The farmhouse windows were black, framed by white, soulless curtains, and as inviting as disused wells.227

As I crossed the yard the nearest chickens looked up, frightened by the sudden movement in the vicinity, but not scared enough to retreat indoors.

I smiled reassuringly at them and followed the grey slate flagstones to the front door of the house.

There was nothing approximating a bell, so I knocked on the door frame at first, then on the door, but I heard no reaction from inside.

I looked at the chickens as if they could tell me where Halldis Heggøy was.

Then I pressed the door to see if it was locked. It wasn’t.

As I slowly pushed it inward I noticed some stains on the slate paving by the door and on the sill. My eyes followed them – like a string of pearls – further into the house.

I crouched down and touched one of the stains with my index finger.

It was still moist, and lifting up my finger I saw it was red.

I held it to my nose and sniffed. It definitely wasn’t paint.

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31

I gently pushed the door wide open and ventured through the doorway, which was so low that I had to duck not to hit my head.

Raincoats and a couple of cloaks hung on hooks to the left of the dark, narrow hallway. A ladder staircase rose to an open hatch and a white door led further into the house.

I stopped and listened.

Nothing.

I followed the bloodstains to the white door. I placed my ear to the wall and listened.

Still nothing.

I held the door handle, pressed lightly and pushed.

I felt uneasy.

In my life I had gone into too many houses like this: ones with an ominous, oppressive silence.

I entered a kitchen with cupboards and worktops from the thirties, a Formica table from the early sixties and a refrigerator from the present decade. On one worktop there was a stained bedsit cooker, on a plate the remains of a piece of bread, a lump of butter and a crushed eggshell.

From the tap above the sink came a slow drip, like a Chinese water torture. In the sink there was a sharp knife. The rust-spotted blade was still red. With every drop of water on the blade the sink was splashed with pink blood.

The trail on the floor led to the sink, past it and through a half-open 229door to the next room. Faintly I heard a voice groaning, as if someone was in great distress.

I opened the door into a sitting room. The curtains were drawn and the atmosphere was stale and claustrophobic, which was not helped by the room being crammed with furniture from a period that required a lot more space than there was here.

The groaning was louder now, like a monotonous chant at a religious ceremony. It came from the adjacent room. There was a doorway hung with a dark heavy curtain. The trail of blood led towards it.