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scared.’
    He looked down at his chest and met her eyes. He grinned.
    She whispered: ‘Go on.’
    ‘Beate’s father sorted everything out. He was the undisputed king, he didn’t say a word, he didn’t flash police ID or a badge, he wasn’t in uniform, he just came and put the world back to rights. I suppose it all started there. His character – a symbol.’
    ‘Bruce Willis,’ she grinned.
    ‘He wasn’t a particularly nice man.’
    ‘Bruce Willis?’
    ‘Beate’s father.’
    ‘What did he do?’
    He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Beate became a heroin addict and died a few years ago. At the class reunion she was the only one who didn’t turn up and all the girls talked about how she had been mistreated, screwed by her father for years.’ He stretched. ‘Illusions fade and die,’ he said drily.
    She didn’t say anything.
    ‘It’s inherent in the word. Illusion, something which isn’t real.’
    ‘You’re telling me.’
    ‘What do I like?’ He lay on his back thinking. ‘I like playing air guitar to ‘LA Woman’ by The Doors.’
    ‘You’re so boring. Come on. Say what you like doing.’
    He stretched under the duvet and said: ‘I like looking out of the window when I wake up in bed in the morning.’
    ‘More,’ she said.
    ‘More what?’
    ‘More of what you like.’
    ‘You first.’
    ‘I like lying on the grass in the summer and seeing what images the clouds form.’
    ‘More.’
    ‘Cycling down a mountain on a mild summer’s evening.’
    ‘More.’
    ‘Now it’s your turn.’
    ‘I like copying down the titles of my records and organizing them alphabetically.’
    ‘Is that true?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Right.’ She snuggled down under the duvet. ‘It’s your turn,’ she whispered.
    ‘I like being on my own in a special place.’
    ‘So do I.’
    She lifted her head from his chest and looked up. ‘A beach,’ she said. ‘In the evening when I sit there, eventually all I can hear is the lapping of the waves on the shore. If anyone comes and talks, you don’t hear it.’
    ‘Water’s like that,’ he said. ‘I have the same experience when I go fishing, by rivers or streams with rapids.’
    ‘I don’t believe that.’
    He looked at her again. She seemed slightly offended. ‘OK, I give in. It’s not like that.’
    ‘When you say things like that I don’t feel like saying any more,’ she said.
    ‘You!’ He sat up until they had eye contact again. ‘Don’t be cross.’
    ‘I’m not cross.’
    ‘So what’s the name of your beach?’
    She smiled. ‘Hvar.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘The name. Hvar.’
    ‘Of the beach?’
    ‘It’s an island.’
    ‘Where is it?’
    She rested her head without answering.
    He caressed her hair and yawned. Soon he would be asleep, he could sense that and he was happy. ‘By the way,’ he mumbled and yawned again. ‘I like the smell of bonfires in spring.’
    At one point during the night he opened his eyes and the weight of her head was gone. He heard a soft voice speaking. She was sitting on the chair by the window with her mobile phone to her ear. ‘Aren’t you asleep?’ he asked. ‘What’s the time?’
    ‘I’m coming now,’ she whispered. ‘Just go to sleep.’
    His eyes were closed and he felt her crawl in under the duvet. Before drifting off again he looked at her black hair cascading over the pillow.

PART TWO
     
    The Fourth Man
     

6
     
    ‘We have a customer.’
    ‘Murder?’
    ‘A man. Cold and stiff as a Christmas anchovy,’ Gunnarstranda went on. ‘In Loenga.’
    The line was cut. There was nothing to discuss. There was never anything to discuss. Frank Frølich turned over in bed. ‘I have to be off,’ he whispered with a croak and stopped short.
    She wasn’t there. The duvet she had wrapped herself in a few hours ago was half on the floor. He sat up in bed, massaged his cheeks and cautiously called out: ‘Elisabeth?’
    Not a sound.
    He looked at his watch. It was half past four. It was night. He got up and