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right through him.
    Toke was already sitting in his office when Lars stepped inside. He got up from the corner of Lars’s desk a little too quickly, holding a copy of Stine Bang’s chart.
    â€œWell, it’s about time,” Toke said. “We’ve been waiting for you all morning.”
    Lars didn’t answer. He hung his jacket over the back of the desk chair. He had been by Baresso Coffee at the corner of Skoubogade and Strøget, where Stine’s friend Astrid worked. The previous evening, Stine, Astrid, and a third friend, Maya, had drinks at Stine’s house. Later they cycled to Ristorante Italiano on Fiolstræde — near Jorcks Passage — and ended up at Penthouse nightclub on Nørregade.
    Toke sat down, crossed his legs. “How’s it going with the apartment?”
    â€œGood, thanks.” Lars sat down, rubbing his face with both hands. “I just have to get settled in. Say hi to your brother-in-law and thank —”
    The door opened. Kim A and Frank walked in without knocking. The office suddenly seemed crowded.
    â€œLisa’s on her way,” Frank said, then sat down on the windowsill. Kim A positioned his more than 225-pound frame in the middle of the room. His fleshy cheeks quivered when he talked. Lars ignored him.
    â€œI assume you’ve all been briefed on the case?” Lars pulled out a cigarette but he didn’t light it. He just needed to have something in his hands. “I’ve been to see the victim, Stine Bang.”
    Toke raised his hand. Lars nodded and Toke slid a photo onto the table.
    Everyone leaned over Lars’s desk, studied the printout of the photo. Stine was lying on a stretcher in the corridor at Rigshospitalet, clearly unconscious. Christine Fogh was bent over her. Stine was naked, although someone had covered her groin with a towel. Even in the grainy photo, the jumble of dark stains and wounds that covered her frail body was clearly visible. Her face was almost lost behind layers of congealed blood. Her nose was crooked, her eyes shut. Even if she’d wanted to, she wouldn’t have been able to open them.
    A quick knock and the door opened. Lisa Bak entered. She was small and nimble with big brown eyes and short, dark-blonde, spiky hair.
    â€œWhat’s up?” She smiled at Frank. Toke made room for her by the desk.
    Lisa glanced at the picture; her smile disappeared. “What a fucking psychopath.”
    No one contradicted her.
    â€œYou haven’t spoken with the victim?” Frank’s freckled face was almost transparent in the backlighting.
    Lars shook his head, told them about his meeting with Christine Fogh, and then recounted Astrid’s statement. A guy had been all over Stine on the dance floor, then had followed her to the bathroom. He was about a head taller than Stine, and had light brown, curly hair. Astrid couldn’t remember what colour his eyes were.
    Lisa moved to the door and rested her back against it as he spoke. The others returned to their previous positions. Everyone avoided looking at the photograph.
    Lars cleared his throat. “This guy that Astrid mentioned, we need to find him.”
    Everyone in the room nodded. Lars looked at each of them in turn. “It won’t be long before the media gets hold of the story. This picture . . .” He pointed at the back of the printout. “It cannot end up in the tabloids or online. She’s already been raped once.”
    Toke nodded, folded the picture, and returned it to his inside jacket pocket.
    Lars leaned back in the chair. “Stine left Penthouse at 2:00 a.m. By bike, it isn’t more than ten minutes to Øster Voldgade where she was attacked at 2:40 a.m. Stine was drunk, so let’s say fifteen minutes. What happened during the intervening twenty-five minutes? Kim A, Lisa, you take Ristorante Italiano and Penthouse nightclub. Somebody had to have seen something. Frank and Toke, you speak to the