She recoiled, gave back the mug and brushed the snow from her hair and shoulders, she was wearing neither a headscarf nor a sou’wester, but following Eva Sofie’s patented method she had knotted her two plaits behind her head to hide the scars, water dripped from her eyelashes, she felt cold and feverish. She looked down at some rolled-up papers he was holding and asked what they were. He told her to guess. She said:

“Do you never sleep?”

He gave her the papers, like crew lists, with the names of the evacuees and information about the homes where they were to be placed, the farms, houses and boat sheds in the village that the Rations and Relocation Board had gained access to and where they had been assured there was room.

Two lines caught her eye, because she was searching for the first and was surprised by the second: Anja and the children were going to the rectory, which was empty, together with two of the mothers at the front of the cabin, with infants, and two men whose names didn’t mean anything to her. The surprise was the signature, that of Lensmann Henriksen, not in his capacity as a lensmann, but as the Chairman of the Board, and Ingrid realised it could hardly be a promotion. Magnus stared at her with interest.

She said straight out that this man had collaborated with the Germans.

“Perhaps he’s smart.”

“What?”

“He saw the end was coming for the Jerries.”

She gave that some thought.

“And what do you think?”

He threw back his head and laughed.

“I’m a communist. The Russkies are going to win!”

Ingrid was about to laugh along with him, but decided her mouth was too open, so she closed it and looked down for the few seconds it took, then turned to Arne, but could sense that the apathy in his dead eye was affecting his healthy one, so she had no choice but to turn back to Magnus, and she asked him where the brothers were going.

He asked what their names were.

Arne mumbled Isaksen, from Skarsvåg, but they had lived for a while in Hammerfest. Magnus pointed to the papers and Ingrid saw that the three Skarsvåg Isaksens were going to a farm in the south of the main island, Molandsvika. She said:

“They’re nice.”

Arne looked as if he had been enough trouble and wanted to go. Ingrid held him back, and mumbled, her eyes averted:

“At least I think they’re nice, they’re old.”

His right eye looked past her, sceptical. She felt a touch of remorse and had to look at Magnus again, a man at his peak even at three in the morning, she drew a deep breath, gave him back the papers and said she knew where Henriksen lived, she could show him the way if he liked?