There were few places he disliked as much as Blågårdsgade. Granted, there was something picturesque about all the outdoor serving areas full of young people who didn’t know better than to waste their lives drinking yet another overpriced macchiato made with organic beans some fucking Indian cat had shat out. Sure, he’d been young once and could, if he really put his mind to it, dig up one or two positive memories from all the wet nights out he’d spent in this neighbourhood.

But he had a very strong desire to tear the whole place down. Level it like a ground zero and build something new. A parking garage or whatever; it didn’t matter so long as no trace remained of the old. His hatred, because it really was hatred, did not spring from all the shootings that took place around here or the fact that one of the city’s criminal gangs had made the neighbourhood its base.

No, it was all Dunja The Cunt Hougaard’s fault. She’d ruined his sleep and drawn dark circles under his eyes that no concealer in the world could hide, and the closer he got to her flat on Blågårdsgade 4, the darker his mood became.

After the events in Helsingør the month before, when he managed to prevent her from getting the credit for solving a case about homeless killings, he had decided he wasn't going to have anything more to do with her. He had successfully stymied her career progression, and now he would keep as far away as he could, observe her from a safe distance and watch as she shrivelled up and eventually died in a pool of her own failure.

But her deafening silence had given him no peace. No matter how dearly he wanted to, he could no longer sit on his hands, content not to rock the boat, while attempting to convince himself that all was well.

Vanishing without an electronic trace was considerably harder than people might think. Getting an anonymous pay-as-you-go SIM card for your phone and closing your accounts on social media was one thing. Cutting up your credit cards and not touching the money in any of your accounts was something else.

At best, he had nothing to worry about. A month was, after all, not a very long time. Perhaps she was just curled up in the foetal position at home, trying to comprehend how he’d managed to best her yet again.

It did still say Carsten Røhmer & Dunja Hougaard on the entry phone. But there was no need to call up and give her advance warning. He had been sure to make a copy of her house keys as soon as she started in his department in 2009. He had done that with all of his employees, but, with very few exceptions, Hougaard’s had been the only keys he’d ended up using.