He put a hand on Stefan’s shoulder and looked over the injuries to his face.

“I sure as hell hope you didn’t have anything to do with this.” He spoke quickly, which he always did, as he peered distrustfully over at Schäfer.

“No, unfortunately, I can’t take credit for that.”

Erik Schäfer had sat across from Marcus Plessner many times. The man had a notorious knack for making gang members, child molesters, violent criminals, and drug dealers look like poor picked-on souls—and even worse, he was good at convincing judges and juries that they were precisely that.

Schäfer had had the dubious pleasure of his company whenever he questioned Johannes Mossing. And when after yet another batch of inquiries from Schäfer, Mossing had decided to report him for harassment, Plessner was the one who had screamed, “When a civil servant harasses a good, honest citizen like Johannes Mossing, it is a traumatizing experience. There isn’t a single piece of incriminating evidence against my client—not one! It is pure harassment, and if it does not cease immediately, we will need to apply for a restraining order against Mr. Schäfer.”

“You are not to say another word, you understand?” Plessner said, looking down at Stefan. “Not one word without my permission.”

“Whatever you do in your everyday life, Stefan, it must be going really well if you can afford to be represented by none other than Orleff and Plessner.” Schäfer looked back and forth between the two men.

“Do not say anything,” the defense attorney repeated to his client.

“It is kind of funny, though, that you’re being represented by Johannes Mossing’s people, isn’t it? By Christoffer Mossing’s old coworkers?”

“Yes, it’s hilarious,” Plessner said sarcastically. “Now, would you please leave the room? I need to speak to my client alone.”

“Oh, I’m done with him.” Erik Schäfer stood up. “I can inform you that your client is being charged with attempted murder of the journalist Heloise Kaldan, and that we are charging him at the same time with the murder of journalist Ulrich Andersson.”

“Thank you for the information, and good-bye.” Plessner nodded toward the door.

As Schäfer grabbed the handle, he turned around. “By the way, I’m going to send Forensics in here.”

“What for?” Plessner gave Schäfer a distrustful look.

“We just need an impression from those shoes.” Schäfer pointed to Stefan’s Pumas. “They look like a size seven, and that’s a serious problem for your client for two reasons. The first being that a shoe print from a similar shoe was found at the crime scene where Ulrich Andersson was murdered …”

Plessner sent an irritated snort through the room. “And the second?”

Schäfer opened the door. “Well, you know what they say about men with small feet.”

CHAPTER

32