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friendly stress on Bjarke, as she stood there like a cougar in the half-open front door with a duster tucked in her cleavage and a cigarette burning between her outstretched fingers. “But you shouldn’t expect Bjarke to be in the mood to talk with you,” she said with the look of a professional landlady, glancing unimpressed at Carl’s ID card. He estimated that she was fifty-five. Blue housecoat, home-colored permed hair with highlighted split ends, and a crazily lopsided tattoo on her wrist that was probably, albeit in vain, supposed to make her more exotic.
    “I think you should show a bit of sympathy and let him get over the shock. After all, it’s only a few hours since his dad, God bless him, took his own life.”
    Assad took a step forward. “It’s really sweet that you’re so good to your lodger and look out for him. But what if we had a final letter with us for him from his dad? Wouldn’t it be a shame if he didn’t get it? Or what if his mom had also committed suicide? Do you really think we’d be allowed to tell you if that was the case? And what if we’re actuallyhere to arrest Bjarke for arson? Would it still be all right then, that you’re standing here in your heels and mocking the course of justice?”
    She looked a little perplexed as she took in all the information and his smiling face. Maybe she became even more confused when Assad took her arm, patted it, and reassured her that he understood how much it must also affect her to have a lodger in so much distress. At any rate, she let go of the door handle and allowed Carl to nudge the door open with his shoe.
    “Bjarke!” she shouted reluctantly up the stairs. “You’ve got visitors.” She turned toward them. “Wait here in the hallway a minute before you go up. And knock on the door and wait until he opens himself, okay? Bjarke can sometimes be a little indisposed, but I hope you’ll overlook that under the circumstances. I certainly do. And double standards or not, that’s just the way it is.”
    You could smell the indisposition already halfway up the stairs. In fact, it smelled like a hash café from the outskirts of Copenhagen’s Nørrebro district on unemployment benefit payment day.
    “Skunk,” said Assad. “A very fine, strong smell. Not as sneaky and sour as hash.”
    Carl scowled. That damned professor he was dragging along. Skunk or hash, the smell of decay was just as pathetic.
    “Remember to knock,” came the reminder from the bottom of the stairs.
    The message didn’t reach Assad’s hearing range because without further ado he grabbed the handle and opened the door.
    Assad stopped immediately in the doorway and Carl understood why when he came up behind him.
    “Hang on a minute, Rose,” he said, attempting to hold her back.
    There, leaning back in a large worn armchair, sat Bjarke without a stitch on him, his legs pulled up under him and a bottle of paint thinner in his hand.
    And apart from being naked, Bjarke was also stone-cold dead, as anyone could see from this distance despite the sun barely being able to penetrate the thick hash fog. Slitting his wrists, Bjarke had ended hislife with half-closed eyes in a dreamlike gaze. It hadn’t been a difficult death.
    “That wasn’t skunk you smelled, Assad. It was the combination of hash and cellulose thinner,” said Carl.
    “Don’t stand there blocking my way,” snapped Rose from behind as she tried to push past them.
    “You shouldn’t come in here, Rose, it isn’t pretty. Bjarke’s dead. There’s blood all over the floor because he’s slit his wrists. I’ve never seen so much blood from one person.”
    Assad nodded quietly. “But then I’ve seen a bit more of this sort of thing than you, Carl.”
    It was a long time before the technicians and the doctor who would carry out the postmortem arrived. As a result, Bjarke’s landlady had the entire staff of Department Q to cling to while she lamented over something so horrid invading her life. How in the