Clever is how she was when Wilhelm was training her to speak and sing like her sister. Try to smile like her. Wilhelm had given make-up a photograph of Lisbeth and told them that that was how Toya was to look. The only thing she had not been able to do was laugh like Lisbeth, so Wilhelm had asked her not to try. Now and then she had been unsure how much was about playing Eliza Doolittle and how much was about Wilhelm’s desperate yearning for Lisbeth. And now she was here in his bed. And perhaps this, too, was about Lisbeth, both for him and for her. What was it that Wilhelm had said? Lust found the lowest level?

Something was sticking into her back again and she twitched angrily.

For herself, Toya had not particularly missed Lisbeth much, if she were to be absolutely honest. Not that she wasn’t shocked like everyone else when she had heard the news about her disappearance. But it had opened quite a lot of new doors. Toya was interviewed and Spinnin’ Wheel had just received an offer for a series of well-paid concerts in memory of Lisbeth. And now the main role in My Fair Lady. Which on top of all this was well on the way to becoming a hit. Wilhelm had told her at the opening-night party that she would have to prepare herself for becoming a celebrity. A star. A diva. She put her hand under her back. What was digging into her? A lump. Under the sheet. It disappeared when she pressed it down. There it was again. She would have to find out.

‘Wilhelm?’

She was going to shout louder to drown out the noise of the shower below, but remembered that Wilhelm had given strict instructions that she was to rest her voice. After a day off today they would have to perform every night until the end of the week. When she arrived he had asked her not to speak at all, not under any circumstances. Even though he had told her before that he wanted to rehearse a few snatches of dialogue with her that were not quite right, and he had asked her to make herself up as Eliza, for the sake of realism.

Toya undid the stretch undersheet from one side of the water bed and pulled it to the side. There was no other bedding, just the blue translucent rubber mattress. But what was sticking out over there? She laid her hand against the mattress. It was there, under the rubber. There was nothing to see. She stretched over to the side, switched on the bedside table lamp and twisted it over so that it pointed to the right spot. The bulge had gone again. She placed her hand over the rubber and waited. It came back, slowly, and she realised that whatever it was sank when she poked it and then came up again. She moved her hand.

At first she saw the contours outlined against the rubber. Like a profile. No, it wasn’t like a profile. It was a profile. Toya lay down flat. She had stopped breathing. She could feel it now. Down from her stomach to her toes. There was a complete body on the inside. A body that was forced up by the buoyancy of the water and forced down by the weight of Toya as if two people were trying to be one. And perhaps they were. Because it was like looking in a mirror.

She wanted to scream now. Wanted to ruin her voice. Didn’t want to be a good girl. Or clever. She wanted to be Toya again. But she couldn’t be. She could only stare at the pallid, blue face of her sister, staring back at her with pupilless eyes. And listen to the ssshh sounds of the shower, so like the TV set after transmission had finished. And then the sound of dripping water on the parquet floor by the foot of the bed behind her, telling her that Wilhelm was no longer in the shower.

‘It can’t be him,’ Ruth said. ‘It’s… it’s… not possible.’

‘The last time I was here you said you were thinking about going over the roof to Barli’s to do a bit of spying,’ Harry said. ‘And that his terrace door was left open all summer. Are you sure about that?’

‘Absolutely, but can’t you just phone?’ the Trondheim Eagle asked.

Harry shook his head.

‘He’ll become suspicious and we cannot risk him getting away. I have to catch him this evening, if it’s not too late already.’

‘Too late for what?’ the Trondheim Eagle asked, scrunching up one eye.

‘Listen, all I’m asking is that you let me use your balcony to get up onto the roof.’

‘Is there really no-one else with you?’ the Trondheim Eagle asked. ‘Haven’t you got a search warrant or something like that?’

Harry shook his head.

‘Justified grounds for suspicion,’ he said. ‘You don’t need one.’

A rumble of thunder boomed low and menacingly over Harry’s head. The gutter above the balcony had been painted yellow, but most of it had flaked off revealing large patches of red rust. Harry grabbed hold with both hands and pulled gently to see if it was properly attached. The gutter gave way with a groan and a screw detached itself from the plaster and hit the ground in the yard with a tinkle. Harry released his grip and swore. There was no alternative, however, so he put a foot on the railing and hauled himself up. He peered over the edge. An automatic sharp intake of breath. The sheet on the rotary dryer down below was like a white stamp blowing in the wind.

He forced one leg onto the gutter and scrambled over. Even though the roof was steep, the grip his robust Doc Martens had on the tiles was good enough for him to take the two steps to the drainpipe and clutch it to his chest as if it were a long-lost friend. He straightened and looked around. There was a flash of lightning over Nesodden. The air, which had not stirred when he arrived, was softly plucking at his jacket. Harry gave a start as a black shadow suddenly raced past his face. The shadow intersected the space above the central yard. A swallow. Harry just caught sight of it as it sought shelter under the eaves.

Harry scrabbled his way to the top of the roof, aimed for a black weathervane 15 metres away, took a deep breath and began to walk along the ridge of the roof with his arms held out like a line dancer.

He had reached the halfway point when it happened.

Harry heard a whoosh, which he first thought came from the tops of the trees beneath him. The sound rose in volume at the same time as the rotary dryer down in the yard began to rotate and shriek. He couldn’t feel any wind, not yet. Then it hit him. The drought was over. The wind struck him in the chest like an avalanche of air set in motion by a plunging mass of water. He tottered back a step and stood swaying on the ridge. He heard it advancing towards him over the clattering roof tiles. The rain. The deluge. It beat down against the roof and in less than a second everything was wet. Harry tried to keep his balance, but there was nothing to grip; it was like walking on soap. One shoe slipped and he made a desperate dive for the weathervane. His arms were stretched out in front of him, his fingers splayed. His right hand scrabbled at the surface of a tile, searching for something to hold on to, but there was nothing. Gravity was pulling at him. The scratching of his nails made the same rasping noise as a scythe blade on a whetstone as he slid downwards. He heard the shriek of the rotary dryer abating, felt the gutter against his knees and knew he was on his way over the edge. He stretched his body out in a last-ditch attempt, tried to make himself longer, turn himself into an aerial. An aerial. His left hand grabbed hold of it, held on tight. The metal softened, bowed and bent. It threatened to follow him down into the yard. But it held.

Harry took hold of it with both hands and pulled himself up. He managed to get his rubber soles back underneath him and pushed as hard as he could against the surface and gained a foothold. With the rain furiously whipping into his face he crawled up to the ridge, sat astride it and breathed a deep sigh of relief. The contorted metal aerial beneath him was pointing downwards. Someone was going to have a reception problem with tonight’s repeat showing of Beat for Beat.