The Dinosaur Feather (24 page)

Clive nodded.

The door closed behind Professor Fjeldberg and Clive was alone. He pulled out a chair, sat down, took out his magnifying glass, and started examining the skeleton.
Dinornis Maximus.
Fabulous. In relatively recent studies, scientists had successfully isolated DNA from bones of the long-extinct bird and proved the female had been 300 percent heavier and 150 percent taller than the male. Clive wasn’t sure he believed it. He carefully held the talus bone in both hands. He found a pad and made some notes. Then he started looking for the rudimentary front limbs, which had to be in the box somewhere. An hour later, he was in an excellent mood. The synapomorphies between this secondarily flightless bird and, say,
Caudipteryx
and
Protarchaeopteryx
, which Tybjerg and Helland alleged were dinosaurs, were striking. More than ever, Clive was convinced that many of the animals, which Helland and Tybjerg claimed were dinosaurs, were in fact secondarily flightless birds from the Cretaceous and not dinosaurs at all. As far as he could determine, their skeletons were practically identical.

A noise made him turn around. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. It sounded like a suppressed cough, and there was some barely audible scraping; he thought he could hear breathing. He rose and sniffed the air like a deer. The building sighed. Someone walked down the corridor outside. Clive relaxed his shoulders. He was in a public place, he reassured himself, yet he suddenly became very conscious of the far end of the Vertebrate Collection, which was lost in darkness.

He thought about how Helland had died. It was a revolting death. It was one thing to perish in an instant, another to die slowly as parasites in your tissue grew bigger. Worms, larvae, maggots. Clive shook his head to make the images go away. He hated the little monsters. They should be eliminated from the animal kingdom. He had once had a tick in his groin, which he hadn’t discovered until it was the size of a pea and purple and bloated like a plum. Kay had removed it with tweezers.

The memory distracted him. The darkness seemed to grow more intense; suddenly he thought the bones stank of old membranes and sweet decomposition. He got up and put the bones he had managed to study back in their box. He opened a couple of cabinets and pulled out some drawers. They were neat and tidy. One drawer contained teeth, another feathers, sorted according to size and color. Some cabinets contained pelts, others held specimens floating in spirit in glass jars. For a long time he gazed at a dissected dromedary eye, which stared back at him. He breathed out. He couldn’t shake off his unease. The darkness was mighty and menacing. He gave up and headed for the exit.

He found a seat in the corridor and stared out the window. It made no sense to start looking for Fjeldberg, he would only get himself lost. He decided to snooze. When Professor Fjeldberg arrived shortly afterward, he laughed and said the collection tended to have a soporific effect on everyone. Quiet as a womb and a few degrees too warm. They walked down the corridor, and Fjeldberg talked about the weather. After lunch, they discussed a possible joint project, and Clive almost forgot the spooky atmosphere in the collection, almost forgot Helland might have been murdered and Tybjerg was missing. Fjeldberg proposed an interesting project and when the two men parted, the seed to a future collaboration between the University of Copenhagen and UBC had been sown. Clive even dropped his planned rant about the feather exhibition.

“I’ll see you on Saturday,” Professor Fjeldberg said, and pressed Clive’s hand warmly.

Later that evening, Clive and Michael had dinner at a fancy restaurant. Clive studied the menu with dismay and was about to object when Michael said, “The department is paying!”

“What do you mean?” Clive said, surprised.

“The board told me to treat you to a meal fit for a king. This restaurant has a Michelin star.” Michael leaned across the table to whisper this information.

“Why?”

“Because their food is superb.”

“No, I mean why have you been told to treat me to a meal fit for a king?”

“You deserve it,” Michael laughed and raised his glass in a toast. There was a tiny, insincere glint in the corner of his eye. Clive was suddenly reminded of the evening when he had called Michael, and Michael, according to his daughter, had been at a meeting at the university, though he had told Clive he was babysitting. He confronted Michael with this. Michael smiled.

“I don’t really remember. When did you say it was?”

Clive continued to stare at him.

“It was the day I returned from my sick leave. The day you gave me the result of the cartilage condensation experiment.”

“Ah.” Michael’s face lit up. “That’s right. We had a departmental meeting, and—”

“You held a departmental meeting without me?” Clive interrupted him and lowered his menu.

“Yes, because you didn’t show up. We decided you probably weren’t feeling well enough yet. We actually didn’t start until seven thirty—in case you were late.”

Clive said nothing. He had no recollection of there being a departmental meeting that night. He always attended such meetings. Irritated, he raised his menu.

