The Scream of the Butterfly (20 page)

43

THE SMALL CLICK
that sounded when Niels Püchert closed the door behind him echoed down the stairwell. Lars pressed his cell phone to his ear.

“Lisa?” He stepped aside for a young woman lugging four heavy grocery bags. “Could you please check something for me? Niels Püchert claims that Mogens Winther-Sørensen worked for the Danish Red Cross in October 1999. I know today is Sunday, but would you be able find someone from the Red Cross who can confirm it?”

Outside, Lars pulled out his keys and was about to unlock the car when a black Mercedes with tinted windows crept up alongside him.

“Lars. Jump in.”

Lars bent down and peered into the car. Kim A was in the passenger seat. A man in a suit with short hair and an earpiece was driving.

“What's this? A spy movie?”

“We just need a quick chat.” Kim A gave him an irritated look.

Lars looked across the car park. There was not a soul in sight. The wind tore through the open space.

“Five minutes, Kim.” Lars opened the back door.

“Yeah, yeah.” Kim A grinned at him in the rear-view mirror. “Drive.” The driver revved the engine and drove out between the apartment blocks, turning right to join Astersvej.

“You PET guys have some nice wheels.” Lars put on his seatbelt. “But what am I really doing here?”

“It's the ministerial car, if you must know.” Kim A turned in his seat. “So I would appreciate it if you could refrain from smoking.”

Lars let go of the cigarette packet, took his hand out from his inside pocket, and let his head rest against the seat.

“The two of us have had our differences.” Kim A attempted to smile, except it ended up looking like a bizarre grimace. “But you know I've always had great professional respect for you and your work.”

If that were true, Kim A had a funny way of showing it.

The car drove through Roskilde. Outside the window, low apartment blocks similar to the one he had just left replaced residential areas.

Kim A continued talking: “To cut to the chase.” He licked his lips. “The general election is in nine days. The last time we spoke I tried to appeal to your better nature, but it seems you didn't listen.”

The car returned to Astersvej. It appeared Kim A meant to keep his promise.

“I'm telling you this because I'm your friend. If you keep sticking your nose into things that have nothing to do with you — and which you've already been told are of no relevance to your murder investigation — then be prepared to face the consequences. There are people out there with information that could harm you. Information they won't hesitate to make public, if you persist. Do you understand?”

The driver stopped the car. The tremble from the idling engine made Kim A's cheeks quiver.

Lars opened the door without replying and got out. His own car was a few hundred metres away. Kim A opened the window.

“Think about it, Lars. It's for your own good.” Then he gestured to the driver and the Mercedes accelerated away. Lars watched until it had disappeared around the corner.

Once he was back at police headquarters, he only just had time to take off his jacket before Lisa dragged him through the maze-like corridors to an empty office in a remote part of the building.

“I managed to get hold of someone at the Red Cross. She went through all of their records and even searched their payroll system. They never employed anyone named Mogens Winther-Sørensen. On an unrelated note, I think I have something else that might be of interest to you: our colleagues arrested a doctor this morning for selling banned steroids and hormones used by bodybuilders and the like.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Lars tried to keep up.

“He risks losing his licence, so he's very keen to do a deal. I'll give you three guesses as to what he's selling? Oh, we're here.” Lisa knocked on a door and opened it without waiting for a reply.

Sanne and two officers, whose names Lars couldn't remember, were sitting in the narrow room along with an older man in a blazer and a stained shirt. The man was sweating.

Lisa shut the door behind them.

“Tell my colleague here what you just told us.”

The man moistened his lips; his gaze flitted around the room.

“But that's —” He stopped talking.

“You were the one who wanted to make a deal.” Sanne sent Lars a weary look.

“Right, late afternoon yesterday . . .” The man hesitated. “We agree that I won't be prosecuted for anything I'm about to say, correct?”

“Just get on with it.”

“It's true that I sell these drugs — only for personal consumption, mind you. But yesterday I met someone whose needs were a little more sophisticated.”

44

“WELCOME, MY FRIEND.”
Meriton stood up from the radio in the corner and took off the headset. Calls from patrol cars and police codes crackled out into the room. He signalled to Elvir to take over.

The lawyer had entered behind Valmir. He and Meriton shook hands.

“Thanks for your help.”

“Don't mention it.” The lawyer took out a packet of Craven “A” and lit one. “But I'm afraid he won't get away with a slap on the wrist.”

A big frying pan was simmering on the stove at the back of the room. The smell of onion and fried meat drifted through the club.

