‘Are you sure it was her?’

‘Yes. I showed the girl an old picture of Kimmie.’

‘No doubt?’

‘No.’ Torsten looked irritated now.

‘We can’t allow Kimmie to be apprehended,’ Ulrik said.

‘You’re bloody right we can’t. And we can’t have her getting close to us either now, can we? She’s capable of anything, I’m sure.’

‘Do you think she still has the money?’ Ulrik asked, as a waiter stopped by, wanting to know if there was anything he could bring them.

Ditlev nodded at the man, still drowsy at this early hour of the day. ‘We have everything we need, thank you,’ he said.

They were silent until the waiter bowed and left the room.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ulrik. How much did she get off us back then? It was almost two million. How much do you think she spends on the street?’ Torsten sneered at him. ‘Nothing. That means for sure she has enough money to buy whatever she wants. Even weapons. If she hangs out in the inner city, there are plenty to choose from, I know.’

Ulrik’s bulky frame began to fidget. ‘Maybe we should reinforce Aalbæk’s team.’

10

‘Who did you say you wished to speak to? Assistant Detective el-Assad? Is that what you said?’ Carl glanced at the handset. Assistant Detective el-Assad?! That was one hell of a promotion.

He transferred the call and, a second later, heard the telephone ringing on Assad’s desk.

‘Yes?’ Assad replied, in his broom closet.

Carl raised his eyebrows and shook his head. Assistant Detective el-Assad. How dare he?

‘Holbæk Police called to say they searched for the Rørvig murder file all morning.’ Assad stood in Carl’s doorway, scratching the stubble on his dimple. They had been studying files now for two days, and he looked pretty knackered. ‘And do you know what then? They just don’t have it any more. It’s blown away with the wind.’

Carl sighed. ‘So let us assume someone removed it, OK? I wonder if it was that Arne fellow, the one who gave Martha Jørgensen the grey folder with reports about the murders? Did you ask whether they could remember what colour it was? Did you ask if it was grey?’

Assad shook his head.

‘Oh, well, it’s not important. The man who took it is dead, according to Martha, so we can’t talk to him anyway.’ Carl’s eyes narrowed. ‘And there’s something else I’d like you to answer honestly, Assad: can you please tell me when you were promoted to assistant detective? You should be really careful, going around impersonating a police officer. There’s a section of the criminal code that is very strict on this point, actually. Section 131, if you would like to know. You could get six months in prison.’

At this Assad tilted his head back slightly. ‘Assistant detective?’ he said, holding his breath for a second. He raised both hands to his chest as if to protest his innocence, which was draining from him at that moment. Carl had not seen such indignation since the prime minister’s reaction to press allegations that Danish soldiers had indirectly participated in torture in Afghanistan.

‘That would never occur to me,’ Assad said. ‘On the contrary, so. I have said I am assistant assistant detective. People don’t listen properly, Carl.’ He dropped his hands to his side. ‘Is that my fault?’

Assistant assistant detective! God in heaven! This sort of thing could give a man an ulcer.

‘It would probably be more accurate if you called yourself assistant detective vice-superintendent or, even better, assistant police vice-superintendent. But if you must use that title, then it’s OK with me. Just make sure you enunciate it very clearly, do you understand? Now go to the car park and bring the old banger round. We’re going to Rørvig.’

The summer cottage was in the centre of a cluster of pine trees. Over the years, it had slowly chewed itself into the sand. To judge from the windows, no one had stayed here since the murders. Broad, opaque surfaces showed between decaying beams. A depressing scene.

They looked up and down the tyre tracks that wound their way among the other cottages in the area. This late in September, of course, there wasn’t a soul for miles.

Assad shielded his eyes with his hands and tried in vain to peer through the largest of the windows.

‘Come on, Assad,’ Carl said. ‘The key is supposed to be hanging back here.’

He stared up under the eaves at the rear of the cottage. For twenty years the key had been hanging where everyone could see it – on a rusty nail right above the kitchen window, precisely where Martha Jørgensen’s friend Yvette had said it would be. But then again, who would have taken it? Who would wish to enter the house? And the burglars who ravaged these summer cottages every single year during the off-season would have to be blind not to notice there was nothing to find here. Everything about the cottage signalled that one might as well just turn around and leave.

He reached for the key and unlocked the door. It surprised him how easily the old lock turned and the door yielded.

He stuck his head inside and recognized the stench of days past: mould, mustiness and abandonment, the smell that inhabits old people’s bedrooms.

Carl felt around for the light switch in the small entryway and found the electricity had been disconnected.

‘Here,’ Assad said, waving a halogen torch in Carl’s face.

‘Put that away, Assad. We don’t need it.’

But Assad had already stepped back into the past, the cone of light dancing from side to side above wooden settle beds painted in old-fashioned colours and traditional blue enamel kitchenware.

It wasn’t entirely dark in the cottage. Weak grey sunlight managed to penetrate the dusty windows, making the room look like a night scene from an old black-and-white film. A large stone fireplace. Swedish rag rugs criss-crossing broad wooden floorboards. And then there was the Trivial Pursuit game, still resting on the floor.

‘Just as it says in the report,’ Assad said, tapping the Trivial Pursuit box. At one time it had been navy blue, but now it was black. The board itself was not quite so filthy, but almost, as were the two pie game pieces still lying on it. In the heat of the struggle the pies had been knocked from their squares, but probably not significantly. The pink pie had four wedges, while the brown pie had none. Carl guessed that the pink pie was the girl’s. If so, she’d no doubt had a clearer head than her brother that day. Perhaps he’d drunk too much cognac. The autopsy report suggested as much.

‘It’s been here since 1987. Is the game really that old, Carl? I can’t believe it.’

‘Maybe it took a few years before it made its way to Syria. Can you actually buy it in Syria?’

He noticed how quiet Assad had become, and then glanced at the two boxes filled with question cards. A single, loose card lay in front of each box. The final questions the siblings answered in life. It was rather sad, when you thought about it.

Carl let his eyes wander across the floor.

Obvious traces of the murders were still visible. There were dark stains where the girl had been found. It was clearly blood, as were the dark specks on the game board. In a few places he could see the crime-scene techs’ circles around fingerprints, though the numbers accompanying each circle had faded. And he could barely make out the powder used by the forensics team, but that was understandable.

‘They didn’t find anything,’ Carl said to himself.

‘What?’

‘They didn’t find any fingerprints that couldn’t be traced back to the siblings or their father and mother.’ He looked at the board again. ‘It’s strange that the game is still here. I would have thought the crime-scene techs would’ve taken it with them for closer examination.’