‘He’s not at his best right now, Ditlev.’

‘I see. We’ll have to take care of it ourselves then, won’t we?’ Ditlev clenched his teeth. They’d have to expect that Torsten would have a complete breakdown someday. And then he would be as big a threat as Kimmie.

Ditlev felt Ulrik scrutinizing him.

‘You won’t do anything to Torsten, will you, Ditlev?’

‘Of course not, old boy. Not Torsten.’

For a moment they watched each other like beasts of prey, with lowered heads and measured glances. In the sport of stubbornness, Ditlev knew he would never outlast Ulrik Dybbøl Jensen. His father had founded the family’s stock market research firm, but Ulrik had expanded its influence. When he doggedly pursued something, he would invariably get his way. Even if that meant forcing it through by any means necessary.

‘Well, Ulrik,’ Ditlev said, breaking the silence. ‘We’ll let Aalbæk do his job, and we’ll see what happens.’

Ulrik’s expression changed. ‘Is the pheasant hunt set?’ he asked, eager as a child.

‘Yes. Bent Krum has gathered the entire team. Thursday morning at six we meet at Tranekær Inn. We have to invite the local wallies, but that’ll be the last time.’

Ulrik laughed. ‘You have a plan for the hunt, I imagine.’

Ditlev nodded. ‘Yes, the surprise is ready.’

Ulrik worked his jaw muscles. The thought clearly excited him. Excitable and impatient, that was his true nature.

‘What do you say, Ulrik, do you want to come with me and see how it’s going with our Philippine wenches down in the laundry?’

Ulrik raised his head. His eyes narrowed. Sometimes it meant yes, other times no – it was impossible to tell. The man had too many contradictory impulses.

6

‘Lis, do you know how this case ended up on my desk?’

She glanced at Carl’s file as she adjusted her new, stylishly messy hair. Her frown suggested she didn’t.

Carl gave the file to Mrs Sørensen. ‘Do you know, then?’

It took the woman five seconds to scan the first page. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied, eyes triumphant. She liked to see Carl struggle. Moments such as these were among her finest.

Deputy Commissioner Lars Bjørn didn’t know, either, nor did any of the investigative officers. Apparently the file had somehow placed itself on his desk.

‘I’ve called Holbæk Police!’ Assad shouted from his shoebox-sized office. ‘As far as they know, the file is in their archives as it is supposed to be. But they’ll check when they have the time.’

Carl raised his legs and planted his size 11 shoes in the centre of the table. ‘What do they say in Nykøbing Sjælland?’

‘Just a second, I’ll call them.’ While tapping in the number, Assad whistled a few notes of one of his native country’s melancholic songs. It sounded as though he were whistling backwards.

Not good.

Carl studied the noticeboard on the wall. Four newspaper headlines echoed one another: the Merete Lynggaard case had been expertly solved. Department Q, the newly established department for cases of special focus, led by Detective Superintendent Carl Mørck, was described as an absolute success.

He stared at his tired hands that hardly had the stamina to hold a lousy one-inch file, the origins of which were unclear. The word ‘success’, at this moment, gave him a hollow feeling. He sighed and continued reading the file. Two young people murdered, a very brutal double murder, with several children of prominent families as suspects, and nine years later one of these kids suddenly turns himself in, admitting his guilt. He was the only one of the gang who didn’t actually come from a wealthy family. In less than three years, this Thøgersen would be released. He would be rich as hell, too, having earned a fortune on the stock market during his incarceration. Were people in prison even allowed to invest like that? It was a damned scary thought.

He read copies of the interrogation reports thoroughly and then, for the third time, skimmed the documents in the case against Bjarne Thøgersen. The killer apparently hadn’t known his victims. Even though the convicted man claimed he had met them several times, there was no corroborating evidence to prove it. Indeed, the reports suggested otherwise.

Carl glanced again at the cover of the file. ‘Holbæk Police’, it said. Why didn’t it say ‘Nykøbing’? Why didn’t the Mobile Investigation Unit work with the Nykøbing Police? Were the officers in Nykøbing too close to the case? Could that be the explanation? Or were they just incompetent?

‘Hey, Assad!’ he shouted across the brightly lit hallway. ‘Call the department in Nykøbing and ask if anyone there knew the victims.’

There was no response from Assad’s cubbyhole, just his murmuring on the telephone.

Carl stood and walked across the corridor. ‘Assad, ask if anyone at the station –’

Assad stopped him with a hand movement. He was already in full swing. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he said, followed by another series of yeses in the same vein.

Carl exhaled heavily, and scanned the room. More framed photographs had appeared on Assad’s shelf. A picture of two elderly women now competed with the other family snapshots. One of the women had a trace of a moustache, the other was podgy, with hair so thick it resembled a scooter helmet. Assad’s aunts, if he were to hazard a guess.

When Assad hung up, Carl pointed at the photos.

‘Those are my aunts from Hamah. The one with the hair is dead now.’

Carl nodded. The way she looked, any other answer would have surprised him. ‘What’d they say in Nykøbing?’

‘They didn’t send us the file, either, Carl. For good reasons they couldn’t. They never got it.’

‘I see. That’s peculiar, because the documents suggest that the police in Nykøbing, Holbæk and the Mobile Investigation Unit all worked together.’

‘No. They say that Nykøbing was in charge of the inquest, but left the case to the others.’

‘Really? I find that rather odd. Do you know if anyone in Nykøbing knew the victims personally?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The two victims were the son and daughter of one of the officers.’ He pointed at the notes he had just taken. ‘His name was Henning P. Jørgensen.’

Carl pictured the savagely beaten girl. It was any police officer’s worst nightmare to find their own children murdered.

‘How awful. But I suppose that explains why the case was handed over to another station. I’ll bet you there is a personal motivation behind it. But you said yes and no. Why?’

Assad leaned back in his chair. ‘I did it because there is no longer anyone at the station who is related to those children. Right after the discovery, the officer drove back to the police station in Nykøbing Sjælland. He greeted the guy at the front desk, went straight to the weapons depot and pulled the trigger on his service revolver like this.’ He pointed at his temple with two short, thick fingers.

The Danish police reform brought many strange results. Districts were renamed, titles were changed and archives were moved. All in all, most personnel had difficulty finding their footing in all this lunacy. Plenty used the opportunity to jump off the merry-go-round, accepting the title of ‘early retiree’.

In the old days, retirement for a police officer hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park. The average number of years they had left to live after such an exhausting career didn’t even reach two digits. Only reporters had worse prospects, but then again, many more pints probably passed through that profession. Death had to have a cause, after all.

Carl knew officers who hadn’t even made it to their first anniversary as a pensioner before they kicked the bucket, leaving the world in the hands of freshly minted lackeys. But thankfully things were changing. Even police officers wanted to see the world, wanted to see their grandchildren get their A levels. As a consequence, many left the force. Like Klaes Thomasen, a retired cop from Nykøbing Sjælland who stood before them now with his potbelly, nodding. Thirty-five years in blue was enough, he said. These days his wife exerted a stronger pull on him. Even though the part about the wife gnawed at Carl a little, he knew what Klaes meant. Technically, of course, he, too, still had a wife, but it had been ages since she’d left him, and her undersized lovers with their long Vandykes would no doubt protest if he insisted on having her back.