She walked the few steps to the building next door, which was decorated with a sign that read FISKBODEN, as in the Fish Shack, passed the locked door, and proceeded around to the back of the place. A man in his forties, with a receding hairline and earrings in both ears, stood painting the wooden facade with dollops of paint. As soon as he saw her, he set down his brush, wiped his hand on his pants, and held it out to her.

“Nicklas, hi. Welcome to Hven.”

She shook his hand.

“You saw the boy we’re looking for?”

“I saw him over there.” He nodded toward the far side of the harbor. “In a wooden boat—white, right? It was a little before nine. I was coming in from Norreborg, where I live. They were just tying up.”

“Are you sure it was him? Who was he with?”

He looked at Anette as if she must be a couple of condiments short of a sandwich.

“I was about a hundred meters away, so, no, I’m not sure. But it was a young man with dark hair in a white wooden boat and a second person, who had blond hair. So I called my friend Mads and asked if that matched the description of the missing boy, and he relayed it on to the search and rescue folks in Copenhagen.” The man picked his paint brush back up and dipped it in the pail of rust-red paint.

“Over there, you said?”

“The boat’s still there.” He went back to painting with a sideways glance at the tourists in the harbor area, as if to demonstrate that he was too busy getting ready for the upcoming summer season to talk to her anymore.

Anette thanked him and returned to the search and rescue boat, where the crewman and the two volunteers were waiting.

“It’s over here. This way!”

They walked by the pleasure boats, past the restaurant, the public bathrooms, and the swimming dock, around to the opposite side of the harbor. Sure enough, hidden behind a pretentious yacht, a white wooden boat was moored to the wharf.

“Don’t you usually put the name of the boat on the stern? It’s supposed to be called the Frida, but as far as I can tell there’s nothing there.”

The crewman hopped down onto the boat, grabbed the railing, and leaned over to study the side facing away from the breakwater.

“No name back here, either. It’s actually required by law, but boat owners still don’t always get the name on.” He inspected the open boat. “There’s nothing here besides some rope. It’s empty.”

Anette straightened up and looked around at the harbor, along the coastline, up to the church. How far could one get on foot in a couple of hours? Where could one even disappear to on such a small island as this?