Erik raised his head, and for the first time since Eva Karin's death he gently took his son's hands between his own.

'No. You have to eat. You have to go on living.'

'Dad, you-'

'You were our beloved son, Lukas. Never has a child been more welcome than you.'

Lukas swallowed and smiled.

'That's what all parents say. I say the same thing to my own children.'

'But there's so much you don't know.'

Even though the noise of the city was out there, it seemed unable to penetrate the dead house on Nubbebakken. Lukas couldn't even hear his own heart beating.

'What do you mean?'

'There's so much that disappears with a person. Everything disappeared with Eva Karin. That's the way it has to be.'

'I have a right to know, Dad. If there's something about Mum's life, about both your lives, that-'

His father's dry laugh frightened him. 'All you need to know is that you were a much-loved child. You have always been the great love of your mother's life, and mine.'

'Have been?'

'Your mother is dead,' his father said harshly. 'I'm unlikely to live much longer.'

Lukas quickly took his hands away and straightened his back.

'Pull yourself together,' he said. 'It's high time you pulled yourself together.'

He stood up and started pacing the floor.

'This has to stop. Now. Right now! Do you hear me, Dad?'

His father barely reacted to this violent outburst. He simply sat there, as he had sat in the same chair with the same blank expression for five days, more or less.

'I won't put up with it!' Lukas yelled. 'Mum won't put up with it!'

He grabbed a porcelain ornament from the little table next to the television. Two swans in a delicate heart: a wedding present from Eva Karin's parents. It had survived eight house moves, and had been one of his mother's most cherished possessions. Lukas seized the swans by the throat with both hands and smashed them against his thigh, causing himself considerable pain. The ornament shattered. The sharp surfaces cut into his palms. When he hurled the pieces on the floor, blood spattered the carpet.

'You are not allowed to die! You are not allowed to f.u.c.king die!'

That was all it needed.

Lukas Lysgaard had never not even during his rebellious youth dared to swear in front of his parents. Now his father got to his feet more quickly than anyone would have thought possible. He reached his son in three strides. He raised his arm. His fist stopped no more than a centimetre from his son's jaw. Then he stood there, frozen, as if in some absurd tableau, taller now and broader. It was from him that Lukas had inherited his broad shoulders, and it was as if they had suddenly fallen into place. His whole body grew bigger. Lukas held his breath, cowering from his father's gaze, as if he were a child again. Obstinate and young and Daddy's little boy.

'Why did Mum go out?' he whispered.

Erik let his hand drop.

'That's a matter between Eva Karin and me.'

'I think I know.'

'Look at me.'

Lukas was examining his own palms. There was a deep gash at the base of both thumbs. Blood was still dripping on to the carpet.

'Look at me,' Erik repeated.

When Lukas still couldn't manage to look up, he felt his father's hand on his unshaven cheek. Eventually he raised his head.

'You know nothing,' Erik said.

Yes I do, thought Lukas. Perhaps I've always known. For a long time, anyway.

'You know absolutely nothing,' Erik said again.

They were standing so close that their breath caressed each other's faces in small puffs. And just as bad thoughts turn to solid secrets when they are never shared with anyone, so both of them were absolutely certain about something they thought the other didn't know. They just stood there, each embarra.s.sed in their own way, with nothing to say to one another.

'I'm embarra.s.sed to admit it, Synnve, but we usually take a back seat when it comes to this kind of case.'

Kjetil Berggren had at least managed to lower the temperature in the small interview room. He was sitting with his shirt sleeves rolled up, flouting the regulations, absent-mindedly drumming a pencil against his thigh.

She had told him everything, hiding nothing. The fact that she had made Marianne's disappearance less and less suspicious with every word was something she hadn't fully grasped until now.

'I see,' she said feebly.

'For example, you haven't even spoken to her parents yet.'

'Marianne hasn't been in contact with them since we moved in together!'

'I understand,' he said, running his hand over his short hair. 'I agree with you in principle that there is reason for concern. It's just that ...'

He was noticeably less favourably disposed than he had been when he rescued her from Ola Kvam ninety minutes earlier. He was more restless, and hadn't written a single thing down in more than half an hour.

'Yes, but I think you have to check with close family first. As far as I understand it, you've hardly been in touch with anyone.'

The enervating drumming against the thigh increased.

'Not even her parents,' he repeated.

As if the parents of a forty-year-old woman would have the answer to everything.

'They didn't come to our wedding,' Synnve said wearily. 'How in the world could they possibly know anything about Marianne now?'

'But she was supposed to be visiting her mother's aunt, wasn't she? Perhaps her mother-'

'That great-aunt popped up out of nowhere. Listen to me, Kjetil. Marianne hasn't spoken to her parents since a terrible confrontation more than thirteen years ago. It was to do with me, of course. She's kept in touch with her brother, but only very sporadically. Both sets of grandparents are dead, and her father is an only child. Her mother keeps her own siblings in an iron grip. In other words, Marianne has virtually no family. And then, last autumn, a letter arrived from this relative. She emigrated before Marianne was born, and has been ... persona non grata as far as the family is concerned. Bohemian. Married an African-American in the early sixties when that kind of thing wasn't exactly popular with the posh families of Sandefjord. Then she got divorced and moved to Australia. She ...'

