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approach came at the instigation of
one of Van der Kerch’s friends. She could see the attraction of this caring attitude, though she herself kept all her clients at arm’s length.
    She closed the file in front of her, noticed that it was four o’clock, and decided to stop work, changing the board above the reception desk to indicate that she was the first of the
lawyers to leave. She still couldn’t avoid a slight prick of conscience every time there weren’t at least ten names before hers under the “In tomorrow” sign. But today she
managed to dismiss it easily, and walked out into the rain and caught an overcrowded tram home.
    “I’ve taken on a criminal case,” she mumbled between two mouthfuls of Frionor fish.
    Karen Borg was from Bergen. She didn’t eat fresh fish in Oslo. Fresh fish shouldn’t have been dead for more than ten hours. Forty-eight-hour-old fish in the capital tasted like
rubber, and the properly frozen output of a mass production line was actually better.
    “Though it would be more accurate to say it was foisted upon me,” she added as she finished chewing.
    Nils grinned.
    “Will you be able to cope with it? You often complain you’ve forgotten everything you learnt except what you’ve been doing for the last eight years,” he said, wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand, an annoying habit that Karen had been trying to eradicate for all of the six years they’d been living together, partly by drawing his attention to it, partly
by pointedly laying large napkins by his plate. The napkin lay untouched, and he repeated the offence.
    “Well, depends what you mean,” she muttered, surprised at herself for feeling hurt, especially since she had had exactly the same thoughts earlier in the day. “Obviously I can,
I’ll just have to brush up a little.” She resisted the temptation to add that she’d got a pretty good mark for her finals paper on criminal law.
    She told him the whole story. For some reason she omitted the telephone call from Strup. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because she felt uncomfortable about it. Ever since she was a
child she had been reticent in matters that seemed complex. Anything dubious she kept to herself. Not even Nils really understood her. The only one who had ever come close to breaking through her
defences was Håkon Sand. After he disappeared from her life, she became expert at sorting things out for herself in silence, and sorting things out for others for a living.
    They’d eaten their meal by the time she’d finished talking. Nils began clearing the table, without seeming uninterested in her story. Karen sat down in an armchair, reclined the
seat, and heard him loading the dishwasher. Eventually the rattling was accompanied by the gurgle of the coffee percolator.
    “He’s clearly scared to death,” he shouted from the kitchen, then looked into the living room and reiterated it, “I think he’s bloody scared of someone.”
    Brilliant. As if it wasn’t obvious. Typical of Nils, he had an ability to come out with self-evident comments that for many years she’d found appealing, almost as if he were being
deliberately sardonic. But lately she’d come to realise that he actually thought he could perceive what others couldn’t.
    “Of course he’s scared,” she murmured to herself, “but what is it he’s scared of?” Nils came in with two cups of coffee.
    “Well, he’s clearly not afraid of the police,” she said as she took the cup. “He wanted to be arrested. Just sat right down in a busy street and waited for them to
arrive. But why wouldn’t he say anything, why wouldn’t he admit he’d killed the man by the River Aker? Why is he afraid of prison if he’s not afraid of the police? And why
of all things should he insist on having me as his lawyer?”
    Nils shrugged his shoulders and picked up a newspaper.
    “You’ll find out eventually,” he said, becoming engrossed in the comic strips.
    Karen shut her