Gertrud Stuub doesn’t come to the door herself. Instead, they’re greeted by a man in his seventies, with a thick mop of grey hair hiding a receding hairline. His furrowed face might have been the result of a hard life at sea, if it weren’t for the white dog collar peeking out of his black shirt. Karen instinctively straightens up when she introduces herself.

‘Karen Eiken Hornby, Doggerland CID, I’m leading the investigation into Fredrik Stuub’s death,’ she says and holds out her hand.

‘Erling Arve,’ the priest replies and takes her hand in his much larger one.

His handshake is firm, verging on crushing.

‘Hi, Thorstein,’ he says as he turns from Karen to Byle. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

He steps aside to let them in.

‘How is Gertrud holding up? She was pretty upset yesterday when I met her up by the quarry,’ Byle says after Erling Arve shuts the door behind them.

‘I think the shock is wearing off, but as I’m sure you’ll understand, she is grieving and I don’t think she’s slept much.’

‘Has she been seen by anyone from the clinic? Maybe she needs something?’

Arve shakes his head.

‘She says she doesn’t want to see a doctor, just me. She’s looking to God for help. Sometimes, brother, I think her faith is stronger than yours or mine.’

Erling Arve leans toward Byle with a small smile when he says the last part. Karen, effectively sidelined, discreetly clears her throat.

‘We need to talk to Gertrud,’ she says. ‘I know it will be difficult, but it’s important that we speak to her while her memories are still fresh.’

‘Like I said, we’ve been expecting you,’ Arve says and leads them through a hallway where a tall mirror has been covered with black cloth. On the accompanying side table, a vase with three white roses sits next to a wooden crucifix. The priest pauses in front of a door and seems to take a deep breath, then he knocks gently on the doorpost and slowly pushes the handle down.

A black-and-white border collie is waiting on the other side, his head defensively lowered.

‘There now, Sammy,’ Arve says. ‘Settle down.’

The dog backs away and walks over to lie down with his head on his paws next to a woman with a slate-grey bob and red-rimmed eyes. Gertrud Stuub is perched on the edge of an armchair, one hand clutching a balled-up handkerchief, the other gently placed on an open Bible. Karen walks over to her and extends her hand.

‘Let me start by saying how very sorry I am for your loss,’ she says after introducing herself. ‘Losing a loved one is always difficult, and I know having to relive what you went through yesterday will make it even harder. Are you getting all the help you need?’