‘So do something about it, Rose.’

‘Hello? You want me to do something about that, too? That’s quite a few tasks all at once. So I guess you expect us to stay here all night long?’

He tipped his head from side to side. It was of course a possibility.

‘No, but we can start at five, tomorrow morning,’ he responded.

‘Five in the morning!’ This just about knocked her over. ‘Man, you’ve got to be kidding. Honestly! You must have been born with a screw loose!’ she scolded, as Carl wondered whom he could ask at Station City to find out how they’d been able to stand this pain in the neck for more than a week.

‘Please, Rose,’ Assad said, trying to smooth things out. ‘It’s only then because the case is now moving forward then.’

At this, she leaped to her feet. ‘Assad, you bloody well can’t butt in and destroy a good row. And stop with all those “thens”. Take ’em out, mate. I know you can. I’ve heard you on the telephone. You do fine.’

She turned to Carl. ‘Him,’ she said, pointing at Assad. ‘He can assemble the tables. I’ll take care of the rest. And I’m not coming until five thirty tomorrow morning, because the bus doesn’t run earlier than that.’ Then she picked up the teddy bear and stuffed it in Carl’s breast pocket.

‘And this one, you’ll find the owner yourself. Agreed?’

Assad and Carl had their eyes trained on the desk as she thundered out of the room. She reminded Carl of some dippy feminist in a TV series.

‘Are we then …’ Assad made a rhetorical pause to assess his use of the word ‘then’. ‘Are we then officially back on the case, Carl?’

‘No, not yet. We’ll find out tomorrow.’ He held the stack of yellow notes in the air. ‘I can tell from these that you’ve been busy, Assad. You’ve found someone we can talk to at the boarding school. Who?’

‘It was what I was doing then when you came, Carl.’ He leaned across the desk and located a couple of photocopies of the old boarding-school students’ membership magazine.

‘I called the school, but they weren’t so happy when I asked to talk to someone about Kimmie and the others. It was the part about the murders they didn’t like, I think. I also think they considered throwing Pram, Dybbøl Jensen, Florin and Wolf out of school back then on account of the investigation against them.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t get much out of that then. But afterwards I got the idea to go after someone who was in the same class as the guy who fell down and died at Bellahøj. And then on top of that I think I’ve found a teacher who was at the school at the same time as Kimmie and the others. He would maybe like to talk to us, since he hasn’t been there so long.’

It was almost eight o’clock in the evening when Carl found himself staring at Hardy’s empty bed up at the spinal clinic.

He grabbed the first person in white that walked past. ‘Where is he?’ he asked, with foreboding.

‘Are you a relative?’

‘Yes,’ he said, having learned from past experience.

‘Hardy Henningsen has water in his lungs. We’ve moved him in here where we can assist him better.’ She pointed to a room with a sign on the door that read INTENSIVE CARE. ‘Make it quick,’ she said. ‘He’s very tired.’

There was no doubt that Hardy had taken a turn for the worse. The respirator was running at full throttle. He lay half supine in the bed: naked torso, arms resting atop the blanket, a mask covering most of his face, tubes in his nose, IV and diagnostic equipment everywhere.

His eyes were open, but he was too tired to smile when he saw Carl.

‘Hi there, old buddy,’ Carl said, putting his hand carefully on Hardy’s arm. Not that Hardy would feel anything, but still. ‘What happened? They say you have water in your lungs.’

Hardy said something, but his voice vanished behind the mask and the incessant humming of the machines. So Carl leaned closer. ‘Can you repeat that?’ he said.

‘I got gastric acid in my lungs,’ he said in a hollow voice.

Christ, how disgusting, Carl thought, squeezing Hardy’s limp arm. ‘You’ve got to get better, Hardy, you hear me?’

‘The feeling in my upper arm has spread,’ he whispered. ‘Sometimes it burns like fire, but I haven’t told anyone.’

Carl knew why, and he didn’t like it. Hardy hoped to have an arm mobile enough that he could raise it, take the gauze scissors and puncture his carotid artery. So the question was whether one should share his hope.

‘I’ve got a problem, Hardy. I need your help.’ Carl pulled a chair over and sat beside him. ‘You know Lars Bjørn much better than I do from the old days in Roskilde. Perhaps you can tell me what’s really going on in my department.’

Carl briefly explained how his investigation had been brought to a halt. That Bak thought Lars Bjørn was part of it. And that the police chief backed up the decision all the way.

‘They’ve taken my badge, too,’ he said in conclusion.

Hardy lay staring at the ceiling. If he had been his old self, he’d have lit a cigarette.

‘Lars Bjørn always wears a dark blue tie, right?’ he said after a moment, and with great difficulty.

Carl closed his eyes. Yes, that was correct. The tie was inseparable from Lars Bjørn, and yes, it was blue.

Hardy tried to cough, but hawked instead, a sound like a kettle about to boil dry.

‘He’s an old alum from the same boarding school, Carl,’ he said weakly. ‘There are four tiny scallops on the tie. It’s their school tie.’

Carl sat in silence. A few years ago, a rape at the school had nearly destroyed its reputation. What damage might this case cause?

Jesus Christ. Lars Bjørn had been a student at the school. If Bjørn was an active player in all this, was it as the school’s lackey and defender? Or what? Once a boarding-school pupil, always a boarding-school pupil. That’s what people said.

He nodded slowly. Of course. It was that simple.

‘OK, Hardy,’ he said, drumming on the sheets. ‘You’re simply a genius. But who would ever doubt that?’ He stroked his old colleague’s hair. It was damp and lifeless to the touch.

‘You’re not angry with me, Carl?’ Hardy said behind his mask.

‘Why would you say that?’

‘You know why. The nail-gun case. What I told the psychologist.’

‘Hardy, for God’s sake. When you get better, we’ll solve the case together, OK? You’re lying here getting strange ideas. I understand that, Hardy.’

‘Not strange, Carl. There was something. And there was something about Anker. I’m more and more certain of that.’

‘We’ll solve that together when the time is right. How does that sound, Hardy?’

He lay silently for some time, letting the respirator do its work, and Carl couldn’t do anything but follow Hardy’s heaving chest.

‘Would you do me a favour?’ Hardy said, interrupting the monotony.

Carl pulled back in his seat. It was precisely this moment he feared whenever he visited Hardy. This eternal wish that Carl would help him die. Euthanasia, to use a classy term. Mercy killing, to use another. They were both terrible.

It wasn’t the punishment that he feared. It wasn’t the ethical considerations, either. He just couldn’t do it.

‘No, Hardy. Please don’t ask me any more. I don’t want you thinking that I haven’t considered the possibility. But, I’m really sorry, old boy, I just can’t do it.’

‘It’s not that, Carl.’ He moistened his dry lips, as if to give the message an easier time coming out. ‘I want to ask you if I can come home to yours, instead of being here.’

The silence that followed was heart-wrenching. Carl felt paralysed. All the words were stuck in his throat.

‘I’ve been wondering, Carl,’ he went on softly. ‘Can’t that guy who lives with you look after me?’

Now his desperation felt like the stab of a dagger.

Carl shook his head imperceptibly. Morten Holland as a nurse? At his place? It was enough to make him cry.