‘I’ve done my homework,’ Karl says. ‘Smeed emailed me your summaries and I skimmed them on the ferry. They made for a pretty unpleasant read . . .’

Karen gives him a surprised look.

‘I didn’t realise you were so sensitive.’

‘I was referring to the language. Why suddenly so formal? I almost dozed off.’

‘It serves Smeed right,’ she replies airily. ‘How come you’re here, anyway? I thought you were on parental leave? And I heard you managed to catch the flu, too.’

‘Fever-free since yesterday morning. Smeed called me right after talking to you, asked if I would consider deferring my parental leave for a few weeks – and let’s just say I was happy to oblige.’

‘I take it you have relatives staying over the holidays?’

‘Mine and Inger’s. And a sober New Year’s Eve on top of that. But yours was more fun, it seems . . .’

Karl Björken shoots her clothes a significant look.

‘Are you aware your hair is full of sparkly stuff? And you’re limping,’ he adds after a second look. ‘How much pain are you really in these days?’

‘Sometimes none at all. Right now, a lot. I made the mistake of dancing last night, in heels, no less, and trudging around in these boots isn’t helping either.’

They stop at a strip of red-and-white police tape flapping in the wind. Two floodlights have already been set up and two more are being installed in the last two corners of the cordoned-off area. This time, Larsen has been given reinforcements, too, Karen notes as she spots five men in white protective clothing carrying heavy equipment cases. Larsen himself looks grim and focused as he orders the uniformed officers to aim the lights better.

Outside the cordon, Karen spots another familiar figure looking equally grim. The coroner is struggling to zipper his overalls around his massive gut and replies with a grunt when Karen says hello.

‘We’re not going to get in your way,’ she says. ‘I just wanted a first sense of what the scene looks like.’

Without responding, Kneought Brodal bends down to pick up his big black bag, lifts up the police tape and lumbers off.

‘Our own little ray of sunshine,’ Björken says with a grin. ‘I reckon there’s a better view from over there.’

He nods toward a hillock on the other side of the cordoned-off area, and after walking over to it, they conclude that he was right. From up here, they have an unobstructed view of Stuub’s body. He’s lying on his side with his knees pulled up and his arms extended along his sides.

‘He was probably sitting with his back against the tree when someone slit his throat. Then he toppled over sideways,’ Karen says, shading her eyes with her hand.