Most of the guests taking part in the evening’s edition of Bosse had arrived. As usual, it was the guests who were least known and who would be appearing for the shortest time who had got there first. Now they were sitting on one of the sofas, made up, their cheeks flushed with tension as they chatted, sipped tea or red wine, their eyes inevitably seeking the monitor which gave a full view of the studio on the other side of the door. There, the audience had been admitted and the TV floor manager was instructing them on how to clap, laugh and cheer. The screen also showed the host’s chair and four guests’ chairs, empty, waiting for people, content and entertainment.

Oda loved these intense, nervous minutes before they went live. Every Friday, for forty minutes, this was as close to the centre of the world as it was possible to get in Norway. Between 20 and 25 per cent of the country’s population saw the programme, an insanely high viewing percentage for a talk show. Those working here were not only where it happened, they were what happened. This was celebrity’s magnetic North Pole which attracted everything and everyone. And because celebrity is an addictive drug and there is only one compass point from the North Pole – south, downwards – everyone clung onto their jobs. A freelancer like Oda had to deliver in order to be on the team next season, and that was why she was so happy, on her own behalf, to have received the call late yesterday afternoon, just before the editorial meeting. Bosse Eggen himself had smiled at her and said this was a scoop. Her scoop.

The evening’s theme was to be adult games. It was a typical Bosse theme, suitably serious without being too weighty. Something about which all the guests could express a semi-qualified opinion. Among the guests was a woman psychologist who had written a thesis on the topic, but the main guest was Arve Støp who would be celebrating Liberal’s twenty-fifth anniversary the following day. Støp hadn’t objected to the angle of the playful adult, the playboy, when Oda had had a preparatory meeting with him in his flat. He had just laughed when she had drawn a parallel with an ageing Hugh Hefner wearing a dressing gown and smoking a pipe at an eternal bachelors’ party in his mansion. She had felt his eyes on her, inspecting, curious, right up to the moment she had asked him whether he regretted not having a child, an heir to the kingdom.

‘Have you got any children?’ he had asked.

And when she had replied in the negative he had, to her astonishment, suddenly seemed to lose interest in both her and their conversation. She had therefore quickly rounded off by giving him the usual information: arrival and make-up times, preferably no striped clothing, themes and guests could change at short notice since this was a topical programme, and so on.

And now here was Arve Støp in Lounge, Studio 1, straight from make-up, with his intense blue eyes and thick grey hair which was groomed, but just long enough for the tips to bob up and down in suitably rebellious style. He was wearing a plain grey suit which everyone knew cost an arm and a leg, though no one could say how they knew. A tanned hand was already out to greet the psychologist who was sitting on a sofa with peanuts and a glass of red wine.

‘I didn’t know psychologists could be so beautiful,’ he said to the woman. ‘Hope people can listen to what you say as well.’

Oda watched the psychologist hesitate before beaming. And even though the woman clearly knew that Støp’s compliment was a joke, Oda saw from the sparkle in her eyes that it had hit home.

‘Hi, everyone, thank you all for coming!’ This was Bosse Eggen sweeping into the room. He started with the guests on the left, shook hands, looked them in the eye, declared how happy he was to have them on board, told them that they could interrupt with questions for the other guests or make comments; it would enliven the conversation.

Gubbe, the producer, signalled that Støp and Bosse should withdraw into a side room to have a chat about the structure of the main interview and the intro to the programme. Oda checked her watch. Eight and a half minutes until they were live. She was just beginning to be concerned and wondered whether to phone reception to find out if he was waiting there: the real main guest. The scoop. But as she raised her eyes, there he was in front of her with one of the assistants, and Oda felt her heart skip a beat. He wasn’t exactly good-looking, perhaps he was even ugly, but she was not ashamed to confess that she felt a certain attraction. And this attraction had something to do with the fact that he was the guest all TV channels in Scandinavia wanted to get their hands on right now. For he was the man who had caught the Snowman, the biggest crime story in Norway for many years.

‘I said I would be late,’ Harry Hole got in before she could utter a word.

She sniffed his breath. The last time he had been on the show he had been visibly drunk and had annoyed a whole nation. Or at least between 20 and 25 per cent of it.

‘We’re just happy you’re here,’ she twittered. ‘You’ll be on second. Then you sit in for the rest of the show; the others will take their turns.’

‘Fine,’ he said.

‘Take him to make-up,’ Oda said to the assistant. ‘Use Guri.’

Guri wasn’t just efficient, she knew how to make a worn face presentable for a TV audience with some simple, and some less simple, tricks.

They went off and Oda took a deep breath. She loved, loved the last edgy minutes when everything seemed to be chaos but still fell into place.

Bosse and Støp returned from the side room. She gave Bosse the thumbs up. She heard the audience clapping as the studio door slid shut. On the monitor she saw Bosse taking his seat and knew that the floor manager had started the countdown. Then the signature tune began, and they were on air.

