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  Trine hoped that no journalists would be waiting when she landed. She hoped that something else had caught their attention in the fortnight she’d been away, but she was sure they hadn’t forgotten her.

  Trine looked at the watch Pål Fredrik had given her before she left for work on her first day as a cabinet minister. Half an hour until landing. That alone was enough to make her heart beat faster.

  She wondered what Pål Fredrik thought now that he’d had two weeks to digest the fact that she’d had an abortion without consulting him – after they’d said publicly that they wanted to have children. The question was whether he’d be able to live with her betrayal.

  They had texted each other every day, but that was all, and then only about this and that – unimportant matters: she didn’t even know if he would come to collect her at the airport, if he had the time – even though it was a Sunday. If he would take the time. He was probably out on a long bike ride, Trine guessed. He might never forgive her.

  The PA system crackled. The co-pilot informed them that they would soon be starting their descent to Oslo Gardermoen airport and that everyone should return to their seats and fasten their seatbelts. Trine thought about what she would do when she got home. There might be a communications agency or three that would welcome a woman with her network, but she actually wouldn’t mind doing nothing for the next few months. Take the time she needed to muster her strength until she was hungry for work again.

  There were no text messages waiting for her when they landed, about 30 minutes behind schedule. She was disappointed when she got off the plane. Her legs were swollen and her shoes were tight. She kept her eyes to the ground as she walked.

  She bought four bottles of Amarone in the duty-free shop and a big bag of marshmallow bears. Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long before her suitcase came and she could go through customs.

  Once she was out in the arrivals hall, she looked up and, to her immense relief, saw no microphones or cameras, but nor did she see Pål Fredrik.

  Maybe it was over between them, she thought. This was the proof – he hadn’t even come to collect…

  Trine stopped.

  She saw a face in the crowd that she had certainly not expected to see. Not here.

  But there he was.

  Henning.

  And he was looking straight at her.

  6

  Henning had to stop himself from running over to her.

  She stood there, the shock and fear apparent in her eyes, the same look as when he’d found her in the cabin at Stavern when she was hiding from the press. Then she’d more or less chased him away, but things were different now. He knew why she was so frightened.

  Over the past few days, Henning had tried to find explanations as to why Trine might have had dealings with a professional killer, what motives she might have had, and he had only come up with one.

  Money.

  The property market had been lucrative for a long time and if Trine had worked on the legal issues involved in the transfer of property, as she had done in the nineties, she might have been a good ally to have. Henning hadn’t managed to find out how much she was worth, but if she had received financial rewards for her services, she would presumably have been smart enough to hide the money somewhere.

  Henning pushed the strap of his bag further onto his shoulder and took a controlled step towards his sister; they’d got on so well when they were little, but now he’d barely spoken to her since their father died. All around them, people were shouting and waving to the new arrivals. Some had Norwegian flags and flowers with them. Others were weeping with joy.

  Henning stopped about a metre from her, but said nothing. Just stared at her.

  ‘Henning,’ Trine stammered. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He was fizzing inside; he wanted to put his hands round her throat and squeeze. Instead, he indicated that they should leave the crowd. Reluctantly, she followed him.

  When they were some distance from the throng, he stopped and turned towards her. Stared at her again. And as he did so, he pulled out a photograph from his inside pocket and held it up.

  ‘This was taken on the eleventh of September 2007,’ he said in a shaky voice. ‘Ten minutes before my son died.’

  Henning could see Jonas’s quiet, dead face as he lay beside him on the cobblestones in the back yard, after they’d jumped from the balcony on the second floor. The railings had been so slippery and Henning hadn’t been able to see anything; only minutes before he’d jumped through a wall of flames that had blocked the door to Jonas’s bedroom, and the flames that set his hair on fire and melted the skin on his face.

  Trine screwed up her eyes and looked closely at the photograph, which showed her a few metres behind Durim Redzepi; she was clearly saying, or shouting, something to him.

  ‘What did you give to the man who set fire to my flat?’ Henning asked.

  He noticed her hands first, how they almost lost their grip on the suitcase, her handbag, the duty-free bag – then he saw it in her eyes, the film that seemed to fall before they rolled back into her head.

  Then she fell towards him.

  Henning only just managed to grab her arms before she fell to the floor. It was purely reflex – he wouldn’t have minded if she’d hit her head – but everybody knew Trine’s face. The fact that the first thing she did on her return from a holiday was to faint, was guaranteed to make the headlines. And he didn’t want that.

  Henning saw a bench a few metres away and dragged her over, sat her down and then sat down himself. He took off his courier bag, struggling to keep her upright. And it was with some discomfort that he rested her head on his shoulder.

  A thousand emotions were churning inside him and he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop the anger that was about to boil over. But then, what could he do? What should he do?

  In an attempt to control the situation, he put his arm round her and hid her face as best he could with his jacket, as though she was a drunk girlfriend who needed to be shielded from public humiliation. One of the service staff came over to Henning with Trine’s suitcase, bag and duty-free shopping, and asked if everything was alright.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Henning said. ‘She just didn’t eat enough on the flight.’

