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of the palace, and a screaming child on its father’s shoulders. The images were out of focus.
    Johanne turned the volume back up.
    The camera finally focused on the reporter again, who now had her hand over her left ear, listening intently. A teenagerstuck his head up over her shoulder and shouted hurrah.
    ‘And now,’ the woman finally said, obviously flustered, ‘and now we will leave the celebrations on Karl Johan for a moment . . . We’ll return here shortly, but first . . .’
    A young lad stuck his fingers up like rabbit ears behind the reporter’s head and then howled with laughter.
    ‘Back to the studio at Marienlyst for some breaking news,’ the reporter said in a rush, and the picture was cut immediately.
    Johanne looked at her watch. Seven minutes past eleven.
    ‘Adam,’ she called quietly.
    Ragnhild toppled her tower. The news jingle played.
    ‘Adam,’ Johanne shouted. ‘Adam, come quick.’
    The man in the studio was in a dark suit. His normally wild curly hair looked greyer than usual and Johanne thought she saw him swallow a couple of times before opening his mouth.
    ‘Someone must have died,’ she said.
    ‘What?’ Adam came into the sitting room, carrying a fully dressed Kristiane. ‘Has someone died?’
    ‘Shhh.’ She pointed at the TV screen, then put her finger to her lips.
    ‘We repeat, the reports are still unconfirmed, but . . .’ The lines of communication to NRK and the broadcasting house were obviously red hot. Even the experienced anchorman kept his finger on his earpiece and listened intently for a few seconds before he looked into the camera and continued: ‘And now over to . . .’
    He frowned, hesitated. Then he pulled out his earpiece, rested one hand on top of the other and went free-range: ‘We have several reporters out following this story, and as you perhaps understand, there are some technical problems. We will talk to our reporters shortly. In the meantime, I repeat: the American President, Helen Lardahl Bentley, did not arrive as planned for the seventeenth of May breakfast at the palace this morning. No official reason has beengiven for her absence. Nor has a statement been given by the parliament, where the President was due to watch the parade with the President of the Storting, Jørgen Kosmo, and . . . One moment . . .’
    ‘Is she . . . is she dead?’
    ‘Dead and red with brown bread,’ Kristiane chanted.
    Adam lowered her gently to the floor.
    ‘They don’t know yet,’ Johanne replied quickly. ‘But it would seem that she—’
    There was a sharp screech from the TV before the picture switched to a reporter who obviously had not had enough time to take off his national-day ribbon, for a more sombre effect.
    ‘I am standing outside Oslo Police Headquarters,’ he panted. His microphone was shaking. ‘And one thing is certain: something has happened. Terje Bastesen, the Chief of Police, who normally leads the seventeenth of May procession, has just hurried up the road behind me together with . . .’ he turned around and pointed up the gentle slope to the main entrance of the police HQ, ‘together with . . . several others. At the same time, a number of marked police cars left the parking place behind the building, some of them with sirens blaring.’
    ‘Harald,’ the man in the studio tried, tentatively. ‘Harald Hansen, can you hear me?’
    ‘Yes, Christian, I can hear you.’
    ‘Has anyone explained what has happened?’
    ‘No, it’s not even possible to get up to the entrance. But rumours are rampant. There must be twelve or thirteen journalists here already, and one thing at least is clear: that is that something has happened to President Bentley. She has not appeared at any of her official engagements this morning and there was absolutely no one at the announced press conference in the lobby of the Storting, just before the children’s parade. The government press office appears to be non-functional and at the moment . . .’
    ‘What