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of the burn marks suggests that the shot was fired from close range, but not pointblank,’ he said. ‘I would guess the shot was fired from about half a metre.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘The lack of symmetry of the burn marks indicates that the person who fired the gun was taller than her and shot downwards at an angle.’
    Harry carefully turned the dead girl’s head. Her forehead was not yet completely cold.
    ‘No exit wound,’ he said. ‘That supports the theory that the shot was fired down at an angle. Perhaps she was kneeling in front of the person who fired it.’
    ‘Can you tell what kind of weapon was used?’
    Harry shook his head. ‘The pathologist will know all that, as well as the ballistics guys. But there are graduated burn marks and that would suggest a short-barrelled weapon such as a handgun.’
    Harry systematically scanned the whole body; he tried to take note of everything, but he could feel that the residual alcoholic stupor was filtering away details that he could have used. No, they could have used. This was not his case. When he came to the hand, he saw that something was missing.
    ‘Donald Duck,’ he muttered, bending closer.
    Beate looked at him quizzically.
    ‘They draw them like this in comics,’ Harry said. ‘With four fingers.’
    ‘I don’t read comics.’
    The index finger had been removed. All that remained were black threads of coagulated blood and glistening tendon ends. The cut itself appeared to be even and clean. Harry placed a fingertip cautiously on the white shiny area in the pink flesh. The surface of the severed bone felt smooth and straight.
    ‘Pincers,’ he said. ‘Or an extremely sharp knife. Has the finger been found?’
    ‘Nope.’
    Harry felt suddenly nauseous and closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths. Then he opened his eyes again. There could be many reasons for nipping off the finger of a victim. There was no reason to think along the lines he already had.
    ‘Could be an extortioner,’ Beate said. ‘They like pincers.’
    ‘Yes, could be,’ Harry mumbled, getting up and discovering the white spaces under his shoes on what he had thought were pink tiles. Beate bent down and took a close-up of the dead girl’s face.
    ‘She certainly bled a lot.’
    ‘That’s because her hand was in the water,’ Harry said. ‘Water stops blood clotting.’
    ‘All that blood just from one severed finger?’
    ‘Yes. And do you know what that indicates?’
    ‘No, but I have a feeling I’m soon going to find out.’
    ‘It means that Camilla Loen probably had her finger cut off while her heart was still beating. In other words, before she was shot.’
    Beate grimaced.
    ‘I’m going to have a chat with the people down-stairs,’ Harry said.
    ‘Camilla was living here when we first moved in,’ Vibeke Knutsen said, quickly looking at her partner. ‘We didn’t have much to do with her.’
    They were with Harry in their sitting room on the fourth floor, directly beneath the attic flat. It looked for all the world as though it was Harry who lived there. The couple sat up straight on the edge of the sofa while Harry had slumped deep down into one of the armchairs.
    They struck Harry as an odd couple. Both were somewhere in their thirties, but Anders Nygård was thin and wiry like a marathon runner. His light-blue shirt was freshly ironed and his hair short, for work. His lips were thin, his body language restless. Although his face was open and boyish, almost innocent, he exuded asceticism and austerity. The red-haired Vibeke Knutsen had deep dimples and a physical voluptuousness that was emphasised by a tight-fitting leopard-pattern top. She gave the impression that she had lived a little. The wrinkles over her lips suggested a lot of cigarettes and the wrinkles around her eyes a lot of fun.
    ‘What did she do?’ Harry asked.
    Vibeke cast a glance at her partner, but when he didn’t answer, she replied:
    ‘So far as I know she was working in an advertising