When the letter finally lay in a post sack in the back of a red van ready for delivery the following morning, it was nighttime and most people in Oslo were sleeping.

‘It’ll be fine,’ the boy said, patting the round-faced girl on the head. He felt her long, thin hair stick to his fingers. It was electric.

He was eleven years old. She was seven and his little sister. They had been visiting their mummy at the hospital.

The lift arrived and they opened the door. A man wearing a white coat pushed the grille to one side, gave them a fleeting smile and left. They entered the lift.

‘Why is it such an old lift?’ the girl asked.

‘Because it’s an old house,’ the boy said, pulling the grille closed.

‘Is it a hospital?’

‘Not exactly,’ he said, pressing the button for the ground floor.

‘It’s a house for people who are very tired to rest a little.’

‘Is Mummy tired?’

‘Yes, but she’ll be fine. Don’t lean against the door, Sis.’

‘What?’

The lift started with a jerk and her long blonde hair moved. Electricity, he thought, and stared as the hair on her head slowly rose. Her hands shot up to her head, and she screamed. A thin, piercing scream that fixed him to the spot. Her hair was trapped on the other side of the grille. It must have been caught in the lift door. He tried to move, but it was as if he was stuck, too.

‘Daddy!’ she screamed and stood on the tips of her toes.

But Daddy had gone ahead to collect the car from the car park.

‘Mummy!’ she screamed as she was pulled off the lift floor. But Mummy lay in bed with a pallid smile on her face.

She kicked out wildly while clinging to her hair. If only he could move.

‘Help!’

Harry sat up in bed with a start. His heart was beating like a bass drum gone wild.

‘Christ.’

He heard his own hoarse voice and let his head fall back on the pillow.

The light in the crack between the curtains was grey. He peered over to the red digital figures on his bedside table: 4.12. The summer nights were hell. The nightmares were hell.

He swung his legs out of bed and went to the lavatory. The urine splashed into the water as he stared into the distance. He knew he wouldn’t be going back to sleep.

The fridge was empty apart from a bottle of low-alcohol beer that had ended up in his shopping basket because his vision had been blurred. He opened the cupboard over the sink unit. An army of beer and whisky bottles stood to attention and eyed him in silence. All empty. In a sudden fit of rage he knocked them flying and heard them clattering long after he had closed the cupboard doors. He checked the time again. It was Friday morning. The Vinmonopol did not open for another five hours.

Harry sat down by the telephone in the sitting room and rang Oystein Eikeland’s mobile phone number.

‘Oslo Taxis.’

‘What’s the traffic like?’

‘Harry?’

‘Good evening, Oystein.’

‘Is it? Haven’t had a punter for half an hour.’

‘Holiday time.’

‘Don’t I know it! The owner’s gone off to his log cabin on Kragero and has left me driving Oslo’s deadest deadmobile. And in the deadest town in Northern Europe. It’s as if someone’s dropped a bloody neutron bomb.’

‘Thought you didn’t like to sweat too much on the job.’

‘Hah, I’m sweating like a pig. The tightfisted bastard buys cars without air conditioning. I have to drink like a bloody camel after shifts just to replace the liquid I’ve lost. And that costs an arm and a leg. Yesterday it cost me more than I had scraped together all day.’

‘I’m genuinely sorry to hear that.’

‘Should have stuck to cracking codes.’

‘Hacking you mean? That got you booted out of Den Norske Bank and a six-month suspended sentence?’

‘Right, but I was good at it. Whereas this… By the way, the owner’s thinking of cutting down on the hours he drives, but I’m already driving twelve-hour shifts and you can’t find new taxi drivers any more. You don’t fancy doing a bit, do you, Harry?’

‘Thank you, I’ll think about it.’

‘What are you after?’

‘I need something to make me sleep.’

‘Go to the doctor.’

‘I did. He gave me Imovane, some sleeping tablets. They didn’t work. I asked for something stronger, but he refused.’

‘Never a good idea to have the smell of booze on your breath when you go asking your GP for some Rohypnol, Harry.’

‘He said I was too young for strong medications. Have you got any?’

‘Rohypnol? Are you crazy? It’s illegal, isn’t it? But I’ve got Flunipam. Same sort of stuff. Half a tablet and you’ll go out like a light.’

‘OK. I’m a bit short of cash at the moment, but you’ll get the money at the end of the month. Does it get rid of dreams, too?’

‘Eh?’

‘Will it stop me dreaming?’

The line went quiet for a moment.

‘Do you know what, Harry? Now that I think about it, I’ve run out of Flunipam. On top of that, it’s dangerous stuff. And it won’t stop you dreaming, more the opposite.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Maybe, but Flunipam is not what you need, anyway. Try taking it easy, Harry. Have a break.’

‘Have a break? I don’t have breaks. You know that.’

Harry could hear someone opening the taxi door and Oystein telling them to go to hell. Then his voice was there again.

‘Is it Rakel?’

Harry didn’t answer.

‘Have you had a row with Rakel?’

Harry could hear a crackling noise and guessed Oystein was listening to the police channel.

‘Hello! Harry! Can’t you answer when a childhood friend asks you if the foundations of your existence are still in place?’

‘They aren’t,’ Harry mumbled.

‘Why not?’

Harry took a deep breath.

‘Because I practically forced her to dig them up. Something I was working on for a long time fell apart and I couldn’t come to terms with it. I went on a bender and festered in my own shit for three days without answering the phone. On the fourth day she came round and rang the bell. At first she was furious. She said that I couldn’t just run away, that Moller had been asking after me, and then she stroked my face. She asked me if I needed help.’

‘And knowing you as I do, you showed her the door or something like that, right.’

‘I said I was fine. Then she went all miserable.’

‘Obviously. The girl’s fond of you.’

‘That’s what she said, but she also said that she couldn’t go through it again.’

‘Go through what again?’

‘Oleg’s father’s an alkie. It was destroying all three of them.’

‘And you answered?’

‘I said she was right, and that she should keep away from people like me. She pulled a face. Then she left.’

‘And now you have nightmares?’

‘Yes.’

Oystein breathed a heartfelt sigh.

‘Do you know what, Harry? There’s nothing that can help you through this. Well, there is one thing.’

‘I know,’ Harry said. ‘A bullet.’

‘You yourself, is what I was going to say.’

‘I know that, too. Forget I rang, Oystein.’

‘Already forgotten.’

Harry went to get the bottle of low-alcohol beer. He sat down in the armchair and glared at the label. The cap came off with a gasp of relief. He put the chisel down on the coffee table. The wooden handle was green and the blade was covered with a fine layer of yellow builder’s plaster.

At 6 a.m. on Friday the sun was already shining down on Ekeberg Ridge, making the Police HQ sparkle like a crystal. The security guard in reception yawned aloud and raised his eyes from Aftenposten as the first early riser slid his ID card through the security machine.

‘Says it’s going to get even hotter,’ announced the guard, who was glad he finally had someone he could exchange a few words with.

The tall, fair-haired man with bloodshot eyes glanced at him, but he didn’t answer.

The guard noticed that he took the stairs even though neither of the two lifts on the ground floor was being used.