‘Oy,’ Assad exclaimed. There wasn’t much more to say on the matter.

They noticed something stirring in Martha Jørgensen, but couldn’t tell where her agitation was leading.

‘I won’t stand for it!’ she suddenly cried out. ‘They must be got rid of, every single one of them. They beat my children to death and killed my husband. To hell with them, I say.’

She tried to get up, but instead fell forward under her own weight, crashing forehead first against the edge of the table. It seemed almost as though she hadn’t noticed.

‘They, too, must die,’ she hissed, with her cheek on the tablecloth. Then she proceeded to lash out with her arms, knocking over the teacups.

‘Calm down, Martha,’ Yvette said, ushering the gasping woman back to her stack of pillows.

When Martha got her breathing under control and once again sat passively puffing on her cigarillo, Yvette led them into the dining room next door. She apologized for her friend’s behaviour, explaining that the tumour in her brain was now so large that it was hard to know how she would react. She hadn’t always been that way.

As if they deserved an apology.

‘A man came to visit and told Martha he’d known Lisbet well.’ Yvette raised her almost non-existent eyebrow a smidgen. ‘Lisbet was Martha’s daughter, and the boy was called Søren. You know that, right?’ Assad and Carl nodded. ‘Maybe Lisbet’s friend still has the file, I don’t know.’ She gazed towards the conservatory. ‘Apparently he expressly promised Martha he’d bring it back someday.’ She looked at them so sadly, one felt the urge to give her a hug. ‘He probably won’t be able to do so before it’s too late.’

‘This man who took the case file, can you remember his name, Yvette?’ Assad asked.

‘I’m afraid not. I wasn’t there when she gave it to him, and her memory isn’t what it used to be.’ She patted the side of her head. ‘The tumour, you know.’

‘Do you know if he was a policeman?’ Carl added.

‘I don’t think so, but maybe. I don’t know.’

‘Why didn’t he take this with him then?’ Assad asked, referring to the Peter Hahn box under his arm.

‘Oh, that. It was just something Martha wanted to do. Someone has already confessed to the murders, haven’t they? I helped her collect newspapers clippings because it was good for her. The man who borrowed the case file probably didn’t believe they were especially important. And they most likely aren’t.’

They asked about the key to Martha’s summer cottage, which Yvette told them about, and made inquiries about the days around the time of the murders. But Yvette had nothing else to add. As she explained, it had happened twenty years ago. And besides, it wasn’t the kind of thing anyone wanted to remember.

When the home help arrived, they said goodbye.

Hardy kept a photograph of his son on his bedside table, the only hint that this prostrate figure with matted, greasy hair and tubes in his urinary tract had once had a life other than that which the respirator, the permanently turned-on television and the busy nurses provided for him.

‘Took your bloody time to get your arse here,’ he said, eyes fixed on an imaginary point a thousand yards above the Clinic for Spinal Cord Injuries in Hornbæk. A place with a 360-degree view, and from which a person could fall so hard and far that he’d never wake up again.

Carl racked his brain for a good excuse, but gave up. Instead he picked up the framed photo, saying, ‘I hear Mads has begun studying at the university.’

‘Who told you that? Are you banging my wife?’ he said, without even blinking.

‘No, Hardy. Why the hell would you say such a thing? I know because … because, oh, I don’t fucking remember who at headquarters told me.’

‘Where’s your little Syrian? Have they thrown him back into the sand dunes?’

Carl knew Hardy. This was just small talk.

‘Tell me what’s on your mind, Hardy. I’m here now, OK?’ He breathed deeply. ‘In the future I’ll visit you more often, old boy. I’ve been on holiday, I’m sure you understand.’

‘Do you see the shears on the table?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘They’re always there. They use them to cut the gauze. And the tape that secures my probes and syringes. They look sharp, don’t you think?’

Carl looked at them. ‘Sure, Hardy.’

‘Couldn’t you take them and stab me in my carotid artery, Carl? It’d make me very happy.’ He laughed briefly, then stopped suddenly. ‘My arm is twitching, Carl, right below my shoulder muscle, I think.’

Carl frowned. So Hardy felt some twitching, the poor man. If only it were so. ‘Do you want me to scratch it for you, Hardy?’ Pulling the blanket a bit to the side, he considered whether he should yank the shirt down or scratch over it.

‘Damn it, you dumb bastard. Listen to what I’m saying. It’s twitching. Can you see it?’

Carl moved the shirt. Hardy had always made it a point to look attractive. Well groomed and tanned. Now, apart from delicate, pale blue veins, his skin was white as a maggot’s.

Carl touched Hardy’s arm. There wasn’t a muscle left; it felt like tenderized hung beef. And he didn’t notice any twitching.

‘I can feel you in one small spot, Carl. Take the shears and prick me, but not too fast. I’ll tell you when you hit it.’

Poor man. Paralysed from the neck down. Just a touch of feeling in one shoulder was all that was left. Everything else was just the hope of a person in despair.

But Carl did as Hardy asked. Quite systematically, from his elbow down and then up and all the way round. When he neared the back of Hardy’s armpit, he gasped.

‘There, Carl. Use your pen to mark it.’

He did. A friend was a friend, after all.

‘Do it again. Try to trick me. I’ll tell you when you hit the mark. I’m closing my eyes.’

When Carl reached the spot again, Hardy grinned, or perhaps it was a grimace. ‘There!’ he cried. It was goddam unbelievable. Enough to give you the shivers.

‘Don’t tell the nurse, Carl.’

Carl wrinkled his brow. ‘Huh? Why not, Hardy? This is wonderful news. Maybe there’s a glimmer of hope in spite of everything. Then they’ll have something to work from.’

‘I’m going to try to enlarge the spot. I want my one arm back, do you hear?’ Only then did Hardy look at his old colleague for the first time. ‘And what I use the arm for isn’t anyone’s business, got it?’

Carl nodded. Whatever improved Hardy’s mood was fine with him. The dream he had of picking up the shears by himself and stabbing himself in the throat was apparently all he’d been living for.

The question was whether or not that little sensitive spot on Hardy’s arm had been there the whole time. But it was better to let it lie. In Hardy’s case, it hardly made any difference.

Carl adjusted Hardy’s shirt and pulled the blanket up to his chin. ‘Do you still see that lady psychologist, Hardy?’ Carl imagined Mona Ibsen’s delectable body. A vision that was balm for his soul.

‘Yes.’

‘And? What do you talk about?’ he asked, hoping his name would be wedged somewhere in the response.

‘She keeps poking around in the shooting episode out in Amager, though I don’t know what good it’ll do. But whenever she visits, that damn nail-gun case is what interests her most.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘You know what, Carl?’

‘What?’

‘She’s got me thinking, in spite of myself. I mean, what’s the fucking use? And yet, the question lingers.’

‘Which question, Hardy?’

He looked directly into Carl’s eyes. In the same way they would cross-examine a suspect. Not accusatory, and not the opposite – just unsettling.

‘You and I and Anker were out at the shed at least ten days after the man was murdered, right?’

‘Right.’

‘The culprits had oceans of time to remove any traces. Oceans. Then why didn’t they? Why did they wait? They could have set the fucking house on fire. Taken the body and burned the place down.’