After dinner, they had gone home together, and he had been rougher with her than she’d expected. She’d let him, and to her surprise, she had kind of liked it. But he’d also scared her a little.

Heloise smiled at the restaurant manager. “It’ll be just me today.”

She was shown to one of the best tables in the restaurant with a view of Kongens Nytorv and the Royal Theater. She ordered a prawn sandwich and a bottle of mineral water, opened her laptop, and read the first of the emails that Morten Munk had sent her.

She spent the next hour eating, reading, and taking notes. When she was done, she called Ulrich Andersson.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m looking for Ulrich.”

“Who is calling?”

“This is Heloise Kaldan from Demokratisk Dagblad.”

“Kaldan? Right. Long time, no see. What’s up?”

It was midafternoon, but Heloise sensed that she had woken him up. There was a pause; she heard the flicking of a lighter, followed by a hiss and the sound of a toilet seat being flipped up.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I think I need your help.”

“My help?” The spray hit the bowl hard, almost drowning out his voice. “With what?”

“Well, I’ve sort of taken over a story that you used to cover. I’m calling to see if you can help me fill in some blanks.”

There was silence on the other end, and Heloise continued, “It’s about the murder of that lawyer in Taarbæk. Christoffer Mossing. I’ve been reading all your old work on the case, and I would like to know a little more about who—”

“I can’t help you with that.” His voice was suddenly cold and wide awake.

“Oh, but it’ll only take, like, half an hour. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee; I really won’t take up much of your time. I just want to know if back then you spoke to—”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” Ulrich Andersson hung up.

Heloise stared at her cell phone in disbelief. She tried calling him back, but he didn’t pick up. The third time, she let it ring until it went to voice mail.

“Hi, Ulrich, it’s Heloise Kaldan again. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve received a letter from Anna Kiel, and I thought that perhaps you’d like to read it. Call me.”

She found it hard to believe that a journalist who’d been eating crime stories for breakfast for years would be able to resist an opportunity like that.

Of course he’d call.