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Ole Solstad and the other editors had of course taken that into consideration when they’d agreed on this decision. Våge had more readers than any of their other journalists — his click rates were simply enormous. And Solstad would hate to see those numbers transferred to a competitor. But, like someone on the editorial staff had said, if they gave the discreet outward impression of having got rid of Terry Våge for similar reasons as the last time he was fired, Våge would be about as attractive to Dagbladet’s rivals as Lance Armstrong had been for US Postal’s competitors after the doping scandal. It was a scorched earth policy, and it was Terry Våge they were burning, but in an era when respect for the truth was on the wane, old bastions like Dagbladet had to lead the way by example. They could always apologise if it turned out that Våge — against all odds — was in the clear.

Solstad adjusted his glasses. ‘I wish you all the best at our competitors, Våge. Either you’re a man of exceptional integrity, or you’re the very opposite, and we can’t take a chance on the latter. I hope you understand.’ Solstad got to his feet behind the desk. ‘Along with payment for your last article, the editorial team wanted to give you a small bonus for your overall contribution.’

Våge had also stood up, and Solstad tried to read the other man’s body language to deduce whether he faced rejection if he proffered his hand. Våge flashed a white grin. ‘You can wipe your arse with your bonus, Solstad. And then you can wipe your glasses. Because everyone apart from you knows they’re so caked in shit it’s no wonder you see fuck all.’

Ole Solstad remained standing for a few seconds staring at the door Våge had slammed behind him. Then he removed his glasses and studied them carefully. Shit?

Harry was standing in the room next to the small interview room staring at Markus Røed, who was sitting on the other side of the glass wall. Three other people were in there with him, the lead interviewer, his assistant and Johan Krohn.

It had been a busy morning. Harry had met up at Krohn’s office in Rosenkrantz’ gate at eight o’clock where they had called the three police lawyers, who in turn had declared it ‘highly likely’ that Røed would be found guilty in court, with the proviso that other significant factors did not come into play. Krohn hadn’t said a lot but had behaved in a professional manner. Without objection, he had immediately contacted the bank and, acting on the prior issued power of representation, had instructed them to transfer the contractual amount to the bank account in the Cayman Islands. According to the bank the recipient would see the money in their account the same day. They were saved. That is to say, he and Lucille were saved. So why was he standing here? Why wasn’t he already at a bar getting on with what he had begun at Creatures? Well. Why do people finish books they’ve realised they don’t like? Why do single people make up their beds? When he awoke that morning, he had realised it was the first night in weeks he hadn’t dreamt about his mother, about her standing in the doorway of the classroom. He had made peace. Or had he? Instead, he had dreamt that he was still running, but that everything his feet landed on turned into treadmills, and that he wasn’t able to flee from... from what?