  ‘Would she perhaps like a glass of water?’

  ‘A glass of water would be good, thanks.’

  The man put the luggage down next to Trine and hurried off. He was soon back with a plastic cup filled to the rim.

  ‘Thank you,’ Henning said.

  ‘We have a room you could use if she needs to lie down for a bit?’

  ‘Thank you, we’ll be fine,’ Henning said. ‘It’s happened before,’ he added.

  The man disappeared with an understanding smile. Henning dipped his fingers in the water and flicked a few drops onto her face, aiming for the eyes. He did this several times and soon enough he felt her stirring and could hear that her breathing was faster.

  Then she moved her head.

  When Trine opened her eyes, she started and pushed herself away from him as fast as she could. She blinked several times, as though waking from a long, deep sleep. Henning had no intention of waiting until she was ready for his questions.

  ‘Answer me,’ he demanded.

  Trine jumped at the sound of his voice. Looked around again.

  ‘What were you doing outside my flat just before it went up in flames?’ he asked.

  Trine was about to say something, but then stopped herself. Her lips quivered. Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked furiously and looked the other way. For a short moment Henning was frightened that she might vomit or faint again, but it was simply that she was crying so hard.

  It took a while before she managed to pull herself together.

  ‘They…’ she sobbed. ‘They said they weren’t going to do anything. I didn’t know that they … that that would happen.’

  Henning just looked at her, the images of Jonas passing before his i
nner eye.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said with gritted teeth.

  ‘They threatened me,’ she sniffed. ‘Said they’d tell…’

  The sobbing got the better of her again. People walked back and forth in front of them, but Henning was now in a force field where no one else existed. Trine was crying so violently that she was shaking and it took a long time before she calmed down.

  ‘They promised me that nothing would happen to you,’ she stammered. ‘They were only going to frighten you, I had no idea that…’

  She looked away and shed some more tears.

  ‘I had no idea that they were going to set fire to your flat, Henning,’ she continued. ‘And that … Jonas was there as well, that…’

  Trine took a deep breath and sobbed at the same time.

  ‘You have to believe me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know that Jonas was going to be there.’

  ‘But he was,’ Henning said, bitterly.

  The tears spilled out of her eyes once more.

  For the first time since she came round, she dared to look at him. Her eyes were puffy, red, wet.

  ‘Can we go somewhere else and…’

  ‘No,’ Henning said, harshly.

  She nodded and looked down, dried her face with her hands. Then she picked up her handbag and got out a packet of Kleenex.

  ‘I’ll tell you everything,’ she said. ‘Everything that happened. But don’t interrupt me. OK?’

  7

  No matter what she’d done the day before, no matter what the season, Nora Klemetsen woke up at seven o’clock every morning. This Sunday had been no exception, and the day had started so well, it was a morning that made her feel that perhaps, finally, she was on her way to being a whole person again.

  She hadn’t woken up and immediately thought of Jonas, as she usually did. She hadn’t wandered around the flat looking for his snow globe, and she hadn’t put her hands on her stomach and thought that it was wrong to be pregnant again.

  Instead she had gone out into the kitchen, turned on the oven, thought about the rolls she was going to warm up, the scrambled eggs she was going to make, the slices of bacon she was going to fry and take in to Iver before he dragged himself out of bed. She’d made the coffee, picked up the morning paper and then sat there savouring the joy of a Sunday without any plans other than relaxing, eating good food and watching films on TV in which nothing really happens.

  But then Iver had come out to the kitchen, much earlier than he normally would, wearing only his underpants, his shoulder-length hair pointing in every direction, as he slid his thumb up and down the screen of his mobile phone.

  ‘I have to go,’ he’d said.

  Nora looked at him, astonished.

  ‘Go?’

  ‘Yes, I … just have … and I have to get hold of Henning, and…’

  ‘Henning? Why do you need to get hold of Henning this early in the morning? And on a Sunday as well?’

  He hadn’t looked at her, but he’d answered, ‘It’s just some things…’

  Nora should have noticed the evening before. When he eventually arrived, much later than planned, he had that distant look in his eyes that he always got when he had something on his mind, when a case had taken hold of him and he wondered how he could solve it, which sources to contact, what angle he should take. But when she asked him what was up, he replied, ‘Nothing really, just something.’

  As though that would explain everything.

  It was Iverish for ‘I can’t, and don’t want to say anything about it to you’, and when he had repeated this vague and immensely irritating phrase that morning, she had felt it in her very core, the air seeping out of her body, as though she were a shrinking balloon. It had made her realise and understand what Sundays would be like in the years to come, as Sundays had often been when she was married to Henning.

  Then Iver had turned around and thrown on his clothes, which were lying over the end of the sofa where he’d left them the night before; he hadn’t even had a cup of coffee or given her a kiss on the cheek before he rushed out of Nora’s flat and called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll ring you later on today.’

