He smiled wryly. Again he looked around. ‘It’s sad about Jan Petter. Do you think any of the others will come?’

‘Paul Finckel’s down there, struggling up the hill.’

‘Paul. Is that Paul?’

‘Mhm.’

We watched Paul Finckel dragging his flabby body up the hill from Møllendalsveien to the chapel.

‘He’s a journalist, isn’t he?’

‘Yep. And he’s not getting any younger either.’

He angled a look across at me. ‘No?’ Then he nodded. ‘Yes, the years take their toll.’

I looked at him. He was bowed and his round, cherubic face was greyer and baggier than I remembered. But I recognised the lively, brown eyes. They were just the same, both cheerful and melancholic.

The years had left their mark on us all. The furrows in my own face were even more pronounced this year. After every season new cares and woes are reaped, and old Farmer Time has to plough even deeper with every year that passes.

‘And what do you do, Varg? I think I heard somewhere that you…’

‘You probably heard correctly. I’m a sort of private investigator.’

He smiled as he shook his head. ‘Well, that shows how little we actually know. About how people will end up, I mean.’

‘Right. And you?’

‘I work as an organist. And I do a fair bit of composing.’

‘As an organist? In a church?’

He nodded. ‘In a church.’

‘You said it yourself. How little we know. In other words, you’ve hung up your rock ‘n’ roll boots?’3

A sad smile settled on his lips, but took flight again at once. ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’

Paul Finckel had made it up the hill. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief large enough to cover several local corruption scandals. He was wearing a puffed up, dark-blue down jacket that made him look as if he might take to the air at any minute. We were all attired according to our personalities. Jakob was wearing a sober, light-blue, knitted Shetland cardigan. I was wearing my newest winter coat, one from 1972.

Finckel greeted me. ‘Hi, Varg. There’s one thing I’ve been wondering. Why do they always put burial chapels at the top of mountains in this country?’

I looked up at Mount Ulriken, which towered six hundred metres above us. ‘The top’s up there, Paul.’

‘That’s how it feels, anyhow.’ He looked at Jakob, and then it must have dawned on him who it was. ‘Jakob? Jakob Aasen! Well, I’m buggered. What are you doing with all that fuzz on your face?’

Jakob grinned and looked around. ‘Shh! I’m here on a secret mission.’

Finckel’s lower lip jutted out. ‘I see. An agent for The Harpers?’

‘Exactly,’ Jakob said, his smile slowly fading.

‘What about Johnny? Isn’t he coming?’

‘No idea. I haven’t seen him for … ages. Besides Johnny isn’t the type to go to funerals, if I can put it like that.’

‘No, I suppose he isn’t. He’s keener on draught beer than the funeral bier, if you ask me.’ Finckel turned to me. ‘And the master detective is fine? No new corpses on your horizon?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Jan Petter wasn’t…’