The music came from an old tape recorder in one corner. Discordant and dark, it sounded like Tom Waits. A white blanket hung from the top of a shelf, lit so brightly by two floor lamps that it was blinding. There was black Molton fabric on the floor below, bunched up in a heap. The red armchair in which Oscar had been immortalized sat on the other side of the room in front of a camera.

“What’s that?” Anette’s whisper sounded shrill. She kneeled by the camera. “Shit! Look at this!”

Jeppe kneeled down next to her and saw a spot on the floor. Four inches in diameter, an almost perfect circle of fresh blood. He put his hand to his ear. A familiar ringing sound started drilling into his cerebral cortex.

They were too late.

“Are there other exits beside the one we came in?” Anette grabbed his shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

They got up and slowly made their way through the room. The blinding lights made it hard for them to get their bearings. Their bodies cast long shadows, and a coat rack in the corner took on a human shape.

“Kørner, look here!”

Anette stood bent over an open drawer. Jeppe came closer and looked over her shoulder. In the drawer a photo printed on letter-size paper was visible.

The picture was of a young man, naked, his head resting at an odd angle against the chair back. His face was pale and his hair slicked back, as if it were wet. He almost looked dead.

Jeppe heard a faint whimper amid the hoarse vocals of the music. He straightened up and looked back.

That’s when he saw the feet. They were sticking out of the black fabric on the floor. Sneakers. He grabbed Anette’s arm and pointed.

Warily Jeppe pulled the Molton aside. Underneath it Jenny Kaliban lay moaning softly, the left side of her face covered in blood.

CHAPTER 34

Oscar Dreyer-Hoff lay in his hospital bed looking at the ceiling. Over the course of the day there had been a steady stream of family members, doctors, and nurses flowing through his room with blood pressure cuffs and cold fingertips. His body was healing; however, it no longer belonged to him. His thoughts were still his own. But only at night. As long as he was surrounded by people, he had to make sure that he didn’t seem too lucid and didn’t overspeak. Otherwise they would really start asking questions and demanding answers.

His mother had said good night and gone home a long time ago. He didn’t miss her. One didn’t have to be particularly perceptive to understand that her cloying attentiveness was an attempt to make up for a guilty conscience. She finally realized that she had failed him. But what was he supposed to do with her shame? He had his hands full dealing with his own.