The house on Nubbebakken was old but well maintained. The staircase leading to the upper floor was surprisingly narrow and unprepossessing compared with the rest of the house. Lukas led the way, warning Adam about a projection from the ceiling.

'This is their bedroom,' he said, opening a door. He stood there with his hand resting on the handle, partly blocking the opening. Adam got the message, and simple leaned in to take a look.

A double bed, neatly made.

The quilt was made up of different coloured pieces of fabric, and lit up the large and fairly empty room. There were piles of books on the bedside table, and a folded newspaper on the floor by the side of the bed nearest the door. Bergens Tidende, as far as Adam could make out. A large painting hung on the wall directly opposite the bed: abstract patterns in blue and lilac. Behind the door so that Adam was only able to see it in the mirror between the large windows stood a capacious wardrobe.

'Thank you,' he said, stepping back.

Apart from the main bedroom, the upper floor consisted of a recently renovated bathroom, two fairly anonymous bedrooms, one of which had been Lukas's when he was a boy, and a large study where the couple each had a substantial desk. Adam was itching to get a closer look at the papers on the desks. However, he could tell that Lukas was running out of patience, so he nodded in the direction of the staircase instead. On the way they pa.s.sed a narrow door with a wrought-iron key in the lock; he presumed it led up to an attic.

'Why do they live here?' Adam asked on the way downstairs.

'What?'

'Why don't they live in the bishop's residence? As far as I know, the diocese of Bjrgvin has a bishop's residence that was designed by an architect.'

'This is my father's childhood home. They wanted to live here when we came back to Bergen. When my mother became bishop, my father insisted on moving here. I think he only agreed on that condition to my mother becoming bishop, I mean.'

They had reached the long hallway outside the living room.

'But isn't it a statutory requirement?' Adam asked. 'As far as I know, the bishop has an obligation to-'

'Listen,' said Lukas, rubbing the top of his nose between his thumb and index finger. 'There was a lot of fuss about getting permission, but I don't really know. I'm very, very tired. Could you ask someone else?'

'OK,' Adam said quickly. 'I'll leave you in peace. 'I just need to take a look in here.'

He pointed to the little bedroom he had found by mistake a couple of days earlier.

'Carry on,' Lukas mumbled, gesturing towards the door with his hand outstretched.

Only when he walked into the room did it strike Adam that Lukas hadn't stood in his way. Quite the reverse the bishop's son had gone back into the living room, leaving Adam alone. He glanced around quickly.

The curtains were open, and the stuffy smell of sleep was less noticeable. The room was cooler than he remembered, and the clothes that had been hanging on the back of the chair were gone.

Otherwise everything seemed the same.

He bent down to read the t.i.tles of the books in a small pile on the bedside table. A thick biography of Jens Christian Hauge, the war hero; a crime novel by Unni Lundell, and an old, worn, leather-bound copy of Knut Hamsun's Growth of the Soil.

Adam stood motionless, all his senses alert. She had spent her nights in this room, he was sure of it. He carefully opened the wardrobe door.

Dresses and skirts hung alongside ironed shirts and blouses in one half; the other was divided into shelves. A shelf for underwear and a shelf for tights and stockings. A shelf for trousers and a shelf for belts and evening bags. And a shelf down at the bottom for everything that didn't have a shelf of its own.

You don't keep your everyday clothes in a guest room, thought Adam, silently closing the door.

A sense of revulsion rose within him, as it often did when he surfed into other people's lives on the wave following a tragedy.

'Have you nearly finished?' Lukas shouted.

'Absolutely,' said Adam, scanning the room for one last time before returning to the hallway. 'Thank you.'

At the front door he turned and held out his hand.

'I wonder when it will pa.s.s,' said Lukas, without taking it. 'All this bad stuff.'

'It never pa.s.ses,' said Adam, letting his hand fall. 'Not completely.'

Lukas Lysgaard let out a sob.

'I lost my first wife and my grown-up daughter,' Adam said quietly. 'More than ten years ago. A ridiculous, ba.n.a.l accident at home. I didn't think it was possible for anything to hurt so much.'

Lukas's face changed. The hostile, reserved expression disappeared, and he put his hands to the back of his neck in a despairing gesture.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'Forgive me. To lose a child ... And here am I ...'

'You have nothing to apologize for,' said Adam. 'Grief is not relative. Your grief is deep enough in itself. In time you'll learn to live with it. There are brighter days ahead, Lukas. Life has a blessed tendency to heal itself.'

'Yes, but I mean she was only my mother. You lost-'

'I still wake up sometimes in the middle of the night, thinking that Elisabeth and Trine are still alive. It takes a second or two for me to realize where I am in terms of time. And the grief I feel at that moment is exactly the same as the day they died. But it doesn't last as long, of course. Half an hour later I am able to sleep, the best and most secure sleep of all.' He gave a faint smile. 'But now I must go.'

