'No, but ...'

He took a deep breath and started again.

'I really don't want to worry you, but ...'

Johanne took his hand. It was ice cold.

'Is it something to do with Kristiane?' she asked sharply.

'No,' he said. 'Well ... not really. She's had a really good time. It's just that ...'

He shifted his body weight from his right to his left foot, and leaned against the opposite side of the door frame.

'It's so cold with the door open,' Johanne said. 'Come inside. Stay there, Jack. Stay.'

Both the dog and Isak did as they were told. He leaned against the wall, and Johanne sat down on the stairs opposite him.

'What is it?' she said anxiously. 'Tell me.'

'I think ...'

He broke off again.

'Tell me,' Johanne whispered.

'I've had a strange feeling that somebody is watching me. Or rather ... that someone is watching ...'

He looked like a little boy, standing there. His jacket was too big for him and he couldn't stand still. His gaze flickered here and there before he looked her in the eye. She was just waiting for him to start sc.r.a.ping one foot on the floor.

'You're not going anywhere,' she said calmly, getting up.

He took his hands out of his pockets again and spread them helplessly.

'I can't really explain it,' he said in a subdued voice. 'It's so kind of-'

'You're staying here,' she said, letting Jack in and locking the door.

She pushed the handle to double-check that the lock had clicked into place.

'You need to speak to Adam.'

'Johanne,' he said, reaching out to grab her arm. 'Does that mean I'm right? Do you know something that-?'

'It means exactly what I say,' she said, without trying to free herself from his grasp. 'You need to tell Adam about this, because he wouldn't believe me.'

He let go, and she turned and led the way up the stairs.

Not that I've ever given him the chance, she thought, and decided to try calling him for the sixth time in three hours.

He was probably furious.

She was so frightened she was having difficulty walking in a straight line.

The man in the dark-coloured hire car had had no difficulty finding his way. It was actually just a matter of following the same road all the way from Oslo to Malmo, then taking a right turn across the sound to Denmark.

Even though it got dark at such an unG.o.dly hour in this country, and in spite of the fact that the snow had been coming down thick and fast ever since Christmas, it was easy to maintain a good speed. Not too fast, of course; a couple of kilometres over the speed limit aroused the least suspicion. The traffic had been heavy coming out of Oslo, even at three o'clock, but as soon as he had travelled a few kilometres along the E6, it eased off. The map showed that he was essentially following the coastline, so he a.s.sumed that Friday afternoons brought traffic chaos on this particular road in the spring and summer. Evidently, the sea wasn't quite so appealing at minus eight and in a howling gale.

He was approaching Svinesund, and the time was ten to five.

He would drive to Copenhagen and leave the car with Avis on Kampmannsgade. Then he would walk a few blocks before asking a taxi driver to take him to a decent hotel on the outskirts of the city centre. He was too late to catch the last flight to London anyway. He had got rid of the dark clothes. It had taken him more than two hours to cut them into strips, which he divided into small piles and stuffed in the pockets of the capacious red anorak. It made him look fatter, which was good. In the s.p.a.ce of just over an hour he had got rid of a bundle here and a bundle there in the public rubbish bins he pa.s.sed on his stroll through Oslo.

He had had to leave at short notice.

He didn't speak much Norwegian, just enough to send simple text messages. However, a pa.s.sing glance at the newspaper stand next to the small reception desk this morning had made him realize there was no time to lose. Not that he rushed anything, but the instructions were clear.

No doubt the others were also on their way out of the country. He didn't know how they were travelling, but purely to pa.s.s the time in the evenings he had come up with a number of alternative routes. Only in his head, of course; there wasn't a single sc.r.a.p of paper with his handwriting on it in Norway. Apart from the distorted signatures when he had used the Visa cards, which were actually genuine but issued under false names. The cold weather in Norway had been a blessing. He had made sure he signed only when he was wearing his outdoor clothes, so that it didn't seem odd when he kept the tight pigskin gloves on.

