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ignores her. He stops a meter from Gundersen and looks at him. Gundersen is halfway through a sentence, but he stops and turns.
    He knows who I am, Henning thinks. I can see it in his eyes. And I can see that it makes him nervous.
    “Hi,” Gundersen says. Henning sticks out his hand.
    “Henning Juul.”
    Reluctantly, Gundersen takes his hand. Henning presses it hard.
    “Iver G—”
    “I understand we’re both covering this story. How do you think we should go about it?”
    He knows he has put Gundersen on the spot, but he doesn’t care.
    “I’m not entirely sure.”
    Gundersen swallows, then he recovers.
    “I suggest updating the story we’ve already published with quotes from the press conference,” he begins and looks over Henning’s shoulder, at Nora, who is observing their first meeting.
    “I thought about following up this honor killing theory,” Gundersen continues. “See if there’s something in it. In which case, the list of suspects will be fairly short and it won’t be long before the police arrest someone.”
    Henning nods. “Has anyone talked to her friends?”
    Gundersen shakes his head.
    “Then I’ll visit her college and do a story about her life and who she was.”
    “Human interest.”
    “Mm.”
    Henning makes eye contact with Gundersen, who nods.
    “All right, sounds good. I could try contacting the man who found the victim, but I’ve heard that he doesn’t want to talk to the press. So—” Gundersen shrugs.
    Henning nods, he sees that Gundersen is still uncomfortable, that there is something he feels the urge to say. He inhales, but Henning beats him to it.
    “Great,” he says and leaves. He walks as fast as his damaged legs can carry him, straight past Nora, without looking at her.
    Well done, Henning, he tells himself. You had the shit kicked out of you in round one, but you got back on your feet and you won round two. That’s the inherent problem with boxing. Winning a round gets you nowhere, unless you also win the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that. And most important of all, the last one.
    The battle has already been lost, Henning thinks. The judges have already decided. But at least he can try for a personal best.
    He can avoid being knocked out again.

11
    It takes several minutes before his heart rate returns to normal. He crosses Borggata, trying to forget what he has just seen and heard, but he is haunted by Nora’s eyes and icy breath. He imagines the conversation between Nora and Iver, after his exit:
    Iver: Well, that went all right.
    Nora: Had you expected anything else?
    Iver: I don’t know. Poor guy.
    Nora: It’s not easy for him, Iver. Please don’t make it harder for him than it already is.
    Iver: What do you mean?
    Nora: Exactly what I’ve just said. Do you think it was easy for him to see me here? See me with you? I think it was very brave of him to go up to you the way he did.
    Stop it, Henning. You know that wasn’t what she said. More likely, it went:
    Nora: Ignore him, Iver. That’s just the way he is. He has always done his own thing. Sod him. I’m starving. Let’s have some lunch.
    Yep, that’s it. Much more authentic.
    He decides he needs to clear his head. Forget Nora and concentrate on the job in hand. As he waits for the lights to change at the junction with Tøyengata, it occurs to him that he will need his camera.
    He goes home to get it.
    Detective Inspector Brogeland slows down. The car, one of the many new Passats the police have purchased, comes to a smooth halt outside 37 Oslogate. He puts the gear into park and looks at his colleague, Sergeant Ella Sandland.
    Jesus, she’s hot, he thinks, taking in the masculine uniform and everything it conceals. He fantasizes about her constantly, pictures her without the leather jacket, the light blue shirt, the tie, stripped of everything except her handcuffs. Countless times, he has imagined her shameless, lascivious, giving herself completely to him.
    Women think men