Rolf hesitated. Looked at him. Marcus forced himself to adopt an unconcerned expression and licked his finger demonstratively as he prepared to turn the page.

'Enjoy,' said Rolf as he left the room.

It didn't sound as if he meant it.

'I was really intending to speak to you alone,' said Adam Stubo, looking from Erik to Lukas and back again. 'To be perfectly honest, I'd be much happier with that arrangement.'

'To be perfectly honest,' Erik replied, 'what makes you happy isn't the most important thing right now.'

'Jesus Christ,' Adam mumbled.

Erik had certainly perked up. In their earlier encounters his indifference had bordered on apathy. This time the scrawny widower had something aggressive, almost hostile about him. Adam hesitated. He had prepared himself for a conversation with a man in a completely different frame of mind from the one Erik was clearly in at the moment.

'I'm rather tired,' said Erik. 'Tired of you constantly turning up here with nothing to tell us. From what Lukas tells me, there has been a breakthrough in the investigation, in which case I would have thought you might have better things to do than coming out here yet again. If you're going to start on about where my wife was going so late at night, then ...'

It was as if he had suddenly used up all his reserves of energy. He literally collapsed; his shoulders slumped and his head drooped down towards his flat, bony chest.

'I'm not going to say anything I haven't said already. Just so we're clear.'

'There's no need,' Adam said calmly. 'I know where Eva Karin was going.'

Erik slowly lifted his head. His eyes had lost their colour. The whites had taken on a bluish tinge, and it was as if all the tears had washed away the blue from the irises. Adam had never seen an emptier gaze. He had no idea what he was going to say.

'Lukas,' Erik said, his voice steady. 'I would like you to leave now.'

At last time could begin to move again, thought Martine Braekke as she struck a match.

The portrait of Eva Karin, which normally stood in the bedroom where no one ever saw it, had been moved into the living room. It had been the police officer's suggestion. He had asked her if she had a photograph. She had fetched it without a word, and the big man had held it in his hands. For a long time. He almost seemed to be on the point of bursting into tears.

She held the match to the wick of the tall white candle. The flame was pale, almost invisible, and she went and switched off the main light. She stood for a moment before picking up a little red poinsettia and placing it next to the photograph in the window. The glitter on the leaves sparkled in the candlelight.

Eva Karin was smiling at her.

Martine moved a chair over to the window and sat down.

A great sense of relief came over her. It was as if she had finally, after all these years, received a kind of acknowledgement. Until now she had borne her grief over Eva Karin's death all alone, in the same way as she had borne her life with Eva Karin for almost fifty years all alone. When Erik turned up the day after the murder, she had let him in. She had regretted it immediately. He had come for company. He wanted to grieve with the only other person who knew Eva Karin as she really was, but she had quickly realized they had nothing in common. They had shared Eva Karin, but she was indifferent to him now, and had sent him away without shedding a tear.

The big police officer had been another matter.

He treated her with respect admiration almost as he walked around the small living room talking to her quietly, occasionally stopping at some item he found fascinating. The only thing he really wanted to ask her about, and the reason for his visit, was whether she had ever told anyone else about her relationship with Eva Karin Lysgaard.

Of course she hadn't. That was the promise she had once made, that sunny day in May 1962 when Eva Karin promised never to leave her again with the proviso that their love be a secret, a secret only the two of them knew.

Martine would never break a promise.

The policeman believed her.

When he told her that the funeral was to be held on Wednesday and she replied that she didn't want to go, he had offered to call in when the ceremony was over. To tell her about it. To be with her.

She had said no, but it was a kind thought.

Martine moved her chair closer to the window and ran her finger gently over Eva Karin's mouth. The gla.s.s felt cold against her fingertips. Eva Karin's skin had always been so soft, so unbelievably soft and sensitive.

They would do all they could to keep the story out of the public eye, Adam Stubo had said. As far as the investigation was concerned, there was probably nothing to be gained by publicizing details of this kind, he added, although of course he couldn't guarantee anything.

As she sat here by her own window looking out over the city beyond the portrait of the only love of her life, she felt as if it wasn't really important. Naturally, it would be best for Erik if their secret was never revealed. And for Lukas, too. It struck her that as far as she was concerned, it didn't matter at all. She was surprised. She straightened her back and took a deep breath.

She felt no shame.

She had loved Eva Karin in the purest way.

Her, and her alone.

Slowly she got up and blew out the candle.

She picked up the photograph.

Martine was almost sixty-two years old. Her life as it had been up to this point was over. And yet there could be more waiting for her a whole new life as a wise old woman.

She smiled at the thought.

Wise, old and free.

