‘Doesn’t Imo usually stay up all night working in his studio?’ Therese argued. ‘I think I read a piece about him in the Fredheim Chronicle a few months ago. “The Man and His Music” or whatever it was called.’

‘I guess that’s part of his routine, yes.’

‘So he could, in theory, have been working.’

‘He could, in theory, have killed Børre Halvorsen, too.’ Yngve was clinging on to the steering wheel.

‘But if he knew that the door on the first floor was open, why didn’t he use it? Why go through the trouble of climbing onto the roof and all that? It’s not an easy climb for anyone, especially in the rain.’

‘He was being smart,’ Yngve said. ‘Tic-Tac was the only other person who knew about the door being open. By using it he would have pointed the finger at himself. And he would have had blood on him, too, after killing Johannes, so he probably would have had a hard time not smudging the door or the doorframe or whatever. Keep in mind how he left marks all over the place on the second floor. By going out over the roof he kept the suspicions away from himself.’

Therese winced a little, holding her belly. ‘We still don’t have a motive for any of this,’ she said.

‘I know,’ Yngve said and floored the accelator. ‘We’ll get to that.’

77

77

It had begun to get dark by the time I got to Imo’s house. The unsurfaced road leading to the farm and the house itself was surrounded by forest, which made it even darker. The noise of the traffic on the main road faded behind me.

Imo’s Mercedes was parked outside the house, as usual, but there was another car there too. I was pretty sure it belonged to Ole. I was right: I looked through one of the windows and spotted an umbrella with the Fredheim Chronicle logo on it.

I leaned my bike against the house wall and asked myself why Ole couldn’t have helped Imo with whatever task he needed me for. Or maybe he’d arrived after Imo called me.

The door was closed, and there was no light on in the kitchen. But it was on in the studio, and I heard music coming out from the open door. It was Imo playing the guitar. I could tell. I recognised the song, too. It was Johannes’ solo – the song Imo had written for the school show. The show-stopper. I called my uncle’s name.

‘Come on in, champ,’ he yelled back.

I stuck my head round the door. Imo was sitting in a leather chair. ‘Come on in,’ he repeated, as he continued to play. ‘It’s a great song, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’

Imo was singing the lyrics very quietly – almost to himself. ‘I wrote it a long time ago,’ he said. ‘Before you were born, in fact.’