A SCHOOL HAD moved its sports class out onto one of the basketball courts on the grassy median strip on Sønder Boulevard. The cheerful shouts of the students merged with the morning rain, as Jeppe and Anette met up in front of Absalon’s Church, like a collage of youth and hope.

“Howdy,” Anette called out when they were about five yards apart, “is this the place? Was he in a church choir, or something?”

“The church is no longer in use. It’s a community center now. They host all sorts of activities—bridge and communal dining and tango lessons. And apparently choral singing.”

“How modern.” She squinted up at the skies. “Are you going to smoke before we go in?”

“So you can mooch off my smoke?” Jeppe laughed. “Forget it, Werner. It’s raining! By the way, have you been in touch with Kasper Skytte?”

“No.” Anette frowned. “Is he still not answering his phone?”

“Nope! Come on, it’s this way.”

They walked up the stone stairs to the church’s big wooden door and opened it. Inside, the high-ceilinged former church greeted them warmly, its walls painted salmon pink and blue and green. Long tables filled the floor space, where church pews must have once been.

“The choral director said we could find him in the bar,” Jeppe said, making his way between the tables.

“A bar in a church…?” Anette mused, following him. “We certainly don’t have that out in suburban Greve Strand.”

“Oh, how would you know? When’s the last time you went to church?”

“Granted, it’s been a while. But now that you mention it, I think we actually did drink a little shot of schnapps at the altar.”

Jeppe laughed.

“Are you calling the blood of Christ a shot of schnapps?”

“Tasted awful. I haven’t been back since.”

In a room to the side of the former altar they found a bar counter with shelves of liquor bottles behind it and a commercial dishwasher. A board listed the day’s bar snacks, and the draft beer dispenser could be heard humming under the table—they could have been in any hotel bar or nightclub in the city. A collection of milk crates in the middle of the floor, containing food supplies, indicated that the bar was currently closed.

“What’s his name, the choral director?”

Jeppe checked his notes.

“Sigurd Vejlø.”

“Sigurd?” Anette giggled at the somewhat unusual name. “Sigurd the choral singer!”

Just then a door behind the bar swung open and a young man walked through carrying an empty milk crate in his arms.

“Ah, there you are. Have you been waiting long?” He set the crate down and wiped his hands off on a dish towel.

“Are you Sigurd?”

“I am indeed.”

“Jeppe Kørner and Anette Werner from the Copenhagen Police’s Investigations Unit. We spoke on the phone.”

Sigurd shook their hands.