The old woman hobbled in through the door and continued into the dining room, with Fanny hard on her heels. After a while, Frode entered the hallway with a suitcase in his hand and a yellow IKEA bag slung over his shoulder. He put the bags down on the floor and went back outside.

The IKEA bag was full of clothes and other sundries; Lennart looked at it for a while before going over to study the contents. He poked at it with the crutch. Moved a flannel shirt that was not unfamiliar to him. A nappy decorated with colourful little animals. Another nappy and under that, the mask. Rune’s mouth gaping like the mouth of a spirit about to be sucked into the netherworld.

Lennart stood stock-still, staring at the small, silvery swirls in its hair. The unevenly cut eye holes that showed the inside of the skin, stinking because of the organisms thriving in the remnants of flesh. He stuck the crutch into the bag and stirred around until Rune was no longer visible.

The rain rattled against the roof of the porch. He flared his nostrils and sniffed the air. The van was parked diagonally behind the motorhome and the car he’d stolen in Karesuando.

Stiff-backed, he trudged across the rocky yard. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed the handle and opened the door to the back. The vicious reek of wolf’s urine hurled itself at him, followed by a posse of more or less revolting smells. The armchair was in there, but there was no one sitting in it.

He closed the door and looked around. The deserted road. The tundra fading into the rain. He walked around the motorhome and past the garage and down a slope.

The kennel consisted of a log cabin, ringed by a tall, welded chain-link fence. A small lamp was burning invitingly in the window and there was even a valance curtain. There were cutout hearts in the shutters.

There was no gate in the fence, so he walked around it.

The wolf was standing right in front of the door, watching him with eyes that were clear and calm. The same yellow eyes that had peered out from behind the mask.

‘There’s no one home.’

When he drew closer, the wolf pranced aside.

He tried the door. Then he opened it and bowed into the cabin. Even though the smell of smoke permeated every part of the room, he could also smell the dog-eyed old woman who had dwelt in there for an eternity, filling her days with God knows what activities.

There was a cast-iron stove and a small trestle table but no chairs. A curtain of see-through plastic strips hung in the doorway leading out to the fenced-in area. The strips were grimy and swayed languidly when the wind pulled on them.