Andrea Solli pointed at the Kleenex. He didn't touch them.

'Because I wouldn't do that!'

'Can you try to remember when you last saw him? We can start from 21 November. When you were brought in together. It was a Friday. Can you remember anything about that day?'

He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

'You were taken into care and driven to the residential unit, it says here. Hawre, on the other hand, managed to do a runner during the journey. Did you see him after that?'

'Yes ...'

He really looked as if he was thinking hard. A deep furrow appeared at the top of his nose.

'I cleared off the following day. We met up ... on the Sunday. And on ...'

For the first time he picked up the gla.s.s of mineral water.

'Can I have a c.o.ke instead?' he mumbled.

'Of course. Here.'

Silje pa.s.sed him a bottle. He opened it and drank, not bothering with a gla.s.s. A grimace of pain pa.s.sed over his face as the neck of the bottle caught the sore, which was still bleeding.

'We met on the Sunday. I'm quite sure about that, because ...'

He suddenly stopped speaking.

'Because ... ?' said Silje.

'I'm not saying.'

'You have to understand that-'

'I'm not saying anything about that night, OK? It's not important, anyway, because I saw Hawre the following day.'

'Right,' said Silje, bringing up the calendar on her mobile. 'So that would be ... Monday 24 November?'

'I don't know what the f.u.c.king date was, but it was the Monday after we were brought in. We were going to ...'

Finally he picked up a tissue and dabbed cautiously at his mouth. Tears still lingered on his eyelashes. He was no longer crying, but his whole body seemed more exhausted than ever, if that were possible.

'We were just going to pick up a couple of blokes, turn a couple of tricks. Then we were going to go and see a film. We needed the money.'

Silje Srensen had a pen and paper in front of her. So far she hadn't written a single word. Now she cautiously picked up the pen, but didn't touch the paper.

'What film were you going to see?' she asked, adding quickly: 'Just so I can check the date.'

'Man of War.'

She smiled.

'Come on, Martin. Man of War had its premiere just before Christmas.'

'OK, OK. I don't remember. It's true. I don't f.u.c.king remember what we were going to see, because we never went in the end.'

'So what did you do?'

'We decided to ... we ... we needed some cash. We went down to the central station.'

He caught her eye again, as if seeking confirmation that she understood what he meant. She gave a slight nod, which he interpreted as a yes.

'There were loads of people there. It was packed.'

'What time of day was this?'

'Dunno afternoon, maybe. Not very late, anyway. We were going to go to the pictures later. We hung out where we usually hang out ...'

'And where's that?'

'By the entrance from Jernbanetorget.'

'And then?'

'n.o.body came.'

'n.o.body? But you said it was-'

'n.o.body we were looking for. n.o.body who ...'

He was playing with the snuff tin again. She noticed that his fingers were unusually long and slender, almost feminine.

'So we decided to go Oslo City, the shopping centre. But just when we got outside some guy came up and started talking to us in English. Well, American really. I'm not sure. American, I think.'

'I see. And what did he want?'

'The usual,' Martin said defiantly. 'But he couldn't like just say it straight out. He didn't sort of use the normal ... He was creepy. There was something about him.'

'Like what?'

'I don't really know. But I didn't want to go with him. He was ...'

The pause grew so long that Silje asked a question: 'Do you remember what he looked like?'

'Old. Expensive clothes. Quite fat.'

'What do you mean by old?'

'At least forty. Disgusting. Asking and digging, kind of. I don't like old men. Twenty-five is OK. Not much older, anyway. But Hawre needed the money more than me, so he went off with this guy.' He stared at the c.o.ke bottle. 'He was wearing the kind of clothes that show how rich you are. Know what I mean?'

Silje knew exactly what he meant. She was the wealthiest DI in the country, having inherited a fortune when she turned eighteen. It didn't really make any difference to her. When she applied to the police training academy she deliberately moved downmarket. But now she was so used to it that she bought her clothes at H&M. But she knew just what he meant, and nodded.

'And then?'

He looked up. His eyes frightened her; his despair over his friend's death had turned into sheer apathy. He shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something she couldn't catch.

'What?'

'I don't remember much more about that day.'

'But you haven't seen Hawre since then.'

His tongue couldn't stay away from the sore. Instead of answering, he shook his head.

The preliminary post-mortem report showed that Hawre Ghani probably died between the 18th and 25th of November. Martin Setre had seen Hawre on 24 November when he went off with an unknown s.e.x client.

'You have to help me,' said Silje.

He remained silent.

'I need a drawing of the man Hawre went with,' she said. 'Can you help me with that?'

'OK,' he said eventually. 'If I can have something to eat first.'

'Of course you can. What would you like?'

For the first time she saw the hint of a smile on his damaged face.

'Steak and onions and loads of fried potatoes,' he said. 'I'm starving.'

