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they couldn’t. They never got it.’
    ‘I see. That’s peculiar, because the documents suggest that the police in Nykøbing, Holbæk and the Mobile Investigation Unit all worked together.’
    ‘No. They say that Nykøbing was in charge of the inquest, but left the case to the others.’
    ‘Really? I find that rather odd. Do you know if anyone in Nykøbing knew the victims personally?’
    ‘Yes and no.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘The two victims were the son and daughter of one of the officers.’ He pointed at the notes he had just taken. ‘His name was Henning P. Jørgensen.’
    Carl pictured the savagely beaten girl. It was any police officer’s worst nightmare to find their own children murdered.
    ‘How awful. But I suppose that explains why the case was handed over to another station. I’ll bet you there is a personal motivation behind it. But you said yes and no. Why?’
    Assad leaned back in his chair. ‘I did it because there is no longer anyone at the station who is related to those children. Right after the discovery, the officer drove back to the police station in Nykøbing Sjælland. He greeted the guy at the front desk, went straight to the weapons depot and pulled the trigger on his service revolver like this.’ He pointed at his temple with two short, thick fingers.
    The Danish police reform brought many strange results. Districts were renamed, titles were changed and archives were moved. All in all, most personnel had difficulty finding their footing in all this lunacy. Plenty used the opportunity to jump off the merry-go-round, accepting the title of ‘early retiree’.
    In the old days, retirement for a police officer hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park. The average number of years they had left to live after such an exhausting careerdidn’t even reach two digits. Only reporters had worse prospects, but then again, many more pints probably passed through that profession. Death had to have a cause, after all.
    Carl knew officers who hadn’t even made it to their first anniversary as a pensioner before they kicked the bucket, leaving the world in the hands of freshly minted lackeys. But thankfully things were changing. Even police officers wanted to see the world, wanted to see their grandchildren get their A levels. As a consequence, many left the force. Like Klaes Thomasen, a retired cop from Nykøbing Sjælland who stood before them now with his potbelly, nodding. Thirty-five years in blue was enough, he said. These days his wife exerted a stronger pull on him. Even though the part about the wife gnawed at Carl a little, he knew what Klaes meant. Technically, of course, he, too, still had a wife, but it had been ages since she’d left him, and her undersized lovers with their long Vandykes would no doubt protest if he insisted on having her back.
    As if he would ever try.
    ‘A very lovely place you’ve got,’ Assad said. Impressed, he stared through the double windows at the fields surrounding Klaes Thomasen’s well-tended garden and the town of Stenløse beyond.
    ‘Thanks for taking the time to see us, Thomasen,’ Carl said. ‘There aren’t many officers left who knew Henning Jørgensen.’
    Klaes’s smile vanished. ‘The best friend and colleague anyone could ask for. We were neighbours. That’s one reason we moved. After all that happened, his widow took illand started acting batty and we no longer liked living there. Too many bad memories.’
    ‘I understand that Henning Jørgensen was unprepared for who the victims were in that summer cottage?’
    Thomasen shook his head. ‘We got a call from a neighbour who’d stopped by the cottage and discovered the dead kids. I was the one who answered. Jørgensen was off that day. But when he drove out to pick up his children he saw all the police cars. They would have begun their final school year the following day.’
    ‘Were you there when he arrived?’
    ‘Yes, along with the crime-scene techs and the head of the