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thing? No, it really must have been an outsider. Perhaps it was the fellow in the red car. I hadn’t seen that one before.” He withdrew his finger and padded over to a well-worn, comfortable armchair at the window. This was where he usually sat when sleepless nights drove him out of hiswarm, cozy bed. The city was his friend, as long as he was sitting safely indoors. He had lived in the same apartment all his life, watching as horses and carts were replaced by noisy motorcars, gas lamps disappeared as they were overtaken by the advantages of electric lights, and cobblestones were covered over by dark-gray asphalt. He knew his neighborhood well, at least as far as he could see from his window on the first floor. He knew which cars belonged here and who owned them. The red car was one he hadn’t seen before. Neither had he known the tall, well-built young man who had driven off in the early hours either. It must have been him.
    He stayed sitting there for a while, dozing. Then he padded noiselessly through to the kitchen to heat some broth.
    *   *   *
    None of the other neighbors had heard anything. Or seen anything. Most of them had noticed the police presence on Sunday morning. Rumors had circulated in the apartment block, and they had all picked up a great deal more than the dear old man on the first floor. There was nothing, however, of interest to the police: only anecdotes the residents had heard from one another, impassioned tales over the stairway railings, with lots of headshaking and disbelief, speculation and reciprocal assurances they would all have to be more vigilant in the future.
    Kristine Håverstad was not at home. Hanne Wilhelmsen knew that. Nevertheless, she rang the bell for safety’s sake, waiting a few seconds before letting herself in. She had been given the keys by the young woman, who had told Hanne that she was moving home to her father’s for a while. For how long, she didn’t know.
    The apartment was tidy, clean and snug. It was not large, so the two officers made a quick survey: a living room with a semi–open plan kitchen layout and a moderately large bedroom with a work desk in one corner. The rooms were accessed from anoblong hallway, so narrow it could almost be considered merely a corridor. The bathroom was so tiny it must be possible to sit on the toilet, shower, and brush one’s teeth at the same time. It was spotless, with a faint scent of pine bleach.
    Forensics had been there, and Hanne Wilhelmsen knew she wouldn’t find anything of significance. She was simply curious. The bedclothes were gone, but the quilt lay tidily in place. It was not a double bed, but neither was it so narrow there wasn’t room for two good friends. It was made of pine, with a little decorative bed knob at the top of each bedpost. Directly below the two at the foot of the bed she could see dark, uneven ridges. She squatted down and let her finger slide around the indentation. Minuscule splinters of wood pierced her finger. Sighing deeply, she left the bedroom and stood in the living room doorway.
    “What are we looking for?” Erik asked tentatively.
    “Nothing,” Detective Inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen replied, looking vacantly into space to emphasize her point.
    “We’re not looking for anything. I’m just having a look at this apartment where Kristine Håverstad will never again be able to stay.”
    “It’s bloody awful,” muttered the young lad.
    “It’s more than that,” Hanne said. “It’s far, far more than that.”
    Locking the door behind them with both security locks, they took the long way along the main ring road back to the station. Red-haired Erik was elated. By the end of the journey he didn’t know which he was more in love with: Hanne Wilhelmsen or her big rose-colored Harley.

TUESDAY, JUNE 1
    K ristine Håverstad was trying to pluck up courage but couldn’t quite summon the effort. It was all the same to her. She did not need a lawyer. She didn’t really need