Her phone rang, and she answered it. After a brief conversation, she hung up and said to Schäfer, “That was Bertelsen. The got a hit on one of the palm prints that was lifted from the inside of the front door to Ulrich Andersson’s apartment.”

“Whose was it?” Schäfer asked, looking up.

“Guess!”

“Stefan Nielsen?”

“Bingo!”

Schäfer nodded in satisfaction. “Well, then that’s settled.”

“That also gives us something to put some pressure on him with.”

“No, we can forget about all that. He’s not gonna say a word about Mossing.”

“Do you really think he’d rather go away for a long time than hand over Johannes Mossing?”

Schäfer nodded. “But I don’t think it’s a loyalty thing. It’s not about his not wanting to be a snitch. I also don’t get the sense that he’s afraid of any potential repercussions.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know. But there was something about the way he was looking at me, the look in his eyes, the smile. It was as if he was enjoying it.”

“Enjoying what, being questioned?”

“The whole situation.”

“Huh.” Augustin walked over to the door. “You want anything?”

Schäfer glanced up. “What kind of anything?”

“Coffee. I’m going to pop down and get a coffee. Do you want me to bring you one?”

Schäfer shook his head, and Augustin left the room. He clasped his hands behind his head as he scanned the bulletin board on the wall over her seat.

There were photos from the crime scene in Taarbæk, of the bloody bed in Christoffer Mossing’s bedroom and of the murder weapon: a filleting knife that had been jabbed down hard into a Vanity Fair magazine with George Clooney on the cover. There were pictures of the blood-splattered headboard and the wall, pictures of the juice carton Anna Kiel had drunk out of after the murder and left her DNA on.

In the middle of the bulletin board was a picture of her—the picture the newspapers had printed in the weeks following the murder. In the picture she was standing so far out on a ledge of Grand Canyon that she looked as if she were floating in midair. There was a drop-off behind her that looked like it was probably a thousand feet down, and anyone who felt even a trace of fear of death would look a little uncomfortable in that situation. Alternatively, the thought of the free fall would trigger some kind of adrenaline-induced reaction—a panicky laugh, bulging eyes, clenched fists, beads of sweat on the forehead.