“When did all this happen?”

Schäfer looked at the screen in front of him.

“Four years ago.” He hit the back button and returned to the page of Google search results. “There’s more …”

He clicked on another newspaper article.

“This looks like courtroom printouts, but it’s in French. See, there’s a sketch of him.”

Augustin walked over and stood behind Schäfer.

The charcoal sketch on the monitor depicted a burly man with bushy, close-set eyebrows, a prominent nose, and a dark, full beard that blended behind his ears into dark, curly hair.

“Is that him?” she asked. “Is that Nick Kaldan?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t look like Heloise. Or to be more precise, she doesn’t look like him. Are you sure they’re related?”

“Yes, I looked it up in the national CPR2 database. They’re father and daughter.”

“Okay.” Augustin nodded at the screen. “What does it say there?”

“I don’t know. I don’t speak French.”

“Hello? Just use Google Translate.” Augustin reached across Schäfer, copied the text of the article, and pasted it into Google’s translation site. “The translation is never that great, but at least you get the general gist.”

She hit translate, and the French text on the left side of the screen appeared in a rough Danish translation on the right side.

Augustin read out loud. “It says, ‘The atmosphere in the Paris courthouse today was solemn for the sentencing of Mr. Nick Kaldan, a Danish citizen. A painful man stood in front of the crowd throughout the procedure. He showed remorse. He even cried’—yeah, right. Cry me a fucking river!—Um … ‘The judge in the case is presumed to be unaffected by the accused’s state of mind and remorse. Mr. Kaldan was found guilty of charges one through three and was sentenced to eight years in jail.’ Boom!”

“Eight years,” Schäfer repeated. “Ouch!”

“But that’s just a slap on the wrist for that kind of thing!”

“No, I bet eight years in jail at Fresnes will feel like a hundred. That place isn’t like the Danish prisons; there’s no DVD players in the cell or nice little field trips to attend Great Aunt Ketty’s birthday party. That place is hard-core. Personally, I’d rather eat a bullet than spend eight years there.”

“Well, he got what he deserved, that fucking pig.”

“It’s hard to disagree with you there,” Schäfer said with a shrug.

Augustin set her coffee down and walked over to a whiteboard mounted on the wall across the room. She picked up a blue marker and started making a timeline.

“Okay, Anna Kiel killed Christoffer Mossing in April 2016. After that she disappeared into thin air.”

The pen squeaked as she vigorously moved it over the board’s glossy surface, and Schäfer couldn’t make out a single word of her hurried handwriting.