'What's the matter with you?' Rolf smiled and leaned forward to kiss him.

Marcus turned away, glancing, without interest, at the hard drive.

'It's broken,' he said. 'I've put a new one in. That one can be thrown away.'

'OK, I'll chuck it,' said Rolf, shrugging his shoulders. 'And I think you ought to get yourself in a better mood before our guests arrive.'

He still had the hard drive in his hand when he left the room. It was all Marcus could do not to run after him; he wanted to destroy and throw away the b.l.o.o.d.y thing himself.

It wasn't really a problem, he thought as he tried to keep his pulse rate down. It had only been a safety measure. Which probably wasn't necessary. Not necessary at all. His pulse rate increased and he tried to concentrate on something completely different.

The menu, for example.

The fact that Rolf had found the hard drive was of no significance.

He couldn't remember a thing about the menu.

Forget the hard drive. Forget it. It's not important.

'Did you ring Elsa?'

Rolf was back with his arms full of cloths, serviettes and candles.

'Marcus, are you ... Marcus!'

Rolf dropped the whole lot on the floor. 'Are you ill? Marcus!'

'I'm OK,' said Marcus. 'I just felt a bit dizzy. It's gone now. Calm down.'

Rolf gently stroked his back. Because he was almost a head taller than Marcus, he had to lean forward in order to meet his downcast eyes.

'Is it ... ? Are you ... ? Was it one of those panic attacks again?'

'No, no.' Marcus smiled. 'That was years ago. You cured me, I told you that.'

It was difficult to make his dry, numb tongue work. His hands were clammy with cold sweat and he put them in his pockets.

'Would you like a gla.s.s of water? Shall I bring you some water, Marcus?'

'Thank you. That would be kind. A little drink of water and I'll be right as rain.'

Rolf disappeared. Marcus was alone.

If only he hadn't been so alone. If only he had spoken to Rolf from the start. They could have found a solution. Together they could have worked out what was the best thing to do; together they could do anything.

Suddenly he inhaled sharply through his nose. He straightened his back, moved his tongue around to get the saliva going and slapped both his cheeks. There was nothing to be afraid of. He decided once again.

There was nothing to worry about.

He had found a short item about Niclas Winter in Dagens Naeringsliv after Christmas. Reading between the lines, it seemed the man had died of an overdose. Of course that sort of thing was never stated directly, at least not so soon after the event. The artist's death was ascribed to his unorthodox lifestyle, as the writer so tactfully put it. The battle for the rights to his unsold works of art was already under way. They were worth more since the death of their creator; three gallery owners and an exhibition organizer estimated that their value had more than doubled in a week. The article was more interesting than its position in the paper suggested. No doubt more information would be forthcoming.

Niclas Winter had died of an overdose and Marcus Koll Junior had nothing to fear. He held on to that thought and focused on it until Rolf came hurrying back with a gla.s.s of water. The ice cubes clinked as he emptied the gla.s.s in one.

'Thanks,' he said. 'I'm fine now.'

I have nothing to fear, he thought, and started to lay the table. A red cloth, red serviettes with a silver border, red and green candles in silver-plated gla.s.s holders. Niclas Winter had only himself to blame, he told himself firmly. He shouldn't have taken that overdose.

His death has nothing to do with me.

He almost believed it himself.

Trude Hansen was fairly sure it was New Year's Eve.

The tiny apartment was still a chaotic mess of leftover food, empty bottles and dirty clothes. There were bits of aluminium foil all over the place, and in one corner a pizza box had been used as a litter tray by the terrified animal that was now sitting yowling on the windowsill.

'There now, Puss-cat! There's my little Puss-cat! Come to Mummy.'

The animal hissed and arched its back.

'You mustn't be cross with Mummy!'

Her voice was fragile and high. She couldn't remember if Puss-cat had been fed. Not today, anyway. Maybe not yesterday. No, not yesterday, because she'd been so furious that the f.u.c.king animal had p.i.s.sed on the pizza.

'Shoo! Shoo!'