Synnve broke off.

'Why am I sitting here giving you a load of totally irrelevant information about an eccentric and remarkable old lady who suddenly discovers that her niece has a daughter who is as excluded from the family as she is? I mean, the whole point is that Marianne never got to her!'

As she waved her arms she knocked over a full cup of coffee. She swore as the hot liquid ran down on to her thigh; she leapt up from her chair, and before she knew it, Kjetil Berggren was standing next to her with an empty water bottle.

'Did that help? Shall I pour on more cold?'

'No thanks,' she mumbled. 'It's fine. Thanks.'

He went to fetch some paper towels from a dispenser next to a small sink in the corner.

'And then there's the fact that she'd gone off before,' he said with his back to her.

Synnve leaned back on the uncomfortable chair.

'She didn't go off. She finished with me. That's something completely different.'

'Here.' He gave her a thick bundle of paper towels.

'You said she was away for two weeks,' he said. 'Without getting in touch. The last time, I mean. I think you can see that this has a certain significance, Synnve. The fact that this girl ... that Marianne disappeared only three years ago after a huge row and went to France without even telling you she was going abroad. We have to take that kind of thing into account when we're deciding whether to put resources into-'

'But we hadn't had a row this time. We hadn't argued at all.'

Instead of returning to his seat opposite her, he hitched his bottom on to the desk, resting one foot on the chair beside her. Presumably this was intended as a friendly gesture.

'I look like a wreck,' she said, moving away. 'And I stink like a horse. Sorry.'

'Synnve,' he said calmly, seemingly unaware that she was absolutely right. His hand was warm as he placed it on her shoulder.

'I'll see what I can do, of course. You've reported Marianne's disappearance, and I've accepted it. That's a start, at least. But unfortunately I can't guarantee that we'll put much into this in the way of resources. Not for a while, anyway. In the meantime there are some things that you can do yourself.'

She stood up, mainly to break the physical contact, which felt unexpectedly unpleasant. When she reached for her sweater, Kjetil jumped down from the desk.

'Make some calls,' he said. 'You've got lots of friends. If there's any suggestion of ... infidelity ...'

Fortunately her sweater was over her head at the time. The blush spread quickly. She fumbled with the sweater until she regained control.

'... then there's usually someone within a circle of friends who knows about it.'

'I understand,' she said curtly.

'And if you have a joint bank account, you could check if she's withdrawn any money, and if so, where? I'll ring you in a couple of days to see how it's going. Or I'll call round. Do you still live in the old place on Hystadsveien?'

'We live on Hystadsveien. Marianne and I.'

The moment she said it, she was sure it was a lie.

'Apart from the fact that Marianne is dead,' she said harshly, grabbing her anorak and heading for the door. 'Thank you, Kjetil. Thanks for f.u.c.king nothing!'

She slammed the door behind her so hard that it almost came off its hinges.

Night Before a Dark Morning.

Rolf was incapable of closing a car door in a civilized manner.

He slammed it so hard that Marcus Koll could hear it in the living room, even though the car was inside the large garage. Rolf always blamed the fact that he had driven old bangers all his life. He still hadn't got used to German cars that cost more than a million. Not to mention Italian cars worth twice as much.

Marcus irritably swatted at an overwintering fly. It was big and listless, but it was still alive when Rolf came in.

'What on earth are you doing?'

Marcus was on his knees on the dining table, flapping his arms around.

'A fly,' he mumbled. 'Can't you be a bit more careful with our cars?'

'A fly? At this time of year? Sure.'

Three rapid steps and he slapped his hand down on the table.

'Got it,' he said mildly. 'By the way, shouldn't this table be laid by now?'

Marcus shuffled down. He felt stiff and had to put one knee on a chair to help him. Just like every New Year's Eve for the past nine years, he had begun the day swearing that he was going to start exercising. Tomorrow. This was his most important resolution, and this time he was going to stick to it. There was a fully equipped gym in the cellar. He hardly knew what it looked like.

'Mum will be here soon.'

'Your mother?' Rolf said. 'You've asked Elsa to come and do the table for a party she isn't even invited to?'

Marcus gave a resigned sigh. 'It was Mum who wanted to have little Marcus stay over at her house tonight. Celebrate the New Year together, just the two of them. It'll be more fun for both of them this way.'

'That's fine, but surely there's absolutely no reason why she should waste the morning coming over here to lay the table? Ring her right now and tell her I'll do it. By the way, what's this?'

Rolf was holding out a small square metal box.

'It's a hard drive,' said Marcus, his tone casual.

'Right. And what's it doing in the boot of the Maserati?'

'That's my car. How many times have I told you I'd prefer it if you used one of the others? You're the worst driver in the world and-'