The raw cold struck him as he walked out on to the low stone steps. The rain came lashing at him from the side, and he turned up his collar as he headed for the gate without looking back.

The only thought he could cope with was that one of the photographs on the shelf in the so-called guest room had disappeared. On Christmas Day there had been four photographs there. Now there were only three. One of Lukas as a child, on Erik's knee. One of the whole family on a boat. The third was a photograph of a very young, serious Erik Lysgaard in his student cap. The ta.s.sel resting on his shoulder. The cap at an angle, as it should be.

When Adam opened the gate, pulling a face at the screeching of the hinge, he wondered if it had been stupid not to ask Lukas what had happened to the fourth photograph.

On the other hand, he probably wouldn't have got an answer.

At least not one he would have believed.

The idea that anyone could believe such stories was completely incomprehensible.

Johanne was sitting with her laptop on her knee, surfing aimlessly. She had visited both the New York Times and the Washington Post, but was finding it difficult to concentrate. At least the web pages of The National Enquirer were entertaining.

Ragnhild was already fast asleep, and Isak was putting Kristiane to bed. Although she didn't really like it, she caught herself hoping he would stay. In order to shake off the thought, she checked her e-mail. There were three new messages in her inbox, two of which were irritating adverts; one was for a slimming product made from krill and bears' claws. There was also a message from someone whose name didn't ring a bell at first, until she trawled her memory.

Karen Ann Winslow.

Johanne remembered Karen Winslow. They had studied together in Boston, two marriages and an eternity ago. At that time Johanne still thought she was going to be a psychologist, and didn't know that she was going to ditch her prestigious education in favour of an FBI course that would almost cost her her life.

She opened the message which came from a private address, and didn't say anything about where Karen was working.

Dear Johanne remember me? Long time no see! We had some great days back at school and I've thought about you now and then. How are you? Married? Kids? Can't wait to hear.

I googled your name and found this address hope it's correct.

Listen, I'm going to a wedding in Norway on January 10th. A dear friend of mine is marrying a Norwegian cardiologist. The wedding is taking place in a small town called Lillesand, not far from Oslo. Are you still living there?

Johanne realized that Karen's American idea of what const.i.tuted 'not far' would encounter the grim reality of the winding, lethal E18 to Srlandet.

I'll have to go without my husband and three children (two daughters and a son, gorgeous kids!) due to other family activities. I arrive in Oslo three days before the wedding, and would be absolutely thrilled to meet you. Any chance? We have SO much catching up to do. Please get in touch as soon as possible. I'll be staying at the Grand Hotel, by the way, in the center of Oslo.

Lots of love, Karen At least she was right about the location of the hotel, thought Johanne as she closed the message, launched Google and typed Karen's full name in the search box.

Two hundred and six hits.

There were obviously at least two Americans with the same name, because a lot of the articles were about a seventy-three-year-old writer of children's books. As far as Johanne remembered, Karen was due to start studying law the same summer that she herself had gone to Quantico. If she knew Karen as well as she thought, she would have pa.s.sed her exams with flying colours. Many of the hits concerned a lawyer working for an Alabama-based firm called the American Poverty Law Center (APLC). This Karen Ann Winslow who, a quick glance at several articles confirmed, was the same age as Johanne had among other things led a campaign against the state of Mississippi to close the huge prison for underage criminals after serious breaches of the most basic rights for children had been proved.

When Johanne looked at their website, she remembered that she had been there before. APLC was one of the leading firms in the United States when it came to prosecuting hate crimes. Apart from offering free support to needy victims mostly African-Americans it pursued wide-ranging campaigns on behalf of those who were poor and without means. It was also behind an impressive information service aimed at mapping hate groups all over the huge continent of America.

Johanne clicked around the packed home page. There were no pictures of the employees. For safety reasons, she a.s.sumed. However, after reading for ten minutes she was convinced that Karen Ann Winslow, the lawyer at APLC, was identical with her old friend.

'Perfect,' she murmured.

'I agree,' said Isak, flopping down in the armchair opposite the sofa where Johanne was sitting. 'Both the kids are asleep, and if you don't mind I'll take a look in your fridge and see what I can put together.'

Johanne didn't even look up from her laptop. She had clicked her way back to Outlook.

'Carry on,' she said. 'Those sausages weren't exactly filling.'

Dear Karen, Thanks so much for your message. Of course I want to see you! I live in Oslo and you're more than welcome to stay with us for a couple of days. Have to warn you, though, I'm blessed with two daughters who are more than a handful!