Trude waved her arms at the cat, which shot across to the sofa like a furry rocket, where it started kneading the cushions with its sharp claws.

It must be New Year's Eve, Trude thought.

She tried to open the window. It was stuck, and she broke a nail in the attempt. In the end it flew open, suddenly and with a crash. Ice-cold air poured into the musty room, and Trude leaned right out.

She could see rockets above the area to the east, the old buildings that blocked her view of Sofienberg Park. Red and green spheres of light fell slowly to the ground, and sparkling fountains rose towards the sky. The smell of gunpowder had already begun to spread through the streets. She loved the smell of fireworks. Fortunately there was always someone who couldn't wait until midnight.

She had only one fix left. She had saved it for the evening; the day had been bearable, thanks to a bottle of vodka someone had forgotten about under the bed.

It was difficult to tell how late it was.

As she was closing the window, Puss-cat slipped out. The cat moved quickly along the narrow window ledge before sitting down a metre away, miaowing.

'Come back, Puss-cat. Come to Mummy.'

Puss-cat was having a wash. Slowly and thoroughly she dragged her tongue over her fur. Rhythmically, after every fourth lick, she rubbed her paw over her ear.

'Puss-cat,' Trude snivelled as firmly as she could, stretching out to reach her. 'Come back here at once!'

She could feel that she was no longer in contact with the floor. If she held on to the windowsill between the two bottom panes in the old-fashioned window, divided into four, she might be able to stretch her other arm out far enough to grab the cat by the scruff of the neck. Her fingers clutched the wood. The bitter wind blew over her bare forearms, and her teeth were chattering.

'Puss-cat,' she said one last time before she overbalanced and fell.

As she lived three floors up and hit the asphalt with her head and her left shoulder first, she died instantly. A man was standing at his window having a cigarette on the opposite side of the street, so the police were called immediately. And because the man was able to tell them what had happened, and the door to Trude's empty flat was locked with a security chain from the inside, there was no reason to investigate the matter further. An accident, nothing more. A tragic accident.

On 31 December 2008, one and a half hours before a new year was due to be celebrated, there was no one in the whole world to give Runar Hansen a thought. He had been murdered in a park on 19 November that same year, aged forty-one. After his sister's death he wasn't even a vague, drug-addled memory.

Nor did anyone care about Puss-cat on the window ledge.

Synnve Hessel was stroking the immensely fat cat. It settled down on her knee, its purr a low-frequency hum as it breathed in and out. There was something calming about the sound and the cat's affection as it b.u.t.ted her hands with its head as soon as she stopped stroking it.

'I'm so pleased to be here,' she said.

'No problem,' said the woman sitting at the other end of the sofa with a bottle of beer in her hand. 'I wasn't exactly in the mood for a celebration either.'

The apartment was even more elegant than Marianne's description the very last time she spoke to Synnve on the telephone. Marianne had spent the afternoon of Sat.u.r.day 19 December with Tuva on Grefsenkollveien. It had been eight o'clock in the evening, and Marianne had seemed so excited about the long journey. Synnve had tried to hide her disappointment over the fact that they wouldn't be celebrating Christmas together, but with limited success. A sharp, chilly tone had come between them before the conversation ended.

It struck her that the end of their conversation was the reason why Marianne's text messages had been so short and impersonal. The first one, anyway.

'So you've checked whether she arrived at the hotel?' Tuva asked for the third time in less than an hour.

'Yes. She arrived, checked in, and the bill has been paid. That's where the trail ends.' Synnve shuddered and pushed the cat on to the floor. 'That's where the trail ends,' she repeated with a grimace. 'Sounds like something out of a crime novel.'

The room was not large, but the view from the big windows gave the apartment a feeling of exclusiveness. All the furniture faced the s.p.a.cious balcony, and from where she was sitting Synnve could look out over the whole of Oslo. She stood up.

'Shall we go for a walk?' asked Tuva.

'What, now? An hour before midnight?'

