‘Can’t I go up to my room?’ Oleg said, kicking the leg of the large kitchen table.

‘No,’ Rakel said. ‘You have to stay here.’

‘What’s Mathias done?’

‘Harry will explain everything when he comes. Are you sure you’ve attached the safety chain properly?’

‘Yes, Mum. I wish Dad was here.’

‘Dad?’ She hadn’t heard him use that word before. Except for Harry, but that was several years ago. ‘Do you mean your father in Russia?’

‘He’s not Dad.’

He said it with a conviction that made her shiver.

‘The cellar door!’ she screamed.

‘What?’

‘Mathias has got the cellar key, too. What shall we do?’

‘Simple,’ said Oleg, finishing his glass of water. ‘You put one of the garden chairs under the door handle. They’re just the right height. No chance anyone could get in.’

‘Have you tried?’ she asked, taken aback.

‘Harry did it once when we were playing cowboys.’

‘Sit here,’ she said, heading for the hall and the cellar door.

‘Wait.’

She stopped.

‘I saw how he did it,’ Oleg said, who had got to his feet. ‘Stay here, Mum.’

She looked at him. God, how he had grown in this last year; he would soon be taller than her. And in those dark eyes of his the childishness was giving way to what for the moment was youthful defiance, but which, she could already see, in time would become adult determination.

She hesitated.

‘Let me do it,’ he said.

There was a plea in his tone. And she knew this was important for him, it was about bigger matters. About coming to terms with childish fears. About adult rituals. About becoming like his father. Whoever he thought that was.

‘Hurry,’ she whispered.

Oleg ran.

She stood by the window and stared out. Listening for the sound of a car on the drive. She prayed that Harry would come first. Wondered about how quiet it was. And had no idea where the next thought came from: how quiet it would be.

But then she did hear a sound. A tiny sound. At first she assumed it came from outside. But then she was sure that it came from behind her. She turned. Saw nothing, just the empty kitchen. Then there was that sound again. Like the heavy tick of a clock. Or a finger tapping on a table. The table. She stared. That was where the sound was coming from. And then she saw it. A drop of water had landed on the table. She slowly raised her face to the ceiling. In the middle of the white panelling a dark circle had formed. And from the middle of that circle hung a shiny drop. It let go and landed on the table. Rakel saw it happen, yet the sound made her jump, as if she had received an unexpected slap to the head.

My God, it must be from the bathroom! Had she really forgotten to turn off the shower again? She hadn’t been on the first floor since she came home; she had got to grips with cooking straight away, so it must have been running since this morning. And it would have to happen now, in the midst of all this.

She went into the hall, dashed up the stairs and headed for the bathroom. She couldn’t hear the shower. She opened the door. Dry floor. No water running. She closed the bathroom door and stood outside for a couple of seconds. Glanced at the adjacent bedroom door. Slowly walked over. Rested her hand on the handle. Hesitated. Listened again for cars. Then she opened the door. She looked inside the room. She wanted to scream. But instinctively she knew that she mustn’t, she had to be quiet. Perfectly quiet.

The traffic had ground to a halt in front of the tunnel. They had been there now for two long minutes.

The reason came over the police radio that second. ‘There’s been a collision on Ring 3 by the exit of the westbound tunnel at Tåsen. No injuries. Breakdown truck’s on its way.’

On a sudden impulse Harry snatched the microphone. ‘Do you know who it is?’

‘We know it’s two cars, both fitted with summer tyres,’ the nasal radio voice drawled laconically.

‘November snow always brings chaos,’ the officer at the back said.

Harry didn’t answer, just drummed his fingers on the dashboard. He weighed up the alternatives. There was a barricade of cars in front of and behind them; all the blue lights and sirens in the world could not get them through. He could jump out and run to the end of the tunnel, radio a patrol car to meet him there, but it was close on two kilometres.

