He shook his head. She’d always been a devil. Birds of a feather flock together, as his mother used to say.

‘Where did you get the pistol, Thelma?’ he asked calmly, taking the documents and scrawling his signature on the top two pages. ‘What happened?’

She stared at the papers, waiting until she had them in her hand before responding.

‘It’s too bad you weren’t here tonight, Ditlev, because then I don’t think I would have needed your signature.’

‘Is that so? And why is that?’

‘Some filthy, dirty woman smashed the window and threatened me with this.’ She waved the weapon. ‘She was asking for you, Ditlev.’

Thelma laughed, and the strap of her negligee slid off one shoulder. ‘I told her I would gladly let her in the front door next time she passed by. Then she could do whatever she wished without all the bother of smashing windows.’

Ditlev felt his skin grow cold.

Kimmie! After all these years.

‘She gave me the pistol and patted me on the cheek as if I were a little child. She mumbled something and then she went out the front door.’ Thelma laughed again. ‘But don’t despair, Ditlev. Your girlfriend will pay you a visit another day, she said to tell you!’

13

Homicide Chief Marcus Jacobsen rubbed his forehead. This was a bloody awful way to start the week. He’d just been handed his fourth request for leave in as many days. Two men from his best investigation unit were off sick, and then this bestial attack right in the middle of a downtown street. A woman had been beaten beyond recognition and then tossed in a rubbish container. The violence was growing more and more raw and, understandably enough, everyone was demanding immediate action. The newspapers, the public, the police chief. If the woman died, all hell would break loose. It was a record year for homicides. One would have to go back at least ten years to see statistics this high, and because of that, and because so many officers were leaving the police force, the brass were calling meetings all the time.

It was one pressure on top of another, and now Bak had also asked for leave. Bak of all people, for Christ’s sake.

In the old days, he and Bak would have lit fags and walked round the courtyard, and they’d have solved their problems right there – of that he was convinced. But the old days were gone, and now he was powerless. Simply put, he had little to offer his personnel. The salary was shit, and so were the working hours. His officers were worn out and their work had become practically impossible to carry out satisfactorily. And now they couldn’t even soothe their frustrations with a smoke. A hell of a situation.

‘You’ve got to prod the politicians, Marcus,’ said his deputy, Lars Bjørn, as the office movers blustered about in the hallway so that everything would appear organized and efficient, as the reforms demanded. But it was merely camouflage, window dressing.

Marcus raised his eyebrows and looked at his deputy with the same resigned smile that had been plastered on Lars Bjørn’s face the last few months.

‘And when will you be asking me for leave, Lars? You’re still a relatively young man. Don’t you dream of landing another job? Wouldn’t your wife like you around the house more, too?’

‘Hell, Marcus, the only job I’d prefer to mine is yours.’ He said it so drily and matter-of-factly it could make a man nervous.

Marcus nodded. ‘OK. But I hope you have time to wait, because I’m not getting out of here before my time. That’s not my style.’

‘Just talk to the police chief, Marcus. Ask her to put pressure on the politicians so we can have tolerable working conditions.’

There was a knock on the door, and before Marcus could react, Carl Mørck was halfway into his office. Could that man do something by the book, just for once?

‘Not now, Carl,’ he said, knowing full well that Mørck’s hearing could be surprisingly selective.

‘It’ll only take a moment.’ Carl nodded almost imperceptibly to Lars Bjørn. ‘It’s about the case I’m working on.’

‘The Rørvig murders? If you can tell me who almost killed a woman last night in the middle of Store Kannikestræde, then I’ll listen. Otherwise you’re on your own. And you know what I think about the Rørvig case. There was a conviction. Find another case, one where the perpetrator is still on the loose.’

‘Someone here at this station has a connection to the case.’

Marcus let his head fall resignedly to his chest. ‘I see. Who?’

‘A detective by the name of Arne Jacobsen removed the case file from Holbæk Police ten to fifteen years ago. Does that ring any bells?’

‘Fine surname, but I don’t have anything to do with it.’

‘He was personally involved in the case, I can tell you. His son was dating the girl who was murdered.’

‘And?’

‘And today the son works here at the station. I’m bringing him in for questioning. Just so you’re aware.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Johan.’

‘Johan? Johan Jacobsen, our handyman? You’re pulling my leg –’

‘Hang on, Carl,’ Lars Bjørn interrupted. ‘If you’re going to bring one of our civilians in for questioning, it’s best if you call it something else. I’m the one who has to speak with the union if anything goes wrong.’

Marcus saw a quarrel emerging. ‘That’s enough, you two.’ He turned towards Carl Mørck. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘You mean, apart from the fact that an ex-employee removed case materials from the Holbæk Police?’ Carl straightened up so that he covered an additional foot of wall. ‘The fact is that his son put the case on my desk. Furthermore, he broke into the crime scene and deliberately left clues that point back to him. I also believe he’s got a lot more material in his goody bag. Marcus, he knows more about this case than anyone else between heaven and earth – if one can put it that way.’

‘Good God, Carl. That case is more than twenty years old. Can’t you just conduct your showdown in the basement nice and quietly? I imagine there are plenty more open-and-shut cases to work on other than that one.’

‘You’re right. It’s an old case. And it’s the very one that I, at your request, will be presenting on Friday to a team of dimwits from the land of brown cheese. Remember? So, please, Marcus, be so kind as to make sure Johan stops by my office in no more than ten minutes.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘As far as I know, Johan is off sick.’ He looked at Carl over his glasses. It was important he understood the message. ‘You’re not to contact him at home, do you understand? He had a nervous breakdown over the weekend. We don’t want any trouble.’

‘How can you be so certain he was the one who put the case file on your desk?’ Lars Bjørn asked. ‘Did you find his fingerprints on it?’

‘No. I got the results of the analysis today and there weren’t any fingerprints. I just know it, OK? Johan’s the one. If he’s not back by this afternoon I’ll be going over there. Then you can say whatever you like.’

14

Johan Jacobsen lived in a co-op flat on Vesterbrogade, across from the Black Horse Theatre and the now defunct Mechanical Music Museum. In fact, he lived right where the decisive battle between the anarchist squatters and police occurred in 1990. Carl remembered those days all too well. How many times had he donned riot gear and beaten up girls and boys nearly his own age?

Not exactly the best memories from the good old days.

They had to ring the buzzer on the brand-new intercom a few times before Johan Jacobsen let them in.