So no, he couldn’t be the first. Who then? Torsten Florin, Ulrik Dybbøl Jensen or Ditlev Pram? Which of the three would be easiest to get under the skin of?

To answer this question properly he would first have to have met each of them personally, but his intuition told him this wouldn’t be easy. Yesterday’s botched visit to Pram’s private hospital demonstrated as much. Because of course Pram had been aware of their presence from the very first moment they had shown up at the hospital. Maybe he had been close by, maybe not. Either way, he had known they were there.

And he had stayed away.

No, if Carl were to get one of these men to talk, he would have to take them by surprise. That was why he and Assad were getting such an early start that morning.

Torsten Florin would be the first, and that choice wasn’t entirely coincidental. In many ways he seemed literally the weakest, with his slender figure and effeminate profession. His press releases on fashion also gave the impression of there being something beneath the surface that was vulnerable. He seemed to stand out from the others.

In two minutes Carl would pick up Assad at the Triangle, and hopefully in half an hour they would be at Florin’s estate in Ejlstrup for a most inconvenient surprise visit.

‘I assembled all the information about the ones in the group,’ Assad said from the passenger seat. ‘Here’s Torsten Florin’s file then.’ He pulled a case file from his bag as they drove out of town on the Lyngby motorway.

‘His house I think looks like a fortress,’ Assad went on. ‘He has a super-enormous metal gate that blocks the road up to the estate. I’ve read that when he has parties, people’s cars are let in one at a time then. And that’s actually true.’

Carl turned his head to look at the colour printout Assad held up. It was difficult to get much from it since he also needed to keep his eye on the narrow road that wound through Gribskov.

‘Have a look at this, Carl. You can see really well everything in the aerial photograph. Here is Florin’s estate. Apart from the old building where he lives, and that wooden house there,’ he tapped a spot on the map, ‘everything was built in 1992, including this gigantic building and all the tiny houses behind it.’

It actually looked rather strange.

‘Are those houses all the way inside Gribskov? Did he get permission to build in the forest?’ Carl asked.

‘No, they’re not in the forest. Between Gribskov and his little patch of woods here there is a fire … a fire … ? What’s this kind of thing called, Carl?’

‘A firebreak?’

He felt Assad looking at him, sensed his puzzlement. ‘Well, in any case you can clearly see it in the aerial photo. Have a look. It’s a narrow, brown strip. And then he has put up a fence around his property – the lake and hills and all the rest.’

‘I wonder why he did that? Is he afraid of paparazzi or what?’

‘It has something to do with him being a hunter.’

‘Yes, of course. He doesn’t want the animals on his land to escape into the state forest. I know the type.’ Up in Vendsyssel where Carl was from, people made fun of folks who did that sort of thing. But in northern Zealand this was apparently not the case.

They had reached a point where the landscape opened up, first clearings in the forest and then far-reaching fields where pale brown wheat stubs still poked from the ground.

‘Can you see the Swiss chalet over there, Assad?’ He pointed at a low-lying house to their right, not waiting for Assad to respond. One couldn’t miss it, down there in the glacier-carved valley. ‘Behind it is Kagerup Station. One time we found a little girl there we thought was dead. She had hidden in a sawmill because she was afraid of the dog her father had brought home.’

Carl shook his head. But was that really the reason? Suddenly it sounded so wrong.

‘Turn here, Carl,’ Assad said. He pointed at a road sign for Mårum. ‘Up there at the tophill we need to turn right. There’s a couple of hundred yards from there to the gate. Do I call him up first then?’

Carl shook his head. No fucking way. Florin wasn’t going to get the chance to vanish, just like Ditlev Pram did the day before.

It was correct that Torsten Florin had fenced in his property good and proper. The name DUEHOLT stood out in oversize, brass letters from a granite boulder next to the cast-iron gate that rose above the windbreak.

Carl leaned close to the intercom that was attached to a post at window height. ‘This is Deputy Detective Superintendent Mørck,’ he said. ‘I spoke to your solicitor, Bent Krum, yesterday. We would like to put a few questions to Torsten Florin. It should only take a minute.’

At least two minutes passed before the gate opened.

On the other side of the hedge the landscape spread out. To the right, lakes and rolling hills dotted a meadow that was surprisingly lush, given the time of year. Further down, scattered groves became forest, and in the distance, Gribskov’s enormous colonnade of century-old oak trees was visible, the crowns nearly leafless.

This is a hell of a lot of land, Carl thought. Given the price of an acre up here, this place would have to be worth millions.

When they reached the estate that was nestled near the forest, the impression of tremendous wealth was confirmed. Dueholt Manor itself boasted a tasteful alliance of carefully restored cornices and glazed, black-tiled roofs. Several atriums had been added, each one probably facing a point of the compass, and the grounds and driveway were so well maintained as to put the royal gardeners to shame.

Behind the manor was a red, wooden building that was probably listed as an architectural treasure. In any case, with at least a couple of hundred years’ history, it stood out from the rest. It was undeniably quite a contrast to the massive, yet quite attractive, steel construction towering behind it. All glass and glittering metal, just like the Orangery in Madrid that Carl had seen on a poster in the airport.

Ejlstrup’s own Crystal Palace.

A few small houses were clustered near the edge of the forest, like an entire little village with miniature gardens and verandas, surrounded by plots of ploughed land, probably for growing vegetables. There were still lots of leeks and green cabbages.

Jesus Christ, this place is incredible, Carl thought.

‘Wow, this is really something,’ Assad said.

They didn’t see a single soul in this landscape until they rang the doorbell and Torsten Florin, in person, opened up.

Carl extended his hand and introduced himself, but Florin saw only Assad and stood like a block of granite, blocking the entrance to his home.

Behind him, stairs wound their way up through the hall in an orgy of paintings and chandeliers. Rather vulgar for a man who made his living selling style.

‘We’d like to speak to you about a few incidents we might be able to connect Kimmie Lassen to. Perhaps you can help us?’

‘Which incidents?’ Florin asked drily.

‘Finn Aalbæk’s murder on Saturday night. We know Ditlev Pram and Aalbæk had a number of conversations. We also know Aalbæk was looking for Kimmie. Did one of you hire him? And if so, why?’

‘I’ve heard the name a few times over the course of the last few days, but otherwise I don’t know anything about this Finn Aalbæk. If Ditlev had conversations with him, then he’s the one I suggest you speak to. Goodbye, gentlemen.’

Carl stuck his foot in the door. ‘Excuse me a moment. There was also an assault on a couple on Langeland and an attack on Kåre Bruno at Bellahøj back in the late eighties, both of which are connected to Kimmie Lassen. Most likely three murders, actually.’

Florin blinked rapidly several times, but his visage was like stone. ‘I can’t help you. If you want to speak with anyone, then speak with Kimmie Lassen.’