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cope. A drizzly haze enveloped the deserted streets.
    The journey out to Revet took no longer than three minutes. He was stopped at a roadblock, where two patrol cars were positioned bonnet to bonnet, with another police vehicle in front of them. A helicopter was searching in wide circles overhead.
    A rain-coated police officer approached, his arms resting on a sub-machine gun suspended on his chest. When Wisting wound down his side window, his colleague saluted with two fingers raised to his cap.
    ‘Any news?’
    The policeman shook his head. In his mirror, Wisting spotted the lights of another car. The police officer straightened up, peering in the same direction. A red Golf drew to a halt and Garm Søbakken from the local newspaper jumped out. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, turning his back to the rain. The uniformed officer did not reply so the journalist directed himself to Wisting.
    ‘We’re searching for a stolen car,’ he explained.
    ‘With a helicopter and guns?’
    The armed policeman tramped back to his post at the barrier. Wisting nodded. He should have prepared a press release before leaving, but assumed that someone at headquarters was already on the job. Pressure from the media would be intense as soon as the few details in their possession became known. News editors could not wish for more. A criminal case and celebrity story combined.
    ‘A statement will be made to the press very shortly,’ he said, winding up the window.
    He was not usually so dismissive, but was embarrassed that the presumed killer had escaped by stealing the car belonging to the policeman leading the investigation. The journalist from Østlands-Posten pointed his camera at the barrier with the helicopter in the background.
    Suddenly the enormous machine swooped like a falcon, plunging towards its prey, before climbing once more, hovering in the air, its spotlight pointing down vertically. The helicopter pilot summoned the police officers on the ground: ‘ Fox 05, this is Heli. ’
    ‘ Fox 05 ,’ crackled through the police radio.
    ‘ We have sighted a suspicious vehicle under the light. Thermal imaging indicates that the engine is warm. No sign of life .’
    ‘ Received, we see where you are .’
    One of the cars at the barrier started its engine. Wisting rushed over and clambered into the back seat.
    The man behind the wheel turned and nodded before moving off, heading for the helicopter’s cone of light. They drove past the Color Line terminal building and out towards the container harbour, passing warehouses, workshops and crawler cranes. In the rain, the high lamps lining the road were encircled by golden light.
    Wisting’s stolen car was parked in the open, beside a trolley stacked with stone blocks awaiting shipment. Gusts of wind were driving the water in horizontal cascades across the asphalt. It seemed totally abandoned.
    A police car arrived from the other side, stopping twenty metres from Wisting’s car. Three men stepped out and brief messages passed across the two-way radio. They approached the vehicle with weapons drawn, while the two police officers from the car that had brought Wisting to the scene formed a kind of perimeter defence.
    Rapidly ascertaining that there was no one inside, one of the men positioned himself with the barrel of his gun pointing towards the boot lid, while another opened it from inside. Followed immediately by the crackling message: ‘All clear.’
    One of the officers in the other patrol car led out a dog as Wisting stepped forward to take a look. His sodden jacket was lying on the passenger seat and he opened the door to remove it. Underneath was the evidence bag with the mobile phone. There was still a trace of battery power remaining, but no new messages or calls.
    One of the policemen shone a Maglite into the driver’s compartment. ‘What should we do with the car?’ he asked.
    Wisting surveyed the interior. The keys were still in the ignition and the pale fabric on the