Half an hour after standing in the ghetto-like Pakistani Gronland, he found himself in neat, slightly sterile and very white West End land. Kaja Solness’s address was in Lyder Sagens gate and turned out to be one of those large old timber houses that attracted a long queue of Oslo-ites on the rare occasions one of them was for sale. Not to buy – very few could afford that – but to see, dream about and receive confirmation that Fagerborg really was what it purported to be: a neighbourhood where the rich were not too rich, the money was not too new, and no one had a swimming pool, electric garage doors or any other vulgar modern invention. For the Fagerborger, quite literally the fine burghers, did as they always had done here. In the summer they sat under apple trees in their large shaded gardens on the garden furniture that was as old, impractically large and stained black as the houses from which it had been carried. And when it was transported back and the days became shorter, candles were lit behind the leaded windows. In Lyder Sagens gate there was a Yuletide atmosphere from October through to March.

The gate gave a screech so loud that it made any need for a dog superfluous, Harry hoped. The gravel crunched beneath his boots. He had been as happy as a child to be reunited with his boots when he found them in the wardrobe, but now they were drenched right through.

He went up the porch steps and pressed the bell without a nameplate.

In front of the door was a pair of pretty ladies’ shoes and a pair of men’s shoes. Size forty-six, Harry estimated. Kaja’s husband was big, they seemed to suggest. For, naturally, she had a husband; he didn’t know why he had thought any differently. Because he had, hadn’t he? It was of no consequence. The door opened.

‘Harry?’ She was wearing an open and much too large woollen jacket, faded jeans and felt slippers that were so old Harry could swear they had liver spots. No make-up. Just a surprised smile. Nevertheless she seemed to have been expecting him. Expected that he would like to see her this way. Of course, he had already seen it in her eyes in Hong Kong, the fascination so many women have for any man with a reputation, good or bad. Though he had not made a comprehensive analysis of every single thought process that, in concert, had led him to this door. Just as well he had saved himself the effort. Size forty-six shoes. Or forty-six and a half.

‘I got your address from Hagen,’ Harry said. ‘You live within walking distance of my flat so I thought I would drop by instead of ringing.’

She smirked. ‘You haven’t got a mobile.’

‘Wrong.’ Harry produced a red phone from his pocket. ‘I was given this by Hagen, but I’ve already forgotten the PIN. Am I disturbing?’

‘No, no.’ She opened the door wide and Harry stepped in.

It was pathetic, but his heart had been beating a bit faster while he waited for her. Fifteen years ago that would have annoyed him, but he had resigned himself and accepted the banal fact that a woman’s beauty would always have this modicum of power over him.

‘I’m making coffee. Would you like some?’

They had moved into the living room. The walls were covered with pictures and shelves with so many books he doubted she could have read them all herself. The room had a distinctly masculine character. Large, angular furniture, a globe, a hookah, vinyl records on more shelves, maps and photographs of high, snow-covered mountains on the walls. Harry concluded that he was a great deal older than her. A TV was on, but without the volume.

‘Marit Olsen is the main item on all the news broadcasts,’ Kaja said, lifting the remote and switching off the TV. ‘Two of the Opposition leaders stood up and demanded quick results. They said the government had been systematically dismantling the police force. Kripos won’t get much peace for the next few days.’

‘Yes please to the coffee,’ Harry said, and Kaja scurried into the kitchen.

He sat on the sofa. An open John Fante book lay face down on the coffee table, beside a pair of ladies’ reading glasses. Beside it were photos of Frogner Lido. Not of the crime scene itself, but of the people who had gathered outside the cordon to rubberneck. Harry gave a grunt of satisfaction. Not only because she had taken work home, but because crime scene officers continued to take these photos. It had been Harry who insisted they always photograph the crowd. It was something he had learned on the FBI course about serial killings; the killer returning to the scene of a crime was no myth. The King brothers in San Antonio and the K-Mart man had been arrested precisely because they couldn’t restrain themselves from returning to admire their handiwork, to see all the commotion they had caused, to feel how invulnerable they were. The photographers at Krimteknisk called it Hole’s sixth commandment. And, yes, there were nine other commandments. Harry riffled through the photos.

‘You don’t take milk, do you?’ Kaja shouted from the kitchen.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you? At Heathrow-’

‘I mean yes, as in yes, you’re right, I don’t take milk.’

‘Aha. You’ve gone over to the Cantonese system.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve stopped using double negatives. Cantonese is more logical. You like logical.’

‘Is that right? About Cantonese?’

‘I don’t know,’ she laughed from the kitchen. ‘I’m just trying to sound clever.’

Harry could see that the photographer had been discreet, he’d shot from hip height, no flash. The spectators’ attention was directed towards the diving tower. Dull eyes, half-open mouths, as if they were bored of waiting for a glimpse of something dreadful, something for their albums, something with which they could scare the neighbours out of their wits. A man holding a mobile phone up in the air; he was definitely taking photos. Harry took the magnifying glass lying on the pile of reports, and scrutinised their faces, one by one. He didn’t know what he was looking for, his brain was empty; it was the best way, so as not to miss whatever might be there.

‘Can you see anything?’ She had taken up a position behind his chair and bent down to see. He caught a mild fragrance of lavender soap, the same he had smelt on the plane when she had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

‘Mm. Do you think there’s anything to see here?’ he asked, taking the coffee mug.

‘No.’

‘So why did you bring the photos home?’

‘Because ninety-five per cent of all police work is searching in the wrong place.’

She had just quoted Harry’s third commandment.

‘And you have to learn to enjoy the ninety-five per cent, too. Otherwise you’ll go mad.’

Fourth commandment.

‘And the reports?’ Harry asked.

‘All we have are the reports on the murders of Borgny and Charlotte, and there’s nothing in them. No forensic leads, no accounts of unusual activities. No tip-offs about bitter enemies, jealous lovers, greedy heirs, deranged stalkers, impatient drug dealers or other creditors. In short-’

‘No leads, no apparent motives, no murder weapons. I would have liked to start interviewing people in the Marit Olsen case, but, as you know, we’re not working on it.’

Kaja smiled. ‘Of course not. By the way, I spoke to a political journalist from VG today. He said none of the journalists at Stortinget knew anything about Marit Olsen having depression, personal crises or suicidal thoughts. Or enemies, in her professional or her private life.’

‘Mm.’

Harry skimmed the row of spectators’ faces. A woman with sleepwalker eyes and a child on her arm.

‘What do these people want?’ Behind them: the back of a man leaving. Puffa jacket, woollen hat. ‘To be shocked. Shaken. Entertained. Purified…’

‘Incredible.’

‘Mm. And so you’re reading John Fante. You like older things, do you?’ He nodded towards the room, the house. And he meant the room, the house. But reckoned she would drop in a comment about the husband if he was a lot older than her, as Harry guessed he was.