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better days. Even his studded boots were acceptable at a pinch; his feet were so large that it must be difficult to find suitable footwear. The inverted cross, however, was a downright provocation, especially these days, when right-wing extremists and Satanists were committing serious, offensive crimes almost every day. And it must surely be possible to sit still during an interview.
    “Apologies if you think I look like a Nazi bastard,” Billy T. said.
    Could the man read his thoughts?
    “I spent years in the drug squad surveillance team,” the Chief Inspector added. “Haven’t quite managed to rid myself of the habit of looking like a lout. In fact it’s often quite effective. The boys get a bit matey, you see. The criminals, I mean. Don’t read anything into it.”
    There was a knock at the door, and a young woman wearing a threadbare red corduroy dress and sensible shoes entered without waiting for an answer, carrying two cups of coffee.
    “You’re an angel.” Billy T. grinned. “Thanks a lot!”
    The coffee, piping hot and strong as dynamite, was impossible to drink without slurping. The wax on the paper cups was melting, and as the cups softened, they became difficult to hold.
    “Did anything special happen at the meeting?” Billy T. enquired.
    The judge seemed to hesitate, spilling some coffee on his trousers and then wiping his thigh with firm, angry movements.
    “No,” he said, without making eye contact with the Chief Inspector. “I wouldn’t say so.”
    “Her secretary says she’d seemed out of sorts recently. Did you notice anything of that kind?”
    “I don’t really know Birgitte Volter any longer. She seemed very competent to me. No, I can’t say there was anything that struck me.”
    Benjamin Grinde lived both from and for the pursuit of justice and truth. He was used to telling the truth. He was particularly unused to lying. It made him tense, and he felt nauseous. He put down his coffee cup carefully, at the far edge of the desk, before looking the Chief Inspector straight in the eye.
    “There was nothing about her behavior that made me wonder if anything was wrong,” he said in a steady voice.
    The worst thing was that it seemed as if the Chief Inspector saw right through him, focusing directly on the lie that had coiled up like a poisonous snake somewhere behind his breast bone.
    “Nothing seemed abnormal,” he repeated, again looking out the window.
    The blue light had returned now, hammering repeatedly against the dark, dull windowpane.
    02.23 NORWEGIAN TIME , BERKELEY , CALIFORNIA
    Dear Billy T .,
    It’s unbelievable. I was in the middle of making dinner when the fax arrived. It’s just incredible! I phoned Cecilie right away, and she’s never rushed home from university so quickly. The murder has had quite a lot of coverage here as well, and we’re sitting glued to the television screen. But they don’t seem to be saying anything, just the same stuff over and over again. I’m missing home more than ever!
    Be careful not to lock yourselves into any theories. We have to learn something from the Swedes, who obviously got totally bogged down in one definite “obvious” lead after another. What theories are you working on in the meantime? Terrorism? Right-wing extremists? As far as I’ve understood it, there’s a certain amount of activity noticeable in those circles at present. Remember for heaven’s sake the most obvious suspects: lunatics, family, rejected lovers (which you know more about than most …). How are you organizing yourselves? I have a thousand questions that you probably don’t have time to answer. But PLEASE: send me a message, and I promise to write more later .
    This is just an initial reaction, and I’m sending it in the hope that you manage to read it before you go to bed. Though you won’t be getting much sleep in the days ahead. I’m going to send this to your home fax machine as maybe the guys will be annoyed at a Chief Inspector in exile