I rolled over and looked at him, trying to stop myself from crying. He was wearing an open navy-blue jacket. Under the jacket, an unironed white t-shirt stretched over his stomach. He wore shorts, as usual with dark-grey woolly socks. Imo was one of those people who claimed they were never cold. As long as the temperature was above zero, my uncle always walked around in shorts.

He sat down on the bed. Put a hand on my shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. A few raindrops fell from his thick, dark hair and landed on the duvet cover.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

I didn’t answer, because I didn’t know what to say.

‘Can I get you anything?’ he said. ‘A Coke, or … whatever?’

I shook my head. Imo let go of my shoulder, stood up and went to open the window. Cool air filled the room in an instant. It made me shiver.

‘Where’s your brother?’ Imo asked. ‘I didn’t hear him upstairs.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

My uncle closed the window again, sat down on the armchair in the corner and picked up the guitar that was standing beside it. His thumb hit the E-string. It made a thick sound that spread around the room. Then his fingers began to dance over the strings. He didn’t even look at the frets. Even though I knew he was improvising, it sounded like a proper song.

Imo stopped abruptly and put his hand over the strings to silence them. ‘The police want to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I spoke to Yngve Mork at the school just a few minutes ago.’

‘Of course they do,’ I said.

‘He’s on his way here, I think. He’s already called your mum. They need parental consent before they can question you. She’s just called me. Asked me to tell you what’s happening and be here when they question you. If you want me to, that is.’

I sat up. ‘She called you?’

‘Yes.’

She hadn’t called me.

‘Everyone’s going to think that I did it,’ I said.

‘Why would they do that?’

I looked at him for moment, hesitating.

I picked up my mobile phone, which was lying on the bed. The display was full of messages I hadn’t opened yet.

‘Because of this,’ I said, and showed Imo the text I had sent Mari the night before:

I’m going to find you sooner or later, Mari. And when I do, you’re going to answer my questions, whether you like it or not.

Imo didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t help glancing at some of the messages I had received. My stomach felt like someone was squeezing it. ‘God,’ I murmured.

‘What is it?’