She shuddered and picked up the printout of Karen's e-mail.

The number 19. The Arabic-sounding name Rashad Khalifa. Her fingers flew over the keyboard: 4,400 hits on Google.

'Morning, Mummy. I need porridge.'

Ragnhild scurried across the living-room floor on bare feet. Johanne just had time to put the laptop on the coffee table before her daughter hurled herself into her arms.

'I'm not going to nursery today,' Ragnhild laughed. 'Today you and me are going to have a Teddy Bear Day!'

Johanne gently pushed her daughter away in order to make eye contact, then she said: 'No, sweetheart. You are going to nursery today. It's Monday.'

'Teddy Bear Day,' Ragnhild said mulishly, pushing out her lower lip.

'Another time, chicken. Mummy has to work today, and you have to go to nursery. Don't you remember? You're all going skiing in Solem Forest. You'll be cooking sausages over the fire and everything!'

The sulky face split into a big smile.

'Oh yes! And how many days is it till my birthday?'

'Nine days. It's only nine days until you're five!'

Ragnhild laughed happily.

'And I'm going to have the best birthday in the world, with bells on!'

'So to make sure you get to be such a big girl, we're going to make porridge. But first of all you and I are going to hop in the shower.'

'Yess!' her daughter replied, hopping off towards the bathroom like a rabbit.

Johanne smiled at the sight of her. It had been a lovely weekend, and she intended to enjoy an hour alone with her youngest daughter before she tackled a new week.

If only she could push away the thought of The 25'ers.

The last person to push open the door of the small chapel at stre Crematorium was called Petter Just. He stood there for a moment, wondering if he was in the right place. It was three minutes to twelve, but there couldn't be more than twenty people in the chapel. Petter Just, a cla.s.smate of Niclas Winter's who hadn't seen his old friend for many years, had thought it would be packed. Niclas had done very well in life, from what he had read. Sold his work to museums and private collectors. A year ago the local paper had run a big article about Niclas and his work, and Petter Just had got the impression that he was on his way to a major international breakthrough.

A thin, elderly man wearing gla.s.ses that suggested he was almost blind pushed a folded sheet of paper into his hand. A photograph of Niclas adorned the front page, with his name and the dates of his birth and death printed in an old-fashioned typeface underneath.

Petter Just took the small leaflet and sat down quietly right at the back.

The clock struck its last four chimes, then fell silent as the organ took over.

The chapel was simple, almost plain: slate slabs on the floor and beige stone walls that turned into severe, rectangular windows for the last few metres. Instead of an altarpiece, the front wall was adorned with a fresco that Petter Just didn't understand at all. More than anything it reminded him of an old advertising poster for Senterpartiet, with trees and seeds, farmers and fields and a horse that looked an awful lot like a Norwegian fjord horse. At any rate, no animal like that had ever trotted around in the Middle East, he thought, as he tried to find an acceptable sitting position on the hard pew that was covered in red material with stains on it.

He really had thought that Niclas was famous. Not a celebrity like the people you see in magazines and on VG, of course, but fairly well known within his field. A real artist, kind of. When Petter decided to go to the funeral, it had been mainly because he had once had a lot of fun with Niclas. They'd had a pretty cool time for a while, in one way or another. Niclas had been completely crazy when it came to drugs and so on. He hadn't been all that particular about who he went to bed with, either.

Petter Just almost blushed at the thought.

At any rate, he didn't do that kind of thing any more. He had a girlfriend, a fantastic girl, and they were expecting their first child in July. He had never been like Niclas really, but when his mother happened to mention that his old friend was dead and the funeral was today, he wanted to pay his respects.

Hardly anyone was singing.

He didn't even bother miming, which he suspected the two men sitting on the other side of the aisle three pews ahead of him were doing. Some of the time, anyway.

There was only one woman in the chapel, and she didn't exactly seem crushed. Nor had she managed to dig something black out of her wardrobe. Her suit was elegant, fair enough, but red wasn't really appropriate for a funeral. She was sitting there looking bored stiff.

The music came to an end. The priest stepped up to the pulpit, directly in front of the central aisle, which resembled an oversized bar stool that might fall over at any moment.

The two men in front of Petter started a whispered conversation.

