My left arm had a life of its own and my chin felt like something I had bought at a closing-down sale.

It was the telephone that had woken me. ‘Hello,’ I answered, in two different keys. Where did that voice come from?

‘Veum?’

‘That’s me.’

‘This is Berge Brevik. We met briefly the other day.’ We had indeed.

‘And as recently as yesterday,’ I said.

‘That’s exactly why I’m … Could we meet?’

‘I’ve got something on this morning which…’

‘What about this afternoon or this evening?’

‘It sounds urgent.’

‘Yes, Veum, it is.’ As if he was telling me that doomsday was approaching and he had all the details. But I had a feeling there were much more secular reasons for his call.

‘Let’s meet in my office at six.’

‘On Strandkaien? I just rang there.’

‘So you’ve already spoken to my secretary?’

‘No, I…’

‘Naturally, I mean my answer-machine.’

‘Ah, I see. Right, Veum. I’ll be there.’271

‘See you.’

‘See you, Veum. Goodbye.’

I put down the receiver, completed my morning rituals, made a few tentative movements with my left arm, brewed myself a cup of coffee and sat musing over the motley selection of people I had met over the last few days, all with their own secrets.

Anita Solheim and her two daughters: Ruth, whom I still hadn’t met, and Sissel, who was attending a confirmation class – with Berge Brevik.

Bente Solheim with the bruising on her cheek and pictures of angels in the post.

Old Ingeborg Kløve with the sudden memory of similar angels – and Halldis Heggøy who had turned her back on them and placed her faith in other powers.

Rebecca – and Berge Brevik.

Jakob – and Berge Brevik.

The ghosts of Arild Hjellstad and Harry Kløve, prematurely departed, but perhaps not without good reason.

The mysterious Belinda Bruflåt, torn between a stage act and the chapel.

Stig Madsen – another kind of ghost.

And then the recently deceased: Jan Petter Olsen, who in a way had brought us all together, and Johnny Solheim, who had been driving us apart again.

Shadows from the stage seemed to fall on all of them.

On that stage stood The Harpers, figures without facial features, silhouettes representing seventeen years of gigs: on the drums, Arild Hjellstad; on the bass guitar, Harry Kløve; on guitar and, later, the organ, Jakob Aasen; on guitar and vocals, Johnny Solheim. Give them a big hand, folks. Give them a big hand…

And then they began to play … then they began to play …272

*

They were still playing in the recesses of my mind as I parked by the newspaper offices, looked at my watch, and then she was there, Laila Mongstad, with her big smile, all teeth, her gold-rimmed glasses glinting in the December sun, wearing a short, light-brown leather jacket and shiny, faded jeans, youthfully tight over her ample hips, a camera hanging casually and suggestively between her sweater-clad breasts and a discreet scent of pine needles and forest floor on her neck. She jumped in the car, gave me a quick hug and said: ‘This is brilliant, Varg. You and I going the same way…’