‘As we already knew, this is a big bloke,’ Karl Björken says and looks down at the report. ‘Not unusually tall, according to the Koortes, somewhere around five foot eleven inches, but noticeably overweight. “Porky” is one of the adjectives used. You can read for yourselves later. We also know he’s blond and that his hair is longish and tousled, according to the Koortes’ description. Possibly slightly younger than we thought, both our witnesses guessed him to be in his early twenties.’

‘Well, that should bring a blush to the cheeks of our profilers.’

‘And,’ Karl goes on, ignoring the comment, ‘this is the best part. The guy dropped his hat in the confusion. Full of hair and DNA. I think even you have to admit that’s a good thing, Evald.’

Karl Björken looks up from his papers at the people around the table.

‘And,’ he continues, ‘the guy fled on a moped. Possibly a blue Crescent, according to Olaf Koorte. We’ve already put out an APB on that and we’ll update it once we have the sketches. I know better than to count my sheep until morning, but I think we have cause to feel optimistic. Proper bloody optimistic.’

*

But he sounds far from happy an hour later, when he fixes Karen with a stern stare and says:

‘What were you thinking? You told me you were feeling better and then I hear that you’re throwing up in the bathroom.’

Fuck.

She’d seen Astrid Nielsen pull Karl aside after the meeting to tell him something. Had seen Karl pull back in surprise and anger and then turn to look at Karen. He had marched over to her, his face dark with fury.

And now, here they are.

‘I was actually feeling—’

‘Go home,’ he cuts her off. ‘Right now! I can’t have the whole team taken out by this shit. Especially now, don’t you get that!’

Go home, Karen thinks to herself. When they finally have a chance of catching the Moerbeck Swine. With that description it won’t be long before they have him, and she won’t be there. Unless she comes clean.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she walks over to the car park outside City Hall, across from the station, and climbs into her car. Forces it down, bottles it up. Turns out onto Redehusgate and indicates right while she waits for a gap in the endless stream of cars. There are too many, it’s taking too long, questions are piling up inside her, demanding answers. Answers she doesn’t have.

Well, Karen, what are you going to do?

She doesn’t realise the sky is overcast and the stifling heat gone until a few drops of rain hit her windscreen. Maybe she should swing by Grenå on her way home, restock the pantry. It’s only ten, so the superstore shouldn’t be too crowded.

And then what?