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Mona noted the inspector’s caveat of what we know. And that Sung-min Larsen seated in the chair next to her had neither nodded at what Bratt said nor given any indication of his view on this expertise.

The press conference drew to a close, and Mona and the others made their way out into a mild autumn night.

‘What do you think?’ the photographer asked.

‘I think they’re happy they have a body,’ Mona said.

‘Did you say happy?’

‘Yeah. Susanne Andersen and Bertine Bertilsen have both been dead for weeks, the police know that, but they haven’t had a single lead to go on apart from that party at Røed’s. So, yeah, I think they’re happy they’re starting the weekend with at least one corpse that might give them something.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re a cold fish, Daa.’

Mona looked up at him in surprise. Considered it for a moment.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

It was a quarter past eleven by the time Johan Krohn had finally found a parking spot for his Lexus UX 300e in Thomas Heftyes gate, then located the number of the building where his client Markus Røed had asked him to come. The fifty-year-old defence lawyer was regarded among colleagues as one of the top three or four best defence lawyers in Oslo. Due to his high media profile, the man in the street regarded Krohn as unquestionably the best. Since he was, with a few exceptions, a bigger star than his clients, he did not make house visits, the client came to him, preferably to the offices of the law firm of Krohn and Simonsen in Rosenkrantz’ gate during normal working hours. Still, there were house calls and there were house calls. This address was not Røed’s primary residence; he officially resided at a 260-square-metre penthouse on the top of one of the new buildings in Oslobukta.

As he had been instructed on the phone half an hour ago, Krohn pressed the call button bearing the name of Røed’s company, Barbell Properties.

‘Johan?’ Markus Røed’s out-of-breath voice sounded. ‘Fifth floor.’

There was a buzz from the top of the door, and Krohn pushed it open.

The lift looked sufficiently suspect for Krohn to take the stairs. Wide oak steps and cast-iron banisters with a form more reminiscent of Gaudí than a venerable, exclusive Norwegian town house. The door on the fifth floor was ajar. It sounded like a war was taking place within, which he understood to be the case when he stepped inside, saw bluish light coming from the living room and peered in. In front of a large TV screen — it had to be at least a hundred inches — three men were standing with their backs to him. The biggest of them, the man in the middle, was wearing VR goggles and had a game controller in each hand. The other two, young men in perhaps their twenties, were apparently spectators, using the TV as a monitor to look at what the man in the VR goggles was seeing. The war scene on the TV was from a trench, in the First World War, if Krohn was to judge by the helmets on the German soldiers rushing towards them, and whom the large man with the game controllers was blasting away at.

‘Yeah!’ one of the younger men shouted, as the head of the last German exploded inside his helmet and he fell to the ground.

The larger man removed the VR goggles and turned to Krohn.

‘That’s that taken care of, at least,’ he said with a grin of satisfaction. Markus Røed was a handsome man, his age taken into consideration. He had a broad face, a playful look, his permanently tanned complexion was smooth, and his swept-back, shiny black hair as thick as a twenty-year-old’s. Granted, some weight had spread to his waist, but he was tall, so tall that the stomach could pass as dignified. But it was the intense liveliness in his eyes that first caught your attention, a liveliness indicating the energy which meant most people were initially charmed, then flattened, and eventually exhausted by Markus Røed. Within that time he had probably got what he wanted, and you were left to your own devices. But Røed’s energy levels could fluctuate, as could his mood. Krohn assumed both had something to do with the white powder he now saw traces of under one of Røed’s nostrils. Johan Krohn was aware of all this, but he put up with it. Not just because Røed had insisted on paying half of Krohn’s hourly rate up front to — as he had put it — guarantee Krohn’s undivided attention, loyalty and desire to achieve a result. But mostly because Røed was Krohn’s dream client: a man with a high profile, a millionaire with such an odious image that Krohn, paradoxically, appeared as more courageous and principled than opportunistic by taking him on as a client. So he would — as long as the case went on — just have to accept being summoned on a Friday night.

The two younger men left the room at a signal from Røed.