There was of course a slight chance that Margrete of the unknown surname had bought one of the houses for nostalgic reasons. But if I were to ring the doorbells and ask after Margrete No-Name I was afraid the house-husbands would have the police after me before I could say ‘gender equality committee’.

I drove back towards town feeling as useful as a football coach at a dancing-school ball. I returned to Fosswinckels gate with no expectations. I parked outside the house, went up to the bells and pressed the middle button.

This time someone was at home. ‘Yes?’ the intercom crackled.

‘Veum here,’ I mumbled.

‘Who?’ came the barked reply.

‘Varg Veum,’ I said. ‘Can we talk?’

‘And who might you be?’ she said just as uncompromisingly.

‘I’m an old friend of Rebecca’s.’

There was a long silence.

Then the voice returned: ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk to Rebecca.’

‘She isn’t here.’

It was my turn to be silent.

‘When will she be back?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then perhaps we two can talk? This is Helga Bøe I’m talking to, isn’t it?’166

Another silence. ‘It is. Come in, then.’

The intercom buzzed as if someone was desperately trying to get out. But it was only me trying to get in.

Before I closed the door I looked back. A leaden-grey winter dusk had settled over the town, as immense as the hull of a ship in dock, with rust-coloured minium stripes along its bow to the west.

The intercom voice met me in a doorway on the first floor. It belonged to a well-built woman with short blonde hair, shaved at the neck like a man’s haircut from the fifties. She was in her late thirties, dressed in a turquoise jumper and jeans, and stood with her hands down by her sides, examining me as if I were a fly in her herbal tea.

‘I hope you weren’t thinking of bothering her. She’s been through a tough patch,’ she started before I was halfway up the stairs.

‘No, I wasn’t,’ I said on my way up. ‘I haven’t seen her for twenty-five years.’

She eyed me sceptically. ‘And your name was…?’

I was beside her now. I politely proffered a hand. ‘Veum. Varg Veum. Rebecca and I are … were childhood friends.’

She passed me a limp hand. ‘My name’s Helga. I can’t remember her ever mentioning you.’

‘No? I suppose that’s not surprising. It’s been twenty-five years … How do you two know each other?’

‘We studied together. We met when she left home. I offered her a roof over her head until she found something else.’ She nodded to the flat. ‘I have an old guest room behind the kitchen. I used to rent that room myself, actually. But later the whole flat became free and I had the chance to buy it.’

‘What do you do for a living?’167

‘I’m in social security. But let’s not stand here chatting. You’d better come in,’ she said without a smile.