Free Three Dog Night by Elsebeth Egholm

something was wrong. The window in the back door was smashed, and the front door was unlocked. Irrationally, his first thought was that the house would be freezing cold now, and he would have to light the wood burner quickly to warm the place up. Then he realised there were more important things at stake than wasting heat.
    He entered cautiously. Kaj followed him, whining and keeping low on his front paws. He immediately embarked on his own search of the crime scene and sniffed around, from the sofa to the overturned bookcase to the cushions lying on the floor, the drawer that had been emptied onto the wooden floor, the paintings that had been snatched and cut up. Peter put the cushions back where they belonged on the sofa and sat in the middle of the chaos. He surveyed the wreckage.
    â€˜This is not good, Kaj. Not good at all.’
    The dog understood him, he knew he did. Kaj, too, enjoyed having a system and a routine, what other people might call a humdrum existence. Days when you were allowed to do your own thing and maintain contact with the world outside, without anyone getting too close. He patted Kaj on the head when he came back from a recce with frown lines etched into his forehead.
    â€˜Good boy.’
    It was all because of Ramses and Stinger, Peter thought. Someone had trashed his place looking for information about their miserable get-rich-quick scheme, of that he was certain. The timing of the break-in couldn’t be a coincidence. Miriam was right: it was all about the past. It was about Horsens. About everything he wanted to put behind him.
    The dog tore itself from his grasp and soon afterwards he heard the click of claws on the stairs, as Kaj decided he would explore the first floor. He started to bark and Peter’s immediate thought was that the intruder was still upstairs. He got up and grabbed the poker from by the wood burner to protect himself before going upstairs.
    A body in a black Puffa jacket lay across the fleece. The ceramic lamp from the table was lying on the floor, broken in half.
    â€˜Felix. Can you hear me?’
    He shook her gently. She groaned. Opened her eyes, closed them again. Then she opened them again and stared at him.
    â€˜What happened? What are you doing here?’
    He helped her into a sitting position, then leaned her against the yellow sofa, which had come with the house when he bought it. Her nose was bleeding and one eye was swollen. Her hair was matted with blood. Her small figure seemed even smaller and thinner than he remembered and her eyes were filled with frightened anger. He took his clean handkerchief and dabbed at some of the blood. Then he held his hand in front of her face and hid his thumb.
    â€˜How many fingers am I holding up?’
    â€˜Four.’
    â€˜I’m calling an ambulance.’
    â€˜No. Don’t.’
    Her head slumped against her chest, as if out of her control. He started to sweat. What if she died here? What would he say to the police?
    â€˜Give me a hand,’ she said. ‘The sofa.’
    He helped her to her feet, laid her on the sofa and put cushions under her head. She waved her arms in the air, and moaned.
    â€˜I just need a little rest,’ she managed to say. ‘No police. No ambu …’
    He went downstairs and put the kettle on, then rummaged around in a kitchen cupboard until he finally found a packet of instant soup and stirred it into a mug of hot water. He took the mug, a glass of water, some painkillers and a blanket upstairs. She didn’t seem keen, but he ignored her and put the tablets into her mouth one at a time and held her head so that she could drink. He tried to get a little bit of soup down her, but she pressed her lips together like a stubborn child and he gently released her.
    She opened and closed her eyes. The second she looked at him was like a glance all the way into her soul, and he was drawn in, feeling oddly that this was only happening because she was weak. Again,