“I don’t know about you,” he said. “But I’m having the lobster.”

Chapter 9

Anna’s cell rang while she was shopping in the Netto supermarket on Jagtvejen. She didn’t recognize the number.

“Yes,” she said, absentmindedly.

“Anna Bella,” a hesitant voice began.

“Yes, that’s me. Who is it?”

“Birgit Helland.”

Anna froze.

“Is this a good time?” Mrs. Helland asked.

“Oh, yes,” Anna lied, trying desperately to think of something appropriate to say when you unexpectedly find yourself talking to the widow of a man you couldn’t stand.

“My condolences,” she said, sounding like an idiot, and quickly added: “It must be very hard for you.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Helland said quietly. “I have something for you,” she continued. “From Lars. I thought perhaps you might like to visit to collect it. I would like to meet you. Lars often spoke about you.” Birgit Helland’s voice was subdued but determined, as though she had rehearsed her lines. Anna had no idea how to respond.

“For me? Er, yes, of course. Do you want me to come over now or later?”

“Now would be good. If you can. The funeral is on Saturday, and on Sunday Nanna and I will go away for a while. So, if you could manage today, that would be good. Otherwise it won’t be for some weeks, and . . . well, I would like to meet you. I’m really sorry he can’t be there for you. Really very sorry. He was so looking forward to your dissertation defense.”

I bet he was looking forward to grilling me and failing me, Anna thought, but Mrs. Helland said: “He was so proud of you.”

Anna thought she must have misheard.

“Pardon?” she said.

“When can you get here?” Mrs. Helland asked.

“I just need to take my groceries home and then I’ll make my way to your house.”

“I appreciate it,” Mrs. Helland said. “See you very soon.”

The Hellands’s villa was in a suburb called Herlev, set back from the road and hidden behind a maze of scrub and bushes crippled by the frost. The gate was freshly painted. Anna heard birdsong in the front garden and spotted several feeding tables laden with seed balls and sheaves of wheat. She rang the doorbell. Birgit Helland was a tiny woman, just under five feet tall. Her eyes were red and her smile was pale.

“Hello, Anna,” she said, holding out a hand that felt more like a small piece of animal hide than something human. The house was clean and tidy, airy, and light. In the living room were books from floor to ceiling on the windowless wall facing a colossal garden. Mrs. Helland invited Anna to sit down on one of two white, wool-upholstered sofas and disappeared into the kitchen. Shortly afterward she appeared with cups and a teapot, which she placed on the coffee table.

“I’m really very sorry,” Anna said.

“I’m so glad you could come,” Mrs. Helland said. “We’re in a state, I’m afraid.” Tears started rolling down her cheeks, and she did nothing to stop them.

“I’m so sorry,” Anna said again.

“For the first two days the telephone wouldn’t stop ringing. The Dean, the Head of the Institute. Former postgraduate students, colleagues from all over the world. They all wanted to offer their condolences. Most out of genuine compassion, but quite a few just called out of politeness. I can’t imagine why anyone would offer their condolences if they didn’t care about the person who died, can you?”

Anna shook her head.

“A lot of people didn’t like Lars. I can see why. Lars wasn’t an easy man.” She smiled. “But then, who is?” She looked gravely at Anna. “The telephone has stopped ringing now,” she added, glancing at the table where it stood.

“You didn’t call,” Mrs. Helland said. “Why not?”

Anna gulped.

“Lars was sure you didn’t like him.” She looked kindly at Anna. “Though he never cared very much whether or not people did. ‘Never mind,’ he would say. ‘That’s their problem. That will stir things up.’ Lars loved stirring things up. It always bothered me, though. Because it was so unfair. He was a good man.” Mrs. Helland smiled again. “A very unusual, but good man. He was a wonderful father to Nanna.”

Anna was about to reassure Mrs. Helland that there was no need for her to justify her late husband’s behavior, when Mrs. Helland said: “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” She smiled and looked down at her hands. “Either I hide myself away, never to be seen. Or I tell everyone about Lars. The supermarket cashier, the bus driver, the cold caller, everyone is forced to listen to my grief.”

“I know how you feel,” Anna said. Mrs. Helland poured more tea.

“He often mentioned you,” she said. “I think he was fascinated by you. And Lars was usually only interested in birds.” She smiled wryly. Anna reddened and wanted to protest, but Mrs. Helland carried on: “‘She loathes me,’ he would say about you. ‘But she would rather die than admit it.’ He respected you, Anna,” she said.

