'To begin with, there's the quality of the paper,' he said, gently holding one corner of the photo. 'If this woman really was born at the beginning of the sixties, then the picture would have been taken ...'

Once again he did a rapid calculation in his head.

'Around 1980. Is there anything about this photo that suggests it was taken so late?'

Astrid slowly shook her head.

'No,' said Adam. 'I think it was taken somewhere around the early sixties. Perhaps as late as 1965, but no later. Look at the clothes! The hairstyle!'

'I was born in 1980,' she said feebly. 'I don't know much about fashion in the sixties. But that means this woman ... this lady ... she must be the same age as Eva Karin!'

'Yes,' said Adam, stopping himself as he was about to take another bun. 'And that means ...'

He placed the photograph on his knee again. He leaned forward, examining the facial features. The straight, slender nose. The forehead, high and curved and completely unlined. The cheeks were smooth, and the hair looked as if it could have been painted on her head, in neat waves with a curl over the temple.

'Could it be a sister?' he murmured as he straightened up at last. 'She doesn't look like Eva Karin, but in a way it could explain the resemblance to Lukas. Sometimes our genes follow a strange, roundabout route, and-'

Astrid was staring at him in horror.

'A sister? Eva Karin has two siblings, both younger than her. Einar Olav, who must be around forty-five, and Anne Turid, who turned fifty last year no, the year before. That isn't her!'

They heard a noise in the hallway. High, childish voices. Someone laughed and the front door banged shut.

Astrid quickly slipped the photograph back in its envelope. She hesitated only for a second before handing it to Adam.

'Calm down, both of you!'

She didn't take her eyes off him.

'Daddy and William are asleep. Quiet, please.'

Adam got up. He headed for the hallway, and was almost bowled over as two children came racing in. They looked at him with curiosity.

'Who are you?' asked the younger child.

'My name is Adam. And you're Andrea, the new Pica.s.so.'

The girl laughed. 'No, I put the ears and the feet in the right places.'

'That's good,' said Adam, ruffling her hair. 'It's always good to have those in the right place.'

'Thank you for coming,' said Astrid.

She was leaning on the door frame, her arms folded. She seemed somehow relieved. Her smile was no longer quite as guarded as it had been when he arrived, and she laughed when the eight-year-old showed her a pretend tattoo covering the whole of her lower arm 'I'm the one who should be thanking you,' he said, raising the envelope in a gesture of farewell as he stepped outside.

The door closed behind him and he hurried to the car. Before he had time to start the engine, Astrid came running after him. He rolled down the window and looked up.

'I thought you might like these,' she said, handing him a plastic bag containing the rest of the buns. 'They're really best eaten fresh, and you seemed to like them.'

He didn't even manage to say thank you before she was hurrying back up the drive. He sat there for a moment, then opened the bag and took out one of the delicious buns. As he was about to sink his teeth into it, he felt a pang of guilt.

But there was something very special about freshly baked buns.

And the strawberry jam was the best he'd ever tasted.

Shame.

Marcus was trying to think about the good things in life. Everything that was beautiful and wonderful and had made his existence worth the effort so far. Everything that had existed before before the brutal realization that his life was built on a mistake. A misunderstanding.

A theft.

The whole thing was stolen, and it overshadowed everything he was trying to think about and made it impossible to sleep.

Rolf was snoring gently.

Marcus sat up slowly in bed, pausing briefly between movements. Eventually, he was on his feet and padded cautiously towards the bathroom. The door leading from the landing creaked, so his plan was to go through the spa next door to the bedroom. He made it and managed to close the door behind him without waking Rolf.

A faint light was still burning. Little Marcus had his own bathroom, but preferred to use his parents' if he needed to get up during the night.

Even in the dimness Marcus looked terrible. He gave a start when he saw himself in the mirror. The dark shadows under his eyes were turning into thick folds of flesh, and his skin was so pale it looked almost blue. He was getting heavier and heavier, and hadn't kept to his New Year resolution for even one of the fifteen days of 2009 that had pa.s.sed so far. His own body odour made him recoil: night sweat, unwashed pyjamas and fear. He turned away from the ghostly reflection and went out on to the landing.

The door to little Marcus's room was ajar. Marcus could move more easily out here. The house could fall down around the boy's ears at this time of night, and he still wouldn't wake up. Marcus stood in the doorway, watching the sleeping child.