At first he was annoyed. It wasn't right to talk during a sermon. Well, maybe 'sermon' wasn't the right word, but any rate it was rude not to keep quiet while the priest was talking.

'... found several works of art ... no children or siblings ...'

Petter Just could hear fragments of the conversation. Although he didn't really want to, he found himself concentrating on them.

'... in his studio ... no heirs ...'

The priest indicated that the congregation should stand. The two men were so absorbed that they didn't react until everyone else was on their feet. They kept quiet for a little while, then started whispering to each other again.

'... lots of smaller installations ... sketches ... a final masterpiece ... n.o.body knew that ...'

The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were ruining the entire service. Petter leaned forward.

'Shut up, for G.o.d's sake!' he hissed. 'Show a little respect!'

Both men turned to look at him in surprise. One was in his fifties with thinning hair, narrow gla.s.ses and a moustache. The other was somewhat younger.

'Sorry,' said the older man, and both of them smiled as they turned to face the front.

He must have given them a real fright, because they didn't say another word for the rest of the ceremony. It didn't last much longer anyway. No one spoke, apart from the priest. Not like when La.s.se died in a car accident two years ago; he had been one of three little boys racketing around in G.o.dlia in the eighties. His funeral had been held in the large chapel next door, and there still wasn't room for everyone who wanted to attend. There had been eight eulogies, and even a live band playing 'Imagine'. A sea of flowers and an ocean of tears.

n.o.body here was crying, and there was just one wreath on the coffin.

The thought brought tears to his eyes.

He should have got in touch with Niclas long ago. If it hadn't been for the aspect of their relationship that he really wanted to forget, the aspect that had never really been his thing, he would have kept up the friendship.

Suddenly he didn't want to be there any more. Just before the final note died away, he got up. He pushed the old, short-sighted man out of the way and yanked open the heavy wooden door.

It had started snowing again.

He started to run, without really knowing what he was racing towards.

Or from.

'Changing the subject,' said Sigmund Berli, before kicking off his shoes and putting his feet up on the little table between the two armchairs in Adam's hotel room. 'I've got myself a girlfriend.'

Adam held his nose, pulled a face and stabbed his index finger several times in the direction of his colleague's feet.

'Congratulations,' he said, laughing behind his clenched fist, 'but your socks stink to high heaven. Take them away! Put your shoes back on!'

Sigmund leaned forward as far as he could towards his own feet. Sniffed hard and wrinkled his nose slightly.

'They're all right,' he said, settling down again. 'I haven't had any complaints from my girlfriend, anyway.'

'Who is she?' asked Adam, moving over to the bed, as far from Sigmund as possible. 'And how long has this been going on?'

'Herdis,' Sigmund said eagerly. 'She's ... Herdis is ... Guess! Guess what her job is!'

'No idea,' Adam said impatiently. 'Are you actually going to offer me a drink or what?'

Sigmund fished a plastic bottle of whisky out of his inside pocket. He picked up one of the gla.s.ses Adam had fetched from the bathroom and poured a generous measure before handing it to his friend.

'Thanks.'

Sigmund poured himself a drink.

'Herdis,' Sigmund repeated contentedly, as if just speaking her name was a pleasure. 'Herdis Vatne is a professor of astrophysics.'

'Hmff ... !' Adam sprayed whisky all over himself and the bed. 'What did you say? What the h.e.l.l did you say?'

Sigmund straightened up, a suspicious look in his eyes.

'I suppose you thought I couldn't pull an academic? The trouble with you, Adam, is that you're always so b.l.o.o.d.y prejudiced. You defend those Negroes to the death. Despite the fact that they're over-represented in virtually all the crime statistics we have, you're always going on about how difficult things are for them, and-'

'Pack it in,' said Adam. 'And don't use that word.'

'That's a form of prejudice, too, you know! Always thinking the best of people just because they belong to a particular group! You never think the best of anyone else. You're sceptical about every white person we pick up, but if their skin's just a little bit darker than ours, you start pointing out how decent they probably are, and how-'

'Pack it in! I mean it!' Adam suddenly sat up straight on the bed.

Sigmund hesitated, then added sullenly: 'And you don't believe for a moment that I've got a girlfriend who works at the university. You think it's funny. That's definitely what I call having preconceived ideas. And it's actually quite hurtful, to be perfectly honest.'

