'OK,' mumbled the young woman, dreading it already.

Johanne never really dreaded doing anything. It was just so difficult to get going. Since she took her doctorate in criminology in the spring of 2000, she had completed two new projects. After submitting her thesis on 's.e.xualized violence, a comparative study of conditions during childhood and early experience among s.e.xual and financial offenders' she was awarded a grant which enabled her to write an almost equally comprehensive study of miscarriages of justice in Norway. Ragnhild came along towards the end of this project. She and Adam agreed that Johanne would stay at home with their daughter for two years, but before her maternity leave was over she had made a start on her latest project: a study of underage prost.i.tutes, their background, circ.u.mstances and chances of rehabilitation.

Last summer she had been given a piece of work to do for the National Police Directorate.

Ingelin Killengreen herself had contacted Johanne. The Commissioner had obviously been given clear political directives on the issue of putting hate crime on the agenda.

The problem was that this particular type of criminal activity hardly existed at all.

Well, of course it did.

But not when it came to figures. Not statistically speaking. Working in tandem with the Oslo police force, the National Police Directorate had already started mapping all reports made during 2007 where the motive for the crime could be linked to race, ethnicity, religion or s.e.xual orientation. The final report was just around the corner and Johanne had already seen most of the material.

The number of crimes was small, and dwindling.

During 2007 in the whole of Norway 399 cases of hate-motivated crime were registered. Of this number more than 35 per cent were simply the result of an incorrect code being entered in the police register. In other words, just over 250 cases could be cla.s.sified as hate crime.

For an entire year, in a country with a population of almost five million. Compared with the total number of reported crimes, 256 cases was too small a number to be of any interest.

But it was, at least to politicians. Since just one hate crime was one too many; since the hidden statistics for hate crime must be significant; and since the Red-Green coalition government wanted to enter the election in autumn 2009 with a trump card up its sleeve when it came to minority groups that sounded off whenever a h.o.m.os.e.xual was a.s.saulted in the street or a synagogue was sprayed with graffiti. That's why Johanne had been asked to undertake a closer study of the phenomenon.

The task was formulated so vaguely that she had spent the entire autumn defining her parameters and limiting the work that lay ahead. She had also started collecting the relatively comprehensive quant.i.ties of data available from other countries. Mainly the United States, but also several European countries had been cataloguing and to some extent working on this particular form of law breaking for quite some time. The material was growing, and she still didn't really have a proper grasp of what she was going to do and where she wanted to go.

Then came the financial crisis.

And all those billions in public money.

Certain branches of Norwegian research were drowned in funds. Since the police were included in the many initiatives aimed at keeping the wheels moving and preventing economic collapse, Johanne found herself with four times as much money at her disposal as a few weeks before. This opened up new opportunities, including the possibility of hiring younger researchers and scientific a.s.sistants. At the same time, this extra money created fresh problems. She had been on the point of finalizing a framework for her project, and now she had to start all over again.

It was hard work, and it was always difficult to get going. But she was looking forward to it.

It was evening. Kristiane had been unusually co-operative while they were visiting Isak's parents, and Ragnhild had cheered up as soon as the children each received a big bag of Christmas sweets. As Kristiane was staying with her paternal grandparents so that she could spend the next three days with her father, Ragnhild had also insisted on staying. As usual, Isak had smiled broadly and said that was fine. Presumably he had realized the same thing as Adam and Johanne quite some time ago: Kristiane was calmer, slept better and was more cheerful when Ragnhild was around.

The building was quiet. The neighbours downstairs must have gone away. When Johanne got home at about eight o'clock, the ground floor was in darkness. In her own apartment she went from room to room, switching on all the lights. She left all the doors open; the dog liked to wander around if he wasn't shut in Kristiane's room at night. The soft pattering of his paws and the cheerful thud every time Jack settled down on the floor always made her feel slightly less lonely on the rare occasions when she actually was alone. Eventually she took her laptop into the living room, sat down on the sofa and sipped a gla.s.s of wine as she surfed the net, without concentrating on anything in particular. She was looking for some kind of Scrabble game when the phone rang.

'Hi, it's me.'

It was a long time since she had been so pleased to hear his voice.

'Hi darling. How's it going up there?'

Adam laughed.

'Well, basically I've trodden on the toes of the Bergen police; I called to see the widower just a few hours after he'd been told that his wife was dead. I've already fallen out with his son, I think, and on top of all that I've eaten so much for dinner that I feel ill.'

Johanne laughed too.

'That doesn't sound good. Where are you staying?'

'At the SAS Hotel on Bryggen. Nice room. They moved me to a suite when they found out where I was from. It's not exactly packed out here at Christmas.'