Anna didn’t know what to say. Everything she had ever said about Helland suddenly tasted bitter.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.

Mrs. Helland continued looking at her.

“We had our differences,” Anna said, tentatively.

“Well, of course you did. Lars had with most people. He was like that. He believed you had to court controversy to achieve anything at all.”

A pause followed.

“Do they suspect you, too?” Mrs. Helland asked out of the blue.

“Do they suspect you?” Anna was shocked.

“They don’t say so openly. The superintendent does. He wants to come across as a friendly teddy bear, so he ums and ahs. All he’s prepared to say is that Lars appears to have suffered from a tropical infection and they’re treating his death as
suspicious
. And then he assures me everything will be investigated very thoroughly. But he’s hiding something because he suspects me, I’m sure of it.” Mrs. Helland suddenly got up and sat next to Anna. She clasped Anna’s hands and looked desperate.

“We’re losing our minds,” she wailed. “Neither of us can sleep. Until last Monday, Lars was a perfectly healthy man, and now he’s dead. Why would anyone want to murder him? And what’s this about a tropical infection? It’s utterly ridiculous.”

Everything inside Anna resisted. Mrs. Helland was sitting too close to her, and something in Anna’s throat tightened.

“You’re lying,” she croaked.

Mrs. Helland stared at Anna. “What do you mean?”

“Your husband was ill,” Anna said. “I saw him. He was seriously ill. Why do you say he was well when we both know that isn’t true?”

Mrs. Helland pulled back.

“I don’t understand . . .” Her lips quivered.

“What was wrong with his eye?” Anna continued.

“That small polyp?”

“Yes, what was it?”

“His father had one of those.” Mrs. Helland faltered. “It was something inherited.”

“No,” Anna insisted. “It wasn’t. And you know it.”

Mrs. Helland looked stubbornly at Anna. “Lars wasn’t ill. I don’t understand why you keep saying he was. I loved him. He wasn’t ill.” Mrs. Helland started crying. “All I wanted to do was give you this,” she said and picked up a small white box from a circular table next to the sofa. The tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“It’s from Lars,” she sobbed. “Your graduation present.”

Reluctantly, Anna accepted the present.

“Open it,” Mrs. Helland ordered her.

Anna took the lid off the box and removed the bright yellow cotton. Underneath it was a silver chain with a pendant. The pendant consisted of two charms, an egg and a feather. Anna swallowed and looked up at Mrs. Helland.

“It’s beautiful,” she gasped.

Mrs. Helland smiled, red-eyed. She was still sitting far too close, Anna could smell her tears, feel a vile heat from her body. Anna didn’t want to stay there any longer. Not another second.

“I don’t know why you’re lying, but I know that you are. And, as long as you’re lying, don’t expect anything from me. Thanks for the tea.”

She didn’t realize how much she was shaking until she was outside in the street.

Anna caught the bus back to the university. She called Johannes, but it went straight to voicemail. When she reached the exit with Bellahøj police station and the bus turned into Frederikssundvej, she spotted Cecilie on the sidewalk. She was stooping and had covered her head with a scarf. When she looked up and saw the bus, she started to run. She didn’t see Anna. Despite the weather, she was wearing boots with stiletto heels and a beige jacket with a fur collar, which was fashionable, but not very warm.

Why were they so different? Why did Anna have a mother who often looked at her as though she were from another planet? Cecilie was now parallel to the window where Anna was sitting, two-thirds back in the bus. Her foot slipped, but she recovered her balance. She pushed her way onto the crowded bus and stood where Anna could observe her, unnoticed. Cecilie looked rough. She always wore red lipstick, but today her lips were cracked and devoid of color, and she looked as if she had been crying. Over Anna? Over Lily? Yet she hadn’t called. Jens had called. Seven times, since she had hung up on him. He was like the spy character from Stratego, willing to sound out the terrain, to die for the flag. Anna had ignored it and let the call go to voice mail.

Cecilie was clutching a strap. Anna was half-hidden by a night bus timetable, and if she moved her head she would be out of sight. She watched her mother and felt like crying. She missed her. When she had met Thomas, she had finally dared to separate from Cecilie. You can go now, Mom; you can get fat, bake cakes, but go, please. I have my own family now, I don’t need you anymore. Not in that way. She wanted Thomas to provide everything that had previously been Cecilie’s responsibility. Comfort, support, solidarity. For a short period, she convinced herself she had succeeded. Because she wanted it so desperately. Then her house of cards collapsed, and Anna fell flat on her face. And who picks you up when you’re down? Your mother.

