The correct antidote to dusty boxes full of despair is to go out on a boat. We meet up with some of Gunnar’s family and friends, and all head out for a picnic on the island of Merdø. Lucky I’m not French, I snigger. Gunnar’s daughter Jenny joins us; she’s ten and reminds me of my daughters. We sit together and I resist the urge to hug her in an act of surrogacy – I miss my girls so. The picnic includes fishcakes. Will and I set to, and I keep him on my lap as a pretext for eating a few more, while Jenny practises her English on me. Afterwards, as we step back into the boat to set off, Gunnar turns to me with a quiet smile. “There’s one more place to show you.” We moor up on a jetty belonging to an elegant house in Sandviga. A dashing man is standing there waiting, with tweeds and slicked-back hair like a matinée idol. He is called Terje Bodin Larsen, and he has a very large handshake. This is his house, and it’s the last known place that the silver was ever seen. “They unloaded the silver from the ship right here.”
