‘Yes, probably. Now you come to mention it.’ He smiled again and left.

After he had gone down the stairs, I said in a low voice: ‘Your private spiritual advisor?’

Jakob smiled uneasily and hesitated. ‘Something like that.’

‘By the way … Rebecca.’161

He became serious again. ‘Yes?’

‘You mentioned something about addresses of girlfriends I could check out.’

He looked at me with an indefinable expression in his eyes. ‘So you still want to try to find her?’

I opened my hands. ‘As long as I don’t have any other pressing jobs. Christmas is coming up, insurance companies are keeping a low profile and jobs are few and far between at the moment. I’m living off my October fees. It doesn’t do me any harm to keep my hand in. Let’s put it like that.’

‘I can pay, if it’s that…’

‘No, no,’ I said, on the defence. ‘This is a favour, Jakob. Perhaps you can return the favour one day?’

‘And how could I do that?’

‘You could play for free at my funeral,’ I smiled. ‘Well, have you got some addresses in your head or should I try to find them myself?’

He racked his brains. ‘The problem is that I only have their old addresses, from the seventies, while they were at university.’

‘They have useful archives up at the uni. What’s more, I have a little friend at the National Registration Office. That’s usually enough.’

‘OK. I’ll write them down for you.’

He tore a page from his Filofax and jotted down three names and three addresses. ‘Here they are, more or less. If we draw a blank there, I’ll have to think a bit harder.’ He smiled wearily and gave me the sheet.

I scrutinised them. Two of the addresses lacked house numbers. One of the names didn’t have a surname. ‘These house numbers – can you at least describe the houses if you’ve ever been there?’162

‘The one in Olsvik, that’s the first floor of a small white house. The first one you come to when you turn into the street. Margrete something-or-other. The other two are in Nygårdshøyden. That one, Helga Bøe, I think she’s called. I imagine she still lives there. She wasn’t the type to get married.’

I looked askance. ‘Really?’

‘No.’

‘Fosswinckelsgate … And you have the number there.’

He nodded.

‘That’s Daniel Hansens gate. They’re quite close together – and it’s not far from where you erected your tepee.’

‘No. That’s Unn Helene. It’s a bed-sit as well. An off-yellow house with a rendered front. Up in the attic. Not much room.’

‘Who are these women?’

He gave a taut smile. ‘If you’ve ever witnessed an eighth of March International Women’s Day procession, you’ve seen them. They were like clones. You couldn’t tell them apart as they marched under the banners with baggy jumpers, dark-blue jeans three sizes too big, jackets like circus tents and festooned with scarves they’d got from Sigrun Berg or the Palestine Committee. They were a sight to behold – blindfold.’