Harry systematically scanned the whole body; he tried to take note of everything, but he could feel that the residual alcoholic stupor was filtering away details that he could have used. No, they could have used. This was not his case. When he came to the hand, he saw that something was missing.

‘Donald Duck,’ he muttered, bending closer.

Beate looked at him quizzically.

‘They draw them like this in comics,’ Harry said. ‘With four fingers.’

‘I don’t read comics.’

The index finger had been removed. All that remained were black threads of coagulated blood and glistening tendon ends. The cut itself appeared to be even and clean. Harry placed a fingertip cautiously on the white shiny area in the pink flesh. The surface of the severed bone felt smooth and straight.

‘Pincers,’ he said. ‘Or an extremely sharp knife. Has the finger been found?’

‘Nope.’

Harry felt suddenly nauseous and closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths. Then he opened his eyes again. There could be many reasons for nipping off the finger of a victim. There was no reason to think along the lines he already had.

‘Could be an extortioner,’ Beate said. ‘They like pincers.’

‘Yes, could be,’ Harry mumbled, getting up and discovering the white spaces under his shoes on what he had thought were pink tiles. Beate bent down and took a close-up of the dead girl’s face.

‘She certainly bled a lot.’

‘That’s because her hand was in the water,’ Harry said. ‘Water stops blood clotting.’

‘All that blood just from one severed finger?’

‘Yes. And do you know what that indicates?’

‘No, but I have a feeling I’m soon going to find out.’

‘It means that Camilla Loen probably had her finger cut off while her heart was still beating. In other words, before she was shot.’

Beate grimaced.

‘I’m going to have a chat with the people down-stairs,’ Harry said.

‘Camilla was living here when we first moved in,’ Vibeke Knutsen said, quickly looking at her partner. ‘We didn’t have much to do with her.’

They were with Harry in their sitting room on the fourth floor, directly beneath the attic flat. It looked for all the world as though it was Harry who lived there. The couple sat up straight on the edge of the sofa while Harry had slumped deep down into one of the armchairs.

They struck Harry as an odd couple. Both were somewhere in their thirties, but Anders Nygard was thin and wiry like a marathon runner. His light-blue shirt was freshly ironed and his hair short, for work. His lips were thin, his body language restless. Although his face was open and boyish, almost innocent, he exuded asceticism and austerity. The red-haired Vibeke Knutsen had deep dimples and a physical voluptuousness that was emphasised by a tight-fitting leopard-pattern top. She gave the impression that she had lived a little. The wrinkles over her lips suggested a lot of cigarettes and the wrinkles around her eyes a lot of fun.

‘What did she do?’ Harry asked.

Vibeke cast a glance at her partner, but when he didn’t answer, she replied:

‘So far as I know she was working in an advertising bureau. Design. Or something like that.’

‘Or something like that,’ Harry said, half-heartedly making notes on the pad in front of him.

It was a trick he used when he was questioning people. If you didn’t look at them, they relaxed more. If you gave the impression that what they said was not very interesting, they automatically made an effort to say something that would grab his attention. He should have been a journalist. He felt that there was more sympathy on offer for journalists who turned up drunk for work.

‘Boyfriends?’

Vibeke shook her head.

‘Lovers?’

Vibeke gave a nervous laugh and looked away from her partner.

‘We don’t spend our time eavesdropping,’ Anders Nygard said. ‘Do you think it was a lover who did this?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harry said.

‘I can see that you don’t know.’

Harry noticed the irritation in his voice.

‘But those of us who live here would like to know if this looks like a personal matter or if we may have an insane killer running round the neighbourhood.’

‘You may have an insane killer running round the neighbourhood,’ Harry said, putting down his pen and waiting.

He saw Vibeke Knutsen’s startled reaction, but concentrated on Anders Nygard.

When people are frightened they lose their temper more easily. This was a lesson he had learned during his first year at Police College. As recruits they had been told not to excite frightened people unnecessarily, but Harry had discovered that the opposite was much more useful. Excite them. Angry people often said things they didn’t mean, or more to the point, things they didn’t mean to say.

Anders Nygard eyed him impassively.

‘But it’s more likely that the person who did this is a lover,’ Harry said. ‘A lover or someone she had a relationship with or someone she rejected.’

‘Why?’ Anders Nygard put his arm round Vibeke’s shoulders.

It was an amusing pose because his arm was so short and her shoulders were so broad.

Harry leaned back in his chair.

‘Statistics. Can I smoke in here?’

‘We’re trying to keep this a smoke-free zone,’ Anders Nygard said with a thin smile.

Harry noticed that Vibeke lowered her eyes as he stuffed the cigarette pack back in his trouser pocket.

‘What do you mean by statistics?’ the man asked. ‘What makes you think they’re valid in a case like this?’

‘Well, before I answer your two questions, do you know much about statistics, Mr Nygard? Gausian distribution, significance, standard deviation?’

‘No, but I -’

‘Fine,’ Harry interrupted. ‘Because in this case you don’t need to. Hundreds of years of crime statistics from all over the world have taught us one simple, basic thing. That she’s the typical victim. Or if she’s not typical, he’s the type to think she was. That’s the answer to your first question. And the second.’

Anders Nygard snorted and let go of Vibeke.

‘That’s completely unscientific. You know nothing about Camilla Loen.’

‘Right,’ Harry said.

‘So why did you say what you said?’

‘Because you asked. And if you’re finished with your questions, perhaps I can continue with mine?’

Nygard seemed to be on the point of saying something, but then changed his mind and glowered at the table. Harry could have been mistaken, but he thought he spotted a tiny smile form between Vibeke’s dimples.

‘Do you think Camilla Loen was taking drugs?’ Harry asked.

Nygard’s head shot up. ‘Why should we think that?’

Harry closed his eyes and waited.

‘No,’ Vibeke said. Her voice was soft and low. ‘We don’t think so.’

Harry opened his eyes and smiled at her gratefully. Anders Nygard sent her a somewhat surprised look.

‘Her door wasn’t locked, was it?’

Anders Nygard nodded.

‘Don’t you think that was strange?’ Harry asked.

‘Not particularly. She was at home after all.’

‘Mm. You have a simple lock on your door and I noticed that you…’ he nodded towards Vibeke, ‘… locked up when I came in.’

‘She’s a bit anxious now,’ Nygard said, patting his partner’s knee.

‘Oslo isn’t what it was,’ Vibeke said.

Her eyes met Harry’s for a brief moment.

‘You’re right,’ Harry said. ‘And it seems as if Camilla Loen shared your opinion. Her flat has a double lock and security chains on the inside. She doesn’t strike me as a woman who would have a shower with the door unlocked.’

Nygard shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whoever did it could have picked the lock.’

Harry shook his head. ‘People only pick locks in films.’

‘Someone might already have been in the flat with her,’ Vibeke said.

‘Who?’

Harry waited in silence. When he considered that no-one was going to break the silence, he got up.

‘Someone will call you in for questioning. For the moment, thank you.’