As the murders in Fredheim had occurred late at night, Yngve had decided, after conferring with Therese Kyrkjebø and Vibeke Hanstveit, that he should observe Knut’s night-time behaviour – see what he got up to. Yngve didn’t sleep much anyway, so it really was no bother. It was too late at night for them to get the right permissions to check Knut’s whereabouts when Børre Halvorsen had been killed, but Ulf, the homeless man who’d discovered the body, did say that he had seen a taxi nearby right before. That didn’t mean it was Knut’s, but at this point in the investigation, Yngve really didn’t want to take any chances on anything. There had been three murders in Fredheim on his watch. That was three too many.

He had brought a book, some slices of bread with brown cheese and enough coffee to sustain an entire regiment through the night. Every time he turned a page of the book, he lifted his gaze towards Knut’s apartment and the entrance to the building.

No change.

He had put on lots of layers, as he didn’t want to leave the car running. It had been a while since he’d staked someone out like this. He hadn’t missed it. It didn’t take long for his back to start aching. Good thing the book was brilliant. It was a story about the death of a young boy in the North of England, a mystery no one had been able to solve for fifteen years until a well-respected podcast reporter had taken it upon himself to get to the bottom of it all. Only as Yngve held it in his hands did he realise that it was the last book Åse had given him.

He was forty-three pages in when the door to the building opened. Knut came out. Yngve tossed the book aside and slid down in his seat. Susanne Tollefsen’s boyfriend was wearing his taxi jacket. He got into his car, which was parked some fifty yards away from Yngve’s.

As Knut drove past him, Yngve sat up, waited ten seconds then started his own engine. Knut hadn’t lit up his sign, so he wasn’t going to work.

Yngve followed him, keeping his distance. Knut was on his way to the town centre. He drove across the main street and over the bridge to the other side. He signalled, then turned into the petrol station, which was open twenty-four hours, but he didn’t stop at any of the pumps. He just parked and went inside the shop.