It was quiet in the car now; all that could be heard was the low hum of idling car engines. The van in front of them nudged forward a metre and the police driver followed. Didn’t brake until he was almost on its rear bumper, as if afraid anything but aggressive driving would cause the inspector to explode again. The sudden braking made the two metal bikini-clad women jingle cheerfully in the silence that followed.

Harry thought about Jonas again. Why, though? What had made him think about Jonas when he was talking to Mathias on the phone? There was something about the sound. In the background.

Harry studied the two dancers under the mirror. And everything clicked into place.

He knew why he had thought about Jonas. He knew what the sound had been. And he knew there wasn’t a second to lose. Or – he tried to repress the thought – there was no need to hurry any more. It was already too late.

He grabbed the garden chair, dragged it after him for the noise to drown the silence. He checked that the cellar door was in fact locked. Then he wedged the chair under the handle and made sure it could not move. There we are. He stiffened. What was that? He looked up at the small window in the door. He couldn’t hold back the thoughts any longer, now they flooded in. Someone was standing outside. He wanted to run away, but forced himself to stand his ground. Fought against the thoughts with other thoughts. I’m on the inside, he told himself. I’m as secure here as up there. He breathed in, felt his heart pounding like a runaway bass drum. Then he leaned forward and peered at the window. He saw the reflection of his own face. But above that he saw another face, a distorted face that was not his. And he saw hands, monster hands being raised. Oleg backed away, terrified. Bumped into something and felt hands close around his face and mouth. He was unable to scream. For he wanted to scream. He wanted to scream that this was not in his mind, this was the monster, the monster was inside. And they were all going to die.

The other officers looked at him with incomprehension as Harry pressed the redial button on the phone. ‘I thought it was Japanese music, but it was metal wind chimes. The kind Jonas has in his room. And which Oleg has, too. Mathias has been there all the time. He told me himself, didn’t he . . . ?’

‘What do you mean?’ the officer at the back ventured to ask.

‘He said he was at home. And that’s the house on Holmenkollveien now, of course. He even said he was on his way down to see Rakel and Oleg. I should have known. After all, Holmenkollen is up in relation to Torshov. He was on the first floor in Holmenkollveien. On his way down. We have to get them out of the house now. Answer for Christ’s sake!’

‘Perhaps she’s not near –’

‘There are four telephones in the house. He’s just cut the connection now. I have to get there.’

‘We can send another patrol car,’ the driver said.

‘No!’ Harry snapped. ‘It’s too late anyway. He’s got them. And the only chance we have is the final pawn. Me.’

‘You?’

‘Yes. I’m part of his plan.’

‘You’re not part of his plan, you mean, don’t you?’

‘No. I am part. He’s waiting for me.’

The two policemen exchanged glances as they heard the bleat of a motorbike worming its way forward between the stationary cars behind them.

‘You think he is?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said, catching sight of the bike in the wing mirror. Thinking this was the only answer he could give. Because it was the only answer that gave any hope.

‘This is a scalpel, Oleg.’ The monster had Mathias’s voice. ‘We use it to dissect people. And you wouldn’t believe how easy it is.’

Then the monster told him to open wide, shoved a filthy cloth in his mouth and ordered him to lie on his stomach with his arms behind his back. As Oleg didn’t obey at once the steel was thrust in under his ear and he felt hot blood coursing over his shoulder and down the inside of his T-shirt. He lay on his stomach on the freezing cement floor, and the monster sat on top of him. A red box fell beside his face. He read the label. Plastic ties, the kind of thin ties you saw around cables and on toy packaging, which were so irritating because they could only be tightened, not loosened, and they couldn’t be pulled apart however thin they were. He felt the sharp plastic cut into the skin around his wrists and ankles.

Then he was lifted up and dropped and there was no time to wait for the pain as he landed softly, with a crunch. He stared up. He was lying on his back in the freezer; he could feel the ice that had broken off burn the skin on his forearms and face. Above him stood the monster with his head angled to one side.

‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet on the other side before very long.’

