This morning, Schäfer had caught Ellen Mossing in the driveway with a yoga mat under her arm. She’d broken down sobbing when he told her that her son had been murdered because of her husband’s predilection for minors. But she hadn’t said a word.

Schäfer felt like he’d been through the ringer as he sat in his black Opel Astra now, heading for his little brick house in Copenhagen’s Valby district. He was so exhausted that he wanted to hop on the first plane to Saint Lucia, to hell with Mossing and the whole case. He wanted to just collapse into a hammock between two palm trees, drink one ice-cold beer after another, and enjoy the view of Connie’s curvy body in the crystal-blue waters of the Caribbean.

Only three weeks to go, he told himself, taking his foot off the gas. Only three weeks to go.

He rolled to a stop in front of his house and parked in his usual spot next to the rusty mailbox that hung crooked from the white picket fence around his yard.

The plastic slats over the ventilator from the kitchen were rattling their familiar mealtime melody on the outside wall of the house, and it had the same effect on Schäfer as the bells had had on Pavlov’s dogs. The scent of Connie’s chili con carne reached his nostrils as he neared the front door, and his stomach rumbled in anticipation.

He unlocked the door and tossed his suede jacket on a chair in the entryway.

“Hi, honey, I’m home.”

“Perfect timing!” Connie’s voice replied from the kitchen at the far end of the house. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”

Schäfer undid the top two buttons of his shirt as he lumbered into the living room, drawn toward the aroma of the food cooking on the stove in the kitchen.

He heard Connie laughing and smiled in surprise.

He saw her through the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a yellow dress. She stood there laughing as she peeled avocados on a wooden cutting board on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Her curly, black hair was unbraided and surrounded her face like a lion’s mane. She looked happy, pretty, always so pretty …

Schäfer smiled as he stepped into the kitchen to greet her.

“What’s so fun …”

The smile vanished from his lips, and he instinctively reached for the Heckler & Koch 9mm pistol in his shoulder holster.

“Hi, babe.” Connie glanced over at him as she started slicing the avocado into the salad. Her white teeth shone, lighting up her whole face.

“Hey,” Schäfer replied, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the battered leather armchair in the corner of the kitchen.

Johannes Mossing was sitting in the chair.

Sprawling, his legs crossed, a beer in his hand, relaxed.