The cold overcomes her the moment she notices William Tryste’s blood is melting a hole in the snow under his cheek. The icy wind scatters the last remnants of adrenaline and makes her sweat-soaked T-shirt cling to her back. Her mind races like an express train. I can’t die now, not when I’ve made it this far. And then another voice that casts about for answers but finds none: how long can a person survive in seventeen below and storm-force winds without appropriate clothing? How is she going to make it through a dark forest full of gaping windthrows and tall pines that can splinter like matchsticks at any moment? The cold makes her lungs ache; she takes short, shallow breaths. Like a silent mantra, she repeats what she does know: I need to get warm, I need to keep moving, I mustn’t go into shock.

And then the unavoidable conclusion: I need his coat.

It’s not until she once again forces herself to look at Tryste’s body, at the blood still gushing out of his eye socket, turning the snow red, that she notices. The snow is red. It should be dark; she shouldn’t be able to see colours. She quickly turns around and blinks at the lights of the car parked just sixty feet away. The relief is so overwhelming she almost loses her footing.

He has left the door unlocked and the keys in the ignition. She manages to close the door behind her and tries to start the engine but is forced to stop. Her hands are shaking uncontrollably and despite the relative warmth of the cab she can feel that her body is starting to give up. She’s shivering so violently her head bangs against the headrest. Helplessly, Karen Eiken Hornby realises she can no longer make her body obey. All her strength is used up, all her resources exhausted.

And she thinks to herself that she’s so terribly tired now, so tired that she just has to have a little rest. Not sleep, just close her eyes for a minute . . .

*

Olaf Vrede is the one who finds her. Or, more accurately, his nine-year-old German shepherd is. Or, even more accurately, the dog finds William Tryste’s body, drawn by the warm blood. It’s another few seconds before Cornelis Loots discovers that Tryste’s car, which is parked sixty feet away, isn’t empty. When Karl Björken and Thorstein Byle arrive, Loots has wrapped his coat around Karen and is trying to make her open her eyes.

‘It’s her! She has a pulse, but it’s weak and rapid!’ he shouts.

They lay Karen down on the back seat with her head on Karl’s lap and Cornelis Loots climbs in behind the wheel and puts the car in reverse.