Synnve was standing by the window. The old apartment blocks had looked terrible from the outside. A gigantic piece of Lego standing on end, slotted into the side of a hill the same height as the building. Only when she walked into the room on the eleventh floor did she understand her friend's childish delight over the new apartment.

Synnve had never seen Oslo looking so beautiful.

Lights were twinkling everywhere. The city lay before her like a Christmas decoration, a gift from the G.o.ds, surrounded by dark ridges and black water. Fireworks exploded against the sky with increasing frequency. Synnve and Tuva had front-row seats for the show that would start in an hour.

'All right then,' she said, shrugging her shoulders.

Five minutes later they were on their way up Grefsensen, the cold biting into their faces. They had dressed warmly, unlike all the people tripping to and from festivities in party clothes and indoor shoes. A gang of boys aged about twelve or thirteen were amusing themselves by throwing firecrackers into a group of young women, who were screaming and jumping around on their stilettos. An elderly man came walking along the pavement with an old, overweight Labrador. He gave the boys a good telling-off; they swore and whooped and ran off down the hill laughing, before disappearing into a closed-up building site by clambering over a three-metre fence.

'It's very strange that she hasn't withdrawn any money,' puffed Tuva. 'Are you absolutely sure about that?'

Synnve slowed down. She often forgot that she was fitter than most people.

'The only thing I've been able to check is our joint account. Marianne also has a card for a deposit account that only she has access to. I'll have to get the b.l.o.o.d.y police to ask the bank.'

She stopped.

There's no point, she thought.

They were standing at a fork in the road. Tuva pointed upwards, where a deserted track wound its way up towards the top of Grefsenkollen. Synnve didn't move.

'It's just that I'm so sure she's dead,' she whispered.

Ice-cold tears poured down her face.

'You can't know that,' Tuva protested. 'I mean, she's only been gone a week! I remember the state you were in when she just took off for France and didn't get in touch for ages. Marianne is so-'

'Dead!' Synnve screamed. 'Don't you start as well! Everything was different then. She didn't want anything to do with me! That's not how it is now. Can't you just ... ?'

Tuva put her arm around her.

'Sorry. I'm just trying to cheer you up. Maybe we shouldn't talk about it.'

'Of course we should talk about it!'

Synnve started to walk. Fast. She increased her speed with every step. Tuva scurried along after her.

'What else would we talk about?' Synnve yelled. 'The weather? I want to talk about that idiotic f.u.c.king great-aunt who didn't even tell anyone that Marianne hadn't turned up. I want to talk about-'

'Have you called her?'

Tuva started jogging to keep up.

'Yes. She just wants to talk to Marianne's mother, which I can understand perfectly. But the old woman must be ...'

She stopped dead. There was an elk standing in the middle of the track.

'... b.l.o.o.d.y stupid,' she snapped. 'I asked her-'

'Sssh!'

The elk was no more than twenty or twenty-five metres away from them. The air around its muzzle turned grey as it breathed. Synnve could see that it was a cow, and she glanced cautiously into the forest on either side of the track in case there was a calf nearby. She couldn't see one, but that didn't necessarily mean the female was alone.

'She's just on her guard,' Synnve whispered. 'Don't move.'

The elk stared at them for almost thirty seconds. She held her head high, ears p.r.i.c.ked forward. Tuva hardly dared breathe.

'I've never seen a live elk before,' she whispered, almost inaudibly.

That shows how little time you spend outdoors, Synnve thought, then she suddenly bellowed and waved her arms. The elk gave a start, turned away and disappeared among the trees with long, graceful strides.

'Wow,' said Tuva.

'That aunt of Marianne's must be an idiot,' Synnve said, setting off along the track once more. 'I asked her why she hadn't let me know, and she said she didn't know what my surname was.'

'Well, that's actually a good reason,' called Tuva, who was on the point of abandoning her attempts to keep up. 'Wait for me! Don't go so fast!'

Synnve stopped. 'Number one,' she said, taking off her glove and holding up a finger, 'Marianne had written and told her that I make doc.u.mentaries. And number two, she had told her my name was Synnve. Number three ...'