“Like a log!” Sara’s expression lit up the room. “How about you?”

“Okay. I’m a little stiff. That mattress is still too soft for me, but there is nothing wrong with my mood.” He got the milk out of the fridge and gave her a quick kiss, which she leaned in to.

“Would you be able to look at Malthe Sæther’s computer today? Clausen’s sending it over this morning.”

Her smile stiffened. As a rule they didn’t talk about work in front of the kids.

“I will.”

“Thank you.” Jeppe tried to get her to smile again, but she wasn’t going for it. He sat down, drank his coffee, and tried to focus on the tasks ahead instead of the subtle shifts in his relationship.

To find a perpetrator, first he had to get to know the victim. The key to Malthe’s death was in all likelihood hiding somewhere in his life—at school, in the chorus, with a friend—they just had to find it. The first item on Jeppe’s agenda for today was to question Lis Christensen, Malthe’s fellow teacher from Zahles, then later the choral director, and hopefully Kasper Skytte. But first, he had a personal matter to attend to.

At ten minutes to eight, he stood waiting by the fence in front of Christianshavn School. Boys and girls on scooters and in hoodies with low-hanging backpacks passed him in a steady stream without looking up from their shoes and their phones. Parents in tight black jeans dropped off their progeny from cargo bikes with kisses and eager waves, before hurrying off to work.

Amina came walking along behind her friend, as if she were hiding, which she probably was. Jeppe edged his way through the crowd and pulled her aside before she was able to enter the school grounds.

“Good morning, Amina,” Jeppe said. “Could we have a quick chat for, like, two minutes?”

She avoided making eye contact.

“I just want to hear what you were doing out on the street so late last night.”

“Did you blab to my mom?”

“No.”

The decision to keep Amina’s secret at the expense of Sara’s trust had been instinctive. He already regretted it.

“Amina, I’m just worried about you. You were hanging out on a street corner at nine thirty at night with teenagers who were drinking beer. You know you’re not allowed to do that.”

“I didn’t drink anything.”

“Oh, believe me! If you’d have been drinking, I would have dragged you home.” Jeppe put his hand to his head. “You’re eleven years old! Eleven! You were playing circus with your little sister, like, five minutes ago.”

She raised her face and looked at him, eyes narrow, and the corners of her mouth curled downward.