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responded by saying she did not possess his contact details, but asked him to wait. He could hear her tapping at a keyboard.
    ‘I have a mobile number and email address for his agent, Einar Heier,’ she clarified. ‘Would you like those?’
    ‘I’ll take the phone number.’ She read it out to him. ‘Thanks. Tonight’s broadcast, do you know when it was recorded?’
    ‘It’s a direct broadcast.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘We used to record the programme one day in advance, but that meant we lost some of the topicality. Now the programme is recorded four hours before the start of the broadcast, and goes out unedited.’
    Wisting did a mental calculation. ‘So that means the recording was finished around six o’clock this evening?’
    ‘That’s right.’ She hesitated. ‘Is this something you should be discussing with security?’
    ‘Oh no. If I do, I’ll phone back later.’ Terminating the conversation, he keyed in the number for the agent, who replied with feigned affability. Wisting introduced himself once again, requesting contact information for Thomas Rønningen.
    ‘I can give you a mobile number, but it’s not certain you’ll get an answer.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘I always phone him after the broadcast to tell him what I think about the programme, but tonight he didn’t answer.’
    Wisting glanced through the window as he spoke, spotting a helicopter flying low above the fjord. ‘When did you last speak to him?’
    ‘Yesterday. May I ask what this is about?’
    ‘His holiday cottage in Helgeroa has been broken into.’
    ‘Oh well. Then I’m sure he’ll be grateful for your call.’ The agent read the number aloud. ‘If he doesn’t answer, send a text message instead to let him know.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Is there anything I can do; something practical in connection with the burglary?’
    ‘Not at the moment. I have your number now.’
    Outside, the helicopter was hanging aloft, a cone of light directed inshore, where it hovered expectantly. Wisting keyed in Thomas Rønningen’s number before standing up and crossing to the window. Immediately, an automatic answering machine clicked on and Wisting stored the number after disconnecting the call.
    Nils Hammer’s voice on the intercom system broke the silence in the room: ‘They’ve located your phone. It seems to be out at Revet.’ The helicopter outside tilted as it turned in an easterly direction. Revet was originally a sandbank situated between Lågen and the Larvik fjord, but nowadays it was a significant industrial and harbour area. It offered many possible hiding places for a vehicle, but only one exit route. ‘We’re setting up a cordon around the canal quay,’ Hammer explained.
    Wisting took his eyes off the helicopter, staring instead at his own reflection in the window. Raindrops distorted his facial contours, making him a stranger to himself. His heavy eyelids closed, and he kept them shut as he gathered his thoughts.
    This would be his first large-scale investigation since returning from a lengthy period of sick leave. He had always considered his work challenging and stimulating, but last summer, confronted with a steadily increasing burden of work divided among ever fewer resources, he had become unwell. The constant overload had resulted in physical and mental exhaustion.
    He had been off work for three months and when he returned, realising he was far from indispensable, he had managed to transfer more responsibility and share out an increased number of tasks to his colleagues.
    Now he stood, aware of his body, wondering if he was ready for this, before reaching a decision. Lifting the jacket hanging on the back of his chair, he strode determinedly towards the door.

6
    A barrage of rain battered the windscreen as Wisting drove out of the police garage. As he switched on the wipers, the raindrops were swept aside, returned, vanished again. Water tumbled over the kerbs, forming deep puddles where the drains could not