‘And Eleanor is happy,’ he continues.

‘Yeah, thanks, I’ve gathered. Thin walls.’

Leo takes a drag and stares mutely into the darkness.

‘I guess you’ll have to move in with me tomorrow after Kore and Eirik leave,’ he says after a while.

‘With you?’

‘Sure, they claim the sofa bed is actually comfortable if you just use a few pillows to pad the steel beam poking into your lower back. And if worst comes to worst, I’m sure I could make room in my bed.’

Taken aback, she gives him a quick, sidelong glance; this isn’t like him. Come to think of it, participating in a Christmas celebration doesn’t seem like him either, singing drinking songs and listening to Harry go on and on about how converting the attic or winterising the shed would give Karen more space. Completely oblivious to Karen’s growing irritation, Leo and Harry had continued to make plans for her house while topping up each other’s glasses. How she should go about it, how much it would cost, how much it would raise the property value now that the old fisherman’s cottages in Langevik have become popular again. Especially houses like Karen’s, with private jetties and boat sheds.

It’s probably a train of thought that comes naturally to Harry Lampard; according to her mother, he ran a successful building company in Birmingham before retiring to Spain’s Costa del Sol. But that Leo Friis would sit there and listen and take an active interest . . .

What the fuck does he know about insulation, roof shingles and loadbearing walls? Karen thinks to herself and grinds her half-finished cigarette out against the railing. On the other hand, what do I really know about Leo Friis? she thinks a moment later. Just a few months ago, he was homeless, tramping around with a trolley in Dunker, looking for glass bottles to recycle.

‘So you’re suggesting I move in with you?’ she says. ‘Last I checked, it was still my house.’

Leo shrugs as if generously allowing her point.

‘Which I rent, yes. For a pittance, granted, though I don’t recall being given a proper contract,’ he adds. ‘But I assume you don’t want to get the revenue service involved . . .’

Karen inhales sharply.

‘Oh, relax,’ he says quickly when he notices her stricken look. ‘It was a joke, Karen.’

And for a second, she’s left wondering whether he’s referring to what he said about the bed or the revenue service.

Then he puts his cigarette out in the upside-down terracotta flowerpot by the door.

‘Ready to go back in?’

She reluctantly straightens up.

‘It’ll all be over eventually,’ she says with a sigh.

Chapter 3

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