“You told Jonna that Anna writes you letters.”

“That’s right.”

“Why does she do that?”

“I don’t know,” Heloise said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

It was quiet on the other end of the line for a moment. “I think maybe I know why.”

Heloise set down her pen. “You know why she writes to me?”

“Yeah. I think I can help you.”

“Okay, Frank, tell me what you know.”

“No, not like this,” he said. “Not over the phone. Can we meet?”

“Are you in Denmark?” Heloise asked. “I thought you lived in Greenland.”

“No, I haven’t lived there for years.” The man was quiet for a moment. “Can you meet me tonight?”

Heloise agreed and wrote down the address he gave her. She concluded the call and returned to her call with Schäfer.

“Guess who just called me! … Hello? Schäfer?”

But there was no one waiting on the other end of the line.

CHAPTER

23

SCHÄFER STEPPED ON a dried-out crab claw that had been dropped by a sea gull on the farthest section of dock at Rungsted Marina. He proceeded down the floating dock, heading toward a beauty of a Bavaria Yacht—one of the higher-end sailboat makes—that was moored at the end.

He used to sail himself, years ago, and as the scent of the salt water and the sea air hit his nostrils, it almost made him miss his old, scratched-up Nordic Folkboat. But that boat had been so much work that he had finally had to adopt one of his grandfather’s favorite sayings: The only thing that feels better than acquiring new stuff is getting rid of the shit later.

Johannes Mossing was squatting on the yacht’s deck with his back to the dock and hadn’t seen Schäfer approaching. He was either loosening or tightening a mooring line. Schäfer took note of his preppy uniform: a yellow polo shirt, light khakis, and a pair of caramel-colored boat shoes. He smiled to himself and shook his head. Prejudices, he thought. They had a tendency to prove true.

“Are you heading out, or did you just come in?” Schäfer asked.

Johannes Mossing turned halfway around toward the voice and tilted his sunglasses up onto his forehead.

“I just came in,” he said, turning his back to Schäfer again.

“That’s a damn pretty yacht you’ve got there,” Schäfer said, standing fore of the boat with his legs slightly apart and his fists planted solidly at his sides.

“What brings you here, Inspector Schäfer?” Mossing asked, still without looking at him.

“Sergeant first class now. I’m not an inspector anymore.”

“Oh?” Mossing turned, giving Schäfer a sour smile. “Were you demoted?”

“No, not that. It’s the police reform and all that jazz. New departments, new titles, but the work is the same: assholes break the law, I throw them in jail.”