‘She says that she’s reluctant to ask Even directly, because she doesn’t just want his favourite pictures of himself. She wants some pics from his childhood, preferably some embarrassing ones, because she wants the story to be fun. She’s hoping that Tobias might get her some photos that are fun for everyone – apart from Even. Then there are a few smileys and that kind of thing. She also wants to know if Tobias can get her a picture or two of Jimmy. Their father.’

Nothing irregular about that, Yngve thought. The article Mari was writing was about Jimmy as well.

‘Tobias says he is going to try. Then a couple of weeks go by before Tobias says that he has found some really cool ones. Mari gets excited. They agree to meet.’

‘When was this?’

‘A little over a week ago.’

‘Nothing more recent?’

Weedon’s thumb moved over her phone screen display again.

‘Well, yes.’ A couple of seconds passed. ‘He wrote to her last Friday – that would be three days before her murder – that he’d found out what kind of blood type Jimmy had.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what it says.’

Yngve scratched the back of his head. ‘So she asked him for that information?’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t say.’

Maybe they had talked about it when they met, Yngve thought. That was the only plausible explanation.

‘They were also in touch on the night she died.’

Yngve sat up in his chair. ‘What are they saying?’

‘She’s not saying anything. It’s Tobias who wants to meet her. He asks her a couple of times, without getting a reply.’

‘Hm. Anything else?’

‘No, that’s it.’

Yngve asked Weedon to go through Mari’s other apps as well. But he didn’t find anything in particular of interest.

After Weedon had disappeared from Yngve’s screen, Åse continued looking at him. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s not the proper way to go about it.’

She smiled. Because she liked it, she said – him not following protocol. Being naughty. He smiled back. ‘This is the new me,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.’

In the years that had passed between Åse first being diagnosed with breast cancer and the day she actually died, they had tried to prepare themselves for the inevitable. They had talked about death at length, but always in an arm’s-length way, as if it were something theoretical. Mostly it was Åse reminding him of the practical things he had to do, like oiling the workbench in the kitchen every two years, or remembering to change the gas hose on the grill.