The thought of large off-road vehicles roaring across the moors at night with powerful spotlights on the roof and bored men shooting anything on four legs that crosses their path revolts her. She doesn’t mention the moonshine or the tax fraud. Byle presumably knows all about it.

Thorstein Byle turns around without comment. Mutely, he holds out his arm to support Karen past a patch of slippery exposed rock. She gratefully accepts his help, but even with the assistance of her colleague a jolt of pain shoots through her knee as she picks her way around it. When she lets go and looks up, she has to suppress a gasp.

So this is Karby. Once an inhospitable worksite for men with worn-out backs and aching shoulders, now it’s a lake surrounded by pines, bare-branched deciduous trees, underbrush and a blueish-grey mountain ridge. It’s a mysterious and dark and inappropriately beautiful place.

‘Goat Back Mountain,’ Byle offers, noting her gaze. ‘You’ll find Skreby Bay on the other side of it, but I suppose you know that already. Your boys will probably be done soon,’ he adds after a quick glance at his wristwatch and nods down toward the old quarry.

Red-and-white striped plastic tape rustles faintly in the breeze. Two people are standing inside the cordoned-off area, talking to each other. They look like aliens in their white protective suits. Even though they have their backs toward Karen, she can tell one of them is Sören Larsen and the other is probably a bloke she believes might be called Arvidsen. Larsen barely reaches his shoulder. When not in protective gear, Sören Larsen enlists the help of heavy boots with thick soles – the thicker the better – to make himself a little bit taller. The soft shoes he’s forced to wear in the new type of overalls don’t give him the few extra inches he wants so badly. And overalls keep his hair from helping, too – the frizzy blond hair that normally forms a halo around his head is now flattened by the protective hood.

Two constables have made themselves comfortable on tree stumps outside the cordon. When they scramble to their feet to salute their superiors, Larsen turns around and spots Karen.

‘About time!’ he shouts with a smile, pushing up onto his toes.

Karen says a quick hello to the two uniformed officers, nods to Arvidsen and walks up to the police tape.

‘Hiya, Sören, how are things? Found anything useful?’

‘Less than you’re hoping for, I’m afraid. Drag marks, but no clear footprints. It was a few degrees below freezing here yesterday morning, so the ground was hard, and then some sleet fell overnight, making it virtually impossible. Maybe if they’d called sooner . . .’

Sören gestures toward Thorstein Byle, who has joined to the uniformed officers.

‘I think they did what they could,’ Karen says. ‘None of us would have made it up here before dark anyway.’