Ditlev went to his bookshelf, removed a thick volume and opened it. It was hollow inside, with just enough room for his small plastic bags of cocaine.

The first line blurred the image of Thelma’s pinched glare. The second line caused him to straighten his shoulders, look at the telephone and forget that the word ‘risk’ wasn’t in his dictionary. He simply wanted to put a stop to it. Why not do it the right way? Together with Ulrik. In the dark of night.

‘Shall we watch movies at your place?’ he asked, the very instant Ulrik picked up the receiver. He heard a contented sigh from the other end.

‘Do you mean that?’ Ulrik asked.

‘Are you by yourself?’

‘Yes. Damn it, Ditlev, are you serious?’ He was already excited.

It was going to be a brilliant evening.

They had seen the film countless times. Life wouldn’t have been the same without it.

The first time they’d watched A Clockwork Orange was at boarding school, at the beginning of their second year. A new teacher had misunderstood the school’s cultural diversity code and had shown the class both that film and another one called If, which was about a rebellion at an English boarding school. The larger theme had been British cinema from the sixties, which, it was believed, was very fitting for a school with British traditions. But no matter how interesting this teacher’s choice was, it was also utterly misguided, the school’s leadership decided after close scrutiny. The new teacher’s career was therefore brief.

The damage was already done, however, because Kimmie and the class’s newest pupil, Kristian Wolf, lapped up the films’ messages without qualm. Through them they discovered new possibilities for release and revenge.

Kristian was the one who took the lead. Since he was nearly two years older and completely unruly, the entire class looked up to him. He always carried a lot of cash with him, even though it was against school policy. He was always on the lookout, and with great care he selected Ditlev, Bjarne and Ulrik to be part of his gang. They were all alike in so many ways. They were outsiders, and they were filled with hatred for the school and any authority figure. Yes, that – and A Clockwork Orange – glued them together.

They found the film on video and watched it time after time on the sly in Kristian and Ulrik’s room. And as a result of this fascination they made a pact. They would be just like the gang in the film. Indifferent to their surroundings. Constantly on the hunt for excitement and ways to transgress. Devil-may-care and merciless.

When they assaulted the boy who caught them smoking hash, everything suddenly came together. Only later did Torsten, with his usual flair for histrionics, suggest they wear masks and gloves.

Ditlev and Ulrik drove from Fredensborg with several lines of cocaine in their veins and the pedal to the metal. Dark sunglasses and long, cheap trench coats. Hats, gloves. Cold, clear heads. Disposable gear for a lively evening under the cloak of anonymity.

‘Who are we looking for?’ Ulrik asked when they stood before the JFK café’s saffron-yellow facade on the town square in Hillerød.

‘Wait and see,’ Ditlev said, opening the door to a rowdy Friday crowd. Noisy people in every corner. Not a bad place to be if you liked jazz and casual company. Ditlev hated both.

They found Helmond in the back. Full face glistening, he was standing in the company of another inferior local politician, gesticulating eagerly under the bar’s chandelier. Here, in this public space, they were engaged in their own little crusade.

Ditlev discreetly pointed him out to Ulrik. ‘It may take a while before he leaves, so let’s get a beer and wait,’ he said, heading to one of the bars further away.

But Ulrik stood still and observed their prey with enormous pupils behind tinted glasses, obviously quite content with what he saw. His jaw muscles were already quivering.

Ditlev knew him well.

The evening was foggy and mild, and Frank Helmond talked to his companion for a long time outside the café before they finally went off in separate directions. Frank doddered further up Helsingørsgade, and they followed him at a distance of fifteen yards, knowing that from here to the local police station was two hundred yards at most. Another parameter that made Ulrik pant with lust.

‘We’ll wait until we reach the alley,’ Ulrik whispered. ‘There’s a second-hand shop on the left. No one walks through the alley this late.’

Further on, an elderly couple strolled up the fog-shrouded lane, headed towards the end of the street, their shoulders drooping. It was way past their bedtime.

Ditlev wasn’t concerned with them in the slightest; that’s how the coke operated. Apart from the couple, the street was deserted and conditions were perfect. The pavement was dry. A moist breeze embraced the shopfronts and the three men who were each about to play a role in a carefully orchestrated and thoroughly practised ritual.

When they were a few yards from Frank Helmond, Ulrik handed Ditlev a mask. By the time they reached him, the latex masks were in place. Had they been at a carnival, people would have smiled at them. Ulrik had a huge cardboard box stuffed with these masks. As he said, they needed a selection to choose from. This time he’d chosen model numbers 20027 and 20048. They could be purchased on the Internet, but Ulrik didn’t do that. He brought them home from abroad. The same masks each time, the same numbers. Impossible to trace. Here were just two old men with the deep furrows of life chiselled into their skin. Very lifelike, and quite different from the faces they hid.

As always it was Ditlev who struck first. It was he who made the victim fall sideways slightly with a quiet gasp. Then Ulrik grabbed him and hauled him into the alley.

It was here that Ulrik punched him for the first time. Three direct blows to the forehead and one to the throat. Depending on their strength, the victims were often unconscious by now. But he hadn’t landed any hard blows this time. Ditlev had instructed him not to.

They dragged the man’s half-limp body, legs splayed, through the alley. When they reached the castle lake ten yards further ahead, they beat him again. First just light punches to the body, then they got a little rougher. When the paralysed man realized he was in the process of being killed, tiny, inarticulate sounds began slipping from his mouth. He hadn’t really needed to say anything; their victims seldom did. Their eyes usually said it all.

At this point Ditlev’s body swelled with pulsing streams of warmth. This is what he sought: wonderful surges of heat. Just like in his childhood, sitting under the sun in his parents’ garden, when he was so young the world still seemed made of elements that were benign. Whenever Ditlev reached this point, he had to restrain himself in order not to take the victim’s life.

With Ulrik it was different. Death was of little interest to him. It was the vacuum between strength and impotence that drew him, and their present prey found himself in that vacuum right now.

Ulrik straddled the man’s motionless body and stared into his eyes through the mask. Then he pulled his Stanley knife from his pocket, holding it in such a way that his enormous hand almost hid it. For a moment it looked as though he was discussing with himself whether or not to follow Ditlev’s instructions or ramp it up a notch. Their eyes met through the masks.

I wonder if I look as crazy as he does, Ditlev thought.

Then Ulrik put the knife against the man’s throat. Let the dull edge glide back and forth across his arteries. As the man began to hyperventilate, Ulrik ran the blade along his nose and across his trembling eyelids.

This wasn’t the cat toying with the mouse – it was worse. The prey wasn’t waiting for a chance to escape; it had already resigned itself to its fate.