Maybe he’s returning from a solo mission, scaring the shit out of some poor bugger who had no real means of resistance. Or maybe he spent Christmas with his mum. Whether the bloke considers himself a predator with links to Old Norse mythology or is proudly announcing to the world that he belongs to the one per cent of bikers involved in serious crime, he probably does have a mother somewhere, someone who was happy to see him at her Christmas table. Maybe his mummy helped him plait his hair; it looks remarkably neat.

She walks up to the prow and leans against the yellow railing. The mountain ridges of Noorö rise out of the sea ahead of them, more imposing with every passing minute, but on the leeward side there’s still open sea. The pale December sun has just pushed above the eastern horizon and seems to have already given up its struggle against the cloudbanks blowing in from the other direction. She resists the impulse to take out her cigarettes. It might not be immediately obvious, but she has quit smoking. In theory. At least during the daytime. But, Jesus, it would be just the thing right now, she thinks and sticks her hand in her pocket.

A sharp honking interrupts her and she angrily whips around to stare at the black Renault behind her. The driver spreads his hand to convey his innocence and nods toward her own Ford Ranger. She stomps over to it.

‘What the fuck are you doing? Why are you honking?’

Kneought Brodal shrugs and points to Karen’s phone on the driver’s seat.

‘Your phone beeped. And speaking of which, being a detective and all, shouldn’t you make sure you have that with you at all times? It could be something important . . .’

The text is from her mother.

Told Sigrid she could stay in the guest room for a few days. Everyone sends their love.

She doesn’t bother replying.

Chapter 8

8

Everything looks much smaller than Karen remembers. True, she’s been back here a handful of times as an adult, but even so, her childhood memories still firmly shape her idea of what Lysvik should look like: the fishing harbour with the Doggerian boats, the cutters, the trawlers and the smokeries. The freight ships and the big dusty coal piles up in the container port. No one smokes herring, haddock or eel in the harbour anymore, and all that remains of the coal piles is the black soot that stains all the houses a dirty grey, like they will never be clean again.