The room rested in the faint blue chilly glow of the night light above the bed, a s.p.a.ceship on its way through the galaxy. The shelves along one wall were packed with books and toys, and the computer monitor glimmered with stars on a screensaver the boy himself had downloaded. The shabby teddy bear Marcus still had to have with him in bed in order to get to sleep lay helpless on the floor. It had lost one eye long ago. The other stared blindly up at the ceiling. Marcus tiptoed across the floor without treading on any of the numerous items lying around, and picked up the bear. He held it to his nose for a moment, inhaling the smell of everything that meant something.

Silently, he bent over his son, placed Freddie in the crook of his arm and adjusted the covers. The child grunted, smacked his lips and suddenly turned over, hugging the bear tightly.

An almost irresistible urge to crawl into bed with him overcame Marcus so suddenly that he gasped for breath. He wanted to be strong again. He wanted to be the daddy who comforted his son when he was occasionally woken by a nightmare and needed him. He wanted to lie down with his arm around little Marcus, quietly telling him stories about the olden days or outer s.p.a.ce. The boy would snuggle up close and smile, his hair tickling Marcus's nose. There would be n.o.body in the whole world except the two of them, just like it had been before Rolf came, before they became three.

The way it had been before the terrible thing crept up on him.

Slowly, he backed out of the room.

He had no idea what he was going to do.

Not with his life, and not with the nights. Not with this night. The darkness grinned scornfully at him out of the corners, and he could feel his pulse rate increasing. Quickly, he began to move towards the stairs. He would go down to his study. Close the door. Watch TV. Switch on all the lights and pretend it was daytime.

He stopped himself just as he was about to slam the door behind him when he finally arrived safely in his study. Breathlessly, he smacked the panel that controlled the lighting. Nothing happened. He pulled himself together and pressed all the sensors firmly with one finger. At last the room was bathed in light, and the television came on. It was pre-programmed to NRK, which was showing Dansefot Jukeboks. He picked up the remote from his desk and turned down the sound, then switched over to CNN. He sank down on the broad, heavy desk chair and leaned his head back. His stomach ulcer was painful and he had a bitter, acrid taste in his mouth. Pain radiated from below his breastbone, and his whole body hurt. His mind was racing, and he was so frightened that his bladder felt full to bursting, even though he'd been less than half an hour ago.

This was no kind of life any more.

Suddenly, he sat up straight and found the key to the heavy corner cupboard that had come with the house. As time went by he had learned to like the Kurbits-style painting, which at first he had thought bizarre and somewhat vulgar. It helped that the cupboard was eighteenth-century, in excellent condition and worth a fortune. Now it was as if the ranks of fat, grotesque flowers were reaching out to grasp him as he put the antique key in the lock and turned it.

Inside were five small drawers. He opened the top one. There lay the tablets he had never mentioned to Rolf. It hadn't been necessary. Both these and the box in his office had remained untouched for many years. He tipped them into the palm of his hand and went back to his chair, where he let them trickle on to the calf-skin desk mat.

He still didn't know if drugs lost their effect once the use-by date had pa.s.sed. Hardly. At least, not completely. If he took the lot, it would probably do the job. He placed one tablet experimentally on his tongue.

The taste was the same. Insipid, slightly salty.

Things would be better for little Marcus if he wasn't around any more.

Rolf would look after him.

Rolf was a better father than he was. Through his actions Marcus had not only committed a crime; he was no longer worthy of being a father. His whole life was being a father, and his life as a father was over.

The tears poured silently down his cheeks as he placed another tablet in his mouth.

And another.

A slight feeling of sleepiness made him lean back in the chair and close his eyes. He moistened the tip of his index finger with saliva and pressed it down on the desk without looking. Another tablet stuck to his finger, and he placed it on the tip of his tongue.

The last thing he did before he fell asleep was to open the desk drawer and sweep the rest of the tablets inside with the back of his hand.

You can't even manage to kill yourself, he thought listlessly before blessed sleep finally overcame him.

Adam Stubo woke up on Friday 16 January at 7.40 feeling as if he hadn't slept at all. Every time he had been on the point of dropping off, he had seen the picture of the woman from Eva Karin's bedroom in his mind's eye. The idea that their theory about a child who had disappeared or been disowned might have been correct, but with the proviso that all the circ.u.mstances had to be moved back a generation, had left him wide awake over and over again. The theory seemed more and more credible as the hours went by. The idea that the Bishop wanted to protect the memory of her parents was considerably more likely than the idea that she had wanted to avoid the shame of having a child as an unmarried sixteen-year-old.

