'What were her friends like?' Beate asked.

Grette hadn't finished laughing and she had to repeat the question.

'She liked being on her own,' he said. 'Perhaps because she was an only child. She had a lot of contact with her parents. And then we had each other. We didn't need anyone else.'

'She could have had contact with others you didn't know about, couldn't she?' Beate said.

Grette looked at her. 'What do you mean?'

Beate's cheeks went a flustered red and she gave a quick smile. 'I mean that your wife may not necessarily have passed on the conversations she had with all the people she met.'

'Why not? What are you trying to say?'

Beate swallowed and exchanged glances with Harry. He took over. 'In our investigations we always have to examine all the possibilities, however unlikely they may seem. And one of them is that some of the bank employees may be in league with the robber. Sometimes there is inside help with both the planning and the execution of the job. There is little doubt, for example, that the robber knew when the ATM would be refilled.' Harry studied Grette's face for signs of how he took that. But his eyes told him that he had left them again. 'We've been through the same questions with all the other employees,' he lied.

A magpie shrieked from the tree outside. Plaintive, lonely. Grette nodded. At first slowly, then faster.

'Aha,' he said. 'I understand. You think that's why Stine was shot. You think she knew the robber. And when he had finished using her, he shot her to remove any possible leads. Isn't that right?'

'Well, at least it's a theoretical possibility,' Harry said.

Grette shook his head and laughed again: sad, hollow laughter. 'It's clear you didn't know my Stine. She could never do anything like that. And why should she? If she'd lived a little longer, she would have been a millionaire.'

'Oh?'

'Walle Bшdtker, her grandfather. Eighty-five years old and owner of three blocks of flats in the city centre. He was diagnosed with lung cancer this summer and since then there has been only one way it was going to go. His grandchildren would have received a block each.'

Harry's question was purely a reflex action: 'Who will get Stine's block now?'

'The other grandchildren,' Grette answered with revulsion in his voice. 'And now you're going to check their alibis, aren't you?'

'Do you think we should?' Harry asked.

Grette was about to answer, but paused when his eyes met Harry's. He bit his lower lip.

'I apologise,' he said, running a hand across his unshaven face. 'Of course I ought to be glad that you're examining every possibility. It all just seems so hopeless. And meaningless. Even if you catch him, I'll never get back what he's taken from me. Not even the death penalty would do that. Losing your life is not the worst thing that can happen.' Harry already knew how he would continue. 'The worst thing is to lose your reason for living.'

'Yes,' Harry said, standing up. 'This is my card. Ring me if anything occurs to you. You can also ask to speak to Beate Lшnn.'

Grette had turned to face the window again and didn't see Harry holding out his card, so he left it on the table. Outside, it was becoming darker and they were seeing semi-transparent reflections in the window, like ghosts.

'I have a feeling I've seen him,' Grette said. 'On Fridays I usually go straight from work to play squash at the Focus centre in Sporveisgata. I didn't have a partner and so I went into the fitness room instead. Lifted weights, cycled, that sort of thing. There are so many people at that time you often have to queue.'

'That's right,' Harry said.

'When Stine was killed, I was in there. Three hundred metres down from the bank. Looking forward to a shower and going home and starting to cook. I always cooked the meal on Fridays. I liked waiting for her. Liked…waiting. Not all men do.'

'What do you mean you saw him?' Beate asked.

'I saw someone walk past me into the changing room. He was wearing baggy, black clothes. Like overalls.'

'Balaclava?'

Grette shook his head.

'Cap with a peak maybe?' Harry asked.

'He was holding some headgear in his hand. It might have been a balaclava. Or a peaked cap.'

'Did you see his fa-?' Harry began, but was interrupted by Beate.

'Height?'

'Don't know,' Grette said. 'Average height. What's average though?

1.80?'

'Why didn't you tell us this before?' Harry asked.

'Because,' Grette said, pressing his fingers against the glass, 'it's just a feeling. I know it wasn't him.'

'How can you be so sure?' Harry asked.

'Because two of your colleagues were here a few days ago. They were both called Li.' He swivelled round and looked at Harry. 'Are they related?'

'No. What did they want?'

Grette took his hand away. The window had misted up around the greasy marks.

'They wanted to check if Stine might have been involved in some way with the bank robber. And they showed me photos of the robbery.'

'And?'

'The overalls were black without any markings. Those I saw at the Focus centre had large white letters on the back.'

'What letters?' Beate asked.

'P-O-L-I-T-I,' Grette said, rubbing the greasy marks off. 'When I was in the street afterwards, I could hear police sirens in Majorstuen. The first thing I thought was how strange it was that thieves could escape with such a large police presence.'

'Yes, indeed. What made you think that?'

'I don't know. Perhaps because someone had just stolen my squash racquet from the changing room while I was training. My next thought was that Stine's bank was being robbed. That's how your mind works when your imagination runs wild, isn't it. Then I went home and made lasagne. Stine loved lasagne.' Grette made an attempt at a smile. Then the tears began to flow.

Harry fixed his eyes on the piece of paper Grette had written on so as not to see the grown man crying.

'I saw from your six-monthly bank statement there had been a large withdrawal.' Beate's voice sounded harsh and metallic. 'Thirty thousand kroner in Sгo Paulo. What did you spend it on?'

Harry looked up at her in surprise. She seemed quite untouched by the situation.

Grette smiled through his tears. 'Stine and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary there. She had some holiday due and went a week before me. That was the longest we had ever been apart.'

'I asked you what you spent the thirty thousand in Brazilian currency on,' Beate said.

Grette turned to the window. 'That's a private matter.'

'And this is a murder case, herr Grette.'

Grette fixed her with a long, hard look. 'You've obviously never been in love with anyone, have you.'

Beate's brow darkened.

'The German jewellers in Sгo Paulo are reckoned to be among the best in the world,' Grette said. 'I bought the diamond ring Stine was wearing when she died.'

***

Two carers came for Grette. Lunch. Harry and Beate stood by the window watching him while they waited for the carer to show them the way out.

'I'm sorry,' Beate said. 'I made a fool of myself. I…'

'It was fine,' Harry said.

'We always check the finances of suspects in bank cases, but I probably went too far this time…'

'I said it was fine, Beate. Never apologise for the questions you asked; apologise for the ones you didn't ask.'

The carer arrived and unlocked the door.

'How long will he be here?' Harry asked.

'He's being sent home on Wednesday,' the carer said.

In the car on the way to the city centre Harry asked Beate why carers always 'send patients home'. After all, they didn't provide the transport, did they. And the patients decided themselves if they wanted to go home, or anywhere else, didn't they. So why couldn't they say 'were going home'? Or 'were being discharged'?