She walked over to the window, confused and in shock. A thought appeared in the back of her mind and started floating around just on the perimeter of her consciousness. Down by the lake, in front of her building, streetlights were turning the air blue, ducks quacked, and a laughing couple biked by, holding hands. Nearby, at National Hospital, Gregers lay in bed fasting before tomorrow’s contrast exam.

Beauty and pain all in the same frame.

Where had she seen that wooden relief before?

Esther did a breathing exercise half-heartedly and tried to think. Then out of the blue it popped into her head, that sales ad with the picture of the carved funeral procession.

She walked back over to her computer and opened the Nordhjem home page. The auction had ended, but the ad was still there. Identical to the one from ninthcircle.com. The same item was for sale both at a fancy auction house and on a perverted online forum.

Surely the coincidence indicated something important, something wrong. A combination like this of art and perversion always has victims.

She typed two names into the search field. A picture appeared at the top of the page, a photograph from a 1990 exhibit at Galerie Asbæk. Jenny Kaliban, young and beautiful, stood side by side with Henrik, both in relaxed jeans and with big smiles. They weren’t touching each other in the picture and yet Esther could see a palpable connection between them. Had Malin Dreyer-Hoff’s husband originally been interested in her sister?

Esther’s head swam from wine and confusing thoughts. Stolen works of art for sale online with the help of an established auction house? Henrik and Jenny working together to steal and sell stolen property?

The literature professor who had been Esther’s mentor had always told her students that art is boundless and must never be hindered by sentimental considerations. We wouldn’t have the Sistine Chapel if it weren’t for the notoriously evil Medici family. Giza’s pyramids would never have been built if it weren’t for the suffering of hundreds of thousands of men.

She looked down at her own soft, uncalloused hands. They had never hurt anyone. But then, had they ever created anything lasting?

Esther leaned her head back and emptied her wineglass. Then she opened her email and wrote to Jeppe Kørner.

ANETTE MET JEPPE on Dag Hammarskjölds Allé in front of the American embassy, winded and out of breath, her hair windblown and disheveled.

“What’s up?” she called out to him, causing the guards to turn around and look.

“It’s good to see you!” Jeppe held out his phone and showed her the picture of Oscar. “Saidani found pictures of Oscar on a pedophilia site. I know where they were taken.”

“Oh, God damn it!” Her face twisted in disgust. “Do you think they have something to do with Malthe’s death?”