That was true. Carl had seen it before.

The investigators had been surprised that things could have gone so terribly wrong for such an experienced hunter. But many of his hunting buddies explained that Wolf had a habit of carrying his gun with the safety latch off. Once he’d missed the chance to shoot a polar bear in Greenland because his fingers had been too cold to release the latch, and he wasn’t going to let that happen again.

In any event, it was a bit of a mystery how he’d managed to shoot himself in the thigh, but the conclusion was that he had stumbled over a ploughed furrow and accidentally fired the shotgun. Reconstructions of the accident showed that it was just possible.

That the young wife didn’t make a bigger issue of the accident was more or less unofficially ascribed to the fact that by that time she’d already regretted the marriage. After all, he was older than her, and very different, and the inheritance was a rather nice consolation, all things considered.

The country house practically jutted out over the lake. There weren’t many properties of its calibre in the vicinity. It was of the kind that makes all those around it appreciate considerably in value.

Carl estimated it was worth 40 million kroner before the real estate market had been brought to its knees. Now this sort of place was just about unsellable. Still he suspected the owners had voted for the very government that had created the conditions for this economic slump in the first place. But what the hell, it was all just words, anyway. A consumer orgy followed by an overheated economy. Who gave a hoot about that around here?

It was people’s own fault.

The boy who opened the door was eight or nine years old at most. He had a stuffy, red nose and was wearing a dressing gown and slippers. A quite unexpected sight in this enormous hall where businessmen and finance moguls had held court for generations.

‘I’m not allowed to let anyone in,’ he managed to say, through a couple of highly inflated bubbles of snot. ‘My mother won’t be home for a little while. She’s in Lyngby.’

‘Can you call her and tell her the police would like to speak with her?’

‘The police?’ He eyed Carl sceptically. It was in these kinds of situations that a long black leather coat like Bak’s or the homicide chief’s would help develop mutual trust.

‘Here,’ Carl said. ‘This is what my badge looks like. Ask your mother if I may wait inside.’

The boy slammed the door.

For half an hour he stood on the steps, observing people running around on the paths on the other side of the lake. Ruddy-cheeked people with swinging arms and mincing gaits. It was a Saturday morning. The citizens of the Welfare State were out getting their exercise fix.

‘Are you looking for someone?’ the woman asked, when she’d stepped from her car. She was on her guard. One wrong move and she would throw her purchases on the ground and race to the back door.

Having learned from experience, he flashed his police badge immediately.

‘Carl Mørck, Department Q. Your son didn’t call?’

‘My son is ill. He’s in bed.’ She looked instantly concerned. ‘Isn’t he?’

So he hadn’t called, the little scamp.

He introduced himself once again and was reluctantly let in.

‘Frederik!’ she called upstairs. ‘I’ve got a sausage for you.’ She seemed sweet and natural. Not what you’d expect of a genuine countess.

His shuffling down the stairs came to an abrupt halt when he saw Carl standing in the hall. In an instant it seemed as though childish visions of the kind of punishment he would get for not doing exactly as the police said clouded his snot-streaming face with dread. He was certainly not ready to be confronted with the consequences of his offence.

Carl winked at him to signal that everything was OK. ‘Oh, so you really are bedridden, huh, Frederik?’

The boy nodded rather slowly, then took his French hot dog and disappeared. Out of sight, out of mind, he probably thought. Wise kid.

Carl got straight to the point.

‘I don’t know if I can help you with anything,’ she said, giving him a friendly look. ‘Kristian and I didn’t actually know each other terribly well. So I’ve no idea what was going on in his head in those days.’

‘And you remarried?’

‘No need to be so formal. Just call me Maria,’ she smiled. ‘Yes, I met my husband, Andrew, the same year Kristian died. We have three children now. Frederik, Susanne and Kirsten.’

Very ordinary names. Maybe Carl needed to reconsider his prejudices about the ruling class’s signature values.

‘And Frederik is the oldest?’

‘No, he’s the youngest. The twins are eleven.’ She beat him to his question. ‘And, yes, Kristian is their biological father, but my present husband has always been there for them. The girls board at a wonderful all-girls school near my in-laws’ estate in Eastbourne.’

She said it so sweetly and unaffectedly and shamelessly. How the hell did she have the heart to do that to her children? Eleven years old, and they were already exported to the backwaters of England and subjected to relentless discipline.

He looked at her with a freshly cemented foundation under his class prejudices. ‘While you were married to Kristian, did he ever talk about a Kirsten-Marie Lassen? I’m sure it must be a curious coincidence that she shares your daughter’s name, but Kristian knew the woman very well. She went by the name of Kimmie. They were at boarding school together. Does the name mean anything to you?’

A veil descended over her face.

He waited a moment, expecting her to say something. But she didn’t.

‘Excuse me, but what just happened?’ he said.

She raised her palms, fingers splayed. ‘I don’t care to talk about it, that’s all I wish to say.’ She hadn’t needed to say that. It was evident.

‘Do you think he might have had an affair with her, is that it? Even though you were pregnant at that point?’

‘I don’t know what he had going on with her, and I don’t want to know.’ She stood with her arms crossed under her breasts. In a second she would be asking him to leave.

‘She’s a bag lady now. She lives on the street.’

That piece of information apparently didn’t console her.

‘Whenever Kristian had been talking to her, he beat me. Are you satisfied? I don’t know why you’re here, but you may leave now.’

There it was, finally.

‘I’m here because I’m investigating a murder,’ he tried.

The response was instantaneous. ‘If you think I killed Kristian then you’d better think again. Not that it never crossed my mind.’ She shook her head and looked out over the lake.

‘Why did he hit you? Was he sadistic? Did he drink?’

‘Was he sadistic?’ She glanced down the hallway to make sure a little head didn’t suddenly appear. ‘You can bet your life he was.’

He stood reconnoitring the area before climbing back in his car. The atmosphere in that vast mansion house had been oppressive, as, layer by layer, she had uncovered what a strong, sadistic man could do to a slender woman of twenty-two. How the honeymoon was quickly transformed into a daily nightmare. It started with mean words and threats, then things escalated. He was careful not to leave marks, because in the evening she had to be dressed to the nines, showing off her pedigree. That’s why he had chosen her. For that reason only.

Kristian Wolf. A guy she’d fallen in love with in an instant and would spend the rest of her life trying to forget. Him, his deeds, the way he behaved and the people he surrounded himself with. All of it had to be swept away.

Inside the car Carl sniffed for petrol. Then he called Department Q.

‘Yeah,’ Assad simply said. He didn’t say ‘Department Q’, or ‘Vice Police Superintendent Assistant Hafez el-Assad speaking’ or anything else. Just a ‘yeah’!

‘You need to identify yourself and the department when you pick up the telephone, Assad,’ he said, without identifying himself.