“Okay, then.” Detective Inspector Wilhelmsen seemed fully in command of the situation. “Perhaps I should continue,” she said, starting to turn over the pages of the rather slim file of papers beside the typewriter.

“So we found this repulsive-looking corpse. He had no documents on him, and his face had gone before him, so to speak, wherever it was he was going. But our man in the patrol car was fairly well acquainted with the drugs scene here in the city. The clothes, body, and hair were sufficient. Revenge killing, he thought. A not unreasonable assumption, it seems to me.”

She linked her fingers and put her hands behind her head. She massaged her neck with her thumbs as she looked the Dutchman straight in the eyes.

“I think you killed the guy. We’ll know better tomorrow, when the results come back from Forensics. But lab technicians can’t tell me why. That’s where I need your assistance.”

The appeal seemed to be in vain. The man didn’t move a muscle, he just retained his remote, slightly mocking smile, as if he had the upper hand. There he was mistaken.

“To be frank, I think it would be more sensible of you to give me that assistance,” the Inspector went on. “Maybe you did it on your own. Maybe it was to order. Perhaps you were even forced into it. And that might have a decisive impact on what happens to you.”

She paused in her steady stream of words, lit a new cigarette, and stared him in the face. He went on sitting there displaying absolutely no intention of talking. Hanne heaved a sigh and switched off the typewriter.

“It’s not up to me to determine your sentence. If you’re guilty, that is. But it could definitely be to your advantage if I was able to say something positive about your willingness to cooperate and so on when I have to testify in court.”

Håkon recognised the feeling from when he was a child and had been allowed to watch a detective story on television. He would be dying to go to the loo, but didn’t dare say so for fear of missing something exciting.