The Eve Cycle

A burnt body in a valley the locals called Dødsdalen — Death Valley. No identity, no next of kin, no home that anyone could trace. The police found her in November 1970, lying on a blackened patch of earth surrounded by singed foliage and fragments of melted possessions. Whoever she was, she hadn’t planned on being found. She’d erased herself — clothing labels cut out, fingerprints scorched, coded notes scrawled in the pages of a notebook. Even her luggage, discovered at the Bergen railway station, seemed composed for misdirection: wigs, multiple passports, ointments, a map of Norway, and a bottle of perfume whose brand no one recognised. 

For decades I thought of her as more a myth than a person — a Cold War riddle wrapped in fog. People love riddles. They linger because they promise logic. But the truth is rarely logical, especially the coldest kind. When a Norwegian journalist reached out to me not long ago, asking whether I’d ever reopened that file, I laughed the way one does when an old ghost knocks at the door. I told him cold cases are like debts — you never clear them, you just stop pretending they’re paid.