“Kaldan, what the hell? I thought you were grounded.” As always, Munk sounded wheezy and breathless though he never engaged in activities that could cause his pulse to rise.

“Oh, you know me,” Heloise said warmly. “I can’t stay away, and Mikkelsen can’t manage without me. Neither can you, by the way.”

“Touché, ma chérie. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Are you at your desk?”

“Where else would I be?”

“Do you have time to dig out some information for me?”

“About the Skriver case?” Munk sounded equally excited and skeptical.

“No, I’m done with that. This is something else. Does the name Anna Kiel mean anything to you?”

“Is the Pope Catholic? What about her?”

“I need everything you can find on her. Articles we’ve published in the paper, contributions from other media, background information—the whole shebang.”

Munk was quiet, and Heloise could hear the metallic sound of a pen quickly scribbling down notes on a piece of paper.

“I’ll get to work straightaway,” he said. “I’ll email you when I have something. It shouldn’t be long.”

The first documents arrived in Heloise’s in-box ten minutes later. Rather than reading them right away, she put her laptop in her bag and left the building. She needed fresh air, a chance to work without everyone staring at her, and more importantly, a decent meal. Outside the rain had stopped, so she left her bicycle where it was and walked briskly past the French embassy up to Bistro Royal on Kongens Nytorv—her regular Friday lunch restaurant. Today was Monday, but that didn’t matter. Today, everything seemed out of the ordinary.

The restaurant manager was a hearty, robust man. He greeted her warmly. “Why, it’s my favorite reporter,” he said, getting ready to kiss her cheek.

Heloise had a strong suspicion that he had never read anything she’d written, but she appreciated the welcome and greeted him politely in return.

“I’m certainly a hungry reporter,” she said with a smile.

“Are you alone today, or …?” He held up two menus.

The last few times she had come here, she had been with Martin. A week and a half ago, they had spent the whole night sitting in the bar eating mussels and sharing a bottle of Chardonnay. For once they hadn’t talked shop. Well, a couple of times she had tried to turn the conversation to Skriver, but he had stopped her.

Leave it, Helo. I don’t want to talk about work tonight. I’d rather talk about you.

She had just shaken her head and looked at him with a smile until he started talking about himself. About his childhood, his parents, his first love, and his divorce.

She didn’t want children, I did. I still do. It ended badly. Doesn’t it always?