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Now they can all see the painting of Reidar holding a silvery pen in his hand.

Berzelius, a translator, has brought three bottles of champagne, and David Sylwan holds up Reidar’s old Colt with a grin.

‘This isn’t funny,’ Veronica says in a serious voice.

David goes and stands next to Reidar, the Colt in his hand. He feeds six bullets into the barrel, then spins the cylinder.

Wille Strandberg is still shirtless, but he’s so drunk he doesn’t feel the cold.

‘If you win, you can choose a horse from the stables,’ Reidar mumbles, taking the revolver from David.

‘Please, be careful,’ Veronica says.

Reidar moves aside, raises his arm and fires, but hits nothing, the blast echoing between the buildings.

A few guests applaud politely, as if he were playing golf.

‘My turn,’ David laughs.

Veronica stands in the snow, shivering. Her feet are burning with cold in her thin sandals.

‘I like that portrait,’ she says again.

‘Me too,’ Reidar says, firing another shot.

The bullet hits the top corner of the canvas, there’s a puff of dust as the gold frame gets dislodged and hangs askew.