‘No, no. I didn’t think that…’

‘It was just an arrangement that Johnny and I had. He was away so many weekends, doing all sorts of gigs, and it was only right that I could go out when I felt like it. As long as I didn’t … as long as nothing happened.’

‘That doesn’t sound unreasonable. But you have to admit it was an odd – not to mention tragic – coincidence. You were dancing and so on while Johnny was … well … outside.’

She nodded.

‘Were you expecting him?’

She shook her head.

‘The man you were dancing with – who was he?’

She shrugged her lean shoulders. ‘Just someone I met there. Nice guy. Dentist.’

‘Yes, there are nice guys. So he didn’t want to go home with you to examine your fillings?’

She blushed again. ‘He accompanied me to a taxi. That was all.’

‘And you’d never seen him before?’

‘No, I’ve already told you.’

‘And he didn’t talk about Johnny? As though he knew him?’

‘Not at all. We didn’t talk about that kind of thing.’

‘And which of you took the first step?’

She looked past me. ‘He asked me if I wanted to dance.’

I nodded. ‘OK. Tell me: in the last few days, the last week before this happened, was there anything unusual? Anything that might be construed as a kind of warning?’220

‘Warning? No, I … The only thing…’ She got up and went over to the bureau. Behind the doors there were rows of glasses of various sizes. She stretched a hand past one of the rows and pulled out an envelope. ‘This came in the post last Monday.’

She passed me the envelope. There was no sender’s address, the postmark was Bergen, and Johnny’s name and address were written in big, deliberately clumsy letters.

‘Johnny just threw it in the bin. He couldn’t make head or tail of it, he said. But yesterday I remembered it. So I went down to the cellar, searched the bin and found it. Have a look. It stinks and it’s screwed up, but … I wondered. Do you think I should show it to the police?’

I opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. I straightened it out and it hit me like a punch in the gut.

It was a standard piece of stationery someone or other had glued four angel stickers to: Rubens-style chubby-faced cherubs, resting their arms on light-blue clouds and smiling affably at me like small children. Above each of their heads there was a black crucifix, made with a felt-tipped pen. Two of the heads were crossed out in blood red and the third was circled.

‘Have you any idea what this’s supposed to mean?’ Bente Solheim asked, her tone strangely detached.

‘I definitely think you should show this to the police,’ I said. ‘In fact, you must show it to them. There could be fingerprints or other clues on it.’

‘But … but what does it mean?’