“Are you sure it was Victor Dreyer-Hoff Malthe talked about?” Jeppe looked at her, confused. “Not Oscar, his little brother?”

She nodded so that her eyebrow rings tinkled.

Jeppe leaned back in his uncomfortable café chair and asked, “So what did he tell you about Victor?”

“Well, Victor was a freshman at Zahles when Malthe started teaching there. The boys in his class all looked up to him, cliques formed, there was bullying, and the weaker students didn’t fare so well.” She showed with her fingers that weaker was up to interpretation. “Malthe was determined to do something about the problem. He talked to the students and tried to persuade them to be more accepting.”

“Did it help?”

“Just the opposite. The headmaster reprimanded Malthe and told him to stick to teaching. It was so unfair! Who knows, maybe Victor’s parents are best friends with the board of trustees or something. Malthe ended up being reassigned to a different class.” Her cheeks looked a little flushed under the pale makeup. “He talked to Lis about it a lot. I know that. But apart from her, his colleagues weren’t much help. That was the most disappointing part, he said. When you’re in a new place, you hope that the teachers will stick together. But he doesn’t think too much about it anymore. He loves the school”—she corrected herself—“loved.”

Jeppe jotted down notes. The young woman cleared her throat, then continued.

“After the headmaster reprimanded him, Malthe found a dead bird in his bag in the teachers’ lounge!”

“A dead bird?”

“A dove. Isn’t that gross?! He was sure Victor’s clique was behind it, but of course he couldn’t prove it.” Josephine tugged on the collar of her plaid shirt, then let go of it.

Jeppe wrote VICTOR DEAD BIRD? in his notebook.

“And you are sure Malthe didn’t have any enemies?” Anette insisted.

“Positive!”

“No one held a grudge against him? Debts? Some old score to settle?”

“No! Just no. Malthe is the nicest, kindest person I know.” Josephine looked down at her lap and exhaled heavily. Her skinny shoulders made her look like a baby bird.

“Maybe you should go get some rest,” Jeppe said gently. “Did you need to pick up something from the apartment?”

She nodded without looking up.

“We’ll walk you there.”

“Okay. I just have to stop in the bathroom first.”

She got up, grabbed her canvas tote bag, and steered toward the bathroom. Anette watched her walk away.

“What’s with the war paint?”

Jeppe smiled and found his phone to check for new emails.

“Nyboe writes that Malthe Sæther died Friday night around midnight, give or take two hours either way, so between ten p.m. Friday and two a.m. Saturday.”