The Scream of the Butterfly (13 page)

30

LARS WALKED UP
the stairs, down the long, red corridor, and through the green door to the Violent Crime Unit. No one from his team was there — even Ulrik was gone. They were probably out looking for Serafine. Well, at least he wouldn't have to look at Sanne's sour face.

He poured himself a cup of coffee from the machine in reception, not that he needed it. He could still taste the double espresso from Café Apropos all the way down to his stomach.

He shut the door to his office behind him and kicked his feet up on the desk. Malene Rørdam wasn't listed as deceased, so she had to be alive somewhere. People didn't just disappear — not in a thoroughly regulated country like Denmark. He turned on his computer, and logged onto the National Register of Persons again. Malene Rørdam's details appeared on the screen. Her mother had no siblings, but her father's sister had been married to a Swede — it was probably a shot in the dark, but he might as well try. He dialled the number of Malmö Police.

“Malmö Police, Drottninggaten, Einar Persson speaking.” The voice belonged to an elderly man with a lilting Scanian accent. Lars introduced himself, trying to speak slowly and clearly.

“I'm looking for a Danish woman named Malene Rørdam. She might be living in Sweden. Her civil registration number is —”

“Slow down. Civil registration number? I'm not sure what you're talking about.”

“Civil registration number — oh, forget it.” Of course, the civil registration number would mean nothing to the Swede. And besides, if Malene had moved to Sweden, she would now have the Swedish equivalent of a civil registration number. “Her date of birth is August 17, 1971.”

“So she's forty-two years old? Hold on a minute.” He could hear very slow typing on a keyboard on the other end, and then a heartfelt sigh. “I'm sorry, I can't —”

Lars tried again.

“Can you try searching for a forty-two-year-old Danish woman whose first name is Malene?”

More single-finger typing.

“Yes. We have a few, with the last names Kristensen, Meisner, Öker . . .”

“Öker?”

“Yes, it sounds Turkish, doesn't it?” Einar Persson laughed. “But she —”

“Wait.” Lars rubbed his forehead. “What was the second surname?”

“Meisner. She works at the City Theatre.”

It didn't ring any bells. Lars was about to thank him and hang up when his gaze flitted across his computer monitor: Malene Rørdam's mother's maiden name was Meisner.

“Could I please have her telephone number and address?”

After Lars ended the call, he dialled the number he had been given.

A woman answered the phone. There was a lot of noise in the background: happy voices and the clattering of bottles.

“Malene Meisner? Lars Winkler, Copenhagen Police. Is this a good time? I would like to speak with you.”

There was brief hesitation on the other end.

“What is this regarding?” The voice was cautious and croaky. Her Danish had a distinct Swedish accent.

“The murder of Mogens Winther-Sørensen. Would it be possible for you to come to Copenhagen?” Malene Meisner fiddled with the receiver. Then there was silence. Lars waited. When she didn't reply, he continued: “Are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm here. I better . . . I mean, yes — I can come. We have an opening this evening, so I'd prefer to meet in the afternoon tomorrow. How about two o'clock on Gammel Kongevej, by the planetarium?”

31

THE PROSECUTOR WAS
wearing a crisp dress shirt and looked just like all the other snooty Danes, lawyers, and judges — people who thought they were in charge — as he stood in the rust-red courtroom with the high ceiling, a smug expression plastered across his sweaty face. Meriton glanced sideways at Ukë. His brother's body was lumpy under his track suit, spilling out over the tiny chair.

“It's tragic that a project set up to help Albanian asylum seekers find their footing in Denmark has now been reduced to a centre for drug dealing and trafficking. There can be no doubt that the men responsible —”

“Just a minute.” Their defence lawyer rose. Meriton almost felt sorry for the prosecutor. “How can we be sure that we are really talking about the same money?”

“Your Honour.” The prosecutor appealed to the judge. “We went over this at the previous hearing. An undercover police officer bought a batch of methamphetamine. The officer explained in his testimony that his team followed the dealer with the money to Shqiptarë, where it was handed over to the accused men. At this point the police intervened to arrest them. I don't see —”

“I repeat my question.” The defence lawyer stood up again. “How can we be sure that we are really talking about the same money?”

The prosecutor clutched his head.

