Harry’s brain rewound at top speed. There were a few black holes, some white ones he had repressed and large, blank expanses alcohol had consumed. But also areas with colour and texture. Like the day they were walking around the second-hand market in Vestkanttorget. Was Oleg with them? Yes, he was. Of course. The photograph. The self-timer. The autumn leaves. Or was that another day? They had ambled from stall to stall. Old toys, crockery, rusty cigar boxes, vinyl records with and without sleeves, lighters. And a gold ring.

It had looked so lonely there. So Harry had bought it and put it on her finger. To give it a new home, he had said. Or some such thing. Something flippant he knew she would perceive as shyness, as a disguised declaration of love. And perhaps it was — at any rate they had both laughed. About the act, about the ring, about their both knowing the other knew. And about all of that being fine. For everything they wanted and yet did not want lay in this cheap, tatty ring. A vow to love each other as passionately and for as long as they could, and to part when there was no love left. When she had parted it had been for other reasons of course. Better reasons. But, Harry established, she had taken care of their tawdry ring, kept it in the box with the jewellery she had inherited from her Austrian mother.

‘Shall we go out while there’s still some sun?’ Rakel asked.

‘Yes,’ Harry said, returning her smile. ‘Let’s do that.’

They walked up the road that coiled to the top of the ridge. The deciduous trees in the east were so red they looked as if they were on fire. The light played on the fjord making it resemble molten metal. But it was, as usual, the man-made features of the town below that fascinated Harry. The anthill perspective. The houses, parks, roads, cranes, boats in the harbour, lights that had begun to come on. The cars and trains hurrying hither and thither. The sum of our activities. And the question only the person with the time to stop and look down at the busy ants can allow himself to ask: Why?

‘I dream of peace and quiet,’ Rakel said. ‘No more than that. What about you? What do you dream about?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Finding myself in a narrow corridor and an avalanche coming and burying me.’

‘Wow.’

‘Well, you know me and my claustrophobia.’

‘We often dream about what we fear and desire. Disappearing, being buried. In a way it offers security, doesn’t it?’

Harry thrust his hands deeper in his pockets. ‘I was buried under an avalanche three years ago. Let’s say it’s as simple as that.’

‘So you didn’t escape your ghosts even though you went all the way to Hong Kong?’

‘Oh yes, I did,’ Harry said. ‘The trip thinned the ranks.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, it is in fact possible to put things behind you, Rakel. The art of dealing with ghosts is to dare to look at them long and hard until you know that is what they are. Ghosts. Lifeless, powerless ghosts.’

‘So,’ Rakel said in a tone that made him realise she didn’t like the topic of conversation. ‘Any women in your life?’ The question came easily, so easily that he didn’t believe it.

‘Well.’

‘Tell me.’

She had donned her sunglasses. It was hard to assess how much she wanted to hear. Harry decided on a swap. If he wanted to hear.

‘She was Chinese.’

‘Was? Is she dead?’ She sent him a playful smile. He thought she looked as if she could take the heat. But he would have preferred it if she had been a bit more sensitive.

‘A businesswoman in Shanghai. She nurses her guanxi, her network of useful connections. Plus her affluent, ancient Chinese husband. And — when it suits her — me.’

‘In other words, you exploit her caring nature.’

‘I wish I could say that.’

‘Oh?’

‘She makes fairly specific demands on where and when. And how. She likes-’

‘Enough!’ Rakel said.

Harry smiled wryly. ‘As you know, I’ve always had a weakness for women who know what they want.’

‘Enough, I said.’

‘Message received.’

They continued to walk in silence. Until Harry finally said the words hovering around them in bold.

‘What about this Hans Christian guy?’

‘Hans Christian Simonsen? He’s Oleg’s solicitor.’

‘I never heard of a Hans Christian Simonsen while I was doing murder cases.’

‘He’s from this area. We were in the same year at law school. He came and offered his services.’

‘Mm. Right.’

Rakel laughed. ‘I seem to remember he invited me out once or twice when we were students. And that he wanted us to do a jazz-dance course together.’

‘God forbid.’

Rakel laughed again. Christ, how he had longed for that laughter.

She nudged him. ‘As you know, I’ve always had a weakness for men who know what they want.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Harry said. ‘And what have they ever done for you?’

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Instead she formed the furrow between her broad, black eyebrows he had often stroked with his forefinger whenever he noticed it. ‘Sometimes it’s more important to have a lawyer who is dedicated rather than one who is so experienced he knows the outcome in advance.’

‘Mm. You mean someone who knows it’s a lost cause.’

‘You mean I should have used one of the tired old plodders?’

‘Well, the best are in fact pretty dedicated.’

‘This is a petty drugs murder, Harry. The best are busy with prestige cases.’

‘So, what has Oleg told his dedicated solicitor about what happened?’

Rakel sighed. ‘That he can’t remember anything. Beyond that, he doesn’t want to say anything about anything at all.’

‘And that’s what you’re basing your defence on?’

‘Listen, Hans Christian’s a brilliant solicitor in his field. He knows what’s involved. He’s taking advice from the best. And he’s working day and night, he really is.’

‘You’re exploiting his caring nature in other words?’

This time Rakel did not laugh. ‘I’m a mother. It’s simple. I’m willing to do whatever it takes.’

They stopped where the forest began and sat on separate spruce trunks. The sun sank to the treetops in the west like a weary Independence Day balloon.

‘I know why you’ve come of course,’ Rakel said. ‘But what exactly have you got planned?’

‘To find out if Oleg’s guilty beyond any reasonable doubt.’

‘Because?’

Harry shrugged. ‘Because I’m a detective. Because this is the way we’ve organised this anthill. No one can be convicted until we’re sure.’

‘And you’re not sure?’

‘No, I’m not sure.’

‘And that’s the only reason you’re here?’

The shadows from the spruce trees crept over them. Harry shivered in his linen suit; his thermostat had evidently not adjusted to 59.9 degrees north yet.

‘It’s strange,’ he said. ‘But I have trouble remembering anything except fragmented moments of all the time we were together. When I look at a photograph that’s how I remember it. The way we were in the photo. Even if I know it’s not true.’

He looked at her. She was sitting with her chin in one hand. The sun glittered on her narrowed eyes.

‘But perhaps that’s why we take snaps,’ Harry continued. ‘To provide false evidence to underpin the false claim that we were happy. Because the thought that we weren’t happy at least for some time during our lives is unbearable. Adults order children to smile in the photos, involve them in the lie, so we smile, we feign happiness. But Oleg could never smile unless he meant it, could not lie, he didn’t have the gift.’ Harry turned back to the sun, caught the last rays, extended like yellow fingers between the highest branches on the crest of the ridge. ‘I found a photo of the three of us on his locker door in Valle Hovin. And do you know what, Rakel? He was smiling in that photo.’

Harry focused on the spruce trees. The little colour remaining was quickly sucked out of them, and now they stood like ranks of black uniformed silhouette-guardsmen. Then he heard her come over, felt her hand under his arm, her head against his shoulder, her hot cheek through his linen suit, and breathed in the perfume of her hair. ‘I don’t need any photograph to remember how happy we were, Harry.’