They slowly follow the high street down toward the harbour, driving past closed shops, cafés and a pub with blacked-out windows. They pass an older couple walking arm in arm, a closed pharmacy, a man shutting his car door behind him and walking briskly toward a side street with a newspaper under his arm. He probably had to drive over to the petrol station to buy it. Nothing seems open. Only now does Karen start to have misgivings about finding somewhere to eat. Back home, Sunday trading has long since become the norm; these days you can go to the pub or buy pressure-treated wood even on Good Friday. Here, on the other hand, people seem to stay home on Boxing Day. Whether out of deep-rooted respect for the church or because of a lack of customers, she doesn’t know, but whatever the reason, it doesn’t look as if anyone will be serving lunch. Things are unlikely to look any better down in the harbour, she realises; there won’t be any catches coming in until the day after tomorrow at the earliest.

Yet even so, Thorstein Byle’s plan doesn’t become clear to her until he turns on his indicator to turn down one of the residential streets.

The Byle family lives at the end of a side street lined with one-storey stone houses with wooden second-storey additions. Originally, these houses would have been pitch-black, but over the years they’ve acquired a silvery patina, houses and colours so typical of Noorö, Karen can once again feel herself being sucked back in time.

Solveig Byle greets them on the front steps. She’s a greying blonde wearing sturdy clogs and a lovely smile. She extends one hand while holding the cardigan draped over her shoulders closed with the other. Thorstein must have called her from the car, Karen thinks as she takes the offered hand with a mix of gratitude and an urge to flee. She would have preferred to sit alone in a pub with a plate of lamb stew and a pint, going over her notes or simply flipping through a paper another patron left behind. Instead, she will now be forced to ask polite questions, listen with interest, compliment the food, be offered more – decline at first but eventually give in – and eat another serving. And remember to thank her hosts three times, as tradition dictates. Or even worse, answer questions about herself.

*

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

‘The kids and I already ate, so we’ll leave you two alone,’ Solveig tells them. ‘I know you will have a lot to talk about. I left some things out for you in the kitchen, nothing fancy, just leftovers from yesterday.’