‘Good stories are never about a string of successes but spectacular defeats,’ Støp had said. ‘Even though Roald Amundsen won the race to the South Pole, it’s Robert Scott the world outside Norway remembers. None of Napoleon’s victories is remembered like the defeat at Waterloo. Serbia’s national pride is based on the battle against the Turks at Kosovo Polje in 1389, a battle the Serbs lost resoundingly. And look at Jesus! The symbol of the man who is claimed to have triumphed over death ought to be a man standing outside the tomb with his hands in the air. Instead, throughout time Christians have preferred the spectacular defeat: when he was hanging on the cross and close to giving up. Because it’s always the story of the defeat that moves us most.’

‘And you’re thinking of doing a Jesus?’

‘No,’ Støp had answered, looking down and smiling as the audience laughed. ‘I’m a coward. I’m going for forgettable success.’

Støp had shown an unexpectedly likeable, indeed, even humble side of himself, instead of his notorious arrogance. Bosse asked him whether he, as a single man of many years’ standing, didn’t long for a woman at his side. And when Støp answered yes, Oda knew there would be an avalanche of marriage proposals heading his way. The audience responded with a long round of warm applause. Then Bosse dramatically announced: ‘Ever on the hunt, the lone wolf of Oslo Police, Inspector Harry Hole,’ and Oda thought she caught an expression of astonishment as the camera rested on Støp for a second.

Bosse had evidently enjoyed the response he had received to the question of a regular woman, because he tried to maintain the thread by asking Harry – since he knew he was also single – if he didn’t long for a woman? Harry smirked and shook his head. But Bosse wouldn’t let it drop and asked if there was perhaps someone special he was kicking his heels waiting for.

‘No,’ Harry answered, short and sweet.

Usually this kind of rejection spurred Bosse to press further, but he knew he shouldn’t spoil the party. The Snowman. So he asked Harry if he could tell them about the case all Norway was talking about, the nation’s first real serial killer. Harry wriggled in his chair as if it were too small for his long body while summarising the chain of events in short, sculpted sentences. In recent years there had been some missing persons cases with obvious similarities. All the missing women had been in relationships, had children and there was no trace of a body.

Bosse assumed the grave expression which informed all and sundry that this was a flippancy-free zone.

‘This year Birte Becker disappeared from her home in Hoff, here in Oslo, under similar circumstances,’ Harry said. ‘And soon afterwards Silvia Ottersen was found dead in Sollihøgda outside Oslo. That was the first time we had found a body. Or at least parts of it.’

‘Yes, because you found her head, didn’t you?’ Bosse interjected. Warily informative for those not in the know, and blood and tabloid for those who were. He was so professional that Oda immediately swelled with satisfaction.

‘And then we found the body of a missing police officer outside Bergen.’ Harry ploughed on. ‘He’d been missing for twelve years.’

‘Iron Rafto,’ Bosse said.

‘Gert Rafto,’ Harry amended. ‘A few days ago we found the body of Idar Vetlesen in Bygdøy. Those are the only bodies we have.’

‘What would you say has been the worst aspect of this case?’ Oda could hear the impatience in Bosse’s voice, probably because Harry had neither taken the ‘head’ bait nor portrayed the murders in the gory detail he would have hoped.

‘So many years passing before we realised that there was a connection between the disappearances.’

Another dull answer. The floor manager signalled to Bosse that he had to start thinking about a link to the next topic.

Bosse pressed his fingertips together. ‘And now the case is solved and you’re a star again, Harry. How does it feel? Do you get fan mail?’ The disarming boyish smile. They were out of the flippancy-free zone.

The inspector nodded slowly and moistened his lips with concentration, as if how he phrased the answer was crucial. ‘Well, I got one letter earlier this autumn, but I’m sure Støp can say more about that.’

Close-up of Støp as he looked at Harry with mild curiosity. Two long, silent TV seconds followed. Oda chewed her lower lip. What did Harry mean? Then Bosse swept in and tidied up.

‘Yes, Støp does get a lot of fan mail, of course. And groupies. What about you, Hole? Have you got groupies, too? Do the police have their own groupies, as it were?’

The audience laughed cautiously.

Harry Hole shook his head.

‘Come on,’ Bosse said. ‘A female recruit must sometimes come and ask for a bit of extra tuition on body searches.’

The studio was really laughing now. With gusto. Bosse grinned with pleasure.

Harry Hole didn’t even crack a smile; he just looked resigned and cast a glance towards the exit. For one short, frantic moment Oda had visions of him getting up and leaving. Instead he turned to Støp in the chair beside him.

‘What do you do, Støp? When a woman comes to you after a lecture in Trondheim, saying she has only one breast, but she would like to have sex with you. Do you invite her for a bit of extra-curricular in your hotel room?’

