‘Trophies,’ he says on the exhale. ‘We didn’t realise at first. Not until Greta Hansen. But there’s no question about it anymore.’

‘So, what does he take?’ Karen asks impatiently.

‘Hair. The fucker cuts off a lock of hair. The first victim, Sandrine Broe, didn’t notice. Or rather, she didn’t tell us. And Loa Marklund died and it was missed in the autopsy.’

‘How is that possible? What does Kneought Brodal have to say for himself?’

‘We’re talking about one lock of hair – in Loa’s case from a big, curly mane. But Greta Hansen is sure he snipped a strand off from the back of her head. She claims to remember the sound of the scissors. And when we talked to Sandrine, it turns out she has been suspecting that it happened to her, too.’

‘And why didn’t she say anything before?’

‘Because she doesn’t remember anything from the attack. But a few weeks later she felt like she was missing some hair in the back. She hadn’t wanted to tell the police, felt silly, she said. She figured her hairdresser might have messed up.’

‘And Anita Kollbar?’

Karl nods.

‘Yes, it looks that way. Brodal was able to confirm it after the physical exam they did while she was still under.’

There’s a pause. The only sounds are the screeching gulls and the waves lapping against the stone pier.

‘OK, I might as well tell you. We’ve probably secured the perpetrator’s DNA after this last attack.’

Karen jumps up. Fixes Karl intently to make sure he doesn’t back out now.

‘What? Where?’

‘Blood. On the bottle he shoved up her. It seems the bastard cut himself.’

Chapter 11

11

There’s a new streak in the familiar smell that greets Karen when she opens the door to the Hare and Crow. In addition to the usual bouquet, with its base notes of beer-stained carpet and lamb stew, and hints of mould and stale cigarette smoke that owner Arild Rasmussen has never fully been able to air out or scrub away, there’s something new. Something synthetic, sharp.

‘What’s that reek?’ Karen asks, putting her elbows on the bar and sniffing the air.

Her question is directed at Arild Rasmussen, who pretends to be too busy drying glasses to hear it. Instead, the answer comes from three men in their seventies who today, like every other day, have screwed their sizeable behinds onto three bar stools.

‘Arild has opened a whorehouse in the room behind the kitchen,’ Jaap Kloes says and reaps his reward in the form of roaring laughter: his own and that of Egil Jenssen and Odd Marklund.

Arild Rasmussen doesn’t laugh. Instead, he turns to Karen with a grim look on his face and holds up a pint glass.