Indeed, storms are hardly unexpected on Doggerland this time of year and, normally, she would have come prepared. She turns off the radio and goes over what lies ahead. Wet trainers or Marike’s wellies, which are at least two sizes too big. Those are her options. And then she has to assert her authority with colleagues and interviewees while wearing worn jeans and a knitted cardigan that hangs down to her knees. Add to that a knee that’s throbbing after last night’s idiotic exertions on the dance floor and a pounding headache. She’s patently not equipped to handle the weather or a murder investigation.

Byle had sounded tense and she can understand why. Fredrik Stuub’s death had been largely overlooked by the media. Granted, the editor of a sleepy local paper had been in touch on Boxing Day night, but he’d bought her story about it probably being a tragic accident. Without lying outright, Karen had made sure to emphasise Stuub’s advanced age and the treacherous terrain around the quarry, and the story had been limited to a brief notice in the newspaper’s online edition. But the main reason the rest of the media had failed to take an interest in Fredrik Stuub had been the lack of witnesses calling them to tell their story.

It’s not going to be as easy this time.

Byle’s summary had been very clear on one point: more than twenty people had been present at the distillery when Gabriel Stuub was found with his throat cut.

Chapter 35

35

The ferry docks with a shudder and the cars slowly start making their way down the ramp. Karen hesitates for a second in the roundabout that marks the start of the northbound motorway then decides to swing by the pub before heading up to Gudheim. Checking into the same place as last time, down here in Lysvik, forty miles from the crime scene, is far from ideal, but she’s not going to take any chances. She definitely won’t have time to look for accommodation up in Gudheim.

Ten minutes later, Ellen Jensen has confirmed that the same room is free if she wants it. As Karen climbs back behind the wheel, stress is pounding in her ears and she glances quickly at her watch. With a bit of luck, she will be there in an hour, but an hour after that, it will already be dark out. She reaches out and rummages through her bag. The can of Coke overflows when she opens it; she takes a sip of the lukewarm sugariness and forces herself to breathe deeply. In, out, in, out, in, then realises there’s no time for that; the estimated sixty-minute drivetime is for when there’s no snow.