‘The Moerbeck Swine? You found him?’

‘Yep. Two patrolling officers spotted him at a playground up on Krokvej an hour ago. Apparently, he was hiding in one of those little houses.’

Karen runs a hand over her eyes and tries to picture it.

‘What, a playhouse? How the fuck did he manage to squeeze into one of those? They only fit a couple of little kids.’

Karl chortles.

‘Not one of those. I mean those locked storage sheds where they keep benches and equipment. He’d broken in but had been dumb enough to leave his moped by the swings. The patrol spotted it driving by.’

‘And we’re sure it’s the right guy? The same guy who managed to assault at least three women before leaving so much as a speck of DNA. And now he’s suddenly parking his moped where anyone can see it?’

‘I haven’t had time to see him yet, but the watch commander sent me a picture. All I can say is that I’ve never seen a better match between a composite and a photograph. Everything’s right, even his jacket. And it’s not a regular one, either; it’s one of those chequered lumberjack things. And the moped is a blue Crescent, just as Olaf Koorte thought.’

Karen leans back in the sofa. Closes her eyes and lets the realisation sink in. They’ve caught him.

‘He must have given up, I guess, wanted to get caught,’ she says.

‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened.’

‘Is he talking?’

‘Not a word. Apparently stares at the floor and doesn’t reply when spoken to. But he has been swabbed and I’m not losing any sleep over the fact that he’ll be marinating in a cell overnight.’

‘Me neither. It’s nice of you to call.’

‘Yeah, terrible time to be off sick. I would have loved to have you with me tomorrow when I interview him.’

She hesitates. Quickly runs through her options. Can’t tell him the truth, could try to come up with something else. Most importantly: she’s not going to be sitting at home when the Moerbeck Swine is being interviewed for the first time.

‘I don’t have a stomach bug,’ she says, desperately racking her brain for an appropriate alternative illness.

‘Come off it, Karen. Astrid heard you in the bathroom. Besides, I saw you. Pale as a cod’s belly.’

Pale. Nauseous. Of course.

Thank you, Mum.

‘It’s gallstones,’ she says.

‘Gallstones?’

Karl makes no attempt at hiding his disbelief.

‘It’s true. Certain foods make me feel horrible. Stomach ache, nausea. Especially eggs,’ she hears herself say. ‘And fatty foods.’

She’s more surprised than outraged at discovering how good she is at lying. How convincing she sounds.

‘And I had one of those egg salad sandwiches from the vending machine yesterday. Hadn’t had breakfast and didn’t think.’