‘Our Chilean moneybags might have put one suicide down to bad luck. He’s a superstitious Catholic. The worst sort of person. If another body turns up, the jerk will see it as a bad omen and put his chequebook away quicker than you can say “prison”. I don’t mind how you do it, just draw the fucking thing out until the contract’s been signed!’

Yegor hung up, had a shake and flushed. From the bedroom he could hear his wife’s drowsy voice, but he couldn’t care less what she was saying.

He was annoyed with himself. He’d intended to stay calm. People who shouted didn’t have a grip on themselves or their lives. But since they’d left Hamburg, no, since the approach into Oslo, when that tongue-tied Anouk suddenly reappeared from nowhere, he’d had one shit-filled profiterole after another hurled at him.

Not bothering to wash his hands, Yegor made his way back to bed. He had to get past Ikarus, who gave him a look of irritation. He bent down to his dog and tickled the terrier’s neck.

‘Yes, I know. It’s Daddy’s own fault. But do you know what, Ikarus? I just can’t bear being blackmailed.’ The dog put its head to one side as if it understood every word. Yegor smiled and poked his wet nose.

‘Veith was a waste of space,’ he whispered so his wife, now awake, couldn’t hear him. ‘I must have given him my special revolver.’ The one that shoots backwards if you turn the lever. Which is precisely what he’d done before handing the weapon to that violence-hungry fool. It was a present from a comrade. Custom made. A joke amongst old friends from the Foreign Legion. Not traceable back to him.

‘Do you understand, Ikarus?’ The dog panted and Yegor took that as a yes.

Yegor turned off the bathroom light – the only one that had been on – and got back into bed. His wife wanted to stroke his arm, but he pushed her hand away.

What a shame that Veith isn’t a Jap, he thought. They commit hara-kiri for all manner of crap. Code of honour and so on.

They might have been able to make it appear as if the security officer couldn’t deal with the shame of having failed to find that suicide brat.

But who’d believe that of a clog-wearer?

Yegor yawned. There was nothing worse than being wrenched from the middle your siesta. He was dog tired. For a while he pondered whether it had been a mistake to let Veith eliminate himself. But the man himself was to blame. What kind of crusade did he have against that… Tiamo… Tigo…?