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followed the man’s eyes and identified a hole in the toe of one sock. A bony little toe poked out, inhaling fresh air. He splayed his toes. Made a mental note that he ought to cut his toenails.
    ‘Girlfriend?’ he asked.
    The man didn’t understand.
    Frank sighed. ‘I asked if you had a girlfriend!’
    ‘No,’ he answered with irritation.
    ‘What were you actually doing on Saturday, Bregård?’
    ‘I was at home!’
    Face of rebuttal. ‘I didn’t watch TV, didn’t listen to the radio. I went to bed early.’
    Frølich nodded.
    ‘Went to bed early because I had to be up early on Sunday.’
    The detective frowned, one raised eyebrow.
    ‘For a long walk through the fields.’
    ‘Isn’t it too wet underfoot now?’
    ‘It’s wet, but I go anyway.’
    ‘Alone?’
    ‘Alone,’ Bregård stated with a nod.
    ‘Often?’
    ‘Yes, often.’
    Frank eyed him. Tanned features. Muscles. Wouldn’t be unusual to meet this guy in the forest. Not at all. Just a change of clothes. A thick jumper instead of the white cotton shirt, green walking trousers instead of fashionable jeans. Walking boots and thick socks. Yep, the guy probably was the outdoor type. Whether he had been hiking on the Sunday morning in question was quite another matter . Frank decided to change the topic:
    ‘Did you know her well? Reidun, that is.’
    Bregård hummed and hawed.
    ‘You worked together for six months,’ Frølich pressed. ‘Did you get to know her?’
    ‘A bit.’
    The guy was in two minds about something.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, heaving a resigned sigh. Fidgeted uneasily and placed his hands on the desk. ‘This is too awful!’
    He got to his feet, walked over to the window and stared out. Broad shoulders, slim waist and unusually powerful thighs.
    ‘On Friday she was here with us!’
    He said something else that was drowned in an intense grimace. His facial expression was reminiscent of a character from a TV drama. Hands clenching and unclenching in an over-animated fashion. Emotional toss of his head at the same time. There was something over the top about all of this. Something feigned that was uncomfortable to watch.
    ‘When did you see her last?’
    ‘Friday afternoon. I invited her out, but there must have been a problem.’
    The detective waited. But the man was keeping the rest to himself.
    ‘So you two had been out together before?’
    ‘On occasion.’
    ‘Were you a couple?’
    ‘A couple?’
    The guy turned, scented something. Frank took a deep breath and returned a cold stare. ‘Have you been with her?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Have you been to bed with her, shall we say?’
    The man returned to his chair and sat down. Surly now. ‘Yes, I have slept with her.’
    Dismissive expression.
    ‘Did you often sleep with her?’
    ‘You’ve got what you wanted now, for Christ’s sake! Do you want to know how long we were at it as well?’
    Love and Geography , Frank thought. The Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson play in which a man is forever fussing around and yelling about his maps while neglecting his family.
    ‘Was it a relationship?’ he asked in a friendly tone.
    ‘No! We were not in a relationship.’
    ‘So it’s a while since you last slept together?’
    Bregård didn’t answer.
    ‘Or could you just ring and order a quickie when it was convenient?’
    Bregård slowly removed his glasses. His fingers were not trembling. But he looked daggers across the table. ‘You can count yourself lucky you’re here on official business. Otherwise I would . . .’
    ‘Oh, right!’
    Frank shrugged his comment aside and lifted his notepad to remind the man what they were doing. He went on: ‘When you asked if she wanted to join you on Friday, and she turned you down, do you think she had another date?’
    ‘You mean, was there someone else?’
    He had calmed down. Swivelled round on the chair and stared thoughtfully at the wall where the woman with the hair was still trying to roll up her fishnet stockings. She