For example, the individual or individuals who had been in Bergen should drive to Stavanger, in his opinion, and fly from there directly to Amsterdam. But it wasn't his business to speculate on the travel plans of others, any more than it was his business to know who they were.

He operated alone, but knew he was not alone.

He was trained to lay a false trail and hide his own. He avoided surveillance cameras as far as possible. On the odd occasion when he had no choice but to pa.s.s through an area covered by cameras, he made a point of altering his gait, pushing his lips out slightly, flaring his nostrils. And looking down.

In addition, his appearance was perfectly ordinary.

It was as if he had never been in Norway.

The Svinesund Bridge lay ahead of him. There was no barrier, no checkpoint. There was a customs post on the other side of the road where a truck was just being checked over, but no one asked him for any doc.u.mentation. When he pa.s.sed the imaginary line separating Norway and Sweden in the middle of the high bridge, he couldn't help smiling.

Naive Scandinavians. Stupid, naive Europeans. One reason why he had been allocated this task was because he had studied Scandinavian languages during his military training, but he had never actually been here before. Nor was he tempted to make a return visit.

He drove on for about fifteen minutes, then turned off at a suitable point. The road was narrow with very little traffic, and it wasn't long before he spotted a small forest track leading off to the right. Slowly, he drove a hundred metres or so in among the fir trees, then stopped and switched off the engine. The snow was deep in spite of the dense forest, and only the day-old tyre tracks left by a tractor made it possible for him to drive here.

He got out of the car.

It was cold, but there was barely a breath of wind.

He drank in the clear, pure air and smiled. When he looked up he could see stars, and part of the waning moon between two gently swaying treetops.

He closed his eyes and leaned his upper arms on the car roof, then rested his head on his joined hands.

'Dear Lord,' he whispered, 'thank you for all your blessings.'

The familiar warmth rose in his body like a feeling of intoxication as he whispered his prayer.

'Thank you for giving me the strength to follow your word, dear Lord. Thank you for giving me the energy and courage to fulfil your commands. Thank you for allowing me to be a tool in the battle against the darkness of Satan. Thank you for giving me the ability to distinguish right from wrong, good from evil, true from false. Thank you for punishing me when I deserve it, and for rewarding me when I have earned it. Thank you for ...'

He hesitated, then clasped his hands even more tightly and closed his eyes once more, his words sincere.

'Thank you for allowing me to spare that beautiful young girl, that innocent angel. Thank you, O Lord, for enabling me to recognize the presence of Jesus. For everything is yours, and purity is the goal. Amen.'

Slowly he turned his face up to the sky. The strength that poured through him made him shudder; it was almost as if he had become weightless. A bird took off from a snow-laden branch hanging over the track, screeching eerily as it disappeared into the dark sky. The man stretched, breathed in the fresh smell of cold and fir needles, and fished a small red clover leaf in enamelled metal out of his pocket. He pushed his hands in a pair of gloves he had found in the underground station at the National Theatre, and rubbed the emblem thoroughly before drawing back his arm and hurling it in among the trees. As he got back in the car he felt happy.

He had to reverse the hundred metres back to the main road, but it wasn't a problem. Fifteen minutes later he was back on the E6, heading towards Gothenburg. In two days he would be back in the States, and there wouldn't be a single clue that he had ever been in Norway.

He was absolutely sure of that.

'This is the best clue we have.'

Adam leaned back on the sofa and held the picture of Kristiane's saviour up in front of him.

'But that's worth having.'

Johanne shuffled closer to him. He smelled of a long working day, and she pressed her nose against his arm and inhaled deeply.

'Thank you for not being so cross any more,' she mumbled.

He didn't reply.

'Or are you?' She smiled and looked up at him.

'No, no. I suppose I'm just ... disappointed. Mostly disappointed.'

'Now you sound as if you're telling a child off.'

'I expect that's what I am doing, in a way.'

She sat up abruptly.

'OK, Adam, that's enough! I've said I'm sorry. I should have come to you first. It's just that you ... you're so b.l.o.o.d.y ... sceptical all the time! I knew you'd have doubts about my entire theory and I-'

'Stop,' he interrupted, waving his hand vehemently. 'What's done is done.'