Leaving aside the fact that there was no longer any shame attached, and that the photograph couldn't possibly be of a woman born in the early sixties.

It must be a sister, Adam thought as he swung his leg over the side of the bed. The last time he looked at the clock it had been just after five, so he must have had two and a half hours' sleep in spite of everything.

Another thing that had kept him awake was the fact that Johanne hadn't called. They hadn't spoken for a day and a half. He had tried to ring her three times yesterday evening, but all he got was the mechanical sound of her voicemail asking him to leave a message after the tone. The first time he called he had left a message, but she still hadn't called back. He felt a mixture of intense irritation and anxiety as he plodded into the bathroom.

He was tired of living in this hotel.

The bed was too soft.

The soap made his hands dry, and he had lost his appet.i.te.

Adam wanted to go home.

Someone was banging on the door. With a stab of annoyance he flushed the toilet, wound a towel around his waist and went to see who it was. The acrid smell of morning urine surrounded him. He opened the door a fraction and put his face to the gap.

'What the f.u.c.k's wrong with your phone?' said Sigmund Berli, trying to push the door open and holding up a newspaper in the other hand. 'Have you seen this? We're going home, by the way, on the first available plane. Get your clothes on and start packing.'

'Good morning to you, too,' Adam said sourly, letting his colleague in. 'Do you think you could possibly take one thing at a time? Start with the phone.'

'I've called you five times since yesterday evening. You know perfectly well you're not supposed to make yourself unavailable.'

'I haven't,' said Adam. 'Try again now.'

He picked up his mobile from the bedside table as Sigmund keyed in his number on his own phone.

'It's ringing,' said Sigmund with the phone to his ear. 'Have you got it on silent?'

'No.'

Adam stared at the display. Nothing was happening. So Johanne might have tried after all.

'Why didn't you ring me on that?' said Adam, pointing to the hotel phone on the small desk by the window.

'Never occurred to me,' Sigmund said blithely. 'But forget that. We're going home. Now. Just take a look at this and you'll see why!'

Adam took the copy of VG as if the newspaper might suddenly bite him.

HATE GROUP BEHIND SIX MURDERS, screamed the front page. The subheading read: Police horror theory Bishop Lysgaard one of victims.

'What the h.e.l.l?' said Adam, raising his voice by several decibels. 'What the f.u.c.k is this?'

'Read it,' said Sigmund. 'And you will discover that the Oslo police have found a possible link between the murders of Marianne Kleive and some Kurdish kid who was floating around in the harbour just before Christmas, as dead as a doornail and badly disintegrated.'

'What? But what's this got to do with Eva Karin?'

Adam sank down on the bed and turned to pages five and six. He was finding it hard to focus. His eyes flew across the article. After a minute and a half he looked up, flung the newspaper at the wall and bellowed: 'How the h.e.l.l did VG get hold of this before me? I mean, I've learned to live with the fact that they know way too much way too soon, but this is ...'

He got up so quickly that the towel slipped off. He ignored the fact that he was stark b.o.l.l.o.c.k-naked and hissed at Sigmund, his fists clenched: 'Are we supposed to start reading the paper every morning just to find out what's f.u.c.king going on? This is ... this is ... For f.u.c.k's sake, Sigmund, this is f.u.c.king scandalous!'

Sigmund grinned.

'You're stark naked, Adam. You're getting fat, boy!'

'I couldn't give a f.u.c.k!'

He marched into the bathroom. Sigmund sat down on the chair by the desk and switched on the TV. He turned to TV2 as he listened to Adam banging about behind the closed door. Thirty seconds later Adam emerged, grabbed some clean clothes out of his suitcase and got dressed with surprising speed.

'The news is on in five minutes,' Sigmund said. 'We'll watch it before we go.'

'A gang from the US,' Adam growled as he tried to knot his tie. 'That's the most ridiculous f.u.c.king thing I've ever heard.'

'Not a gang,' Sigmund corrected him. 'A group. A hate group.'

'That's even more insane. Who the h.e.l.l came up with something so utterly ... idiotic!'

He picked up a bag of dirty laundry and stuffed it in his suitcase, having given up on his tie.

'Johanne,' said Sigmund with a laugh. 'It's Johanne's theory!'

'What? What are you saying?'

Adam stormed over to the newspaper, which was lying in a crumpled heap on the bed. Once again his eyes flew over the article.