The lid was slammed down and there was total darkness. Oleg could hear the key being turned in the lock and swift steps fading into the distance. He tried to lift his tongue, tried to get it behind the cloth, had to get it out. Had to breathe. Had to have air.

The bed and other furniture had been pushed against the walls, and the floor was covered by an almost invisible surface of water that was only broken when a new drop fell on it. But Rakel didn’t notice; the only thing she saw was the enormous snowman dominating the centre of the room.

The top hat on the head with the grinning mouth almost touched the ceiling.

When she finally recovered her breathing and the oxygen rushed to her brain she recognised the smell of wet wool and wet wood and heard the sound of melting snow dripping. A wave of cold surged towards her, but this was not what gave her goose pimples. It was the body heat of the man standing behind her.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Mathias said. ‘I’ve made it just for you.’

‘Mathias . . .’

‘Shh.’ He placed a kind of protective arm around her throat. She looked down. The hand was holding a scalpel. ‘Don’t talk, my love. There’s so much to do and so little time.’

‘Why? Why?’

‘This is our day, Rakel. The rest of life is so unbelievably short, so let’s celebrate, not waste time explaining. Please put your arms behind your back.’

Rakel did as he said. She hadn’t heard Oleg come up from the cellar. Perhaps he was still in the cellar; perhaps he could get out if she could just detain Mathias. ‘I’d like to know why,’ she said and could hear emotion tugging at her vocal cords.

‘Because you’re a whore.’

She felt something thin and hard tighten around her wrists. Felt his warm breath on her neck. His lips. And then his tongue. She gritted her teeth, knowing that if she screamed he might stop and she wanted him to go on, to waste time. The tongue worked its way round and up to her ear. A little nibble.

‘And the son from your whoring is in the freezer,’ he whispered.

‘Oleg?’ she said, feeling herself lose control.

‘Relax, my darling, he won’t die of cold.’

‘Wo-won’t he?’

‘Long before his body has cooled down the son of a whore will have died from asphyxiation. It’s simple mathematics.’

‘Mathema –’

‘I did the calculations ages ago. It’s all calculated.’

Harry accelerated up the drive to the black timber house, but in the sharp turn the wheels spun on the fresh snow and he felt the bike losing speed. He didn’t try to correct the skid, he jumped off and the bike rolled down the slope, burst through a few low spruce branches before coming to a halt against a tree trunk, tipped onto its side and, spitting snow from the back wheel, breathed its last.

By then Harry was already halfway up the steps.

There were no footprints in the snow, neither to nor from the house. He took out his revolver as he bounded up to the door.

It was unlocked. As promised.

He slipped into the hall and the first thing he saw was the cellar door wide open.

Harry stopped to listen. There was a noise, a kind of drumming. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Harry hesitated. Then he opted for the cellar.

With his revolver pointing in front of him he sidled down the staircase. At the bottom he stopped to let his eyes get accustomed to the dark and listened. He had a sense that the whole room was holding its breath. He spotted the garden chair under the door handle. Oleg. His eyes delved further. He had decided to go upstairs again when his attention was caught by the dark stain on the brick floor by the freezer. Water? He took a step closer. It must have come from under the freezer. He forced his thoughts away from where they wanted to go and pulled at the lid. Locked. The key was in, but Rakel didn’t usually lock the freezer. Images from Finnøy emerged in his brain, but he hurried, twisted the key and lifted the lid.

Harry just caught the glint of metal from the murky depths before a burning pain in his face made him throw himself backwards. A knife? He had fallen on his back between two dirty-laundry baskets and a figure, speedy and nimble, was already out of the freezer and standing over him.

‘Police!’ Harry shouted and quickly raised his gun. ‘Don’t move!’

The figure stopped with one hand raised over his head. ‘H-Harry?’

‘Oleg?’

Harry lowered the revolver and saw what the boy was holding in his hand. A speed skate.

‘I . . . I thought Mathias had come back,’ he whispered.

Harry got to his feet. ‘Where is Mathias?’

