that.

I sat in the car until she had let herself in. Then I drove back up Fløenbakken, took a left to Årstadsvollen and followed the side streets across the mountain to Skansen.

I walked home, changed into a track suit and went for a long, 198slow run to the Powder House in Isdalen and back, then got into bed with Isabel Allende, or rather, a book by her.

I held the other women up in front of me, as a kind of shield. But it wasn’t enough. I had felt the sensual attraction to Laila Mongstad; I had kissed Karin Bjørge. But that night, inevitably, I dreamed about Rebecca.

199

27

Next morning came like a bailiff on a white horse, bearing a gift.

I rang Karin Bjørge and got the two addresses.

‘No problems?’ I asked.

‘None at all.’

‘Will we see each other again?’

‘That would be nice.’

And that was that. It could be so easy if you cultivated your connections.

The rest of the day’s programme didn’t look insuperable either. Anita Solheim, who still used the same name, lived conspicuously close to her late ex-husband, in one of the side streets off the old Fyllingsveien above Melkeplassen square. From there I could drive over to Fyllingsdalen and try to locate Harry Kløve’s mother, Ingeborg, at the nursing home.