'Have you been standing like that for long?' she asked, pulling the duvet round her more tightly.
'How do you mean?'
She shrugged, but was taken aback. There was something about the way he said it. Cheery, almost teasing. And the tiny smile. He never used to be like that. She stretched and yawned – a sham, she acknowledged to herself.
'When did you get home last night?' she asked. 'I didn't wake up.'
'You must have been enjoying the sleep of the innocent.' Again that little smile.
She studied him. Over recent months he had indeed changed. He had always been slim, but now he looked stronger and fitter. And there was something about his stance; he seemed to have become more erect. Of course she had wondered if he had a lover, but that had not bothered her overmuch. Or so she thought.
'Where were you?' she asked.
'Meal with Jan Petter Sissener.'
'The stockbroker?'
'Yes. He thinks the market prospects are good. Also for property.'
'Isn't it my job to talk to him?' she asked.
'Just like to keep myself up to date.'
'You don't think I keep you up to date, dear?'
He looked at her. Held her gaze until she felt something that never happened when she was speaking to Mads: blood suffusing her face.
'I'm sure you tell me what I need to know, darling.' He went into the bathroom where she heard him turn on the tap.
'I've been examining a couple of interesting property ideas,' she shouted, mostly to say something, to break the strange silence that had followed the last thing he said.
'Me too,' Mads shouted. 'I went to have a look at an apartment building in Gøteborggata yesterday. The one the Salvation Army owns, you know.'
She froze. Jon's flat.
'Fine property. But do you know what? There was police tape over the door to one of the flats. A resident told me there had been a shooting there. Can you imagine?'
'Well I never,' she shouted. 'What was the police tape for?'
'That's what the police do, secure the premises while they turn the flat upside down for fingerprints and DNA to find out who's been there. Anyway, the Salvation Army may be willing to lower the price if there's been a shooting in the building, don't you think?'
'They don't want to sell. I've told you.'
'They didn't want to sell, darling.'
A thought struck her. 'Why would the police search the flat if the shooting came from the corridor outside?'
She heard Mads turn off the tap and looked up. He was standing in the doorway, with a yellow smile in the white shaving foam and a razor in his hand. And soon he would sprinkle on the expensive aftershave she could not bear.
'What are you talking about?' he said. 'I didn't say anything about corridors. And why so pale, darling?'
* * *
The day had risen late and there was still a layer of transparent icy mist hanging over Sofienberg Park as Ragnhild hurried up Helgesens gate breathing into her beige Bottega Veneta scarf. Even wool bought in Milan for nine thousand kroner could not keep the cold out, but at least it covered her face.
Fingerprints. DNA. To find out who had been there. That must not happen; the consequences would be disastrous.
She rounded the corner to Gøteborggata. There weren't any police cars outside anyway.
The key slid into the lock of the main entrance, and she scuttled in towards the lift. It was a long time since she had been here, and the first time she was arriving unannounced, of course.
Her heart was pounding as the lift was going up and she was thinking of her hair in his shower cabinet, clothing fibres in the carpet, fingerprints everywhere.
The corridor was empty. The orange tape across the door showed that no one was at home, but she knocked anyway and waited. Then she took out the key and tried it. It didn't fit. She tried again, but could only get the tip into the cylinder. Christ, had Jon changed the lock? She took a deep breath, turned the key round and said a silent prayer.
The key slipped in and the lock gave a gentle click as it opened.
She inhaled the smell of the flat that she knew so well and made for the wardrobe where she knew he kept the vacuum cleaner. It was a black Siemens VS08G2040, the same model as they had at home, 2000 watts, the most powerful on the market. Jon liked things to be clean. The vacuum cleaner gave a hoarse roar as she plugged it in at the wall. It was ten o'clock. She should be able to clean all the floors and wipe all the walls and surfaces within an hour. She regarded the closed bedroom door and wondered whether to start there. Where the memories, and the evidence, were strongest. No. She placed the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner against her forearm. It felt like a bite. She pulled it away and saw that blood had already gathered.
She had been cleaning for a few minutes when she remembered. The letters! God, she had almost forgotten they might find the letters she had written. The first ones in which she had written about her innermost dreams and desires, and the last ones, the desperate, naked ones where she had implored him to get in touch. She left the vacuum cleaner on, draped the hose over a chair and ran over to Jon's desk and began to pull out the drawers. The first contained pens, tape and a hole punch. The second telephone directories. The third was locked. Of course.