The homicide chief peered over his bifocals. Of course he did not care to respond to the question.

‘And, apropos, I think you should know that I’ve had uninvited guests in my home. Have a look at this.’

He produced the old photograph of himself in a parade uniform and pointed at the splatters of blood. ‘Usually it’s hanging in my bedroom. Last night the blood was still pretty fresh.’

Carl’s boss leaned back slightly to inspect it. He didn’t care for what he saw.

‘What do you make of it, Carl?’ he asked after a moment’s pause.

‘Someone wants to scare me. What else can I make of it?’

‘Every policeman makes enemies along the way. Why do you assume this has anything to do with the case you’re on now? What about your friends and family? Are there any practical jokers among them, do you think?’

Carl smirked. It was a nice try. ‘I got three telephone calls last night. Do you think someone was on the other end when I picked up?’

‘I see! And what would you like me to do about it?’

‘I’d like you to tell me who’s shutting down my investigation. Would you rather I call the police chief myself?’

‘She’ll be here this afternoon. We’ll see what she says.’

‘Can I count on it?’

‘We’ll see.’

On the way out of the homicide chief’s office Carl slammed the door a little harder than usual, then found himself staring directly into Bak’s pale, sickly, morning face. The black leather coat that was always glued on to him now hung nonchalantly over his shoulder. Now I’ve seen everything, thought Carl.

‘What’s up, Bak? I hear you’re leaving us. Did you inherit money or something?’

Bak stood a moment, as though considering whether the sum total of their shared working life was ending in a minus or a plus. Then he turned his head slightly and said: ‘You know how it is. Either you’re a damn good policeman, or you’re a damn good family man.’

Carl considered putting a hand on his shoulder, but settled on proffering one instead. ‘Last day today! I wish you luck and happiness with the family, Bak. Even though you’re a total arsehole, know that you wouldn’t be the worst to have back if you chose to return after your leave of absence.’

The tired man looked at Carl, surprised. Or maybe the right word was ‘overwhelmed’. Børge Bak’s microscopic emotional displays were difficult to interpret.

‘You’ve never been especially kind, Carl,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I guess you’re all right.’

For the two men this was a shocking orgy of compliments.

Carl turned and nodded towards Lis, who stood behind the front desk with at least as many papers as those lying on the basement floor waiting to be put on one of the tables Rose had already assembled.

‘Carl,’ Bak said, his hand resting on the door handle to the homicide chief’s office. ‘Marcus isn’t the one stopping your investigation, if that’s what you think. It’s Lars Bjørn.’ He raised his index finger. ‘You didn’t hear that from me.’

Carl cast a glance at the deputy commisioner’s office. As usual, the blinds were down, but the door was open.

‘He’ll be back at three. There’s a meeting with the police chief, as far as I know,’ were Bak’s final words to him.

He found Rose Knudsen on her knees in the basement corridor. Like a full-grown polar bear sliding across the ice, she lay with her legs splayed out and both elbows on a piece of folded-out cardboard. Around her were table legs and metal brackets and an array of Allen keys and tools. Four inches below her nose lay a jumble of assembling instructions.

She’d ordered four height-adjustable tables, and Carl certainly hoped that after all that effort they would indeed materialize.

‘Weren’t you supposed to visit Bispebjerg Hospital, Rose?’

Without budging from her patch of floor, she merely pointed at Carl’s door. ‘There’s a copy on your desk,’ she said. Then she was lost in the assembly diagrams once more.

Bispebjerg Hospital had faxed her three pages and, sure enough, they were lying on Carl’s desk. Stamped and dated and exactly what he wanted. Kirsten-Marie Lassen. Admitted 24 July to 2 August 1996. Half the words were in Latin, but their meaning was clear enough.

‘Pop in here for a minute, will you, Rose,’ he called out.

There was a series of groans and curses from the corridor floor, but she did as he asked nonetheless.

‘Yes?’ she said, with pearls of sweat on her mascara-massacred face.

‘They found the case record!’

She nodded.

‘Have you read it?’

Again she nodded.

‘Kimmie was pregnant and was admitted due to bleeding following a violent fall down a flight of stairs,’ he said. ‘She received good care and apparently made a good recovery, and yet she lost the child. There were signs of new injuries. Did you also read that?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s nothing here about the father or any relations.’

‘That was all Bispebjerg had, they said.’

‘I see.’ Again he paged through the file. ‘So she was four months along when she was admitted. After a few days the doctors believed her risk of miscarriage had passed, but on the ninth day she miscarried anyway. In the follow-up examination they found new bruises from a blow to her abdomen. Kimmie explained them by saying she’d fallen out of bed.’ Carl fumbled after a cigarette. ‘That’s really hard to believe.’

Rose backed a couple of steps away, eyes squinting as she rapidly fanned the air with one hand. So she couldn’t tolerate cigarette smoke. All right then! There was something that could keep her at a distance.

‘No police report was filed,’ she said. ‘But then again, if that had been the case, we would have already known.’

‘It doesn’t say whether doctors performed a D&C on her or anything like that. But what does this mean?’ He pointed a few lines down the page. ‘Abortus incompletus. Doesn’t that mean miscarriage?’

‘I phoned them. It means that not all the placenta passed with the miscarriage.’

‘How big is the placenta in the fourth month?’

She shrugged. Clearly this had not been part of her curriculum at business college.

‘And she never got a D&C?’

‘No.’

‘As far as I know that can be fatal. Infections in the abdominal cavity are no laughing matter. She was also injured by the blows. Badly, I imagine.’

‘That was why the doctors wouldn’t discharge her.’ She pointed at the surface of his desk. ‘Did you see the note?’

It was a small, self-adhering yellow thing. How the hell did she expect him to see something that tiny on his desk? Next to it, the needle in the haystack was nothing.

‘Call Assad,’ it read.

‘He called half an hour ago. He said he’d probably seen Kimmie.’

Carl felt a lurch in his gut. ‘Where?’

‘At the central train station. You’re supposed to phone him.’

He tore his coat off the hook. ‘The station’s only four hundred yards away. I’m outta here!’

Out on the street, people were walking around in short sleeves. The shadows were suddenly long and sharp, and everyone seemed to be trying to out-smile each other. It was late in September and a little more than twenty degrees, so what the hell were people smiling for? They ought to be raising their faces towards the ozone layer in horror. He removed his coat and slung it over his shoulder. Next there would be people wearing sandals in January. Long live the greenhouse effect.

He pulled out his mobile, punched in Assad’s number and realized his battery was dead. This was the second time in just a few days that had happened. Fucking useless battery.

He entered the central station and scanned the crowd. It looked hopeless. So he made a fast, fruitless round of the sea of suitcases.

Son of a bitch, he thought, heading to the train depot’s police station near the exit to Reventlowsgade.

He needed to call Rose now to get Assad’s number. He could already hear her gravelly, mocking laughter.