'Sorry,' said Adam. 'I apologize, Sigmund. Of course I'm very happy for you. Have you ... ?' He pointed to Sigmund's mobile phone. 'Have you got a picture of her?'

'You bet!'

Sigmund fiddled with his phone and eventually found what he was looking for, then held it out to Adam with a broad grin.

'Not bad, eh? Beautiful as well as clever. Almost like Johanne.'

Adam took the phone and examined the picture. A fair-haired woman in her forties was looking back at him with a big smile. Her teeth were white and even, her nose upturned slightly in an attractive way. She must be quite slim, because even on the little display screen he could see deep laughter lines, with a furrow running from the corners of her mouth down to her chin on either side. Her eyes were blue and she was wearing just a little bit too much eye make-up.

She looked like just about any competent Norwegian woman in her forties.

'Not bad at all,' he mumbled, handing back the phone.

'I was going to tell you on Sat.u.r.day, before Johanne suddenly went off to bed. But then I decided to wait, because yesterday Herdis was meeting my boys for the first time. Well, it wasn't really the first time, because her son plays hockey with Snorre. They've been good friends for ages. But I had to see how things went when we kind of ... met up privately. All of us. I mean, I can't have a girlfriend who doesn't like my boys. And vice versa.'

'So I gather it went well?'

'Couldn't have gone better. We went to the cinema, then back to her place for a meal afterwards. You should see her apartment! Stylish and s.p.a.cious. In Frogner. I almost feel like a stranger in that part of town. But it's lovely there, I have to admit.'

He sipped contentedly at his whisky and leaned back in his armchair.

'Love is a beautiful thing,' he announced solemnly.

'Indeed it is.'

They sat in silence for a while as they worked their way through about half of their generous drinks. Adam could feel the tiredness creeping up on him as he lay there on the bed, three pillows providing a soft support for his back and neck. He closed his eyes, then gave a start as he almost dropped his gla.s.s.

'What do you think about our woman?' said Sigmund.

'What woman? Herdis?'

'Idiot. Eva Karin Lysgaard.'

Adam didn't reply. The two of them had spent the day trying to impose some kind of system on the vast amount of doc.u.ments relating to the case. Nineteen days had pa.s.sed since the Bishop was stabbed to death, and basically the Bergen police were no closer to a solution. You couldn't actually blame them, thought Adam. He was just as much at a loss. So far they and Sigmund had worked well together, with no friction. To begin with Adam had taken responsibility for interviewing the witnesses who were most central to the case, while Sigmund had acted as a link between Kripos and Hordaland police district. This was a role he fulfilled admirably. It was difficult to find a more jovial soul than Sigmund Berli. He was a strong all-rounder who could usually sort out any potential conflict before things turned serious. For the last week they had both worked in a slightly different capacity, evaluating the material gathered so far. The Bergen police were responsible for all aspects of the investigation and coordination. They operated entirely independently, while Adam and Sigmund tried to gain an overview of all the information that came pouring in.

'I think we've made a mistake,' Adam said suddenly. 'The opposite of the mistake we usually make.'

'What do you mean?'

'We've been looking at too wide an area.'

'Rule Number One, Adam: keep all doors open at all times!'

'I know,' said Adam with a grimace. 'But listen ...'

He picked up a notepad and pen from the bedside table.

'With regard to this theory about a madman, one of those ticking bombs that everybody is talking about all the time-'

'An asylum seeker,' Sigmund chipped in, and was about to expand on this theme when a crushing glance from Adam made him hold up his hands in a placatory gesture.

'If that were the case, we would have found him long ago,' said Adam. 'That type of murder is carried out by psychotic individuals who happily roam the streets after doing the deed, spattered with blood and tormented by inner demons until we find them a few hours later. It's been three weeks now, and we've seen no sign of any maniac. No one is missing from the psychiatric clinics, nothing suspicious has been discovered at the centres for asylum seekers, and I think it's actually ...'

He tapped the pad with his pen.

'... out of the question that we're looking for that kind of murderer.'

'I should imagine that's exactly what the Bergen police are thinking.'

'Yes. But they're still keeping the door open.'