Harry sat down on the bed and ran the tips of his fingers over the grooves in the beam. The cuts in the brown, aged wood were so clear that they had to be fresh. And it was clear it had to be one cut. One long cut consisting of straight lines which doubled back and intersected each other. A pentagram.

Harry shone the torch on the floor. There were a fine layer of dust and a couple of hefty dustballs on the wood. Camilla Loen obviously had not done the cleaning before she departed. But there, by one of the legs at the top of the bed, he saw what he had been looking for. Wood shavings.

Harry lay back on the bed. The mattress was soft and giving. He stared up at the slanting ceiling while trying to think. If it really was the killer who had carved the star in the beam above the bed, what did it mean?

‘Rest in peace,’ Harry mumbled, closing his eyes.

He was too tired to think clearly. There was another question churning around in his brain. Why hadn’t he actually noticed the pentagram? Why hadn’t he put the two things together, the star and the diamonds? Or had he? Perhaps he had been too quick, perhaps his subconscious had connected the pentagram with something else, something he had seen at one of the killings, but he hadn’t managed to draw out.

He tried to establish a mental picture of the crime scenes.

Lisbeth in Sannergata. Barbara in Carl Berners plass. And Camilla here in the shower, in the room next door. She was almost naked. Wet skin. He had felt it. The hot water had made it seem as if she had been dead for less time than she really had. He had felt her skin. Beate watched him. He couldn’t stop touching her. It was like running your fingers over warm, smooth rubber. He looked up and saw that they were alone, and it was only then that he felt the warm stream of water from the shower. His eyes wandered down again; he saw her staring up at him with an odd gleam in her eyes. He gave a start and withdrew his hands; her stare faded away like on a television screen when the set has been switched off. Odd, he thought, and put a hand against her cheek. He waited while the hot water from the shower soaked through his clothes. The gleam came slowly back. He placed his other hand on her stomach. Her eyes became alive and he could feel her body stir beneath his fingers. He knew that it was touch that brought her back to life, that without touch she would disappear, die. He rested his forehead against her forehead. The water ran down the inside of his clothing, soaked his skin and lay like a warm filter between them. It was then that he noticed that her eyes were not blue, but brown. And her lips were no longer pale, but red and full of life. Rakel. He put his lips against hers. He recoiled when he discovered that they were ice cold.

She stared at him. Her mouth moved.

‘What are you doing?’

Harry’s heart stopped beating, partly because the echo of the words still hung in the room so that he knew it could not have been a dream, and partly because the voice did not belong to a woman, but mostly because there was someone standing in front of the bed, leaning over him.

His heart began to race again and he flung himself round in an attempt to grope for the torch that was still switched on. It fell on the floor with a soft thud and rolled around in a circle as the beam of light and the shadow of the figure ran across the walls.

Then the ceiling lights came on.

Harry was blinded and his first reflex action was to hold up his arms in front of his face. A second came and went. Nothing happened. No shots, no blows. Harry lowered his arms.

He recognised the man standing in front of him.

‘What on earth are you up to?’ the man asked.

He was wearing a pink dressing gown, but otherwise did not look as if he had just got up. The side parting in his hair was immaculate.

It was Anders Nygard.

‘I was woken up by the noise,’ Nygard said, pushing a cup of filter coffee in front of Harry. ‘My first thought was that someone had realised that it was vacant upstairs and had broken in. So I went up to check.’

‘Understandable,’ said Harry. ‘Though I thought I had locked the door after me.’

‘I’ve got the caretaker’s key. Just in case.’

Harry heard the shuffle of feet and turned round.

Vibeke Knutsen, wearing a dressing gown, appeared in the doorway with a sleepy face and red hair sticking out in all directions. Without makeup and in the harsh light of the kitchen she looked older than the version Harry had seen before. She gave a start when she discovered he was there.

‘What’s going on?’ she mumbled, her eyes darting between Harry and her partner.

‘I was checking a few things out in Camilla’s flat,’ Harry quickly interposed when he saw her forebodings. ‘I was sitting on the bed and resting my eyes for a couple of seconds and then I nodded off. Nygard, here, heard noises and woke me up. It’s been a long day.’

Without being absolutely sure why, Harry yawned demonstratively.

Vibeke peered at her partner.

‘What are you wearing?’

Anders Nygard looked at the pink dressing gown as if he had only just realised he was wearing it.

‘Wow, I must look like a regular drag queen.’

He sniggered.

‘It’s a present I bought you, love. It was still in my suitcase and it was all I could find in my haste. Here you are.’

He loosened the belt, tore the gown off and threw it to Vibeke. She was taken aback but caught it.

‘Thank you,’ she said, bewildered.

‘It’s a surprise to see you up, by the way,’ he purred. ‘Didn’t you take your sleeping pill?’

Vibeke cast an embarrassed glance over to Harry.

‘Goodnight,’ she mumbled and left.

Anders went to the coffee machine and put back the jug of coffee. His back and upper arms were pale, almost white, but his lower arms were brown, exactly the way lorry drivers’ arms are in the summer. The same sharp division was apparent on his knees.

‘Normally she sleeps like a log all night,’ he said.

‘But you don’t?’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, since you know that she sleeps like a log.’

‘That’s what she says.’

‘And so someone only has to walk across the floor above you and you’re awake?’

Anders looked at Harry. He nodded.

‘You’re right, Inspector. I don’t sleep. It’s not so easy after all that has happened. You lie awake thinking and come up with all sorts of possible theories.’

Harry took a sip of his coffee. ‘Any you want to share with the rest of us?’

Anders shrugged his shoulders.

‘I don’t know that much about mass murderers. If that’s what it really is.’

‘It’s not. It’s a serial killer. Big difference.’

‘Right, but haven’t you noticed that the victims have something in common?’

‘They’re young women. Anything else?’

‘They’re promiscuous, or they were.’

‘Oh?’

‘You can read about it in the papers. What you read about these women’s pasts speaks for itself.’

‘Lisbeth Barli was a married woman and, as far as I know, faithful.’

‘After she was married, yes, but before that she was in a band travelling all over the country playing at dances. You’re not so naive, are you, Inspector?’

‘Mm. What do you conclude from this similarity then?’

‘This kind of murderer who acts as an arbiter over life and death has elevated himself into the position of God. And, in our Bible, in Hebrews, chapter 13, verse 4, it says that God will judge whosoever commits fornication.’

Harry nodded and raised his wrist to check the time.

‘I’ll make a note of that.’

Nygard fidgeted with his cup.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

‘You could say that. I found a pentagram. I suppose that since you deal with the interiors of churches you’ll know what that is.’

‘You mean a five-pointed star?’

‘Yes, drawn with one continuous line. Do you have any idea what a sign like that might symbolise?’