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line of work often did, but they were discreet and guarded their customers’ secrets the way fairy-tale dragons guard treasure.
    â€˜I think he was having a dangerous liaison. There was a rumour.’
    â€˜A woman?’
    â€˜A woman whose husband was unhappy about this liaison,’ Miriam said, locating a roasting tin in the cupboard under the worktop.
    â€˜Who should I be looking for?’
    He knew he was pushing it. He also knew he would only get a hint by way of an answer. She rinsed the chicken and dabbed it dry with kitchen towel. From a packet in the fridge she took a big blob of butter and slapped it in the roasting tin, then she turned on the cooker and warmed the tin.
    â€˜You’ve got to go back in time, Peter,’ she said, standing next to him.
    She waited until the butter had browned before placing the rinsed chicken in the tin, making the fat sizzle. She looked at him while sipping her champagne.
    â€˜If you want an answer, your own past is where you’ll find it. And deep down you know that, don’t you? Stinger, Ramses and Brian.’
    She put down her glass.
    â€˜The whole thing reeks of Horsens.’
    Horsens Prison. Peter stared into the distance. He didn’t want to look back; he had made a promise to himself. He wasn’t interested in revenge or hatred. He wanted to live his new life, go hunting with Manfred and talk about great literature, play with Kaj, put a roof on the pig farmer’s barn, do his paintings and dream about the future.
    He was done with demons. But it didn’t necessarily follow that they were done with him.
    Later, when the food was ready, Lulu came in from the cold, wearing more clothes than he had ever seen her wear, and alone.
    â€˜Stinger? He ran into someone he knew and he was gone.’
    She offered him a cheek to kiss, pushing out her enlarged breasts and sniffing the aroma of roast chicken. ‘Yummy, I’ve been looking forward to this all day.’

9
    M ARK B ILLE H ANSEN turned up at Århus police station early on Saturday morning. No one had told him to do so. No one expected him. But he had decided it was the right thing to do. Århus was leading the investigation into the disappearance of Nina Bjerre, and it was also Århus and Anna Bagger who were investigating the death of the man under the cliff. Anna sat there now with a straight back and alert morning gaze, leading from the front and allocating work for the frogmen from the mine-clearing division of the FKP, the Frømandskorpset, with whom the police had a regular contract. She briefly met Mark’s eyes, and warmth suffused his body, along with the irritation of having to watch from the wings.
    He concentrated on the divers. He had seen their equipment when he parked outside the station at twenty minutes past seven. They had arrived from Nykøbing, Sjælland, late on New Year’s Day in three vehicles: a blue pick-up, a green diving truck the size of a house and a towing vehicle with a black, one-tonne fibreglass boat and a small inflatable with an outboard motor on the back. Attending the meeting this morning were the commanding officer, Allan Vraa, as well as three young divers in green sweaters and army trousers, two dog handlers and a couple of police pathologists.
    â€˜Nina Bjerre went to a New Year’s Eve party with some friends at the new development by the marina. She left the party at around two a.m. A witness saw her in the area near the fishing boats, so we were thinking of searching the harbour, with dogs and with you.’
    Anna Bagger spoke to the commanding officer. ‘What do you think? How long would it take your team to search the harbour?’
    Allan Vraa unfolded a map on the table.
    â€˜GrenÃ¥ Harbour is a dump. There’s zero visibility and fish waste scattered around. It covers the seabed up to a depth of a couple of metres.’
    â€˜So what do you do if you can’t see anything?’
    He looked