'So did they know why you were there?'

'No. It's a miracle. It's almost exactly twenty-four hours since Bishop Lysgaard was murdered, and so far not a single b.l.o.o.d.y journalist has got wind of it. All that Christmas food must have finished them off.'

'Or the schnapps. Or maybe it's just that the Bergen police are better at keeping quiet than their colleagues in Oslo. By the way, I've just been watching the evening news. They had a little piece about the case, but they more or less just said she was dead.'

On the other end of the line she could hear noises that indicated Adam was taking off his tie. She suddenly felt quite emotional. She knew him so well she could hear something like that on the phone.

'Hang on,' he said. 'I'm just going to take off my shoes and this d.a.m.ned noose around my neck. That's better. What kind of a day have you had? Was it horrible having to do all that clearing up with the kids around? You must be worn out. I'm sorry I-'

'It was fine. As you know I can get by perfectly well without one night's sleep. The kids played in the garden for a couple of hours and I just ...'

She had managed to push away the thought of the strange man for the entire afternoon and evening. Now a feeling of unease stabbed through her, and she fell silent.

'h.e.l.lo? Johanne?'

'Yes, I'm here.'

'Is something wrong? Johanne?'

Adam would simply dismiss it. He would sigh his weary sigh and tell her not to be so worried about the children all the time. Adam would have very little understanding of the fact that Johanne had discovered that a complete stranger knew the name of her elder daughter. Besides which, the man had been so well wrapped up in his overcoat, hat and scarf that Adam would maintain it could have been a neighbour if she told him about the incident; and that horrible little coldness would come between them and make it more difficult for her to get to sleep later, alone, with no other sounds around her apart from Jack's snuffling and constant farting.

'No, no,' she said, trying to make her voice smile. 'Except that you're not here, of course. Ragnhild wanted to stay over with Isak's parents.'

'That's good. Isak really is generous. He puts-'

'As if you weren't every bit as kind to his daughter! As if-'

'Calm down, Johanne! That wasn't what I meant. I'm glad you all had a nice evening, and that you've got some time for yourself. That certainly doesn't happen very often.'

She moved the laptop on to the coffee table and drew the blanket more tightly around her.

'You're right,' she said, this time with a genuine smile. 'It's actually really nice to be all on my own. Apart from Jack, of course. By the way, there must be something wrong with his food. He's farting like mad.'

Adam laughed. 'What are you up to?'

'Doing a little bit of work. Surfing the net a little bit. Drinking a little drop of wine. Missing you.'

'That all sounds good. Apart from the work it's Christmas Day! I'm just about to go to bed. I'm worn out. Tomorrow I'm hoping to interview the Bishop's son. G.o.d knows how that will go he's already taken a dislike to me.'

'I'm sure he hasn't. Everybody likes you. And because you are the very best detective in the whole wide world, I'm sure it'll be fine.'

Adam laughed again.

'You mustn't keep saying that to the kids! Just before Christmas when we were queuing at the checkout in Maxi, Ragnhild suddenly stood up in the shopping trolley and announced at the top of her voice that her daddy was the very, very, very best I think she must have said "very" ten times detective in the world. Embarra.s.sing. People laughed.'

'But she's right,' said Johanne with a smile. 'You're the best in the world at most things.'

'Idiot. Night-night.'

'Night-night, my love.'

Adam's voice disappeared. Johanne stared at the telephone for a while, as if she was hoping he might still be there and would rea.s.sure her that the man by the fence posed no threat. Then she got up slowly, put down the phone and went over to the window. The new moon was suspended at an angle above the apartment block next door. There was still frost on the ground. The cold had sunk its teeth into Oslo, but the sky was clear, day after day, and all week there had been the most breathtaking sunsets. The few spa.r.s.e snowflakes that had fallen during the afternoon covered the garden like a thin film. The sky was clear once again, it was dark, and after a while Johanne felt ready for bed.

A woman stared out of a window, not knowing if she would ever sleep again. Perhaps she was already sleeping. Everything was strange and unreal, like a dream. She had been born in this house, in this room, she had always lived here and looked out of this leaded window, a cross dividing the view into four different parts of the world, as her father had told her when she was little and believed every word he said. Now everything was twisted and distorted. She was used to the rain against the window pane. It often rained, almost all the time. It was raining in Bergen and she wept and didn't know what she was seeing. Life had been chopped into pieces. The view from the little house was no longer hers.

She had waited for twenty-four hours a long night and an even longer day in a state of not knowing which she could do nothing about. Just as her life had followed a course that had been determined by circ.u.mstances beyond her control, so these endless hours of waiting had been something she just had to suffer. There had been no way out, not until the woman on TV had told her what she had, in fact, already known when she woke up in the armchair in front of the screen exactly twenty-four hours earlier, with a fear that grasped her by the throat and made her hands shake.

