We’d been driving for about ten minutes, when he said: ‘I’m actually glad it’s just you and me right now.’

I turned towards him.

‘I thought maybe we could talk.’

With everything Tobias had said fresh in my mind, Knut’s voice sounded colder. More calculating. As though he’d been waiting for this moment.

‘About what?’ I said and coughed into my palm. Knut wasn’t big or strong, but I knew that he ran a lot, which meant he was fit. If he was angry enough – or thought he had enough reason – I had no doubt that he’d be able to kill someone.

‘Your mother and I, we…’ He paused, then carried on: ‘You know we’ve been together for a while now.’ He paused again before continuing. ‘And we … we’ve been thinking about moving in together.’

My jaw dropped.

‘Or rather, that I move in. With you.’

I didn’t know what to say.

Knut carried on: ‘It’s probably a bit unexpected, and I know you have other things on your mind right now, but, given what we talked about earlier today, I think it would be good for your mum. To get some help with … whatever.’

We were out on the motorway now. Cars sped past us.

‘Just … think about it’, he continued. ‘And talk to your brother about it too, of course, when you get a chance. We won’t do it if you think it’s a bad idea.’

I wanted to ask what the hell he was doing at our school that night, but I just couldn’t get myself to do it. I don’t know if I was afraid of how he would answer, or if I was scared what Knut would do if I confronted him. I didn’t really know anything about this man. Would his true self appear somehow?

Neither of us spoke the rest of the journey. Not until he pulled up in front of our house. Then something made him stop.

‘What is it?’ I said. Then I followed Knut’s gaze, and saw it, too.

On our front door, in black spray paint, someone had written:

MURDERER

‘Fuck,’ I muttered and scrambled out of the car.

I wasn’t sure which one of us the message was referring to – my brother or me. Or maybe even my mother.

Knut turned off the engine and got out as well. We walked to the front steps. I touched the letters on the door. The paint was dry.

Børre had been a tagger. Was this some kind of message from his friends?

‘Do you have some paint?’ Knut asked me.

‘Yeah, I think there might be some left over from when we did the house this summer.’

‘Go get it. Susanne can’t see this.’

‘You don’t need to help me,’ I said. ‘I can do it myself.’