‘I don’t know. He said we would meet soon, so I assumed . . .’

‘Where did the skate come from?’ Harry tasted metallic blood in his mouth and his fingers found the cut on his face, which was bleeding profusely.

‘It was in the freezer.’ Oleg gave a sly grin. ‘I was getting so much hassle for leaving the skates on the steps, so I keep them under the peas where Mum won’t see them. We never eat peas, as you know.’

He followed Harry who was already on his way up the stairs.

‘Luckily I’d had the blades sharpened, so I could cut the ties. The lock was impossible, but I managed to stab a couple of holes in the plate at the bottom to get some air. And I smashed the bulb so that the light wouldn’t come on when he opened the lid.’

‘And your body heat melted the ice that ran out of the hole,’ Harry said.

They emerged in the hall, and Harry pulled Oleg over to the front door, opened it and pointed.

‘See the neighbours’ light? Run over and stay there until I come and get you. OK?’

‘No!’ said Oleg firmly. ‘Mum –’

‘Shh! Now listen. The best thing you can do for your mum right now is to get away from here.’

‘I want to find her!’

Harry grabbed Oleg’s shoulders and squeezed until tears of pain formed in the boy’s eyes.

‘When I say run, you run, you bloody idiot.’

He said it in a low voice but with such repressed fury that Oleg blinked in confusion and a tear rolled over his eyelashes and onto his cheek. Then the boy turned on his heel, rushed out of the door and was swallowed up by the darkness and the driving snow.

Harry grabbed the walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button. ‘Harry here. Are you far away?’

‘We’re by the stadium. Over.’ Harry recognised Gunnar Hagen’s voice.

‘I’m inside,’ Harry said. ‘Drive up to the front of the house, but don’t enter until I say. Over.’

‘Roger.’

‘Over and out.’

Harry went towards the sound that was still coming from the kitchen. From the doorway he stood watching the thin stream of water falling from the ceiling. It had been tinted grey by the dissolved plaster and was drumming furiously on the kitchen table.

Harry took the staircase to the first floor in four long strides. Tiptoed to the bedroom door. Swallowed. Studied the door handle. From outside he could hear the distant sound of police sirens approaching. Blood from his cut dripped onto the parquet floor with a gentle plop.

He could feel it now, as pressure on his temples; this was where it would end. And there was a kind of logic to it. How many times had he stood like this in front of the bedroom door, at daybreak, after a night when he had promised to be at home with her, how often had he stood there with a bad conscience knowing she was inside asleep? Carefully he pressed the door handle which he knew would creak halfway down. And she would wake up, look at him with sleepy eyes, try to punish him with her glare, until he slipped under the duvet, snuggled up to her body and felt its stiff resistance melt. And she would grunt with pleasure, but not too much pleasure. And then he would stroke her more, kiss and nibble at her, be her servant until she was sitting on him, no longer the queen in her slumbers, but purring and moaning, wanton and offended at the same time.

He closed his fist around the handle, noticed how his hand recognised the flat angular shape. He pressed with infinite care. Waited for the familiar creak. But it was not forthcoming. Something was different. There was resistance. Had someone tightened the springs? Gingerly, he let go. Stooped down to the keyhole and tried to peep in. Black. Someone had blocked the hole.

‘Rakel!’ he shouted. ‘Are you there?’

No answer. He placed his ear against the door. Thought he could hear a scratching sound, but wasn’t sure. He held the handle again. Wavered. Changed his mind, let go and hastened into the adjacent bathroom. Pushed open the little window, forced his body through and leaned out backwards. Light was streaming from between the black iron bars of the bedroom window. He wedged his heels against the inside of the frame, tensed his leg muscles and stretched out of the bathroom and along the outside wall. His fingers groped in vain to find a hold between the rough logs as the snow settled on his face and melted into the blood running down his cheek. He applied greater force; the window frame was pressing into his leg so hard it felt as if the bone would crack. His hands crept along the wall like frenetic five-legged spiders. His stomach muscles ached. But it was too far, he couldn’t reach. He stared down at the ground beneath him, knowing that under the thin layer of snow there was tarmac.