  Then all was quiet.

  After Jonas had died, Nora had done everything she could to block out the silence, because that was when the thoughts came, and the images, of the little boy with the flyaway fair hair. Iver, with all his energy and humour, had pulled her out of herself, away from the walls that seemed to be papered with Jonas’s face, no matter where she was.

  And then she’d discovered she was pregnant, without having ever really thought about it or known how deep her feelings for Iver actually were. She knew that they were miles apart in many ways – Iver was the very definition of messy, he couldn’t even shut cupboard doors. He put his own interests and needs before anything else, something that the intensity of his work in the past few days had shown, and Nora had realised that Iver was not particularly well suited to being a father.

  But she had decided to give it a chance. She owed that much to the child that was growing inside her. She owed that much to herself, she just needed to find a way to live with him. And that was why she put on her jacket and shoes, scarf and hat, and went out. If she wasn’t going to enjoy a Sunday with Iver, she could at least try to enjoy it with someone else, or on her own.

  She tried to get hold of Lise, but she was away at the cabin with her husband and children. Cecilie had taken the children to a waterworld somewhere in Asker. Nora rang her mother as well, but she was out walking with a friend. So in the end, Nora ordered a salad at Sagene Lunsjbar, but found that eating on her own was boring and sad, so she’d only eaten half before she quickly exited into the chilly afternoon.

  October was a good time to be outdoors; so much happened as autumn turned to winter. The colours were less vibrant, but when the sun broke through the clouds, they seemed to quicken and crackle – as though they relished this brief memory of summer. She liked to feel the cool autumn air against her skin. She liked to watch the ducks seeking out food, to see dogs bounding around in parks, chasing balls and sticks. Enjoyed having enough time to follow a thought for more than a second. It was at times like this that the sight of an old couple could make her cry, and when good ideas for new articles might pop up unexpectedly.

  When Nora had been walking for about an hour, with no real plan, she realised that she actually wasn’t that far from Fagerborg. So she decided to take the 10-minute detour to see if Iver was at home. She might even catch a glimpse of what was so important that he had to work on a Sunday.

  Outside his building it smelt of wet city and grass that was about to surrender. The building was five storeys high, and the clouds that lay like a lid over Oslo made the facade look grey and sad, not white and well kept. A single flower box hung from one of the balconies. The remains of something that had once been red were now a dull pink and most definitely dead, and the stalks were bent to the side – as though trying to defend themselves against the wind and winter months to come.

  Nora had her own key, but she didn’t need it; the door to the back yard was standing open and when she stepped inside, she realised why. Someone was obviously moving and there was a constant stream of lamps, bags, holdalls and suitcases. Nora gave the removal men – obviously a group of friends – a sympathetic smile. She could see the sweat on their faces.

  The last time Nora was pregnant, she had suffered symphysis pubis dysfunction, or SPD, at quite an early stage, and as she walked up the stairs to Iver’s flat, she felt that it may well happen again, the pain in her pelvis expressing itself with every step. She cursed her body, which was increasingly unreliable, and dreaded the months ahead.

  Nora stopped outside Iver’s front door and listened. She couldn’t hear him. Heard nothing. She put the key in the lock and turned it.

  But the door was already open.

  She pulled the key out again.

  The kitchen was darker than usual and she realised that the curtains were drawn. She could
n’t hear any movement, no one quickly getting up from a chair, filled with guilt, throwing down the remote control, no quick steps across the floor.

  She went into the kitchen. The unmistakable smell of stale cigarette smoke drifted towards her, but there was another smell too. Something she couldn’t place.

  ‘Iver?’ she called.

  She didn’t get an answer. This made her take a few steps towards the living room. She pushed open the living room door and stopped in her tracks.

  Dropped her keys.

  Dropped her handbag.

  Then let out a scream.

  8

  Bjarne Brogeland sat down at one of the two monitors that showed live images of what was going on in one of the interview rooms. As it was a Sunday, the chances were that he would be in the control room alone.

  Bjarne studied the man sitting on one of the chairs, squeezing the muscles of his forearms, apparently unfazed by what was about to happen. But then they’d been through the same procedure a few times in the past weeks. Ørjan Mjønes was not willing to say a word about who’d paid him to kill Tore Pulli when Pulli was serving a 14-year sentence, or why. It was only when he was asked innocuous questions that he deigned to open his mouth. What he was called, where he came from, his mother and father’s names, uncles and aunts – which football team he supported. It didn’t help when they got a so-called expert to question him.

  But Henning had given them some new information, which Ella Sandland, the police force’s femme fatale, was now going to put to Mjønes. Bjarne was curious to see what he would say.

  Sandland pushed open the door and walked in. Every time Bjarne saw her, he felt a surge through his body. Her short, blonde hair was always perfectly styled with a side parting; she was carefully made up, with high cheekbones and an amazing, well-trained body. When Bjarne stood opposite her, it took considerable effort not to show, very visibly, just how attractive he found her – and he knew that he’d failed on several occasions.