“All right.” He brought his hands together, tapped his forefingers on his upper lip, waiting for me to fill the silence.

“They spoke at around ten,” I said.

“Which is two hours before the boat to the island began to run.” He sniffed, rubbed his nose with the side of his thumbnail. Any trace of a smile was gone.

“Look,” I said. “I can see, on what you’ve got, that you might think we were connected to this.”

“Have I said anything of the sort?”

“It’s always the parents. Right?”

“I’m surprised that you would satirize what you perceive to be my attitude, in a case where the stakes are so high. Perhaps you feel I need to be ‘held to account’?”

I saw the warning in his look. Tread carefully.

The door opened. The detective in the crumpled suit, eyes red and painful-looking from lack of sleep.

“Detective Mikkel Hansen,” said Tvist. “You already met, yes?”

Mikkel Hansen ignored me. He slouched across the floor, leaned close to Tvist, said something in Norwegian that I did not catch. Tvist passed him the evidence bag with the bracelet. Detective Hansen slouched out.

“What questions is that man asking my wife?” I said.

A shrewd look from Tvist. “Complementary questions.” He was watching me, studying my reaction.

“I’d like to go home,” I said.

“And soon you will. I do still need to know something from you, though. As I’m sure you’re aware, much of the white extremist movement is gathering around the idea of crusader knights.” The same smile, the same careful, watchful look.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Going on crusade? Crushing the dark-skinned man? These ideas are their stock-in-trade.” Again that keen, appraising gaze. “Please understand that this is not an accusation.”

“So . . . ?”

“Someone in your apartment has accessed these extremist Knights Templar websites.”

“Okay,” I said. “Not good.”

“No, really not good.”

“I’m mortified. Vee’s fourteen, though, and she has a lively mind, and I guess after what just happened—”

He cut me off. “And if someone were researching these people in the wake of these horrible attacks, that would not be noteworthy.” He sat down across from me again. “But here we have some serious red flags against your family. For months, there have been regular contacts between a computer on your network and these frankly repulsive websites. Most evenings.”

“You’re spying on us?”

“This is not spying. This is information we requested from your service provider this morning. Though contact ended a week ago. All three of the computers from your apartment have been scrubbed by someone who knows enough to write new data over the old. There is nothing on any of your telephones. So I wondered if you might have an explanation for any of this? Because cleaning up is good Internet practice, yes, but it’s unusual for a family to be so thorough.”