He felt something cold against his fingertips.

An iron bar.

Got two fingers round the bar. Three. Then the other hand. Let his aching legs swing free, dangled and hurriedly found a boothold to relieve the pressure on his arms. At last he could see into the bedroom. And he saw. His brain struggled to absorb the sight while it knew immediately what it was looking at: the finished work of art, the prototype of which he had already seen.

Rakel’s eyes were wide open and black. She was wearing a dress. Crimson. Like Campari. She was ‘cochineal’. Her head strained towards the ceiling as though she were standing by a fence trying to see over, and from this position she stared down and out at him. Her shoulders were pulled back and her arms hidden. Harry assumed her hands were tied behind her back. Her cheeks bulged as though she had a sock or a cloth in her mouth. She sat astride the shoulders of an enormous snowman. Her bare legs were crossed in front of the snowman’s chest, and he could see her tensed leg muscles quivering. She mustn’t fall. She couldn’t. For around her neck there was not a grey, lifeless wire, as with Eli Kvale, but a white glowing circle, like an absurd imitation of an old toothpaste advertisement promising a ring of confidence, good fortune in love and a long and happy life. A wire ran from the black handle of the cutting loop to a hook in the ceiling above Rakel’s head. The wire continued to the other end of the room, to the door. To the door handle. The wire was not thick, but long enough to have provided noticeably more resistance when Harry had begun to press the handle. If he had opened the door, indeed if he had even pressed the handle right down, the white glowing metal would have cut into her throat, right under her chin.

Rakel was staring back at Harry without blinking. The muscles in her face were twitching, alternating between fury and naked fear. The loop was too narrow for her to remove her head unscathed; instead she held her head down so that it did not touch the death-bringing glow that hung almost vertically around her neck.

She looked at Harry, down at the floor and back to Harry. And Harry understood.

Grey clumps of snow were already lying in the water covering the floor. The snowman was melting. Fast.

Harry got a good foothold and shook the bars as hard as he could. They didn’t budge, didn’t even offer a hopeful creak. The iron was thin but firmly attached to the timber.

The figure inside was swaying.

‘Hold on!’ Harry shouted. ‘I’ll be there soon!’

Lies. He wouldn’t even be able to bend the bars with an iron lever. And he didn’t have time to start sawing them off. Fuck her father, the mad bastard! His arms were aching. He heard the ear-piercing siren of the first car turning into the drive. He looked round. It was one of Delta’s special vehicles, a large, armoured beast of a Land Rover. A man dressed in a green flak jacket jumped out of the passenger seat, took cover behind the vehicle and held up a walkie-talkie. Harry’s handset crackled.

‘Hello!’ Harry shouted.

The man, taken aback, looked left and right.

‘Up here, boss.’

Gunnar Hagen straightened up behind the vehicle as a patrol car swung up in front of the house with the blue light swirling.

‘Should we storm the house?’ Hagen shouted.

‘No!’ screamed Harry. ‘He’s got her strung up. Just . . .’

‘Just?’

Harry raised his eyes, stared. Not down to the city, but up to the illuminated Holmenkollen ski jump further up the ridge.

‘Just what, Harry?’

‘Just wait.’

‘Wait?’

‘I have to think.’

Harry rested his forehead against the cold bars. His arms were aching and he bent his knees to put most of his body weight on his legs. The cutting loop must have an off switch. On the plastic handle, probably. They could smash the window and poke a long pole in with a mirror attached so that they could perhaps . . . But how the hell would they be able to press the off switch without everything moving and . . . and . . . ? Harry tried not to think about the ludicrously thin layer of skin and soft tissue that protected the carotid artery. Tried to think constructively and ignore the panic that was roaring in his ears telling him to get in and take control.

