A woman from the Environmental Protection Agency was with them; she handed Anders coffee in a plastic cup. Her name was Åsa. She had gathered her hair up in a ponytail that danced against the hood of her puffy snowmobile overalls as she walked around like an astronaut, serving coffee from an aluminium thermos. From Geir’s muttering earlier in the day, Anders had gleaned that she had been lobbying hard for this, more or less unilaterally ramming through the decision to move this wolf immediately, without the legally required quarantine. Which also explained why the Norwegian silently shook his head when she tried to offer him coffee from her thermos.

The wolf had been placed on a blanket with a scarf wrapped around its head. Geir snapped on a pair of light-blue nitrile gloves and tied the animal’s fore and hind legs together. He fastened the rope to a big-game scale, which he hooked onto the shaft of a snow shovel. Then Anders and one of the snowmobile drivers raised the shovel above their heads like a couple of weightlifters. Geir read the dial, studying it carefully. The result, 170 pounds, quickly spread through the stunned assembly.

Geir was on his knees, working intently. He pushed back the scarf and shone a flashlight in the animal’s eye; he moved the polished silver bell of his stethoscope across the furry ribcage that was slowly rising and falling. He measured the teeth with callipers. From time to time, he made pencil notes in a protocol fastened to a writing board with a metal clip. People thronged around him, asking him questions he wouldn’t answer.

A man from the county board was present, pacing in circles while talking on his mobile phone. Satin military jacket. Dark leather patches on the shoulders, corduroy-lined collar and a napoleon pocket. Squinting at the sun that glowed red behind the jagged treeline on the other side of the fens, Anders pushed a portion of snus up under his lip, figuring the man had probably worn that jacket during the hunt as well. Topped off with a feathered hat. Was he even one of the regular field agents? Doubtful. And yet, here he was. In that get-up. Probably so he would have something to brag about.

‘Cheers then!’ Åsa exclaimed; a whisk of steam rose from the cup she raised.

‘Cheers,’ Geir said quietly, tightening the bolts on the tracking collar with a pair of pliers. ‘Cheers to echinococcus.’

He was talking to himself, but Anders heard.