And with those words, she’d hung up, leaving Karen with the question that’s still nagging at her as she drives past the last few trees: is it her own secrets or her son’s Ingeborg Eiken doesn’t want brought to light?

She parks as close to the grand entrance as she dares, jogs up the wide stone steps and rings the bell. The wind is howling around the massive building, tearing at her scarf while she waits to be let in. It’s Helena Tryste who pushes the heavy oak door open a crack a few seconds later and peers out.

‘Yes . . . ?’ she says queryingly. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she then adds quickly. ‘Come inside, hurry!’

She opens the door wider, but only just enough to let Karen slip in without bringing too much snow with her.

‘I’m sorry to come by unannounced like this and on Twelfth Night of all days,’ she says and stomps off the snow on the hall rug. ‘But I need to talk to your husband.’

A look of concern passes over Helena Tryste’s face, and as though worried she has revealed her anxiety, she pushes her dark hair from her forehead.

‘I hope nothing’s the matter?’ she says. ‘Another murder, I mean.’

‘No,’ Karen replies quickly with a reassuring smile, ‘but I would like to inform him of something that will affect his work up at Groth’s. Is he home?’

‘William is in the wine cellar,’ Helena replies. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here. Please, make yourself comfortable in the living room.’

Karen follows her to the room she and Karl had sat in . . . was it just a few days ago? she wonders wearily. The same day Leo called. The same day she had sat in her kitchen with a battered Aylin. It feels like an eternity ago. Now, a fire is crackling on the hearth and, instead of taking a seat, she puts her handbag on the floor in front of the blaze and holds her hands out to warm them.

‘Yes, this is terrible weather we’re having,’ Helena says. ‘Can I get you anything? Coffee? Or maybe you would prefer tea?’

‘A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you,’ Karen replies.

It’s easier to say yes than no, she reflects. She’ll probably be out of here sooner if she downs a cup without waiting to be cajoled. Just then, she hears an outraged voice. A young voice.

‘What the fuck! Dad has stolen my phone again!’

‘Please, Alvin, we have company,’ Helena says, and Karen catches her embarrassed smile just as a gangly teenage boy appears in the doorway, poised to continue his indignant outburst.

He stops when he spots Karen and closes his mouth.

‘Hello,’ she says and introduces herself. ‘I’m just here to talk to your dad.’

‘Yeah, you and me both,’ Alvin Tryste mutters and shakes Karen’s hand. ‘Where is he?’