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coin on his elbow. He began reading the reports submitted so far. At regular intervals, he glanced sideways at the fax machine. Finally the telephone rang. It was Snorrason.
'I've spoken to Elfrid Løwe,' he said. 'Jonas August suffered from asthma.'
'Did he? Is that relevant?'
'The assault triggered a severe attack. And that, as far as I can establish, was what killed him.'

CHAPTER 10
Reinhardt and Kristine Ris's house was attractive and well maintained. It was painted white and had green windowsills and glazed Dutch roof tiles. It was built in 1920 and Reinhardt was fond of referring to it as an architectural pearl. It sat on a hill above the town and from the first floor veranda they could see the river with its many bridges that resembled broad stitches across a cut. Behind the house was a small garden surrounded by a neatly trimmed hedge; in front of the house a double garage and a swing installed by the previous owners. Kristine would sometimes gaze out of the window, pretending that her little girl was playing on it. But there was no little girl. The urge for a child dragged her down like a dead weight in the water.
She looked into the living room. Reinhardt was sitting in front of the computer playing EverQuest. He was completely absorbed by the game, all Kristine saw was his broad, unapproachable back. She tried to open herself to him, open up what was good in him; he had traits she valued highly. But it was an uphill struggle. A sneaking reluctance crept in with increasing frequency and her lack of enthusiasm made her feel guilty, because she had promised to keep herself only unto him until death did them part. She noticed that he seemed restless, visibly tense, he kept looking at his watch, and every now and again he would glance out at the road as if he was expecting someone. Kristine found an old newspaper, put it on the dining table and started polishing a silver candelabra. She rubbed it with a cloth, hard and with practised ease. When she had finished polishing the candelabra, she would light a candle for Jonas August. She was not going to tell Reinhardt, he would not understand anyway, nor did he care much about her innermost thoughts. 'It has to be out in the open,' he would say. 'I can't be doing with guessing what's on people's minds.'
'Irmelin and Kjell are coming over,' he said out of the blue. He turned in the chair and looked at her, clearly anticipating protests.
'They'll be here in half an hour,' he added.
Kristine gave him a shocked look. 'In half an hour? And you're telling me that now?' Her eyes automatically scanned the room for anything that needed to be tidied away.
Reinhardt switched off his computer. 'I invited them over for a drink,' he said.
'But why didn't you tell me?'
He went over to the sofa. He made himself comfortable with the newspaper, spreading it out demonstratively on the coffee table.
'What's wrong with inviting a few friends over for a glass of wine?' he snapped.
'Nothing,' she said, 'but couldn't you have told me earlier? I've got nothing in the house, Reinhardt, nothing at all.'
He shook his head in exasperation. 'There's no need for food,' he said. 'We'll just offer them a glass of wine, that's enough. It's called having a nice time with your friends.'
She did not want to sound petty, and they had invited Kjell and Irmelin over before, but it had always been for dinner. Then she realised what this was really about. Reinhardt was dying to tell them his news, he had something to treat them to, and it was more than likely that he would drone on the whole night about Jonas August. He would bask in the limelight and she would feel ashamed. There was something about the way he was dealing with this which she despised, though whether or not her own approach was superior or nobler she found difficult to tell.
'You could have asked me,' she repeated, hurt. She resumed polishing the silver; she could see her face now in the base of the candelabra.
He rustled his newspaper angrily. 'I