There wasn’t a gurgle to be heard now. There was hardly anything to be heard. The snowdrifts on the roofs of houses and in gardens made everything look like a gigantic Christmas decoration. In the background Sandviksfjellet rose steeply, glittering with frost, up to the stars, while Mount Fløien rested under a cover of snow-heavy conifer trees on the ascents up the Tippe Tue hiking route.

The light streaming out of windows was warm and alive. Many people had hung up their decorations and in several sitting-rooms Christmas trees were already lit.

I opened the gate to the building I had the address for. In the garden some children had made angels in the snow. I felt like the angel Gabriel himself as the snow creaked under my feet on the way to the entrance.356

A man with unkempt hair, braces pulled too tightly and an open newspaper in one hand looked at me grumpily as he opened the door.

‘Ruth Solheim?’ I said. ‘Does she live here?’

He gave a grunt not unlike his facial expression, mumbled something or other, pointed around the corner and closed the door in my face. I followed a trail of footprints around the corner and down to a basement entrance. To the right of the door there was a light glowing behind drawn orange curtains.

I had a look around. There was no bell, so I knocked.

As no one answered I banged on a pane instead.

The curtain was drawn to one side and a face stared out. She had untidy, dark-blonde curls, kept back from falling over her forehead by a red ribbon. Her eyes were dark behind the window.

She stared at me for a few seconds, then she was gone.

A moment later she gingerly opened the door and eyed me.

‘Ruth Solheim?’

She nodded.

‘My name’s Veum. Varg Veum. I know Belinda and your parents and … Roar. He says hi.’ Were there any more names I should say I knew? ‘I … Have you time for a little chat?’

‘What’s…’ Her voice was reedy, cracked and high-pitched. She cleared her throat. ‘…this about?’

I said gently: ‘It’s about what’s happened. All these deaths.’

She tried to hold my gaze, but looked away and stepped to the side. Resigned, she said: ‘You’d better come in then.’

There was a short, cold basement corridor. The door to the right was open and I entered a little bed-sit.

There was an electric heater in the middle of the floor and the air was very damp. I felt like I was in a sauna and the room was 357about as spartanly furnished. An unmade bed along one wall. In front of the bed a table and on a spindle-back chair some clothes. On the table a couple of editions of Bergen’s Christian newspapers and a cheap edition of the Bible, open. There was a picture of Jesus, the kind you win as a prize when you go to Sunday school. On a hotplate there was a dented pan and beside it an open carton of skimmed milk. There was half a loaf of bread on some brown paper and beside it a small selection of packet soups.