I looked at Jakob. Something had happened. His face was full of loathing; his eyes were stiff and glassy.

I followed his gaze. It was directed at Cleopatra and her beanpole. ‘What is it, Jakob?’

He tore himself away, blinked and mumbled: ‘It was someone … I saw. I think I … It’s getting late. I think I’d better concentrate … on tomorrow.’

‘But who was it, Jakob?’

He immediately stared at the same couple. ‘We always called him’ – he stroked his chin – ‘Captain Hook. He’s a dentist.’

‘Captain Hook … Gro’s husband?’

He nodded.

‘Does he know about … Does he know you?’

‘I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t like to be here if he … I’m off.’

‘So Gro’s alone at home then?’

He nodded.

‘But who’s…? Do you know the woman he’s dancing with?’

He shook his head.

‘Where the fuck’s Johnny?’ Stig burst out. ‘I’m going to look for her.’

Jakob eyed me. ‘Are you going, too, Varg?’

I hesitated. ‘I think I’ll stay here a while. But I can accompany you out.’

We made for the exit, through the sea of dancing couples, like three health inspectors on a day out, and I wondered what the fire authorities would have said if they had appeared.123

As I passed Cleopatra and Captain Hook I scrutinised them. His eyes were half closed and he had an enraptured smile on his lips as though he were dancing in the mermaid lagoon with Wendy. She was resting her head against his chest. She was wearing a thousand-year-old face mask of white powder, but beneath the make-up I glimpsed a bluish-grey shadow, and at once I recognised her. It was Bente Solheim in a black wig.

We reached the hall. Here there was an almighty jam. Some people were trying to get in, others were on their way out, but no one was going anywhere at all. For thirty seconds I found myself in what put me in mind of an involuntary wallbanger with a red-haired lady in suede trousers and a tight green T-shirt. I was reminded of a story I had once heard of a woman who claimed she was impregnated in the Rome Metro in the rush hour. There was a good chance of the same happening here. If the lady in suede had been willing we could have uncovered the relevant parts and done it without anyone even noticing. But she wasn’t. We were hardly on the same wavelength and all I got from her was an elbow in the stomach as we finally managed to pass each other.

It was difficult to say where the toilet queue began and ended, but Stig wasn’t one for queue etiquette. When we finally reached the only door in the flat he looked up at me and Jakob and said: ‘Make room … that way.’

We did as he said, arched our backs to the crowd, behaved like stage handlers at a Bruce Springsteen concert and fought for a square metre for him, enough for him to kick in the toilet door.