I could think of nothing to say to him, so I half smiled and turned away. I carried on down the stairs and out through the lobby, eyes fixed ahead of me. I could feel him at my side, matching me step for step, could hear the heavy leather of his soles as we crossed the polished marble floor.

We stood on the steps of the court, blinking in the harsh summer light. Before us the temporary studios, each a twelve-foot cube, raised from the road on stilts, walled by translucent white tarpaulin. The sides of the studios were rolled up. Journalists on high office chairs were joking with colleagues on other continents, checking their hair in the screens of their phones.

Tvist gestured toward the studios. “This is nice.”

I half turned toward him. “Is it?”

He smiled a neutral smile. “Practical and elegant and egalitarian . . .”

Another voice cut across Tvist’s: “The very best of our Scandinavian values.” I turned to see Bror, his arms thrown wide as if I were his long-lost brother. I hesitated for a moment, uneasy at the intimacy, then stepped forward and felt the warmth of his embrace.

“Cal Curtis,” he said. “I feel you are close to a breakthrough.” He turned toward Tvist, his arm still on the small of my back. “And Mr. Police Chief. What a trying morning this has been for you. You have my sympathy.”

“Bror,” said Tvist. “Cal.” He nodded to me, then walked down the steps and away.

“Well, now,” said Bror, watching him go. “This man Tvist is highly intelligent.” He turned to me, the most radiant smile on his face. “Is he not?”

I found myself smiling too, relieved to be in his presence. “I mean . . .”

“He must protect his carefully constructed lies. You must not underestimate the lengths to which he will go.” He took a half step backward, his hands loosely holding my forearms. Healing hands, I thought, radiating warmth. Kind eyes, searching mine. “You tried to break the story about the police delay, no?”

So Bror had known about the Post-it.

I looked about me. “I guess I should file my piece.”

He reached out, took my hands in his. “Expect another of Milla’s little gifts.”

Then he was walking away.

“That was you?” I said.

“I don’t know.” He turned, gave a self-conscious shrug. “Was it?”

“Who is the source?”

He smiled, shook his head. “A priest has a duty of silence to his flock.”

“I can respect that.”

“With that in mind, if ever there were any particularly difficult thought you couldn’t share with Elsa . . .”

“We’re getting by,” I said, because I trusted this man, but only so far.

He smiled. “Keep building your case.” And he was gone.

At just before one I rolled down the sides of a studio at the far end. One hundred and fifteen seconds on the clock.