Adam Stubo tried to drown out the rumbling of his stomach by coughing. Only an hour ago he had eaten an apple and a banana, but his belly already felt empty. On New Year's Eve he had stepped on the bathroom scales for the first time in two years. The number shining up at him from the display had three figures, and it frightened him. Since there was no s.p.a.ce for exercise in his packed agenda, he needed to cut down on food. He had secretly joined an Internet diet club, which immediately and mercilessly informed him that his daily intake was over 4,000 calories. Getting it down to 1,800 was sheer h.e.l.l.

He still had three chocolate bars in the drawer of his desk. He opened it and looked at the striped wrappers. It wouldn't be the end of the world if he had half a piece. Admittedly, he had looked up the number of calories in chocolate on the Internet calculator the other day, and had resolved never to touch the b.l.o.o.d.y stuff again. But he was so hungry that he wasn't thinking clearly.

The telephone rang.

'Adam Stubo,' he said more pleasantly than usual, deeply grateful for the interruption.

'It's Sigmund.'

Sigmund Berli had been Adam's friend and closest colleague for almost ten years. He was far from the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he worked hard and was totally loyal. Sigmund voted for Fremskrittspartiet, supported Vlerenga and ate ready meals seven days a week since splitting up with his wife about a year ago. What little free time he had he devoted to his two sons, whom he adored. Sigmund Berli was Adam's anchor in the sea of humanity, and he was grateful for precisely that. With increasing frequency he would find himself sitting through a dinner with Johanne's friends and colleagues from the university without saying a word. Telling them anything about how real life was lived in this country was usually pointless. He preferred Sigmund Berli and his broad generalizations; at least they were based on a life lived among ordinary people.

'We've found a b.l.o.o.d.y great pile of poison-pen letters,' said Sigmund.

'Are you still in Bergen?'

'Yes. In a safe in the Bishop's office.'

'You're in a safe in the Bishop's office?'

'Ha b.l.o.o.d.y ha. The letters. There was a safe in her office that we only found out about a few days ago. The secretary had a code, but it turned out to be wrong. So we got somebody from the firm who supplied the safe to come out and look at it. And there was a pile of s.h.i.t in there, if I can put it that way.'

'What's it about?'

'Guess.'

'No games, Sigmund.'

'The usual h.o.m.ophobic c.r.a.p.' Adam could clearly hear that Sigmund was smiling at the other end of the phone. 'What else?'

'Are we talking about e-mails?' Adam asked. 'Or ordinary letters? Anonymous?'

'A bit of both. Most are print-outs of e-mails, and the majority are anonymous, but there's the odd one that uses their full name. It's mostly complete garbage, Adam. Filth, no more and no less. And do you know what I've never understood?'

Quite a lot, Adam thought.

'Why anyone gets so worked up about what people do in bed. My boy's ice-hockey trainer is gay. Terrific bloke. Tough and masculine with the lads, but incredibly nice. Comes to every training session, unlike that idiot they had before, even though he had a wife and four kids. Some of the other parents started complaining when this bloke came out in the paper, but you should have seen old Sigmund go!'

His laughter crackled down the phone.

'I showed them what was what, and no mistake! You can't compare an ordinary gay bloke with a b.l.o.o.d.y paedophile. He's a friend for life now. We've had a beer together a few times, and he's sound. Fantastic on the ice, too. Used to be in the national junior team until it all got too much. Bunch of h.o.m.ophobes, that's what they are.'

Adam listened with mounting surprise. His eyes were still fixed on the striped chocolate bars.

'What are you doing with the letters?' he said absently.

Sigmund was munching on something.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Just had to get something inside me. They have top-notch cinnamon buns here in Bergen.'

The drawer containing the chocolate bars slammed shut before Sigmund continued.

'We've got one of the IT guys working on her computer. Looking for the addresses and so on. And, of course, the letters will be examined as well. I wonder why she saved them all? Nothing was ever reported.'

'Most people in the public eye get that kind of thing all the time. At least if they have controversial opinions. Not many make a fuss about it. After all, it can just make things worse. Johanne's working on a project that-'

'And how is my favourite girl?' Sigmund interrupted.

Adam's colleague had been steadfastly in love with Johanne for several years, and that clearly hadn't changed. It normally blossomed only in the form of sheer delight every time he saw or spoke to her. After a few drinks he might come out with clumsy compliments and the odd unwelcome fumble. On one occasion Johanne had slapped him hard across the face when he had grabbed her breast after getting roaring drunk on his hosts' cognac. For some bizarre reason she still seemed to like him, somehow.

'Fine,' said Adam. 'Call round some time.'

'Great! What about this weekend? That would fit in really well-'

'Ring me when you've got something new,' Adam broke in. 'Got to go. Bye.'

Just as he was about to end the call he heard Sigmund's electronically distorted voice: 'Hang on! Don't go.'