While Goran divvied up the food, Meriton pulled out a chair and asked the lawyer to sit down. Valmir had already taken a seat. Meriton brought over a bottle of clear liquid, and poured about three to four fingers' worth into tall, slim glasses. A splash of water from a jug gave the liquid a cloudy, milky appearance. Meriton handed glasses to Valmir and the lawyer.

“Raki — lion's milk. It's good for the heart. Drink.”

They raised their glasses, toasted, and drank. The lawyer spluttered, red-faced.

“Well, I must say, that's . . . special,” he gasped.

Valmir and Meriton roared with laughter. Goran came over with three steaming plates of fried mince and onion. A dish of white flatbreads sat in the middle of the table.

“Eat.”

They ate in silence, tearing off chunks of bread, which they used to scoop up the meat and onion, before shoving the whole thing into their mouths. After a few bites, Meriton wiped meat and fat from his chin with the back of his hand, and finished chewing. It was good to have Valmir back, but an error was an error. Valmir ought to know that.

Valmir understood, and put his glass down on the table, bowing his head.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Hey, before we go any further . . .” The lawyer mouthed
bugs
.

Meriton laughed. “We got it sorted. We never leave this place unattended.”

The lawyer looked around the room and lowered his voice.

“I had a client once. Police got access to the neighbouring apartment, drilled holes in the wall, and placed microphones at the end of them. He got twelve years for murder and blackmail.”

Meriton turned around.

“Goran, put on some music.” Goran put on a CD and turned up the volume. A clarinet wrapped itself plaintively around a blanket of jumping percussion. In the background, someone was picking a Spanish guitar.

“Better?” Meriton leaned across the table. The lawyer smiled, picking up his cigarette from the foil ashtray, and glanced at his raki.

“I think I had better leave so you can talk business. I'll send you my bill.”

When the lawyer had left, Meriton moved his seat closer to Valmir. The song finished and Meriton waited until the next track began. It was faster and more hypnotic than the previous. He started talking again.

“Having Arbën in Denmark is a risk. If the police catch him again, he could cause us a lot of trouble. It's important, do you understand?”

The door opened and a cold draft swept along the floor. Ukë squeezed himself into the club. A fat hand landed on Valmir's shoulders.

“Having a party, are we? Good to see you.” He sat down and turned to Meriton. “I've just gotten word from our guy inside.” The chair groaned underneath him.

Meriton spat into his plate. “
Derr
.” That bastard. “It's about time. Does he have anything for us?”

“Tonight — the usual place.”

45

SERAFINE THROWS THE
cigarette on the sidewalk and squashes it under her foot. The street is empty. It is mid-afternoon. Grey waves pass by briskly out in the windy harbour. Perhaps she should be nervous or procrastinate, but she doesn't want to wait any longer. The time has come. Her transformation is about to begin.

Serafine rings the bell and enters, leaving the animal, the alien, behind on the street.

“Welcome.” A middle-aged woman in green scrubs meets her on the first floor and ushers her into what must be the operating room. “Have you eaten anything?”

Serafine shakes her head. Hunger gnaws at her insides, but it means nothing compared to what is about to happen.

“Good. You can undress in there. The doctor will be with you in a moment.” The woman points to a curtain in the corner. Serafine walks behind it, takes off her jacket, pants, T-shirt, and underwear, and puts everything in a pile on the small stool. She carefully avoids touching the thing between her legs. She has no desire to say goodbye to it. There is a bathrobe on a peg in the wall. She tries to put it on, but her hands and arms are shaking. The nerves are kicking in now. Everything spins. She reaches out and grabs hold of the curtain to stop herself from falling.

“There, there. Come here.” The woman is supporting her weight. “Everything will be all right.” She puts an arm around her shoulder. “Most people are nervous at this stage; sometimes they have doubts. Are you sure you want to go through with it? Once it's done, there's no going back, you know that.”

Serafine leans against the woman, hips against hers. Her scent, her breasts, and the soft curves of her body. She yearns for it, so much that it hurts.

“I want to!” She reaches out and grabs hold of the nurse's green scrubs.

The woman laughs. And Serafine laughs with her. Everything spins. She is so relieved. She looks at the operating table, the windows, and the herringbone parquet floor. Then the flutter starts: butterfly wings carry her forward, welcoming her.
Yes
, she whispers.
I'm coming
.