Because she had waited before.

She had waited all her life, and she had got used to it.

This time everything was different. She had felt a confirmation of something that couldn't be true shouldn't be true and yet she still knew, because she had lived like this for such a long time, utterly, utterly alone.

The doorbell rang, so late and so unexpectedly that the woman gave a little scream.

She opened the door and recognized him. It was an eternity since they had last met, but the eyes were the same. He was weeping, like her, and asked if he could come in. She didn't want him to. He wasn't the one she wanted to see. She didn't want to see anyone.

When she let him in and closed the door behind him, she asked G.o.d to let her wake up.

Please, please G.o.d. Please be kind to me.

Let me wake up now.

'Surely n.o.body's awake at this time of night?'

Beate Krohn looked at the news editor with a resigned expression. It was almost midnight. They were alone in the news office among silent, flickering monitors and the quiet hum of computers and the ventilation system. Here and there someone had hung up the odd Christmas decoration: a strand of red tinsel, a garland of little Norwegian flags. In one corner stood a spa.r.s.e Christmas tree with a crooked star on top. Most of the chocolates and biscuits that had been provided as a consolation for those who had to work over Christmas had been eaten. Sheets of paper and old newspapers were strewn all over the place.

'What about your parents?'

He just wouldn't give up. He had lit a cigarette such a blatant breach of the rules that she was quite impressed in spite of herself.

'They'll be asleep, too,' she said. 'Besides which, I'd frighten the life out of them if I rang this late. We have rules about that kind of thing in our family. Not before seven thirty in the morning, and not after ten at night. Unless somebody's died.'

'But somebody has died!'

'Not like that. I mean-'

He interrupted her with a deep drag on his cigarette and an impatient wave of his hand.

'Let me show you how it's done,' he grinned, the cigarette clamped between his teeth. 'Watch and learn.'

His fingers flew over his mobile before he put it to his ear.

'h.e.l.lo Jonas, it's Slve.'

Silence for three seconds.

'Slve Borre. At NRK. Where are you?'

Beate Krohn had once read that the most common opening remark in the entire world when it came to mobile phone conversations was 'Where are you?' After that she had sworn never to ask the question herself.

'Listen, Jonas. Bishop Lysgaard died last night, as you've no doubt heard. The thing is-'

He had obviously been interrupted, and took the opportunity to have another deep drag on his cigarette.

'Sure. Sure. But the thing is, I just wanted to check what she died of. Just to satisfy my curiosity. I've got one of those feelings, you know ...'

Pause.

'But can't you give one of them a ring? There must be somebody there who owes you a favour. Can't you-?'

Once again he was interrupted. By now the cloud of smoke surrounding him was so dense Beate was afraid it would set off the alarm. She took a step back to avoid getting the smell in her clothes.

'Nice one, Jonas! Nice one. Give me a ring later. Doesn't matter what time it is!' He ended the call. 'There you go,' he said, his fingers moving over the keys. 'Come here and I'll teach you something. Look at these messages.'

Beate leaned hesitantly over his shoulder and read the message saying that Bishop Lysgaard was dead. It hadn't changed since she last saw it.

'Notice anything odd?' asked the editor.

'No.'

She coughed discreetly and turned away.

'I don't know how many messages like that I've read in my life,' he said, completely unmoved. 'But it has to be a lot. By and large, they're all exactly the same. The tone is slightly formal, and they don't really say much. But they almost always say more than the fact that the person concerned is dead. "So-and-so pa.s.sed away unexpectedly at home." "So-and-so pa.s.sed away after a short illness." "So-and-so died in a car accident in Drammen last night." That kind of thing.'

His fingers drew so many quotation marks in the air that ash went all over the keyboard. It was already so worn that the letters were barely visible.

'But this one,' he said, pointing at the display. 'This one just says "Bishop Eva Karin Lysgaard died yesterday evening. She was sixty-two years old ..." And so on and so on, blah blah blah.'

'That doesn't necessarily mean anything,' she said firmly.

'Oh no,' said the news editor, still smiling broadly. 'Probably not. But it needs checking. How do you think a guy like me became a journalist at NRK before I was twenty-one, with no training?'

He pointed meaningfully at his nose.

'I've got it, that's how.'

The telephone rang. Beate Krohn stared at it in surprise, as if the editor had just shown her a conjuring trick.

'Slve Borre,' he yapped, dropping his cigarette stub into a mineral water bottle. 'Right. Exactly.'