Edvard looked from face to face, gave a what-can-you-do smile, and went inside.

“Seriously,” said Jo as we sat down opposite each other, “seriously, Ed can’t tell you this, but he’s fucking delighted that someone said what you said about Tvist.”

“I was worried,” I said.

“Oh please.” Jo laughed. “The police here are way too reasonable to harass you. And look . . .”

He passed me his phone. A newspaper front page. They had used a studio picture we had taken last spring: Elsa, Vee, Franklin on my shoulders, and at the front, looking straight down the barrel of the lens, Licia. In stark red text were the words:

Korrupsjon eller inkompetanse?

Elsa was laughing. “They put us on the front page of Posten?”

I said, “Does that mean what I think . . . ?”

“Corruption or incompetence,” Jo translated. “Three major police errors that cost us our daughter. You really are taking the fight to the police, Cal. You didn’t know they were doing this?”

The crazy euphoria of the moment. I handed the phone to Elsa. She stared at it, eyes shining.

Then Edvard was there in front of us.

“I thought I sent you to get beer,” said Jo. “Go get these people some beer.”

But Edvard simply stood there.

“What is it, kjære?” said Jo. “Ed?”

“I’ve been suspended.”

And as we were staring at Edvard in disbelief, and as Jo was reaching out to comfort him, the phone in Elsa’s hand began to ring.

“It’s Tvist,” she said. She passed me the phone.

I pressed answer. I raised the phone to my ear. I heard Tvist’s voice say, “You and your wife will meet me at headquarters.”

Thirty-Three

A modest corporate space at the end of the main office. Two blue plastic chairs waiting in front of the large white desk. We sat down, holding hands.

“Keep the faith,” whispered Elsa.

“Yes,” I said. “Keep the faith.”

Tvist approaching from the far end of the office.

“No interrogation room?” I said as he reached us.

“The prosecutors have asked for the helicopter footage to be admitted into evidence. The Andersens have offered no objection. Well done.”

We had expected anger, but Tvist looked tired. The past year had aged him. His shoulders curved forward; patches of puckered flesh gathered beneath his lower eyelids.

He opened a drawer, placed a typed sheet on the desk. A transcript of my broadcast. Then he reached across and switched on the recorder.

“Perhaps you wish to formalize your very serious accusations.”

That strange solemnity as he looked from me to Elsa; that sense that he expected us to fill the silence.

“Edvard is not my source,” I said.

“Edvard . . . is not the reason you are here.”

We said nothing. Tvist sat drumming his fingers. Eventually he said, “I’m compelled to ask you how you came by your footage.”

I looked at Elsa. She gave a tiny shake of the head.