‘I think this guy needs a cup of coffee,’ Yngve said, and took another close look at Frode. It looked like someone had stuck a needle into him and let all the air out. ‘But thanks.’

Yngve drove them to Grünerløkka. He didn’t ask Frode a single question on the way. Frode didn’t offer anything either; he just sat there, staring out of the window, a distant look on his face.

‘Let’s talk in there,’ Yngve said as he found a parking space outside the Nighthawk Diner in Seilduksgata. ‘You hungry?’

‘Very,’ Frode said.

‘Let’s get something to eat, then.’

The Nighthawk Diner was exactly as its name suggested: a diner serving American foods in an American way. Most of the staff spoke English.

They both ordered a Nighthawk Combo – a hamburger with melted cheddar cheese and smoked bacon, some mayonnaise and salted potato chips.

‘I’ve been trying to reach you,’ Yngve said as he poured some water into their glasses.

‘My phone’s been dead the last twenty-four hours,’ Frode said, examining a spot of grease on the table. ‘Have you caught the bastard?’

‘No’.

‘Then what do you need me for?’

Yngve didn’t answer straightaway. He just examined the broken man in front of him. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ Yngve asked and pointed to Frode’s hands – the red flakes of dried blood that flecked them.

‘Got into a fight the other night,’ Frode said.

‘With who?’

‘The wall.’

Yngve nodded, slowly. ‘Looks like the wall won.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

Frode emptied his glass. Yngve filled it again.

‘How did you treat your wounds?’

‘I didn’t,’ Lindgren said. ‘I just wiped the blood off on a T-shirt.’

‘What colour?’

‘Hm?

‘What colour was the T-shirt?’

Frode lifted his head. ‘You’ve been to my brother’s.’

‘Like I said, I couldn’t get hold of you.’

Frode nodded. ‘It was a white one. All white, I hate those T-shirts with all kinds of letters and stuff on them.’

‘Me, too.’

Their food arrived, and they just sat there for a while, eating.

‘Do you know what I did the other night?’ Frode asked, before emptying the glass of water again. ‘I followed Even Tollefsen. In my car.’ He shook his head. ‘I was so angry. So…’ He stopped himself. ‘I know you’ve heard the rumours,’ he continued. ‘How everybody thinks he did it.’

‘I don’t think—’

‘I wanted to run him over,’ Frode interrupted. ‘Really, Mork, I wanted to kill him. I almost did, too. I don’t think he saw me, but … maybe. I don’t know.’ He cut off a piece of his burger and shoved it into his mouth. ‘I just felt that I had to do something, you know,’ he said with his mouth full of food. ‘Silly, right?’

‘No,’ Yngve said. ‘It’s not silly at all.’

A few moments of silence passed.