Cecilie turned her head, and Anna could study her profile. She’s thinking about me, Anna thought. And yet she doesn’t call me; still she chooses to wait until I come to her. It was the game they always played. They got off at the same stop along with fifteen other passengers. Anna was among the last to leave. Cecilie didn’t look up but walked down Jagtvejen as quickly as her high-heeled boots would allow her. Anna stopped at the corner and looked at her mother as she disappeared.

At the university she met Professor Ewald in the corridor.

“Why don’t I give you a lift on Saturday?” the professor offered. “To the funeral, I mean. I could pick you up at twelve fifteen?” She looked cautiously at Anna; they had barely spoken since their minor run-in the other day.

“Yes, please,” Anna said. “I had actually decided not to go, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“I’m so glad,” Professor Ewald said, warmly.

“Any news?” Anna asked.

“No.” Professor Ewald shrugged. “Only that dreadful rumor.” Her eyes shone.

“What rumor?” Anna feigned ignorance.

“Rumor has it he was full of parasites, cysticerci from
Taenia solium
. That there were thousands of them in his tissue and that’s what caused his death.” Professor Ewald gave Anna a look of horror.

Anna gulped. Should she confirm it?

“Don’t listen to rumors,” she said and put her hand affectionately on Professor Ewald’s shoulder. Professor Ewald nodded.

Anna continued down the corridor. She wanted a word with the World’s Most Irritating Detective. Why on earth were those parasites a secret?

She was starving. She went through Johannes’s drawers and found some crackers. They were stale and sweet, but she ate the whole packet. Then she drank a glass of water, switched on her computer, checked her e-mails, proofread the conclusion of her dissertation for the umpteenth time, chewed a nail, scratched her head, and when she had finally run out of displacement activities, she called Ulla Bodelsen in Odense.

The telephone was answered on the fifth ring, when Anna was about to give up.

“Yes?”

“My name is Anna,” Anna said. Her heart was beating wildly.

“Hi.” The voice sounded friendly.

“I know this might sound weird,” she said quickly. “But I’m looking for a woman who used to be a health visitor in the Odense area about twenty-eight, twenty-nine years ago. I know that her name was Ulla Bodelsen, and . . . er . . . I found your number on the Internet.”

The voice laughed. “Fancy that, I’m on the Internet. All that is completely beyond me. I’m retired now, but you’re quite correct. I worked as a health visitor for Odense City Council for more than thirty-five years. How can I help you?”

It was a straightforward request, but Anna was nervous and thought her story sounded lame. A father and a daughter. Jens and Anna Bella. The mother hospitalized with a bad back, father and baby alone. Could Ulla recall them?

“Ah. That’s no easy task.” She laughed again and it sounded as if she was weighing up her response. “But I ought to remember,” she continued. “Fathers and babies, there haven’t been many of them. It was mostly mothers. But then, back in the 1970s, there were quite a few. They had equality in those days,” she quipped. “And Anna Bella, that’s an unusual name. Were you named after anyone?”

“An apple, I think,” Anna replied.

“Hmm, it doesn’t ring any bells.”

Anna’s heart sank. “Ah, well,” she sighed.

“Where did you live? Perhaps your address might trigger my memory.”

“In the village of Brænderup, outside Odense. Hørmark svejen was the name of our street,” Anna said.

A pause followed.

“Yes, that’s right. I used to visit there all the time. All those communes. They kept having children.” She laughed again. “But no, I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help you.”

“But it has to be you,” Anna persisted. “We lived there, your name is in my health record book. It must have been you. I’m trying to find out something about that time, why my parents—”

Ulla Bodelsen interrupted her. “Now I remember him!” she exclaimed. “Your father. His name was Jens. He was a journalist, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Anna exclaimed. “That’s him!”

“The poor man was under terrible pressure trying to work from home and look after a baby at the same time. It proved impossible, no surprise there, and as your mother was still in the hospital, he decided to quit his job. You wouldn’t believe the state the house was in, and he was at the end of his rope from sleep deprivation and working too hard, so I supported his decision. We spoke regularly, until he called one day and said he didn’t need my help anymore. I never found out why. I called him a couple of times, but he said everything was fine. I remember the child now. Gorgeous little thing, she was. She was dark and . . . you can’t shut me up now,” she laughed. “Old people are like that when you allow them to wallow in the past.”