“As my learned colleague is perfectly aware, the banknotes had consecutive serial numbers, starting with —”

“Can we please reintroduce this money as evidence?”

“Your Honour. With all due respect, this is a waste of time. The banknotes in question have already been presented to the court.”

“Just show us the money so we can move on.” The judge folded his hands on the table. He looked weary.

The prosecutor picked up the evidence box from the floor and put it on the table. Then he produced two fat bundles of banknotes and handed them to the defence lawyer.

“Perhaps my learned colleague would like the opportunity to check the money personally?”

“With pleasure.” The barrister took the bundles and thumbed through them.

“But these banknotes don't have consecutive serial numbers,” He started reading the numbers out loud: “
0466220
,
734521
,
128975
.” He turned to the judge with a quizzical expression on his face.

“But . . .” The prosecutor reddened. “I checked them myself the other . . .”

Meriton closed his eyes. They were free. His brother chuckled with suppressed mirth next to him. The tiny chair was creaking under his weight.

Being remanded in custody could have been a lot worse, but their reputation had preceded them. No one had dared touch them in Vestre Prison. As long as you had money, most things were possible, even in the slammer. Meriton pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt as he ogled a woman crossing Nytorv. Her enormous tits bounced with every step.

Nothing could beat the feeling of freedom and being able to decide when and where to go — almost. He accepted the cigarette Valmir lit for him, and slapped his back. Behind them, Ukë was thanking their lawyer.

“Do call again,” the lawyer said as he and Ukë shook hands. “We love repeat business.” They both laughed out loud.

Their lawyer disappeared between the columns in front of the court, heading down the marble steps to the taxi waiting for him.

Ukë snorted as the lawyer slammed shut the taxi door. “
Derr!
” Bastard. “He didn't do a thing.”

Meriton inhaled, letting the smoke seep out of his mouth.

“I was beginning to think our friend had let us down.”

“He wouldn't dare.” Ukë slapped his stomach; it made a hollow rumble. “I need some grub. You can't eat the crap they gave us in prison.”

“Elvir and Labinot have food for you back at the club,
Tavë kosi
and çai
mali
.” Valmir lit a cigarette for himself. Meriton's stomach started to rumble as they walked down the steps in front of the courthouse, just thinking about baked lamb with yogurt and mountain tea. It had been a while.

Ukë crossed Nytorv, making a beeline for China House on the corner of Strøget and Nørregade.

“I'll make do with a few spring rolls on the way, then. How's business?”

“The Africans tried to take over our turf. They won't do that again.”

“Was it bad?” Meriton stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. This country was always so damn cold.

Valmir laughed.

“Not for us. By the way, some poof turned up at the club earlier today asking for you. He claimed you were his uncles.”

Meriton stopped in his tracks.

“A queer? Young or old? What was his name?” He exchanged a long hard stare with Ukë. If that boy was back in Copenhagen . . .

32

LARS PARKED HIS
car behind Ulrik's silver Audi A4 and turned off the engine. Mist was drifting across the deserted residential road, passing through the white cones of light cast by the street lamps. He had spent thirteen years of his life here, from when Maria was four years old until the middle of this April.

The windows in his and Elena's old house glared at him, black and empty; weeds had grown between the flagstones outside the front door. The grimy for sale sign had been removed from the front yard. The real estate agent had obviously been a little too quick off the mark since, according to Ulrik, the sale couldn't go through until Lars signed the contract.

The party was in full swing at Hannah and Andreas's house further up the street. Coloured lights twinkled in the night. Sheryl Crow's “All I Wanna Do” poured in when he opened the car door. Hits from their tender youth.

He had spent the afternoon searching his apartment from top to bottom, and couldn't shake the image of the white running shoe from the day before. It had been no ordinary break-in. After four hours he had concluded that the apartment was clean, with no hidden microphones or wires. Either he had returned too early and surprised the intruder, or the intruder had merely wanted to snoop through his papers.

Lars got out of the car. He couldn't postpone the moment any longer.

Hannah and Andreas's yellow brick house lay parallel to the street. The light was on in their kitchen window. Lars could see Elena standing inside, arranging flowers. Her dark brown curls framed her face, her dark eyes stared through the night into his.