They could enter through the door. Without opening it. Just saw away the panel. They needed a chainsaw. But who would have one? Only the whole of bloody Holmenkollen. After all, they’ve each got a spruce forest in their garden.

‘Get hold of a chainsaw from the neighbour’s house,’ Harry yelled.

Down below he heard the sound of running. And a splash inside the bedroom. Harry’s heart stopped and he stared in. The whole of the snowman’s left side was gone. It had sheered off and landed in the water. The snowman was collapsing. He saw Rakel’s whole body tremble as she fought to maintain her balance to keep away from the white, tear-shaped gallows noose. They would never get back with the chainsaw in time, let alone cut through the door.

‘Hagen!’ Harry heard the shrill hysteria in his own voice. ‘The patrol cars have got a tow rope. Sling it up here and reverse the Land Rover to the wall.’

Harry heard a buzz of voices, the Land Rover’s engine revving in reverse and a car boot being opened.

‘Catch!’

Harry let go of the bar with one hand and turned to see the coiled rope coming towards him. He lunged in the dark, caught it and held on as the rest unfurled and fell back down to the ground with a thud.

‘Tie the end to the tow bar.’

There was a carbine hook attached to his end of the rope. As quick as lightning he smacked the hook against the junction of the bars in the middle of the window and the lock snapped shut. Speed-cuffing.

Another splash from inside the bedroom. Harry didn’t look. There was no point.

‘Go!’ he yelled.

Then he grabbed the edge of the gutter with both hands, using the bars as a ladder, and heard the Land Rover’s revs increase as he swung himself onto the roof. With his chest on the roof tiles and his eyes closed he could hear the motor engage, the rev count fall and the iron bars groan. More groaning. And more. Come on! Harry was aware that time was passing more slowly than he thought. And yet not slowly enough. Then – as he was waiting for the auspicious crack – the rev count suddenly rose to a ferocious whine. Shit! Harry realised the tyres of the Land Rover were spinning round helplessly.

A thought fluttered through his brain: he could say a prayer. But he knew that God had made up His mind, that destiny was sold out, that this ticket would have to be bought on the black market. But his soul wouldn’t be worth much without her anyway. The thought was gone that very same second, interrupted by the sound of rubber on tarmac, a sinking rev count and an increasing groan.

The big heavy tyres had spun their way down to the tarmac.

Then came the crack. The rev count roared and died. A second of total silence followed. And then a hollow crash as the bars hit the car roof below.

Harry pushed himself up. He stood with his back to the yard on the edge of the gutter and felt it give way. Then he bent down, grabbed the gutter with both hands and kicked off. Swung like a pendulum from gutter to window. Jack-knifed. The moment the old, thin windowpane gave with a tinkle under his boots Harry let go. And for a few tenths of a second he had no idea where he would land: down in the yard, on the jagged glass teeth of the window or in the bedroom.

There was a bang, a fuse must have gone, and everything went black.

Harry sailed through a room of nothing, felt nothing, remembered nothing, was nothing.

And when the light came back on his only thought was that he wanted to return to that space. Pain radiated from all over his body. He was lying on his back in icy-cold water. But he must have been dead because he was looking up at an angel dressed in blood red, seeing her shining halo glow in the dark. Slowly sound returned. The scratching. The breathing. Then he saw the distorted face, the panic, the gaping mouth stuffed with the yellow ball, the feet scrambling up the snow. He just wanted to close his eyes. A noise, like low moaning. Wet snow crumbling.

In retrospect, Harry couldn’t really account for what happened; he could only remember the nauseating smell as the cutting loop burned through flesh.