Martine was free at last, and she put the photograph back on the bedside table. Adam Stubo had told her about his own grief when he found his wife and child dead after a terrible accident, an accident for which he felt he was to blame. His voice shook as he quietly explained how life had begun to go round in circles, a constantly rotating dance of pain from which he could see no escape.

She closed the bedroom door.

Time could begin to move again, and she said a quiet prayer for the kind police officer who had made her realize that it was never, ever too late to start afresh.

DC Knut Bork shook hands with Johanne before pa.s.sing a doc.u.ment over to Silje Srensen.

'There you go,' he said. 'I haven't had time to look at it yet.'

Silje opened a drawer and took out a pair of reading gla.s.ses.

'According to the woman who brought it in, we're talking about a considerable amount of money here,' Bork went on. 'Apparently, the testator died a long time ago, and Niclas Winter hasn't seen any of the inheritance to which he's ent.i.tled under the terms of this will.'

'May I see?' Johanne asked tentatively.

'We need a lawyer,' said Silje without looking up. 'This is sensational, to put it mildly.'

'I'm a lawyer.'

Both Knut Bork and his boss looked at her in amazement.

'I'm a lawyer,' Johanne repeated. 'Although I did my doctorate in criminology, I have a law degree. I don't remember much about inheritance law, but if you've got a statute book I'm sure we can work out the general gist.'

'You never cease to impress me,' said Silje Srensen. She pa.s.sed her the will, then went over to the shelf by the window and picked up the thick red statute book. 'But if you know as much as I do about this particular testator, then I'm sure you'll agree that we're going to need a whole heap of lawyers.'

Johanne glanced through the first page, then turned to the last.

'No,' she said. 'The name rings a bell, but I don't know who it is. However, what I can see is that this will becomes invalid in ...'

She looked up.

'In three months,' she said. 'In three months it won't be worth the paper it's written on. I think so, anyway.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' said Silje, putting her hands on her hips. 'Now I don't understand anything. Not a b.l.o.o.d.y thing.'

Richard Forrester realized another meal must be on the way. The aroma of hot food had woken him. Perfect. Even though he was still a little befuddled after his deep sleep, he was hungry. The menu, which the attendant had thoughtfully left on the empty seat next to him rather than waking him up, looked appealing. He studied it carefully and decided on duck with orange sauce, wild rice and salad. When the fair-haired woman leaned over to take the menu, he asked for fresh asparagus as his starter.

He held up his hand to refuse the white wine she was offering.

'Water, please.'

When he opened the little blind, an intense light poured in through the window. It was half past twelve, Norwegian time. He half stood up to look down at the Atlantic, but the view below was made flat and uninteresting by dirty white cloud cover like an endless carpet. Only another plane, away to the south and heading in the opposite direction, broke the monotonous whiteness. The light bothered him, and he pulled the blind halfway down again.

He felt a blessed sense of peace.

It was always like that after a mission.

He hated those who were perverted with an intensity that had led him back to life, when he was h.e.l.l-bent on drinking himself to death. He had come across a few of them in the military, cowardly curs who tried to hide the fact they did unmentionable things to each other, while somehow imagining they were good enough to defend their country. Back then before he was saved he had contented himself with reporting their activities. Three cases had disappeared into the bureaucratic machinery of the military, but he didn't lose any sleep over them. He had at least inflicted on them the unpleasant experience of coming under scrutiny. The fourth sodomite did not escape. He received a dishonourable discharge. Admittedly, the reason was that he had approached a young private, who threatened to sue the entire US Marine Corps, but Richard Forrester's report on immoral p.o.r.nography had certainly not done any harm.

The aroma of food was getting stronger.

He dug the Bible out of his shoulder bag.

It was soft and shabby, with countless small notes in the margins on the thin paper. Here and there the text was marked with a yellow highlighter. In certain places the words were so unclear they were difficult to read, but it didn't matter. Richard Forrester knew his Bible, and he knew the most important pa.s.sages off by heart.

When he was twelve years old, one of them had tried it on with him.

He closed his eyes, allowing his hand to rest on the book.

Life since his redemption had convinced him that Susan and Anthony had died for a reason. They had to be taken home to G.o.d, so that the Lord could reach him. With a wife and child he was deaf to His call. Richard had to be tested before he could become a worthy servant in the struggle for what was right.

When the man who had picked him up in that Dallas back street introduced him to Jacob a few months later, Richard was ready. Jacob was called only Jacob, nothing more, and Richard had never met anyone else in The 25'ers. As far as he knew, there could be several individuals like him on board this plane, and he caught himself stealing a glance at the woman across the aisle.