Her fingers flew over the keys. She wasn't even thinking. It was as if there were a direct line between her hands and everything she had experienced in the past seventeen years. It was as if nothing needed to be amended or considered, as if she didn't have to work anything out, she simply told her story. She wrote about the children, about Adam, about her job. Karen Winslow was far away on the other side of the ocean her old college friend didn't know anyone here and there was no need to consider anyone's feelings. Johanne wrote about life as a researcher, about her projects, about her fear of not being a good enough mother to a daughter that no one but Johanne understood. She didn't understand Kristiane either, if she was honest. She wrote without any inhibitions to a woman with whom she had once been young and free.

It felt almost like making a confession.

'Voila,' said Isak, putting a large plate down in front of her. 'Spaghetti carbonara with a tiny, tiny variation. You didn't have any bacon, so I had to use ham. You didn't have any eggs, so I made a little sauce with some blue cheese I found. You didn't even have any spaghetti, so it's tagliatelle instead. And then there's loads and loads of finely chopped sauteed garlic on top. Not exactly carbonara, I have to say.'

Johanne sniffed the air. 'Smells fantastic,' she said absently. 'There's wine in the corner cupboard if you want to open a bottle. I'll have mineral water. Could you possibly bring me one?'

She was staring at the screen, distractedly chewing her lower lip.

Resolutely, she highlighted the entire text apart from the first three lines and pressed DELETE before finishing off the brief sentence that remained: Let me know the details of your stay as soon as possible. I'm really looking forward to seeing you, Karen. Really!

All the best, Johanne 'Who are you so busy writing to?' asked Isak, putting his feet up on the table and balancing the plate on his stomach as he started shovelling down his food.

His table manners had always annoyed her.

He didn't have any.

He grabbed his gla.s.s, which was full to the brim, and slurped down the red wine with his mouth full of food.

'You eat like a pig, Isak.'

'Who are you writing to?'

'A friend,' she said tersely. 'A really old friend.'

Then she closed the laptop, pushed it away and bent over her plate. The food tasted as good as it smelled. They sat there without speaking to each other until the meal was over.

The gla.s.s was empty.

Whisky and soda was Marcus's weakness.

Hardly anyone of his own generation was familiar with the concept, and his friends wrinkled their noses in disgust when he mixed enormously expensive whisky and soda in a tall gla.s.s. It was his grandfather's standard drink, every Sat.u.r.day at eight o'clock in the evening after his weekly bath and hair wash. Marcus Junior had been given his first one the day he was confirmed. It tasted bitter, but he swallowed it. Real men drank whisky and soda, in his grandfather's opinion, and since then this particular drink had become Marcus's trademark.

He thought about mixing another, but decided against it.

Rolf was out. A dressage horse was experiencing some pain in its left foreleg, and with a purchase price of one and a half million kroner, the owner wasn't all that keen on waiting until the surgery reopened on 7 January. Rolf's opening hours were at best a guideline, at worst completely misleading. At least twice a week someone rang him during the evening and he had to go out.

Little Marcus was asleep. The dogs had settled, and the house was quiet. He tried to switch on the TV. A vague feeling of unease made it difficult for him to decide whether to go to bed or watch some kind of TV series. Cold Case, perhaps. Something like that. Anything that could take his mind off things.

The set was dead. He banged the remote against his thigh and tried again. Nothing happened. The batteries, no doubt. Marcus Koll yawned and decided to go to bed. Check his e-mail, brush his teeth and go to bed.

He padded out of the room, across the hallway and into his study. The computer was on. There was nothing of interest in his inbox. Idly he clicked on the national daily newspaper. Nothing of interest there either. He scrolled down the page.

CONTROVERSIAL ARTIST FOUND DEAD.

The headline flickered past.

His index finger stopped scrolling. He moved back up the page.

CONTROVERSIAL ARTIST FOUND DEAD.

His heart started pounding. He felt light-headed.

Not again. Not another attack.

It wasn't panic this time.

He felt strong. His mind was clear. Slowly he began to read.

When he had finished he logged off and shut down the computer. He took a little screwdriver out of the desk drawer. Then he crouched down on the floor, undid four screws, took off the cover and carefully removed the hard drive. From another drawer he took out another hard drive. It was easy to insert. He put the cover back on, screwed it in place and put the screwdriver away. Finally he pushed the computer back under the desk.

He took the loose hard drive with him when he left the room.

He was wide awake.

The woman standing in the arrivals hall at Gardermoen was surprised at how wide awake she felt. It had been a long drive, and she had slept badly for a couple of nights. For the last few kilometres before she reached the airport she had been afraid of falling asleep at the wheel. But now it seemed as if the same anxiety that had kept her awake at night was back.

For the hundredth time she looked at her watch.