Mads pointed to the end of the fort, and they walked around it to a big, open area, which was covered with sand. A small excavator was left in the sand, and behind it a gigantic white silo leaned against the masonry like some invasive species that had grown bigger than its host.

“Wow, it looks like we landed on the moon!”

Mads frowned and said, “I don’t think we can get into the fort. All the doors are barricaded.”

“Wait, maybe it’s easier from up there.”

Anette walked back to the end of the building where a staircase led up to the roof of the fort. She took it two steps at a time, up to a poured-concrete plateau with shielding concrete bunkers and soft cushions of grass. Mads followed her.

“You brought the flashlights, right? I think we can get in over here.”

She pointed to an open metal door with a staircase peeking out from inside it, the steps of which must lead down into the fort. Mads passed Anette a flashlight and turned on his own.

“Ready?”

He nodded.

“Let’s get going.”

Anette peered in the doorway. The top of the staircase was lit by the daylight from outside, but by the third or fourth step, the contours blurred into a black hole. Her heart skipped a beat, and she groaned, exasperated by her own timidity. What was there to be scared of?

She looked up at the gray sky one last time, turned on her flashlight, and proceeded into the darkness, with Mads right on her heels.

SMOKE FROM THE joint hung thick under the low ceiling of the atelier, obscuring stacked canvases and jars of paintbrushes. Jenny Kaliban breathed easily and leaned back, until the back of her head touched the wall. The noise from the restaurant next door slowly faded. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the remote sounds of life that didn’t have anything to do with her. She was an observer, a role she was comfortable with.

A knock on the door disturbed the calm. Jenny put out the joint and struggled to her feet. Her legs felt stiff and heavy. She must have been sitting there for longer than she realized.

A man she hadn’t seen before stood in the doorway. He was tall and skinny with dark hair and the kind of eyes that told tales of sorrow. He held a laminated ID card out to her.

“Hello! I’m not sure if I’m in the right place. I’m looking for Jenny Kaliban.” He gave her a questioning look, and she nodded, poised. “Jeppe Kørner, pleased to meet you. I’m from the Investigations Unit with the Copenhagen Police. Do you have a minute?”