Carl closed his eyes and clenched his fists. ‘Yes!’ his brain screamed. Exactly how test pilot Chuck Yeager must have felt the first time he broke the sound barrier.

‘I’ll be damned.’ He shook his head. It was a major breakthrough. ‘Hell’s bells. Terrific, Rose. Terrific. Did you get a copy of the photograph showing the mother with the earring?’

‘No, but she says that she sent it to the Rudkøbing Police around 1995. I’ve talked to them, and they say all the old archives are in Svendborg now.’

‘She didn’t send the original to them, did she?’ He prayed she hadn’t.

‘Yes, she did.’

Bloody hell. ‘But she probably kept her own copy. Or a negative. Or someone has it, don’t you think?’

‘No, she didn’t think so. That was one of the reasons she was so angry. She’s never heard back from them.’

‘You’ll call Svendborg right away, won’t you?’

She let out a noise that sounded mocking. ‘You evidently don’t know me very well, Mr Deputy Detective Superintendent.’ Then she slammed down the phone.

In less than ten seconds he’d phoned back.

‘Hi, Carl,’ came Assad’s voice. ‘What did you tell her? She looks strange.’

‘Never mind, Assad. Just tell her that I’m proud of her.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now, Assad.’

Assad lay down the receiver.

If the photo of the missing woman’s earring was now found in the Svendborg Police archives, and if an expert could guarantee that the earring found on the beach near Lindelse Cove matched the one he’d found in Kimmie’s stashed metal box and that they were, in fact, the same pair of earrings as in the photograph, then they’d have a case. They’d have enough to go to trial. Jesus Christ, they were holding the right end of the stick now. It had taken twenty years, but nevertheless, Florin, Dybbøl Jensen and Pram were going to be dragged through that long, tenacious process known as the mucky machinations of justice. They just needed to find Kimmie first; after all, he’d found the box at her place. Tracking her down was no doubt easier said than done, and her junkie friend’s death didn’t exactly make it easier. But she had to be located.

‘Yes,’ Assad said suddenly, on the other end of the line. ‘She was pleased. She called me her little sand worm.’ He laughed so that it grated in Carl’s ear.

Who but Assad would take such a clear insult with such good humour?

‘But, Carl, I don’t have good news like Rose,’ he said, after his laughter had subsided. ‘You shouldn’t count on Bjarne Thøgersen being willing to talk to us any more. Then what then?’

‘Did he refuse to let us visit? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘In a way that could not be misunderstood then.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Assad. Tell Rose that she has got to get hold of that photograph. Tomorrow is our day off, and that’s a promise.’

Carl glanced at his watch as he turned up Hendriksholms Boulevard. He was early, but maybe that was OK. In any event, this Klavs Jeppesen seemed like someone who would rather be too early than too late.

Rødovre High School was a collection of compressed boxes stacked on the asphalt, a chaos of buildings that ran into each other and had probably been expanded many times during the years when a high-school education was taking root among the working class. A walkway here, a gymnasium there, new and old yellow-brick boxes that were supposed to upgrade the privileges of suburban youths to the level north-coast kids had been elevated to long ago.

By following the arrows directing him towards the alumni’s ‘Lasasep’ party, he managed to find Klavs Jeppesen outside the assembly hall, his arms full of packages of paper napkins and in conversation with a couple of quite pretty, older students of the opposite sex. He was a nice-looking guy, but dressed in that vapid way of his profession, with a corduroy jacket and full beard. He was a high-school teacher with a capital ‘H’.

He released his audience with an ‘I’ll see you later’, spoken in a tone of voice that signalled a free-range bachelor, and led Carl down to the teachers’ staffroom where other graduates were chatting nostalgically.

‘Do you know why I’m here?’ Carl asked, and was told that his pidgin-speaking colleague had explained things to Jeppesen.

‘What do you want to know?’ Jeppesen asked, gesturing for Carl to take a seat in one of the staffroom’s aged designer chairs.

‘I want to know everything about Kimmie and the gang she associated with.’

‘Your colleague implied that the Rørvig case has been resumed. Is that true?’

Carl nodded. ‘And we have strong reason to suspect that one or more of this gang are also guilty of other assaults.’

Here Jeppesen’s nostrils flared as though he lacked oxygen.

‘Assaults?’ He stared into space and didn’t react when one of his colleagues poked her head in.

‘Are you in charge of the music, Klavs?’ she asked.

He glanced up as if in a trance and nodded absent-mindedly.

‘I was head over heels in love with Kimmie,’ he said, when he and Carl were alone again. ‘I wanted her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. She was the perfect blend of devil and angel. So fine and young and gentle like a kitten, yet totally dominating.’

‘She was seventeen or eighteen when you began having a relationship with her. And a pupil at the school, besides! That wasn’t exactly playing by the rules, now, was it?’

He looked at Carl without raising his head. ‘It’s not something I’m proud of,’ he said. ‘I just couldn’t help myself. I can still feel her skin today, do you understand? And it’s been twenty years.’

‘Yes, and it was also twenty years ago that she and some others were suspected of committing homicide. What do you think about that? Do you think they could have done it together?’

Jeppesen grimaced. ‘Anyone might be capable of doing something like that. Couldn’t you kill a person? Maybe you already have?’ He turned his head and lowered his voice. ‘There were a few episodes that made me wonder, both before and after my affair with Kimmie. In particular, there was a boy at the school I remember very well. A real arrogant little jerk, so maybe he simply got what he deserved. But the circumstances were strange. One day he suddenly wanted to leave the school. He’d fallen in the forest, he said, but I know what bruises look like after a beating.’

‘What does this have to do with the gang?’

‘I don’t know what it has to do with them, but I know that Kristian Wolf asked about the boy every single day after he’d left the school: how was he? Had we heard from him? Was he coming back?’

‘Couldn’t it have been genuine interest?’

He turned to Carl. This was a high-school teacher in whose competent hands decent people entrusted their children’s continued development. A person who’d been with his students for years. If he’d ever shown this same expression to anyone at parents’ evenings they’d probably be concerned enough to take their kids out of school. No, thank God. It was rare to see a face so embittered by vengefulness, spite and a loathing of humanity.

‘Kristian Wolf showed no genuine interest in anyone but himself,’ he said, full of contempt. ‘Trust me, he was capable of anything. But he was terribly afraid of being confronted with his own deeds, I think. That’s why he wanted to be sure the boy was gone for good.’

‘Give me examples,’ Carl said.

‘He started the gang, I am sure of that. He was the activist type, burning with evil, and he quickly spread his poison. He was the one who ratted on Kimmie and me. It was thanks to him that I had to leave the school and she was expelled. He was the one who pushed her towards the boys he wanted to pick on. And when she snared them in her web, he pulled her away again. She was his female spider, and he was the one pulling the strings.

‘You’re no doubt aware that he’s dead? The result of a shooting accident.’