what makes him hate me with such passion. The fact that I, his only son, am so weak that I can't even return his hatred.'
The room echoed as he banged the bottle down hard on the floor.
Jon folded his hands. 'Listen to me. The policeman who heard your confession is in a coma. If you promise me you will never come after me or mine, I promise I will never reveal what I know about you.'
Mads Gilstrup did not appear to be listening to Jon. Instead his gaze had turned to the screen where the happy couple were standing with their backs to them. 'Look, now she's saying yes. I play that precise bit again and again because I can't understand it. She swore, didn't she? She…' He shook his head. 'I thought it might make her love me again. If I managed to carry out this… crime, then she would see me as I am. A criminal must be brave. Strong. A man, isn't that right? Not…' he snorted through his nose and spat out the words: 'the son of one.'
Jon rose to his feet. 'I have to go.'
Gilstrup nodded. 'I have something that belongs to you. Let's call it…' He bit his top lip as he reflected. 'A farewell present from Ragnhild.'
On the Holmenkollen train Jon sat staring at the black bag he had been given by Mads Gilstrup.
It was so raw that those who had ventured out for a ramble were walking with hunched shoulders and bowed heads, swathed in hats and scarves. Standing in Jacob Aalls gate and pressing the Miholjec family doorbell, however, Beate Lonn did not feel the cold. She had not felt a thing since the latest message they had received from the hospital.
'It's not his heart that's the biggest problem now,' the doctor had said. 'The other organs have problems too. Above all his kidneys.'
Fru Miholjec was waiting in the doorway above the stairs and showed Beate into the kitchen where her daughter Sofia was sitting fidgeting with her hair. Then she filled the kettle and put out three cups.
'It might be best if I talk to Sofia on my own,' Beate said.
'She wants me to be present,' fru Miholjec said. 'Coffee?'
'No thanks. I have to get back to Rikshospitalet. This doesn't have to take long.'
'Fine,' fru Miholjec said, emptying the kettle.
Beate sat facing Sofia. Tried to catch eyes which were studying split ends.
'Are you sure we shouldn't do this on our own, Sofia?'
'Why should we?' she said in the contrary tone that irritated teenagers use with amazing efficacy to achieve their purpose: to irritate.
'This is quite a personal thing, Sofia.'
'She's my mother!'
'Fine,' said Beate. 'Did you have an abortion?'
Sofia recoiled. She pulled a grimace, a mixture of anger and pain. 'What are you talking about?' she snapped without quite hiding the surprise in her voice.
'Who was the father?' Beate asked.
Sofia continued to smooth out non-existent knots. Fru Miholjec's jaw had dropped.
'Did you have sex with him of your own free will?' Beate went on. 'Or did he rape you?'
'How dare you say that to my daughter?' the mother exclaimed. 'She's just a child, and you dare to talk to her as if she were a.. . a whore.'
'Your daughter was pregnant, fru Miholjec. I need to know if this has any relevance for the murder case we're working on.'
The mother seemed to have control of her jaw again, and her mouth closed. Beate leaned towards Sofia.
'Was it Robert Karlsen, Sofia? Was it?'
She could see the girl's lower lip quivering.
The mother got up from her chair. 'What is this she's saying, Sofia? Tell me it isn't true.'
Sofia rested her face on the table and covered her head with her arms.
'Sofia!' the mother shouted.
'Yes,' Sofia whispered, stifling a sob. 'It was him. It was Robert Karlsen. I didn't think… I had no idea that… he was like that.'
Beate stood up. Sofia was sobbing and the mother looked as though someone had struck her. All Beate felt was numbness. 'The man who killed Robert was caught last night,' she said. 'Special Forces shot him at the container terminal. He's dead.'
She watched for reactions, but saw none.
'I'll be off now.'
No one heard her and she walked to the door unaccompanied.
He was standing by the window staring across the billowing white countryside. It resembled a sea of milk frozen in mid movement. On the crests of some waves he glimpsed houses and red barns. The sun hung low over the ridge, drained.
'They're not coming back,' he said. 'They've gone. Or perhaps they were never here? Perhaps you were lying?'
'They've been here,' Martine said, taking the casserole out of the oven. 'It was warm when we arrived and you saw the prints in the snow yourself. Something must have happened. Sit down, the food's ready.'
He put the gun beside the plate and ate the stew. He noticed the tins were the same brand as the ones in Harry Hole's flat. There was an old, blue transistor radio on the windowsill playing comprehensible pop music interrupted by incomprehensible Norwegian chat. Right now it was a tune he had once heard in a film, one his mother played now and then on the piano in front of the window which 'was the only one in the house with a view of the Danube', as his father used to joke when he wanted to tease her. And if the teasing nettled her he always used to bring the squabble to an end by asking how such a beautiful, intelligent woman could marry a man like him.
'Is Harry your lover?' he asked.
Martine shook her head.
'Why were you taking him a concert ticket then?'
She didn't answer.
He smiled. 'I think you're in love with him.'
She raised her fork and pointed it at him as though wanting to emphasise something, but then changed her mind.
'What about you? Have you got a girl back home?'
He shook his head while drinking water from a glass.
'Why not? Too busy working?'
He sprayed water all over the tablecloth. Must be the tension, he thought. That was why he burst into hysterical laughter. She laughed with him.
'Or perhaps you're gay?' she said, wiping away a tear. 'Perhaps you've got a boy back home?'
He laughed even louder. And continued to laugh long after she had stopped speaking.
She served both of them more stew.
'As you like him so much you can have this,' he said, throwing a photo onto the table. It was the one on the hall mirror with Harry, the dark-haired woman and the boy. She picked it up and studied it.
'He looks happy,' she said.
'Perhaps he was having a good time. At that moment.'
'Yes.'
A greyish darkness had seeped in through the window and settled over the room.
'Perhaps he'll have good times again,' she said softly.
'Do you think that's possible?'
'To have good times again? Of course.'
He studied the radio behind her. 'Why are you helping me?'
'I told you, didn't I? Harry wouldn't have helped you and-'
'I don't believe you. There must be something else.'
She shrugged.
