“Let’s find a seat at one of the tables. There’s a Spanish class that starts at eleven, but until then we have the church to ourselves.”

He removed his apron and walked toward the chapel, Jeppe and Anette following him. The choral director was tall—maybe six foot six—and very slim, with short platinum-blond hair and gold rings in both earlobes. A multicolor tattoo with angels and demons poked out from under his short-sleeved shirt and extended all the way down to his wrist.

They sat down.

“So you’re the choral director, and you work in the bar?” Anette asked.

Sigurd smiled at her.

“To start with I was hired as a bartender, but Absalon likes to make use of the full range of their employees’ abilities. It truly is the people’s house. I also manage a music quiz night once a month.”

“All right, A-Choir…,” Jeppe said, pulling out his notebook. “How did the choir start, and how many members do you have?”

“I started the choir last spring, and there are twenty-two of us. Men only.”

“Tell us a little about it,” Jeppe said.

Sigurd hesitated.

“Well, I’ll be happy to and all, but do you mind telling me why you’re interested in us?”

“Of course. We’re here because one of your members has suffered a serious injury—Malthe Sæther. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“No!” Sigurd brought his hand to his mouth and sat frozen. His eyes teared up.

“Did you know him well?” Jeppe asked, as gently as he could. This was a much stronger reaction than he had expected.

“No…,” Sigurd mumbled. “I’m sorry, I’m just… in shock. I really liked him.”

Sigurd rubbed his face and took a deep breath. Jeppe and Anette exchanged glances.

“How long had you known each other?”

“Malthe joined the choir just under a year ago, so almost right from the beginning. What happened to him?”

Jeppe sighed. There was no easy way to say it.

“Malthe was murdered. We don’t know all the details, but he died late Friday night.”

Sigurd looked away, his already pale cheeks losing color.

“When did you see him last?”

“Tuesday night for choir. Oh God, this is terrible!” Sigurd shook his head. “Malthe is just the nicest guy. He sings tenor, beautiful blue eyes. Everyone loves him.”

Jeppe offered the choir leader a pack of tissues from his pocket.

“Did you ever see him outside of the choir?” Jeppe asked.

“No.” Sigurd pulled out a tissue and wiped his nose. “He often stayed after and had a beer, but nothing more than that. Sometimes we biked home together—he lives on Vendersgade, which is on my way home. I live in Østerbro.”

“And where were you Friday night?”