The audience went deadly quiet, and even Bosse looked perplexed.

Only Arve Støp seemed to think the question was amusing. ‘No, I don’t think I would do that. Not because sex wouldn’t be fun with only one breast, but because the hotel beds in Trondheim are so narrow.’

The audience laughed, though without conviction, mostly from relief that the exchange had not been more embarrassing. The psychologist was introduced.

They talked about playful adults, and Oda noticed that Bosse was navigating the conversation away from Harry Hole. He must have decided that the unpredictable policeman was not on form today. And therefore Arve Støp, who definitely was on form, had even more airtime.

‘How do you play, Støp?’ Bosse asked with an innocent expression underlining the non-innocent subtext. Oda rejoiced – she had written that question.

But before Støp could answer, Harry Hole leaned forward and asked him in loud, clear tones. ‘Do you make snowmen?’

And that was when Oda knew that something was amiss. Hole’s peremptory, angry tone, the aggressive body language; Støp who raised an eyebrow in surprise as his face seemed to shrink and tense up. Bosse paused. Oda didn’t know what was going on, but counted four seconds, an eternity on live TV. Then she realised that Bosse knew what he was doing. For even though Bosse saw it as his duty to create a good atmosphere on the panel, he of course knew that the most important thing, his highest duty, was to entertain. And there is no better entertainment than people who are angry, lose control, cry, break down or in some other way display their feelings in front of a large audience on the air. Accordingly, he had simply let go of the reins and just looked at Støp.

‘Of course I make snowmen,’ Støp said after the four seconds were up. ‘I make them on the roof terrace beside my swimming pool. I make each one look like a member of the royal family. In that way – when spring comes – I can look forward to the unseasonable elements melting and disappearing.’

For the first time that evening Støp earned neither laughter nor applause. Oda thought Støp should have known that fundamentally anti-royalist comments never did.

Undaunted, Bosse broke the silence by introducing the pop star who was to talk about her recent onstage breakdown and then conclude the show by singing the single that would be released on Monday.

‘What the hell was that?’ asked Gubbe, the producer, who had taken up a position directly behind Oda.

‘Perhaps he isn’t sober after all,’ Oda said.

‘My God, he’s a bloody policeman!’

At that moment Oda remembered he was hers. Her scoop. ‘But, Jesus, can he deliver the goods.’

The producer didn’t answer.

The pop star talked about psychological problems, explained that they were inherited, and Oda looked at her watch. Forty seconds. This was too serious for a Friday night. Forty-three. Bosse interrupted after forty-six.

‘What about you, Arve?’ Bosse was usually on first-name terms with the main guest by the end of the broadcast. ‘Ever experienced madness or a serious hereditary illness?’

Støp smiled. ‘No, Bosse, I haven’t. Unless you count a craving for total freedom as an illness. In fact, it’s a family weakness.’

Bosse had come to round-up time, now he just had to sign off with the other guests before introducing the song. Final few words from the psychologist about the ludic in life. And then:

‘And as the Snowman’s no longer with us I suppose you’ll have time to play for a couple of days, Harry?’

‘No,’ Harry said. He had slumped so far down into his chair that his long legs almost reached over to the pop star. ‘The Snowman hasn’t been caught.’

Bosse frowned, smiled and waited for him to go on, waited for the punchline. Oda hoped to God it was better than his opening line promised.

‘I never said Idar Vetlesen was the Snowman,’ Harry said. ‘On the contrary. Everything points to the Snowman still being at large.’

Bosse gave a little chuckle. It was the laugh he used to smooth over a guest’s hapless attempt to be funny.

‘I hope for the sake of my wife’s beauty sleep that you’re joking now,’ Bosse said mischievously.

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not.’

Oda looked at her watch and knew the floor manager was standing behind the camera now, shifting nervously, as she ran a finger across her throat to show Bosse that they were running over and he would have to begin the song if they were to manage the first verse before the credits started rolling. But Bosse was the best. He knew that this was more important than all the singles in the world. Thus he ignored the raised baton and leaned forward in his chair to show those who might have been in any doubt about what this was. The scoop. The sensational announcement. Here on his, on their programme. The quaver in his voice was almost genuine.

‘Are you telling us here and now that the police have been lying, Hole? That the Snowman is out there and can take more lives?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘We haven’t been lying. New details have come to light.’

Bosse swivelled round in his chair, and Oda thought she could hear the technical director shouting for camera 1, and then Bosse’s face was there, the eyes staring straight at them.

‘And I would guess we’ll hear more about those details on the news tonight. Bosse is back next Friday. Thank you for watching.’

Oda closed her eyes as the band began to play the single.

‘Jesus,’ she heard the producer wheeze behind her. And then, ‘Jesus bloody Christ.’ Oda just felt like howling. Howling with pleasure. Here, she thought. Here at the North Pole. We aren’t where it happens. We are what happens.