‘Børre isn’t here,’ she said. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

‘When do you think he’ll be in?’

‘He doesn’t live here anymore’, she sighed. ‘Not regularly, at least. He comes by every now and then. When he wants money.’

Yngve heard Filippa Halvorsen take a long drag on a cigarette.

‘So where does he live now, then?’

‘With his lousy excuse of a father. Or … with friends. I don’t know.’ There was a spiteful tone in her voice.

‘How old is your son?’ Yngve asked.

‘Fifteen. No, sorry, he just turned sixteen.’

Yngve told Filippa Halvorsen to get Børre to call him back, if she saw him that evening. ‘Or I can just stop by his school tomorrow.’

‘Heh,’ she snorted. ‘Good luck with that.’

Yngve was about to ask what she meant, but Filippa Halvorsen beat him to it. ‘They called me from his school last week and asked if I knew where he was. I didn’t have a clue, I thought he was with his father.’

She didn’t seem upset, Yngve thought. Just … resigned. He repeated his request and hung up. Then went back to look at Børre’s comment on Even’s Facebook post. As he reread it, another message popped up, this time from a girl called Christina Theorin. She too had seen Even Tollefsen at the school on the night of the premiere. In the hall where the show took place.

‘God, Even,’ Yngve said out loud. ‘What the hell have you done?’

He went back to the interview transcripts. He’d told the officers to ask the pupils when they had left the building, and who with. The closer to 11 p.m. they’d left, the more interesting their testimony would be.

A lot of people had stayed behind, waiting for those who had actually participated in the show to change. Mari and Johannes had been spotted going into the music room, apparently where Mari was intending to conduct the post-show interview.

This is moving too slowly, Yngve said to himself, as he thought about what they’d found so far. The forensic teams had focused mainly on the crime scenes, and yes, there were more than enough traces of blood to firmly establish the route the killer had taken after the murders. But they hadn’t found anything on the roof or on the other side of the school. No torn-off piece of fabric from a jacket or a pair of trousers. Nothing that, with any degree of certainty, they could say had been deposited the night before. The heavy rainfall had ruined any chance of finding fresh, decent evidence.