At the very moment the snowman collapsed he stood up. Rakel fell forward. Harry raised his right hand as he fastened his left arm around her thighs to hold her up. He knew it was too late. Flesh sizzled, his nostrils were filled with a sweet, greasy smell and blood ran down his face. He looked up. His right hand was situated between the white glow of the loop and her neck. The weight of her neck forced his hand down against the white-hot wire which ate through the flesh of his fingers like an egg slicer through a hard-boiled egg. And when it was right through it would cut open her throat. The pain came, delayed and dull, like an initially reluctant then insistent steel hammer on an alarm clock. He fought to stay upright. Had to have his left hand free. Blinded by blood, he hauled her up onto his shoulders and stretched his free hand over his head. Felt her skin against his fingertips, her thick hair, felt the loop burn into his skin before his hand found the hard plastic, the handle. His fingers found a flip switch. Moved it to the right. But stopped as soon as the noose started tightening. His fingers found another switch and pressed. The sounds disappeared, the light flickered and he knew he was on the point of losing consciousnessness again. Breathe, he thought, the important thing was to get oxygen to the brain. But his knees were giving way nevertheless. The white glow above him changed to red. And then gradually to black.

At his back he heard the sound of glass being crushed under several pairs of boot heels.

‘We’ve got her,’ a voice said behind him.

Harry sank to his knees in the blood-tinged water, with clumps of snow and unused plastic ties floating around him. His brain engaged and disengaged as if the power supply to it were failing.

Someone said something behind him. He caught fragments of it, inhaled air and groaned, ‘What?’

‘She’s alive,’ the voice repeated.

His hearing stabilised. And sight. He turned. The two men clad in black had laid Rakel on the bed and cut the plastic ties. The contents of Harry’s stomach came up without warning. Two heaves and it was all out. He stared down at the vomit floating in the water and felt a hysterical urge to laugh out loud. Because the finger seemed to have been spewed up with everything else. He lifted his right hand and looked at the bleeding stump as confirmation. It was his finger floating in the water.

‘Oleg . . .’ It was Rakel’s voice.

Harry picked up a plastic tie, wrapped it round the stump of his middle finger and tightened it as hard as he could. Did the same with his index finger which had been sliced through to the bone but was still firmly attached.

Then he went to the bed, spread the duvet over Rakel and sat beside her. The eyes staring up at him were large and black with shock, and blood ran from the wounds where the loop had come into contact with the skin on both sides of her neck. He took her hand with his uninjured left.

‘Oleg,’ she repeated.

‘He’s OK,’ Harry said and responded to her hand pressure. ‘He’s with the neighbours. It’s over now.’

He saw her trying to focus her eyes.

‘Promise me?’ she whispered, barely audible.

‘I promise you.’

‘Thank God.’

She sobbed once, buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

Harry looked down at his injured hand. Either the ties had stopped the bleeding or he was empty.

‘Where’s Mathias?’ he said quietly.

Her head bobbed up, and she gawped at him. ‘You just promised me that –’

‘Where did he go, Rakel?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Her hand squeezed his. ‘Don’t go now, Harry. I’m sure someone else can –’

‘What did he say?’

He could tell by the way her body recoiled that he had raised his voice.

‘He said that it was finished now and he would bring it to a conclusion,’ she said as tears welled in her dark eyes again. ‘And that the end would be a homage to life.’

‘A homage to life? Those were the words he used?’

She nodded. Harry loosened his hand from hers, stood up and went to the window. Scoured the night sky. It had stopped snowing. He looked up at the illuminated monument that could be seen from almost everywhere in Oslo. The ski jump. Like a white comma against the black ridge. Or a full stop.

Harry went back to her bedside, bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Where are you going?’ she whispered.

Harry raised the bloodstained hand and smiled. ‘To see a doctor.’

He left the room. Stumbled down the stairs. Came out into the cold, white darkness of the yard, but the nausea and giddiness would not release their grip.

Hagen stood beside the Land Rover talking on a mobile phone.

He broke off the conversation and nodded when Harry asked if they could drive him.

Harry sat in the back. He was thinking about how Rakel had thanked God. She couldn’t know, of course, that someone else deserved her thanks. Or that the buyer had accepted the offer. And that payback time had already started.

‘Down to the city centre?’ the driver asked.

Harry shook his head and pointed upwards. The right index finger looked strangely alone between the thumb and the ring finger.