‘I didn’t rape her though, did I,’ I snarled.

‘No, but then you probably didn’t get the chance.’

I pushed his arm up, forcing his head back against the wall.

‘You have no right to do this, Veum. You’ve no fucking…’ He tried to kick out, but I had his legs pegged back.

Then he tried to punch his way free. One blow hit me in the ribs, the second in the stomach. But he was too slow and I had tensed my muscles in time.

I pushed his head further back and slapped his face. ‘Keep still, Madsen, otherwise I’ll knock you senseless. D’you understand?’

‘Veum, you hypocritical bastard,’ he squeezed out between clenched teeth.

‘What about Johnny Solheim? Were you jealous because he seemed to be getting all the goodies? Was it you who stabbed him, hoping the way to the sweetie shop would be open afterwards? Were you disappointed?’353

He squirmed like a fish on a hook. ‘I had fuck all to do with Johnny’s death.’

‘What were you doing last Saturday? Did you go straight home? Or did you wait for Johnny in the street?’

‘I did nothing of the kind.’

‘Or perhaps you knew where … No…’ There were still too many loose threads. I couldn’t work it out.

‘What part did you play in Harry Kløve’s death?’

‘Harry?’

‘Arild Hjellstad’s?’

‘I don’t know what you’re…’

‘Do you send people threatening letters with pictures of angels?’

‘Angels? Are you cracked or what?’

‘And the one to Jakob Aasen?’

He managed a kick with one leg. ‘Jakob should definitely keep his gob shut. He banged his own daughter.’

He was hanging backwards from my left forearm like a rag doll from a hook. All of a sudden everything was quiet around us.

I became aware of a radio droning away, or perhaps it was a television. The minimalist, masculine hallway stank of dust and ammonia. A few worn leather jackets hung from pegs, a Stetson and some other head gear were on a shelf, and some umbrellas with points snapped off stood in a waste-paper basket by one wall.

‘What did you say?’ I said.

He blinked. ‘Wh-what?’

‘Jakob, what did he…?’

‘Fucked his own daughter. Johnny told me, laughing and gloating.’354

‘Ma-Maria.’ I could see her in front of me, running down the long corridor.

‘Maria? Christ, no. Her name wasn’t Maria.’

‘What was it then?’

‘Ruth, I think. Her name was Ruth.’

355

45

I left him there, in the hallway. For as long as I could still see him, he remained leaning against the wall, without moving, as though I were still holding him.

I couldn’t waste any more time on him. His day would come.

I drove into town again, to the address Belinda Bruflåt had given me.

I parked in a side street and quickly orientated myself. I was in an area of small timber houses with handkerchief-sized gardens around them. The Mul River had once flowed here, from Skredder valley to the outlet into the fjord, but the only gurgling sounds you heard nowadays were beer being drunk on light summer nights.