First wave of the search operation was up and running. A team of officers was looking through digital channels, doing door-to-door searches in the neighborhood, and calling Oscar’s relatives and classmates. The second wave would take an hour or so to activate. Canine patrols, helicopters, and media assistance all took longer to set in motion. They had decided to sit on the letter and their suspicions regarding kidnapping, at least initially. Until one knows the kidnappers’ demands, it can do serious harm to involve the rest of the world in the situation.

Their hope was that Oscar would turn up unharmed before it became necessary.

“What are your initial thoughts?” Jeppe asked.

Anette pursed her lips.

“That it didn’t look like a classic ransom note.”

“But given the previous threat pattern, it’s likely what we’re dealing with,” Jeppe said, squinting out at the water.

“Well, maybe,” Anette began, kicking a pebble so it skittered across the asphalt. “Is it just me or did you get a weird vibe between the parents?”

“Isn’t that to be expected?”

She shrugged.

“What do you think about the concept of a family bed?”

He exhaled a delicate column of smoke toward the horizon.

“Well, I guess it’s not exactly normal to sleep in the same bed as your teenage son. But every family is different. I presume they’re doing what they think is best for their children.”

“I think it’s creepy,” Anette said, shuddering demonstratively. “And who says that Malin Dreyer-Hoff is in tune with her kids? She doesn’t seem like the empathetic type.”

Jeppe raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“Knock it off, Jepsen! You don’t hold a patent on decoding people just because you read a book once.”

Jeppe smiled wryly at his partner and put the cigarette out on his heel.

“Come on, let’s go,” he said.

The neighborhood around Amalienborg Palace reeked of old money. They passed white plaster facades, cobblestone streets, and thick brass nameplates before they turned onto Fredericiagade. The fashionable atmosphere slowly faded the farther they got from the water and the castle, where the budget for maintaining the old buildings was obviously lower. At number 64, a relatively humble entrance around the corner from Borgergade, Jeppe found the name Skytte on the intercom and pressed the button. The door opened into a little courtyard between tall apartment buildings. A blond man of medium height, and with a full beard, was waiting in the doorway of what turned out to be a ground-floor apartment with direct access from the courtyard. Jeppe wiped his feet on a floral doormat and offered him his hand. Chewing gum didn’t quite mask a trace of alcohol on the man’s breath.