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‘Get the pistol and a few bottles of champagne,’ Reidar says with a smile.

The thudding beat returns, drowning out any further conversation. Reidar gets an oil painting down from the wall and carries it out through the door. It’s a portrait of him, painted by Peter Dahl.

‘I like that picture,’ Veronica says, trying to stop him.

Reidar shakes her hand from his arm and carries on towards the hall. Almost all of the guests follow him outside into the ice-cold park. Fresh snow has settled smoothly on the ground. There are still flakes swirling round beneath the dark sky.

Reidar strides through the snow and hangs the portrait on an apple tree, its branches laden with snow. Wille Strandberg follows, carrying a flare he found in a box in the cleaning cupboard. He tears the plastic cover off, then pulls the string. There’s a pop and the flare starts to burn, giving off an intense light. Laughing, he stumbles over and puts the flare in the snow beneath the tree. The white light makes the trunk and naked branches glow.