“Well.” The woman smiles at her. “Come on then.” She walks her to the operating table and helps her climb onto it. “Now I'm going to put in an IV.” She sterilizes Serafine's wrist with a cotton ball. Serafine looks away while the nurse finds a vein and inserts the needle. The woman attaches the IV to her wrist with surgical tape, then she takes a small syringe with no needle and connects it to the hole in the green plastic drop. “This is morphine — it'll relax you. Afterward you'll be anesthetized. Are you ready?”

Serafine sinks back into the pillow and closes her eyes. A wave of warmth and well-being washes over her, rocking her with soft movements. The butterflies are everywhere now, welcoming her. Time and place disappear.

She has no idea how long she has been lying like this when a series of violent crashes wakes her up, pulling her back. The butterflies fade and fly away, one by one. She is back on the operating table, sweating. What's happening?

The woman is still there; she looks at the door, then the window. Her gaze flits around the operating room.

Where is the surgeon?

Now she can hear voices from the hallway. She recognizes the surgeon's from yesterday, but there are others and they are coming closer. Suddenly the room is awash with strangers. Two uniformed police officers open the door and burst in, followed immediately by the surgeon, who tries to stop them. Then a man and a woman she recognizes from the apartment where Moo-genz was killed.

They argue in Danish, but she doesn't need to know the language to understand that today won't be the day it happens either. Serafine closes her eyes, shutting out the voices. Someone helps her down from the operating table and puts the bathrobe on her. She opens her eyes. The man she recognizes from Moo-genz's apartment and one of the uniformed officers have gone into the adjacent room with the surgeon. Their loud voices can be heard through the door.

The woman and the other officer have stayed behind in the operating room with her and the nurse. The woman finds her clothes behind the curtain.

“You can change in here.” She pulls aside the curtain for her. Serafine staggers across the room. She ought to be shaken, terrified, and completely knocked out. Her dream lies in ruins. But the morphine courses through her veins — she is numb. Nothing really matters.

She changes back into her jeans and T-shirt behind the curtain and puts on her shoes. They start to argue on the other side of the curtain. The nurse is angry and shouts. Something crashes onto the floor. There is upheaval and she hears the sound of bodies rolling around.

Serafine pulls the curtain aside and peers out. The two police officers are busy subduing the nurse. The door to the hall is open.

She tiptoes out into the hallway and looks around, listening to the agitated voices and the sound of the scuffle in the operating room. In a moment, the officers currently talking to the surgeon will rush to the aid of their colleagues. Then they will realize that she has escaped. The main staircase is the first place they will look, so she goes the other way, back into the apartment, and runs quietly down the long, red corridor, passing room after room until she reaches the kitchen. The morphine makes her dizzy, and she bumps into walls and side tables along the way, hurting herself. She prays they don't hear her.

They start to shout, slamming doors in the hallway. Serafine opens the kitchen door, sneaks out onto the back stairs, and pulls the door closed behind her.

She flees down the dark stairs and out into the courtyard, sticking close to the wall. It's the same route she walked with the surgeon and the doctor yesterday.

Twilight. She creeps along the wall until she reaches the entrance to a stairwell, gasping for air. The street is swimming before her eyes, with flashes of neon light. Car headlights sweep past. She can't go on. She is broken by hunger, exhaustion, and the morphine circulating in her body.

And the flutter has fallen silent.

She has no idea where she is. People rush past the spot where she is curled up, giving her a wide berth.

She ran out into the street to hail a cab as soon as she escaped from the operating room. But the tension, the disappointment, and the last few days was all too much for her — she threw up thin, green bile across the dashboard. She didn't understand what the driver was shouting, but the meaning was clear when he pulled up to the curb and pushed her out.

She doesn't feel hungry anymore, only a pleasant, spinning lightness in her body. The glow from the street lamps and the cars come together in an all-embracing radiance. Afërdita is waiting for her in the bright room. Her sister smiles.

My Seraph
. Afërdita strokes her cheek.
My angel
. The scissors in her throat quiver.
You've grown so beautiful, Serafine
.

Serafine reaches out and tries to catch her, but her sister's figure flickers and disappears. The white room dissolves into darkness. A single candle burns in the distance, the flame swaying in an invisible draft. And suddenly the fluttering returns.

The sound continues to rise and a moth flies past her. It dances in spirals, approaching the candle in ever-decreasing circles. Mesmerized, Serafine follows its course, closer and closer to the fire. She reaches out to swat the insect away. But it is too late. A final circle leads it directly into the flame. Tongues of fire lick the wings, the body contorting in agony. The moth perishes with a horrible splutter. Serafine closes her eyes and holds her breath while its screams reverberate in her ears.

She sits up with a jolt. She is back on the whirling street. There's only one place left — one place she can go.