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Emma said she had been worried about me because she had heard my door open and close in the middle of the night.'
    Jon swung his legs onto the floor. 'I don't understand why we bother living here.'
    She sent Jon a reproving glance. 'At least we can take care of each other here.'
    'Right,' he sighed. 'We take care of each other. Goodnight then.'
    She wriggled over to him and slipped her hand up his shirt and, to his surprise, he could feel her hand was sweaty, as if she had been clenching it or squeezing something. She pressed herself against him and her breathing began to quicken.
    'Thea,' he said. 'We mustn't . . .'
    She went rigid. Then she sighed and took her hand away.
    Jon was amazed. So far Thea had not exactly come on to him, more the opposite, she had seemed anxious about physical contact. And he valued that modesty. She had seemed reassured after their first date when he had quoted the statutes and said, 'The Salvation Army considers abstinence before marriage a Christian ideal.' Even though many thought there was a difference between 'ideal' and the word 'command', which the statutes used when referring to tobacco and alcohol, he saw no reason to break a promise to God because of nuances.
    He gave her a hug, stood up and went to the toilet. Locked the door behind him and turned on the tap. Let the water run over his hands as he regarded the smooth surface of molten sand reflecting the face of a person who to all outward appearances ought to be happy. He had to ring Ragnhild. Get it over with. Jon took a deep breath. He was happy. It was just that some days were harder than others.
    He dried his face and went back to her.
    The waiting room of Oslo's emergency services in Storgata 40 was bathed in harsh, white light. There was the usual human menagerie at this time of day. A trembling drug addict stood up and left twenty minutes after Harry arrived. As a rule they couldn't sit still for longer than ten. Harry could understand that. He still had the taste of whisky in his mouth; it had stirred up his old friends who heaved and tugged at the chains below. His leg hurt like hell. And the trip to the harbour had yielded – like 90 per cent of all police work – nothing. He promised himself he would keep the appointment with Bette Davis next time.
    'Harry Hole?'
    Harry looked up at the man in the white coat in front of him.
    'Yes?'
    'Could you come with me?'
    'Thank you, but I think it's her turn,' Harry said, nodding towards a girl with her head in her hands in the row of chairs opposite.
    The man leaned forwards. 'It's the second time she's been here this evening. She'll survive.'
    Harry limped down the corridor after the doctor's white coat and into a narrow surgery with a desk and a plain bookshelf. He saw no personal items.
    'I thought you police had your own medicine men,' the coat said.
    'Fat chance. Usually we don't even get priority in the queue. How do you know I'm a policeman?'
    'Sorry. I'm Mathias. I was on my way through the waiting room and spotted you.'
    The doctor smiled and reached out his hand. He had regular teeth, Harry saw. So regular you could have suspected him of wearing dentures, if the rest of his face had not been as symmetrical, clean and square. The eyes were blue with tiny laughter lines around them, and the handshake firm and dry. Straight out of a doctor novel, Harry thought. A doctor with warm hands.
    'Mathias Lund-Helgesen,' the man enlarged, taking stock of Harry.
    'I realise you think I should know who you are,' Harry said.
    'We've met before. Last summer. At a garden party at Rakel's place.'
    Harry went rigid at the sound of her name on someone else's lips.
    'Is that right?'
    'That was me,' Mathias Lund-Helgesen gabbled in a low voice.
    'Mm.' Harry gave a slow nod. 'I'm bleeding.'
    'I understand.' Lund-Helgesen's face wrapped itself in grave, sympathetic folds.
    Harry rolled up his trouser leg. 'Here.'
    'Aha.' Lund-Helgesen assumed a somewhat bemused smile. 'What is it?'
    'A dog bite.