When we got to the door to the room, a sudden wave of uneasiness swept through my body. I had to steel myself as I grabbed hold of the handle and pushed the door open. Inside several desks and chairs were piled on top of each other. The piano stood against one of the walls. There were music stands. Drums, guitar cases. A double bass. There was a picture of Beethoven on the wall as well. A shiver went down my spine. This was where my Mari had drawn her last breath. This was where someone had killed her.

I looked around and wondered where, precisely, she had died. Where she and Johannes had sat when she’d interviewed him. If he’d tried to flirt with her, and if she’d let him. If anyone saw. But no, I couldn’t get her to speak to me. It really had been a silly thought.

I left the room and made my way to the school newspaper room, Oskar following behind. When we got there, we found a man sitting at one of the desks.

‘Can I help you?’ he said.

I didn’t know what to say at first. Then I explained who I was.

‘Ah yes.’

He pointed to the whiteboard. 4/16 was written at the top, with lots of keywords underneath. My name was up there. I assumed I was looking at the contents of the paper’s next edition.

‘You’re the football player.’

‘Sometimes, yeah.’

There were only four desks in the room, pushed together in the centre, with low screens between them.

‘I’m the editor of the school newspaper,’ he said. ‘Kjell-Ola Trulsen.’

He stood up and put out his hand. I shook it. He looked like he’d been desperately saving up for a beard, but could only afford a few tufts of hair. He was wearing a red-and-white checked shirt that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a decade or two. He reeked of smoke and old coffee.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Do you know if Mari had delivered the text of the article she was writing about me?’ I asked.

Kjell-Ola shook his head. ‘I’m not an editor per se,’ he said. ‘They only needed someone to take charge during the meetings and unlock the doors and stuff.’

I nodded.

‘But there are going to be some changes now,’ Kjell-Ola said and pointed to the board again. ‘To the next edition, I mean.’ He seemed genuinely upset. ‘I’m not looking forward to writing the editorial, I can tell you that much. It’ll be more of an obituary. I’ve never done one of those before.’