She turned back to me. ‘In 1985…’

‘You and Berge Brevik, for example,’ I said, and quickly added: ‘Anything else?’

She looked perplexed, as though reeling from sustaining one attack after another. ‘It’s all … chance, Varg. They all died in different ways, didn’t they?’

I nodded. ‘They did, but they all received a letter first.’

‘A letter?’

‘Mhm. A kind of threatening letter. Or a warning. A letter containing pictures of angels. Stickers. The Harpers. Harpegjengen. Do you understand? And gradually the angels were crossed out. Now there’s only one left. Jakob’s.’

Her mouth fell open. ‘But this … Do the police know about all of this, Varg?’

‘Of course. I only…’ I didn’t complete the sentence.

‘And so this began…?’312

I counted on my fingers. ‘In 1985 Harry Kløve died. In 1986 Arild Hjellestad, Johnny Solheim and Jan Petter Olsen died.’

‘But Jan Petter Olsen wasn’t in…’

‘No, but he was present on that October evening in 1975. Quite by chance. Don’t you think that’s odd, Rebecca? Isn’t it an absolutely incontrovertible clue?’

‘I…’

‘And in 1987 it might be Jakob’s turn. Unless…’

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless it all stops now.’

‘And if so what would that mean?’

I stared at her intently. ‘Well, what would it mean, Rebecca?’

She stroked her hand through her unruly, dark-blonde hair.

‘I don’t know, Varg. I’m completely at sea.’

I nodded. ‘I’m not surprised.’

‘The funeral’s tomorrow,’ she said.

‘Whose funeral?’

‘Johnny’s. I saw the death notice.’

Something clicked in my head. ‘The death not … Listen, Rebecca,’ I said with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. ‘You haven’t got the Bergens Tidende from last Monday and the previous Saturday, have you?’

She eyed me, her head tilted. ‘There’s a pile in the kitchen. Is it important?’

I nodded.

‘Last Monday and the Saturday before?’

‘Yes.’

She left the room. Shortly afterwards she returned with the two newspapers.

‘Did you find them?’

She nodded.313

‘Thank you very much.’

I took the Monday edition first and opened it at the personal page. Spot on. Jan Petter Olsen’s death notice: ‘…died suddenly on Friday…’

I left the page open, took the other one and started to flick through.

On one of the first news pages I found it: a small note in the right-hand column.

‘…fell from a six-storey-high scaffolding structure … all the health and safety precautions taken … a tragic accident, says the site manager…’

First Saturday.

Then Monday.

And on Friday the funeral had taken place.

‘What is it, Varg?’

‘Nothing. Just … an idea.’ But I sat pondering it for quite a long while.

In the meantime her attention was again caught by the winter darkness outside. I saw the reflection of her face in the pane, like another Rebecca.