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makes you think that?’ Ophus asks after an unashamed slurp of his coffee. Henning cringes. He is only too aware that his argument is low on evidence.
    ‘I don’t know, really. It’s a hunch I have, a gut feeling, call it what you will. And then there is—’
    Henning breaks off, thinking that there is no point in telling a man like Ophus about his dreams and the images he sees in them. He shakes his head softly. ‘It’s just something I believe.’
    Ophus nods quietly while he raises his cup to his lips. ‘When did it happen?’
    ‘11 September 2007.’
    ‘That’s after my time, sorry.’
    Henning gives him a deflated look before lowering his gaze.
    ‘What did the police say? I presume they investigated the fire?’ Ophus looks at him over the rim of his cup and narrows his eyes.
    ‘Yes,’ Henning says. ‘And they concluded that the cause of the fire was unknown.’
    ‘But you believe it was started deliberately?’
    Henning tries to straighten up, but he slumps immediately and hugs himself. ‘I’ve no idea how it could have been done,’ he admits.
    Ophus finally takes a sip of his coffee and puts down the cup with a clatter. ‘What did the police report say?’
    ‘I’ve never saw it myself, but I’ve heard they concluded that the fire most likely started in the hallway.’
    ‘Did the fire start while you were at home?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Any sign of a break-in?’
    ‘Not that I know of.’
    ‘Did you lock the door?’
    ‘I don’t remember. I’ve no memory of anything that happened in the days and weeks leading up to the fire. But I think so. I always used to lock the door even when I was at home during the day, but I can’t remember if I locked it that evening.’
    ‘Didn’t you have smoke detectors fitted?’
    The rhythm of Ophus’s questions and Henning’s answers breaks down. The cobblestones stare back at him accusingly.
    ‘I did have one, but the battery was dead and I—’ Henning tries to look up while he gulps.
    ‘And the police found no foot- or fingerprints, no other evidence, DNA—’
    Henning shakes his head.
    ‘And yet you still believe that someone started a fire in your home?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Ophus leans back in his chair. At that moment, Henning’s mobile rings for the third time. Henning glances irritably at the display. Unknown.
    ‘I’m sorry, I—’
    ‘Go on, answer it. I’m in no rush.’
    ‘Is that all right? Are you sure that—’
    ‘Yes, absolutely. I don’t mind.’
    ‘Thank you, I’ll—’
    Henning waves his hand without quite knowing why. Ophus nods sympathetically. Henning takes the call.
    ‘Henning Juul?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Henning Juul, the reporter?’
    ‘That’s me, yes. Who is this?’
    ‘My name is Tore Pulli.’
    Henning straightens up and says hi.
    ‘Do you remember me?’
    ‘I know who you are. What’s this about?’
    Pulli doesn’t reply. Henning moistens his lips in the silence that follows. ‘Why are you calling me?’ he asks.
    ‘I’ve got a story for you,’ Pulli says.
    ‘What kind of story?’
    ‘I can’t tell you over the phone.’
    ‘All right. Listen, I would like to talk to you, but I’m a bit busy right now. Could I get you to call me back later? Preferably during office hours?’
    ‘I can’t—’
    ‘Great,’ Henning interrupts him. ‘Thanks very much.’
    He ends the call and smiles quickly at Ophus, who is watching the increasingly busy traffic. Henning exhales hard.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says and is rewarded with another understanding smile.
    ‘But back to our conversation,’ Ophus says, looking at Henning. ‘I have to be honest with you. If the police investigation has made no progress in two years, there’s little that can be done now. Finding fresh evidence is out of the question. I assume that your flat was demolished or renovated following the fire?’
    ‘Yes. Other people live there now.’
    ‘So any evidence is gone for good. And there are many ways to torch a flat which are impossible to