Andreas opened the door.

“Lars! So great you could make it.” He stepped aside to let him in. “How's Maria?”

“Oh, give him a chance to come in first.” Hannah kissed Lars on the cheek. “So nice to see you again.”

Andreas pulled him aside.

“I hope it's okay that Ulrik is here. We couldn't really . . .” His voice either faded away or was drowned out by the music.

“It's fine.”

Andreas looked relieved, and slapped him on the shoulder.

“So, why are we standing around out here? You need a drink.”

Lars followed Andreas into the living room and over to an extravagant buffet. Clearly, things were looking up for architects.

Lars greeted several people he knew from the street, and a few new faces who had arrived since April. A number of Andreas's colleagues were also there. Ulrik stayed close to the wall, glancing furtively at him. But the food was good and the wine plentiful, so Lars soon felt very comfortable indeed.

Half an hour later, someone put their hand on his shoulder.

“Lars, mind if I . . .” Ulrik was standing behind him with a glass of whisky in one hand, sweating. “I hope it's not a problem that I'm here?”

Lars stared at him, but said nothing. Ulrik sighed heavily.

“All right then.” Elena was watching them from the hall. “Ukë and Meriton Bukoshi were in court today.”

“Of course, Toke's big case. Sending them down can only make Copenhagen a better place to live.”

“That's the thing. They weren't convicted.” Ulrik drained his glass, reached for a bottle, and refilled it. “I don't know how it happened; something about a procedural error in connection with the evidence gathering. The judge released them after thirty minutes.”

“What?”

“And now with the mayor's murder, we simply don't have the resources to review their case. For the time being we've had to let them go.” There was a stain on Ulrik's yellow silk tie that wasn't whisky. Maybe it was gravy. Ulrik gulped his drink and filled it up again, sending Lars a questioning gaze. Lars shook his head.

“Who was responsible for the error?”

“We don't know yet.” Ulrik watched the couples wiggling their way through a Mariah Carey song on the dance floor. “But once I find out . . . ”

Ulrik half-emptied his glass, then wiped his chin with the back of his hand. Elena came gliding through the living room in a pair of her impossibly high heels and tight pants. She looked at Ulrik, then nodded her head in the direction of the kitchen.

“Yes, perhaps a refill is . . .” Ulrik raised his half-empty glass and bumped into an armchair on his way to the drinks table.

“Lars.” She nodded. He accepted the glass she offered him and took a sip.

“Mineral water?”

“With lemon. Alcohol doesn't do you any good.”

They clinked their glasses. Then she tilted her head, took the glass from his hand, and put it on a shelf.

“Come, let's dance.” Someone had put on Terence Trent D'Arby's “Wishing Well.” “Do you remember? This was the only song you could ever be bothered to dance to.”

Flashback to a disco in Milan: black-and-white-checkered floor, steel bar, pastel colours — very Memphis Group. People wearing short dresses and sharp suits. Elena — twenty years younger — happy and joyous, dripping with sweat, the heavy drops clinging to her long hair. The whole summer had been one long party. Where had it gone? Lars let himself be dragged out into the middle of the room and followed her confident movements.

“What is this about?”

“Lars, we have a child together. These are our friends. Why can't we just have a good time?” She snapped her fingers over her head and bent at the knees.

“Not if you ask Ulrik.” Ulrik was standing behind the sofa, turning his refilled glass between his fingers. He was keeping a close eye on them.

“Ah.” She tossed her hair. “No sackcloth and ashes for me.”

Lars stopped.

“I've got enough problems with Ulrik as it is. I don't need to get mixed up in yours too.”

She moved very close to him and reached up on tiptoes.

“When are you going to sign those papers?” She glanced at Ulrik. “Ulrik has found a holiday cottage in Dronningmølle. A house he has always wanted to own. My share of the money will almost cover the down payment. Lars . . .” She adjusted his shirt collar. “Please, just sign, will you?”

Lars searched the room. Where did she put his drink?

“I'm afraid I accidentally threw out those papers.”

Her mouth contracted.

“You can be a real asshole, you know that?”

Elena turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen. Lars's eyes took in the array of bottles. Terence Trent D'Arby had turned into Talking Heads' “Burning Down the House.”