‘A skiing accident?’

‘Yeah, it was a little strange, the woman in the office said. The story did get quite a bit of attention. Her boyfriend was a fairly good skier. Not someone who normally skied into an off-piste area with so many crags.’

Carl nodded. Dangerous sport.

He met Mona Ibsen in the police headquarters courtyard. She had an enormous bag slung over her shoulder and gave him a look that said no thanks even before he opened his mouth.

‘I’m seriously considering taking Hardy home to stay with me,’ he said, low-key. ‘But I feel I know too little about how it might affect him psychologically, as well as us at home.’

He looked at her with tired eyes. Evidently that’s what was needed, because when he followed up by asking her out to dinner so they could discuss what consequences such a big decision could have for everyone involved, the answer was positive.

‘Well, I suppose we could,’ she said, giving him one of those smiles that always hit him so hard in the abdomen. ‘I’m hungry now, as it happens.’

Carl was dumbstruck. Didn’t know what to say. He simply looked into her eyes and hoped that his charm would do the trick.

After they’d sat for an hour over their meal, Mona Ibsen gradually began softening up, and his whole being was overcome with such blissful relief and submission that he fell asleep, his head lolling on to his plate with a thump.

Nicely positioned between the tenderloin and the broccoli.

36

On Monday morning the voices were silent.

Kimmie awoke slowly and looked around her old bedroom, confused and empty-headed. For a moment she thought she was thirteen again and had overslept. How many times had she been thrown out of the house with no other nourishment for the day than her father and Kassandra’s scolding and door-slamming? How many times had she sat in class in Ordrup with a rumbling stomach, dreaming herself far away?

Then she remembered what had happened the day before. How wide-open and dead Kassandra’s eyes had been.

That was when she began humming her old song again.

After she’d dressed, she carried her bundle downstairs, shot a quick glance into the living room at Kassandra’s corpse, and sat in the kitchen, whispering menu suggestions to the little one.

She was sitting like that when the telephone rang.

She raised her shoulders slightly and lifted the receiver hesitantly. ‘Yes?’ she said in an affected, hoarse voice. ‘Kassandra Lassen speaking. To whom do I owe the pleasure?’

She recognized the voice on the first word. It was Ulrik’s.

‘Yes, my apologies, but you are speaking with Ulrik Dybbøl Jensen. Perhaps you remember me?’ he said. ‘We believe that Kimmie is on her way to see you, Mrs Lassen. And if that is the case, we ask that you be careful and be sure to let us know the very moment she steps through the door.’

Kimmie looked out of the kitchen window. If they came from that direction, they wouldn’t see her if she stood behind the door. And the knives in Kassandra’s kitchen were exquisite. Could slice through tough as well as tender meat as though it were air.

‘I believe you should use the utmost caution if you see her, Mrs Lassen. But indulge her. Let her in, and keep her there. Then call us. We’ll come to your rescue.’ He laughed cautiously to make it sound plausible, but Kimmie knew better. No man in the world could help Kassandra Lassen if Kimmie showed up. That had already been proven.

He gave her three mobile numbers Kimmie didn’t know. Ditlev’s, Torsten’s and Ulrik’s.

‘Thank you ever so much for the warning,’ she said, and meant it as she wrote down the numbers. ‘Dare I ask where you are? Would it even be possible for you to get here quickly, if necessary? Wouldn’t it be better if I called the police?’

She could just see Ulrik’s face. Only a major Wall Street crash could make him look more concerned at that moment. The police! A nasty word in such a situation.

‘No, I can’t imagine it would,’ he said. ‘It can take up to an hour for the police to arrive, you know. That’s if they even bother to react. That’s how it is nowadays, Mrs Lassen. It’s not like in the old days.’ He emitted a few mocking sounds designed to convince her of the dubious effectiveness of the police. ‘We aren’t far from you, Mrs Lassen. Today we’re at work, and tomorrow we’ll be up in Ejlstrup at Torsten Florin’s. We’ll be on a hunt near Gribskov Forest, in a grove that belongs to his estate, but we will all have our mobiles on. Call us, no matter when, and we’ll be there ten times faster than the police.’

‘Up in Ejlstrup at Florin’s,’ he’d said. She knew exactly where.

And all three at once. It couldn’t get any better.

So there was no need to rush.

She didn’t hear the front door open, but she heard the woman calling out.

‘Hi, Kassandra, it’s me! Time to get up!’ the voice boomed, making the windowpanes vibrate and Kimmie freeze.

There were four doors in the hall. One led to the kitchen area, one to the loo where Kimmie was now, one to the dining room, and through that to ‘My Room’ – where Kassandra’s stiff body lay – and the fourth door led to the basement.

If the woman valued her life, she would choose any door but the one leading to the dining room and living room.

‘Hi!’ Kimmie called back, yanking up her knickers.

The steps outside the loo came to a halt, and when she opened the door, Kimmie found herself staring into a pair of confused eyes.

She didn’t know the woman. Judging by the blue smock and apron she was busy putting on, she was a home help or housekeeper.

‘Hello. I’m Kirsten-Marie Lassen, Kassandra’s daughter,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Unfortunately, Kassandra is ill. She’s been admitted to the hospital, so we won’t need your services today.’

She grabbed the housekeeper’s hesitant hand.

There was no doubt that the woman had heard Kimmie’s name before. Her handshake was quick and superficial, her eyes watchful. ‘Charlotte Nielsen,’ she replied coldly, peeking over Kimmie’s shoulder towards the dining room.

‘I think my mother will be returning home on Wednesday or Thursday, and I will call you then. In the meantime, I’ll look after the house.’ Kimmie felt the word ‘mother’ burning on her lips. A word she’d never used before for Kassandra, but which seemed necessary now.

‘I can see it’s a little messy here,’ said the maid, casting a glance at Kimmie’s coat draped over the Louis XVI chair in the hall. ‘I believe I’ll do some tidying up, all the same. I was supposed to be here all day, anyway.’

Kimmie blocked the dining-room door. ‘Oh, that’s kind of you, but not today.’ She put a hand on the woman’s shoulder and ushered her towards her coat.

When the woman left she didn’t say goodbye, but her eyebrows were raised.

Better get rid of the old dear, Kimmie said to herself, vacillating between digging a grave in the garden and cutting up the body. If either she or Kassandra had owned a car, she knew a lake in northern Zealand that surely had room for another corpse.

Then she stopped, listened to the voices, and remembered what day it was.

Why go to all that trouble? they asked. Tomorrow is the day when everything comes together.

She was just about to go upstairs when she heard glass shatter in ‘My Room’.

Seconds later she was standing in the living room, matter-of-factly ascertaining that if the housekeeper got her way, she, too, would be lying beside Kassandra in a few seconds with an equally astonished final expression on her face.

The iron bar the woman had smashed the door with whizzed past Kimmie’s head. ‘You killed her, you crazy person! You killed her!’ she screamed over and over, tears welling in her eyes.