Grens first instinct was to order them to go. But that wasn’t a good idea. They were just doing their jobs. According to protocol, when you receive an intruder report, you have to go inside and check the premises, make sure no one’s standing behind the person at the door with a gun in their back, forcing them to keep the police at bay. It didn’t matter if the person who had called it in was their commanding officer or not.

“I . . . ah, I thought for a moment that it was an intruder. But it was just an old friend stopping by. He’s in the kitchen, we’re having a coffee. Do you want one too?”

The detective superintendent stepped aside, inviting them in. One of the officers headed for the rest of the apartment, while the other followed Grens to the kitchen.

“Here. My friend. Who I mistook for a burglar.”

The officer stopped right about where Grens had a half hour earlier. In the doorway to the kitchen. From there the whole room was visible. The police officer saw a frumpy middle-aged man with a puffy face and a grizzled mustache, newly empty porcelain cups, a pack of biscuits, and a coffeepot just about to finish brewing another pot of coffee.

However, the hand grenade and finger prostheses were gone.

And Hoffmann had one of his hands beneath the table.

“Hello. Name’s Haraldsson. I’m afraid I managed to give my friend Grens quite a scare.”

“Haraldsson?”

“Peter Haraldsson. Old friend.”

The young police officer lingered for a moment. As if waiting for the man at the kitchen table to say more.

“Did you want one? A cup? It’s fresh.”

The detective superintendent nodded toward the coffeemaker.

“No, thanks. I’ll just wait until my colleague is finished. If everything looks good, we’ll head out.”

A few minutes later, his colleague arrived. Done. And they walked on either side of Grens to the front door.

“I’m sorry, guys, made a mistake this evening. But you did a damn fine job, I want you to know that. I promise to make sure your superior officer knows that too.”

•   •   •

The new batch of freshly brewed coffee was just as strong as the previous one.

Piet Hoffmann swallowed, waiting for the rip in his chest that would make his thoughts clear and clean and tangible.

“This was what I found in my mail at my office. It changed everything.”

There had been more than just a grenade in that bag. Grens’s nocturnal visitor took out a thick bundle of papers and dropped them on the table.

“This is what I found.”

The detective looked at the padded envelope Hoffmann placed on top of the stack.

To Piet Koslow Hoffmann