He was in the middle of a sip, when he noticed her standing in the doorway leading to the basement. She was wondering why he was so upset.

‘Is it that obvious?’ he asked.

She didn’t answer, but took a step closer. Put her hands behind her back and leaned against the wall. She waited for him to explain, so he did. He told her what he’d seen and learned during the day, even though he knew she’d been with him the whole time. Sometimes it helped to say things out loud. Things became clearer. Easier to grasp or understand.

Åse looked at him with those big, beautiful eyes that never seemed to blink. Eyes full of blue life … until they weren’t anymore. She said that he was making sense of this, that the case would be solved, and if he wasn’t the one to piece the puzzle together, he had people around him who could. Who were good people; who helped. That was the most important thing – that they got their answers.

Yngve finished his beer and went to work. In front of him, on the living room table, was the ten-year-old report he had filed after Jimmy Tollefsen’s car accident on a road a few kilometres outside Fredheim. It wasn’t a particularly thick file. Jimmy had fallen ill somehow and passed out, and although Susanne had tried to take the wheel, she hadn’t been able to steer them clear of the trees along the side of the road. At least, Yngve said to himself, that’s what she’d told him afterwards.

So what was it about the accident that had caught Mari Lindgren’s eye?

The interviews that had been conducted at the handball court earlier today were also piled on the table. There were 112 so far. There was something in Even’s eyes, one of the girls had said. A blackness. She had observed Even on the school premises earlier that day, when he was looking for Mari. It wasn’t much to bring to the district attorney’s office, but Yngve had seen the grazes on Even’s hands, and he had wondered if the boy was a brilliant actor – his grief and his anguish had seemed so real. The part about Børre Halvorsen having seen Even at school – at a window on the first floor – Yngve had to admit he really didn’t know what to make of that.

Once again he punched the number for Børre’s mother, Filippa, into his phone. He had tried to call her several times earlier in the day, as Børre’s own phone seemed to be disconnected.

She answered with a slow, sleepy voice. Finally. Yngve introduced himself and told her that he was trying to get hold of her son.

‘What’s he done this time?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ Yngve replied. ‘I just want to talk to him.’