‘Hardly. Kneought and I are in the hotel restaurant, just ordered. Why are you staying at the pub? Rindler’s isn’t too shabby, actually. Apparently, they have both a sauna and one of those jacuzzi tubs. We’re actually considering having a soak after dinner.’

Karen curses her fate with a heavy sigh. Not that the idea of sitting in a jacuzzi with Laurel and Hardy holds much appeal, but her back could definitely have done with thirty minutes in a hot sauna. Instead, she’s trapped in a floral prison, gazing out at the flickering lights of a deserted ferry port.

‘I took the first room I came across.’

‘Too bad, but at least join us for dinner,’ Larsen continues. ‘You deserve a decent meal.’

*

Fifteen minutes later, Karen sits down at the table where Larsen and Brodal have just been served a piece of steaming turbot each. Next to them, bowls of boiled potatoes and grated horseradish are set out along with a gravy boat filled to the brim with melted butter. Her favourite dish. But with Solveig Byle’s lunch still heavy in her stomach she opts for something lighter.

‘Prawn toast for me, please,’ she tells the waitress.

‘And to drink?’

‘I’ll have a glass of theirs,’ she says after a glance at the bottle of wine sitting in an ice bucket, wrapped in a towel.

‘If that’s the case, bring us another bottle,’ Kneought Brodal adds.

‘I assume you’ve discussed this with Smeed?’ Karen says, gesturing at the plates, gravy boats and wine coolers.

‘No, it’ll be a lovely surprise,’ Brodal replies sarcastically. ‘It’s bloody Christmas, we’re not supposed to have a decent meal?’

While she waits for her food, Karen listens to Larsen and Brodal’s contented chewing and pours herself a glass of wine. It’s not until a mountain of freshly peeled shrimp, presumably hiding a slice of toast in its midst, is put in front of her that she realises she’s actually hungry again.

‘So, what have you learnt?’ she says, washing down the first bite with a sip of the wine.

Too late, she realises it’s a nice Chablis, probably incredibly expensive. Smeed is definitely not going to be happy. She decides to let Kneought Brodal handle the cheque; even Smeed knows better than to pick a fight with him.

‘Well,’ Larsen says. ‘Someone has unquestioningly searched Fredrik Stuub’s house, but then, you knew that already.’

‘Can you tell if anything’s missing?’

‘Nope.’

‘What do you mean? Surely you can tell me something?’