“Ah, there you are,” he said. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about our appointment.”

“You should have told me we were having company,” Connie said. She came over and planted a kiss on Schäfer’s lips as she wiped her hands on a dishcloth. “I would have tidied up a little.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Connie. Your place is charming,” Mossing said, giving her a flirtatious look, which made Schäfer want to yank his gun out of its holster and empty the clip into Mossing’s chest.

“Our appointment?” he asked instead. His voice was neutral, but every muscle in his body was tense. “Could you just jog my memory—which appointment was that again?”

“You said you had something you wanted to talk to me about.”

“Johannes tells me that you’ve recently started working together,” Connie said. “That he’s helping you with the cases you’re working on at the moment.” She turned to Mossing. “Actually, I didn’t catch your last name?”

“Madsen.” He smiled warmly. “I’m normally with the police in North Zealand, but I’ve been temporarily assigned to the investigation in Copenhagen. Your husband is just so busy—dashing around, breaking down doors, and asking a lot of questions—and, I mean, we can’t have that, have him getting burned out. So, one of the head honchos thought he could use a little help.”

“You see? Now that’s what I like to hear,” Connie said, bending down to take plates out of the cupboard in front her.

Mossing looked over at Schäfer. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Did you say dinner would be ready in ten?” Schäfer asked, without taking his eyes off Mossing.

“Well, now it’s more like … eight,” Connie said, looking at the timer on the stove.

“Okay. I just have some paperwork I’d like you to take a look at,” Schäfer told Mossing, and stepped aside so the path was clear to the doorway leading to the living room.

“Oh?” Mossing folded his hands in his lap, expectant, defiant.

Schäfer looked at what he was wearing, the dark-blue blazer that hung down over his loose khakis. Could Mossing be hiding a weapon in there? he wondered. A gun? A knife?

“Yeah,” Schäfer said. “The papers are out in my car. Why don’t you come on out for a sec and I’ll show you?”

Mossing stood up. He walked over to Schäfer and pointed to the door. “After you.”

Schäfer grabbed the grip of his gun. “No, after you.”

They had only just reached the front door when Schäfer drew his weapon and aimed it at Johannes Mossing.

“You motherfucker! What are you playing at? You show up in my house?! You talk to my wife? I ought to put a bullet between your eyes right now, you son of a bitch!”