‘So you felt the net was closing in around you?’ Ms Håkonsen asks with her back turned to me. She’s looking into the audience, as if enjoying the attention.

‘I did,’ I say. ‘Definitely.’

‘At that point, how did you feel about your mother?’ The prosecutor turns around to face me again. ‘I mean, she’d picked a fight with you over a reporter, for no apparent reason, at least as far as you knew, and she shied away from her duty as a mother on a night that clearly wasn’t easy for you, her son.’

It wasn’t really a question, but she clearly wants me to say something in reply.

‘Like I said before, I was used to Mum being weird and … non-mummish, if that’s even a word.’

Ms Håkonsen smiles. ‘I’m sure it’s admissible.’

I smile back. Then, like the flick of a switch, she’s dead serious again.

‘Did you know, at the time, that your mother had been to the school show that night?’

‘I hadn’t thought to ask if she had been, but I knew she had a ticket. I was supposed to play in the band, and Imo was the musical director – and I know she doesn’t like to waste money, so I presumed she was still going.’

‘Did you have any suspicions about your mother at that time?’

‘About Mum being involved in the murders somehow?’

‘Yes, that’s what I’m asking.’

‘No, I did not.’

Ms Håkonsen seems to think about that for a moment.

‘OK. Take us through your evening with Imo. It was a rather special night, wasn’t it?’

I breathe in sharply, then let the air out slowly through my nose.

‘It most certainly was.’

23

THEN

Imo’s house was about eight kilometres outside Fredheim, in the middle of nowhere. As well as being a musician, my uncle was a pig farmer. He had built a small music studio next to the pig shed. My friends and I were free to use it whenever we wanted.

He parked his big old green Mercedes outside the house, as close as possible to the front step. It was a lot darker here than in town. Trees of all kinds surrounded the farm. My uncle didn’t bother with any extra lighting, except for a small lamp on the wall outside the house. A strong gust of wind made the leaves and the branches move, like they were dancing. It smelled of forest and mud as well. The rain had eased off a bit. Now it was just an icy drizzle.

I helped my uncle carry the shopping bags inside and couldn’t help but notice that he’d been to the off-licence as well.

‘First,’ he said, putting the bags on the worktop, ‘we’ll fill our stomachs. Then…’ he took out a bottle with the picture of a cactus on the label ‘…we’ll get shitfaced.’