The two men regarded each other for a long moment.

“What are you doing here?” Mossing asked again, stepping out onto the dock in front of Schäfer.

“I have a problem you might be able to help me with. You see, a man was murdered the day before yesterday, a journalist.”

Mossing didn’t say anything.

“Ulrich Andersson. Ring any bells?”

“Should it?”

“He was strangled and then hung up in his bathroom, a murder that someone attempted to make look like suicide.”

“That certainly sounds like quite the mess.”

“Yes,” Schäfer said, scratching behind his ear. “But what’s interesting is that a couple of hours before that, he had complained that you had threatened his life.”

Johannes Mossing chuckled. “Nonsense.”

“He said he was threatened at gunpoint in his home when he was writing an article about Christoffer.”

The smile disappeared from Mossing’s mouth when his son was mentioned.

“Coincidentally, the journalist had heard the same stories about your activities at the racetrack as I have,” Schäfer continued, “and when he started investigating the rumors more closely, he was threatened with fire and brimstone.”

“Well, that all sounds very interesting,” Mossing said, and started making his way down the dock. “But I’m afraid you’ve watched too many movies.”

Schäfer followed him to the parking lot. “I don’t suppose I can tempt you into taking a trip down to headquarters for a chat, then?”

“No, but you are welcome to call my lawyer at Orleff and Plessner if you have any further questions,” Mossing said, climbing into the driver’s seat of a black Range Rover Sentinel. “I assume you still have his number.”

Schäfer put a hand on the open car door and leaned in toward Mossing.

“You know that sooner or later I’m going to find out what sort of shit you’re involved in, right?” The jovial small-talk look was gone from Schäfer’s face. “Maybe you think you’ve gotten away with whatever you’ve been up to. But eventually something will topple the house of cards, and when that happens, you’re going to go away for a long time. And for an old guy like you … that might end up being for the rest of your life.”

Mossing stared expressionlessly into his eyes. Then the corners of his mouth curled up into a little smile, and for a fleeting moment the look in his eyes seemed to challenge Schäfer. It didn’t last more than a second—maybe two—but it was the closest Schäfer had ever come to obtaining a confession from Johannes Mossing.

Mossing made a tsk-tsk sound and shook his head, like a sadistic teacher reprimanding a student with intellectual disability in front of the whole class.