In fact, he had had to wait a couple more years before he was told the name of the organization, and its significance. At first he was furious when he realized he was working with Muslims in a common cause. Jacob had tried to convince him that this collaboration was right and necessary. They had common goals, and the Muslims had experience vital to the organization. This argument cut no ice with Richard. Nor did it help when he learned that The 25'ers received significant financial support from Muslim extremist groups. Richard Forrester knew they were practically self-financing, and couldn't grasp the idea that they were accepting money from terrorists. By that time he had killed two people in G.o.d's name, but he could never countenance taking innocent lives. He had been just as shocked as everyone else when two planes. .h.i.t the World Trade Center, and he hated Muslims almost as vehemently as he hated sodomites. He had only conceded when he was woken one night by the intense presence of G.o.d, and was given an order by the Lord Himself.

After each mission a considerable sum of money was paid into his bank account. This was supposed to cover travel and accommodation, and was reported to the tax authorities as such. In the beginning he felt slightly uncomfortable. The generous payments made him feel like a contract killer.

Quickly, he put the Bible on his knee.

The flight attendant folded down his table and served the starter.

He got paid, he thought as he watched her quick, practised hands. But that wasn't why he killed.

Richard Forrester killed because the Lord commanded him to do so. The money was necessary only to carry out the missions he was given. Like now, when it was impossible to get home quickly enough unless he travelled first cla.s.s.

Occasionally, he wondered where the money came from. It had kept him awake for a while during the odd night, but his trust in G.o.d was infinite. He quickly got over the slightly unpleasant feeling in his stomach when he realized with surprise from time to time how much was in his bank account.

'Thanks,' he said as the flight attendant refilled his gla.s.s.

He started to eat, and decided to think about something completely different.

'You need to think carefully, Erik. This is absolutely crucial.'

Adam had chosen to sit in Eva Karin's armchair this time. A faint scent lingered in the yellowish-brown upholstery, a half-erased memory of a woman who no longer existed. The fabric was soft, and a few fine strands of dark grey hair had stuck to the antimaca.s.sar. Adam had never called the widower by his first name before, but in view of the circ.u.mstances it seemed inappropriate to use a more formal form of address. Almost disrespectful, he thought, as he tried to get the man to look up.

'Eva Karin believed she had Jesus's blessing,' Erik wept. 'I've never really been able to come to terms with the idea that this was right, but-'

'You have to listen to me, Erik,' said Adam, leaning towards the other man. 'I have no desire, no need and no right to sit in judgement on the life you and Eva Karin shared. I don't even need to know anything about it. My job is to find out who killed her. Which means I have to ask you once again: who else knew about this ... relationship, apart from you, Martine and Eva Karin?'

Erik suddenly got to his feet. He clutched at his head and swayed.

Adam was halfway out of his chair to help him when Erik kicked out at him, making him lean back.

'Don't touch me! It couldn't be right! She wouldn't listen. I allowed myself to be persuaded that time, it was so ...'

It was thirty-two years since Adam Stubo started at the Police College, as the Training Academy was called in those days. In all those years he had seen and heard most things experiences he thought he would never get over. His personal tragedy had almost broken him and yet in many ways telling other parents that their child had been killed, that a husband or wife had been murdered, or parents mown down by a police car during a car chase was far worse. His own suffering was manageable, in spite of everything. Faced with other people's grief, Adam all too often felt completely helpless. However, over the years he had come up with a kind of strategy when he encountered bottomless despair, a method that made it possible for him to do the job he had to do.

But he wasn't up to this.

Over half an hour ago he had told Erik Lysgaard that he knew. He had tried to explain why he had come. Over and over again he had interrupted the widower's long, disjointed story of a life built on a secret so big that he had never really had room for it. It was Eva Karin's secret, Eva Karin's decision.

Erik Lysgaard was yelling at the top of his voice. He stood there in the middle of the floor wearing clothes that were too big and not very clean, bellowing out accusations. Against G.o.d. Against Eva Karin. Against Martine.

But most of all against himself.

'How could I believe in that?' he wailed, gasping for breath. 'How could I ... ? I didn't want to be like them ... not like that teacher, Berstad, not like ... You have to understand that ...'

Suddenly he fell silent. He took two steps towards Adam's armchair. His greasy, grey hair was sticking out in all directions and his lips were blood-red. Moist. His eyes were sunken and his chin trembled.

'Berstad killed himself,' he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. 'In the spring of 1962. Eva Karin and I were in the third form. I couldn't be like him. I couldn't live like him!'

Heavy, viscous drops of saliva spurted out of his mouth; some trickled down his chin, but he took no notice.

'I'd seen the looks. I'd heard the ugly words, it was like ... like being lashed with a whip!'