'And in any case, contacting Silje Srensen turned out to be a lucky break.'

She forced an encouraging smile in the hope of evoking a smile in return.

It didn't happen. Adam scratched his scalp with both hands and sighed wearily. Then he picked up the picture of the bald man in the dark clothes once again.

He examined it for a long time, then suddenly said: 'You know, I have a good relationship with Isak. I'm perfectly happy for him to be here. However, I can't accept the fact that you're using him as a shield to protect yourself from me, that he's sitting here waiting when I get home after working in another city for several days, when we haven't spoken to one another for more than thirty hours, and we have a great deal that is ... unresolved, to put it mildly. It must never, ever happen again.'

'But you wouldn't have believed me! I've had this horrible feeling ever since 19 December, and I haven't dared say anything, either to you or to Isak! The conversation I had with Kristiane last Monday when I realized she was a key witness was so vague, with so little in terms of ... concrete information that I ... When Isak told me he also had the feeling that ... You wouldn't have believed me, Adam!'

'It isn't a question of believing or not believing, Johanne. Of course I have no problem believing that you and subsequently Isak had a feeling someone was watching Kristiane. Or that you believe she saw something significant with regard to the person or persons who murdered Marianne Kleive. But just because you have that kind of feeling, it doesn't necessarily mean it's actually happened. Particularly when neither of you can come up with anything more concrete than "a feeling".'

He was sitting up straight and drew quotation marks with his fingers on her cheeks.

'The file was missing, and the man by the-'

'The file is back, you said so yourself. It was just carelessness.'

'But-'

'OK, let's just drop this, shall we? I've asked a patrol car to drive past a couple of times a day, just to be on the safe side. Beyond that, there's not much we can do if you don't want us to subject Kristiane to a formal interview, with the stress that would mean for her. So can we forget it? At least for the moment. Please?'

His hand grasped the wine gla.s.s.

'No,' she said. 'I can't do that. I realize you're hurt. I realize I should have come to you with all this right from the start. But listen, Adam, I've been thinking about-'

'No,' he broke in harshly. 'Listen to me! If Kristiane really did witness something to do with the murder of Marianne Kleive, then why the h.e.l.l didn't they just kill her?'

His last few words were so loud that they both gave a start, then instinctively sat still as they listened for signs that Kristiane might have woken up. The only thing they could hear was the sound of Mamma Mia on DVD coming from the apartment below. For the tenth time since Christmas or so it seemed to Johanne.

'Because they believe,' she said. 'Because they believe in G.o.d.'

'What?'

'Or Allah.'

'Because they believe so what?'

He seemed more interested now. Or perhaps just confused.

'Because they believe, they don't kill blindly,' Johanne said. 'They believe with a sincerity which is probably alien to most people. They're fanatical, but they have a deep faith. Taking the lives of adults who in their view are sinners who must be punished with death in accordance with a G.o.d-given imperative is something completely different from killing an innocent child.'

She spoke very slowly, as if these thoughts were new to her, and she therefore had to choose her words with the greatest care.

Adam's expression was no longer so dismissive when he asked: 'But these people, these groups, are they really ... are they really religious? Aren't they just lost souls using G.o.d and Allah as some kind of ... pretext?'

'No,' said Johanne, shaking her head. 'Never underestimate the power of faith. And in some ways my theory is made more credible because ...'

She lifted her feet on to the sofa and grabbed hold of one of them, as if she were cold.

'... because Kristiane did actually see something. The man who murdered Marianne Kleive presumably realized straight away that Kristiane isn't like everyone else. If the man who saved her from the tram really is the murderer, at least that incident proved to him that she's ... different. And if there's one thing that's more striking about my daughter than anything else, it's ...'

The tears almost spilled over as she looked at Adam.

'Her innocence,' she said. 'She is innocence personified. One of G.o.d's little angels.'

'The lady helped me,' Kristiane said quietly from the doorway.

Adam stiffened. Johanne turned her head slowly and looked at her daughter.

'Did she?' she whispered.