“Who do you think you are? You come slinking in every night after we’re tucked in to screw our mom. You think that gives you the right to tell us what to do? To play house?”

“Amina, you don’t mean that!”

“Forget it! Just fucking forget it!”

She pulled away from him and headed for the school.

Jeppe watched her go, then turned around and started walking. Where there had been a knot of worry in his chest before, it now just felt hollow.

At Christianshavns Torv he went down to the subway. For once, people’s morning grumpy pushing and shoving suited his mood just fine. On the train the burden of his inadequacy felt heavier, station by station. Of all the ungrateful little brats in the world, why did Sara have to have a daughter who just refused to give him a chance?

He got off at Nørreport Station and tried to stomp his frustration out on the stairs as he made his way up to street level.

On Nørre Voldgade, elegant gold letters on a tasteful facade revealed the location of Zahles School, one of Copenhagen’s finest old high schools. Malthe’s coworker Lis Christensen had promised to meet Jeppe at the front door at quarter past eight, and just as he arrived, an older woman walked out the glass doors and approached him. She had a neat dark brown haircut and a pained look in her eyes.

“Is it you?”

That one existential question you basically always have to answer in the affirmative. Jeppe smiled and held out his hand.

“Jeppe Kørner from the Copenhagen Police’s Investigations Unit.”

“Yes, I’m Lis. Would you mind if we stayed out here in the fresh air? There are benches in the park.” She pointed toward the entrance of Ørstedsparken and began walking slowly and with difficulty, clearly suffering from arthritis or an injured hip.

The sky over the city had become overcast and looked as if it might rain any minute. In the absence of the sun, temperatures had dropped sharply and people were back to wearing wool coats and scarves again. Jeppe assumed that Lis wanted to have their conversation on a bench more out of discretion than a desire for fresh air. She walked slowly along the gravel path, huddled over in the morning cold, and Jeppe matched her pace until they reached a bench with a view of the pond and a lacy canopy of light green branches.

They sat down. Lis lifted her head and squinted. Even on cloudy days, the light over Copenhagen is always sharp and bright.

“Is it true that Malthe was murdered?” The question tumbled out of her, as if she had been thinking of nothing else since the news of the teacher’s death had hit the previous day.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”