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then, to be rejected, as most people were. Especially as the production team didn’t have the capacity to answer them all. Some of the critics have also claimed”—Adam fished a matte aluminum cigar case out of his breast pocket. He opened it carefully, pulled out the cigar, and ran it under his nose—“that Fiona Helle became God,” he sniffed. “A God who answered the prayers of desperate people with silence.”
    “Very dramatic.”
    “Or rather, melodramatic. Yes.” He returned the cigar to its case with equal care. “But just a tiny little bit true, as Kristiane says when we catch her lying.”
    Sigmund burst out laughing.
    “My boys just flatly deny it. Even if I catch them red-handed and the evidence is stacked against them. Tough little nuts. Especially Snorre.”
    He stroked the crown of his head in a shy gesture.
    “The youngest one,” he explained. “The one who looks like me.”
    “So there we have it,” Adam said and sighed. “An unknown number of people who might have good grounds for being at least disappointed with Fiona Helle.”
    “Disappointed,” Sigmund repeated. “That’s hardly . . .”
    They both looked up at the picture of the victim.
    “No. That’s why I’ve started a small investigation of my own. I want to find out what happened to the people who actually got help from Fiona. All of them had their fifteen minutes of fame and met their biological mother in South Korea, or their father who disappeared in Argentina, their daughter who was put up for adoption in Drøbak, and God knows what else—all of them had their lives turned upside down during prime time.”
    “Is there nothing like that already?”
    “No, in fact, there isn’t.”
    “But hasn’t NRK followed up with all those who—”
    “No.”
    Sigmund sank back in the chair. He stared at the cigar case that was back in place in Adam’s breast pocket.
    “Didn’t you quit?” Sigmund asked in a tired voice.
    “What? Oh, you mean this. I only sniff them. Old habit. Don’t smoke anymore. If I want to, I have to go out onto the veranda. Especially if it’s a cigar. It takes time to smoke one of these.”
    “But Adam . . .”
    “Yes?”
    “Do you think all the technical work is wasted?”
    Adam gave a hoarse laugh and put his hand to his mouth as he coughed. “This is the result of all my damned smoking,” he explained. He grimaced, swallowed, and then continued. “No, of course not. Technical investigations are never wasted. But as we don’t seem to have come up with any results, not so far, I think we should start at the other end. Instead of working outward from the scene of the crime, we should start out there and work in. If we’re lucky, we may find a motive or two. A sufficiently strong motive, I mean.”
    “Are you leaving? This early?”
    Adam had stood up and was already over by his coat, which was hanging unwashed and creased on the coat stand by the window.
    “Yes,” he said seriously and pulled on his coat. “I’m a modern father. From now on, I have to leave work every day at three o’clock to spend quality time with my daughter. Every day.”
    “What?”
    “Just joking, you idiot.” Adam slapped his colleague on the shoulder and shouted as he disappeared down the corridor, “Have a good weekend, everyone!”
    “What the hell am I doing here?” Sigmund muttered and looked at the door that had just slammed shut behind Adam. “It’s not even my office.”
    Then he looked at his watch. It was already half past five. He couldn’t understand where the day had gone.
    The blonde woman in the Armani suit and sneakers felt good as she got out of the taxi. It was still a good half hour until midnight, and she was practically sober. In a portrait interview for tomorrow’s VG newspaper, it said that Victoria Heinerback had realized that she was grown up when she started to leave parties and receptions early because she was thinking about her productivity the next day. Tomorrow’s