The Scream of the Butterfly (30 page)

“Ran away?”

“Well, we couldn't tie her to the bed, could we?” The ward nurse's face was red from suppressed rage. “Like I said, it's not a prison.”

“But she . . .” Sanne took a deep breath. “Do you know where she went?”

“Sadly, no. She stole a purse with five hundred kroner from the woman she shared the side ward with.”

“Do you see what I mean?” Christine's eyes were flashing. She squeezed Lars's arm and marched down the corridor.

The glue holding the coated paper on the jigsaw puzzle pieces bubbled in the heat; the coloured surface curled up and blackened in the flames. Merethe Winther-Sørensen threw the last handful into the fire. Michelangelo, a section of the Sistine Chapel — the image of God touching Adam's finger — flared up and disappeared. She rummaged around the embers with the poker until she was sure that the fire was raging. It was whooshing right up into the chimney pipe when she closed the grate and opened the damper.

A knot exploded inside a log. Merethe Winther-Sørensen turned toward the television. A young, female studio host with bouncing cleavage was laughing ingratiatingly at her male colleague's joke. Behind them, graphics showed the results of the latest exit poll. It really wasn't looking very promising.

The knot exploded again, or was someone at the door?

Merethe Winther-Sørensen hurried out into the hall. It could be the media seeking a comment — she checked her hair before she opened the door.

It took a moment before she recognized the emaciated, dark-skinned figure that half-fell inside, trying to avoid bumping her bandaged shoulder against the door. It was the little bitch who had gotten her son killed. What was she doing here? How had she gotten past the PET officer? Merethe was sorely tempted to slam the door in her face, but Serafine's hand was already on the door frame. Kim nodded to her from his position by the garden gate before turning his back on the house. So he was the one who had let her through.

“Ar-ne?” Serafine staggered inside, forcing Merethe Winther-Sørensen to step back. She shut the door behind her.

“Arne has moved out.” Merethe's legs were shaking under her. She wanted to hit the girl, anything.

“He said he would help.” The heavy eye makeup was smeared down her cheeks.

So that was where Arne had been on the days he had come home late — at the hospital. How very predictable. A pathetic bleeding heart like his son.

“Well, he's not here.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen went to open the front door again.

“But . . . you don't understand. I need an operation . . . Arne . . . your son . . . They promised to help. They both did.” The black eyes bored into hers, pleading and intense. A textbook photo opportunity. Merethe Winther-Sørensen put her hand on the door handle and paused. Perhaps this was a chance to showcase a different side of herself. She knew full well how people saw her: cynical and hard. Every now and then it paid off to challenge that image a little bit. She obviously couldn't offer the girl a sex change operation; after all, they were talking about an asylum seeker and she was still a minister and member of parliament — for as long as that lasted. There were certain things you just didn't do. But soon the press would be gathering outside her house and perhaps . . .

She took the girl's forearm and helped her to her feet.

“Listen, I can't work miracles. But I promise to do what I can. You can't stay here right now. I'll call for a taxi that will take you to Sandholm. Then I'll see what I can do.” She braced herself and stroked Serafine's coarse hair.

The spark in the girl's eyes died and her shoulders slumped. She'd gotten what she came for. There was no reason to prolong the performance. Merethe Winther-Sørensen had seen it so many times before.

“Would you like a glass of water while I make the call?”

Serafine shook her head.

“Can I . . .” She leaned on Merethe's arm, then collapsed at the bottom of the stairs leading to the first floor. “Can I use the bathroom?”

For a moment, Merethe Winther-Sørensen thought that the portraits of her father and grandfather were staring down at her with disapproval. Then she shook off the sensation. What did they know about handling the media?

The door to Amicisvej 17 was open. Merethe Winther-Sørensen was sitting in the drawing room on the sofa with Ulrik opposite her. Arne Winther-Sørensen was nowhere to be seen. The minister's turquoise suit pulled crookedly across her back. The television was on: exit polls looked grim for the Radical Party.

Ulrik looked up as they entered.

“That was quick.”

“Why haven't you brought her in yet?” Sanne looked as if she wanted to spit at the minister.

“We . . . The prosecutor thought we had better wait until the voting finished. We wouldn't want to be accused of influencing . . . What's this?”

Lars tossed the envelope from Kim A on the table in front of Ulrik.

“The newspaper articles the minister didn't want us to see.”

Merethe Winther-Sørensen avoided Lars's gaze. Her eyes were fixed on the floral sofa cover. Ulrik picked up the photocopies and read through them. Then he looked up.

“So you awarded grants from integration funds to Ukë and Meriton, and to Shqiptarë, from the moment Mogens was sworn in as mayor — to the tune of several millions? To Shqiptarë!” He slammed the photocopies down on the coffee table. “So tell me: how does it feel to finance drug dealing and human trafficking using public funds?”

Merethe Winther-Sørensen flinched.

“That was the real reason Malene Rørdam was fired.” Lars picked up the photocopies from the table and returned them to the envelope. “She thought it was because she had overheard something at the Christmas party — a fight, a revelation — but she was wrong. She was fired for doing her job, for trying to understand why the money had been allocated so she could explain it to the media. But she got too close, didn't she? She had to be stopped.”

By the time Merethe Winther-Sørensen was able to speak, her voice had almost disappeared.

“You can't even begin to imagine how greedy they were. Mogens and I met with them here several times at night. Allan was the only one who could make them understand . . . that there were limits. Or we would be found out.” Her shoulders were shaking. “It was hell.”

“Politicians, gangsters, and a police officer feeding them information. Quite the party, I must say.” Lars stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out another envelope, and threw it on the table on top of the newspaper articles.

“What's this?” Ulrik picked up the plain white envelope and turned it over. Lars was about to reply, but Sanne couldn't wait.

“The duty officer said that Serafine was here?”

Ulrik nodded.

“She's in the bathroom. But Sanne —”

It was too late; she was already in the kitchen.

A brief scream pierced the drawing room. Lars followed the sound.

Sanne was standing in the doorway to a bathroom tiled in salmon-coloured marble. The taps, the frame around the mirror — even the lavatory brush — were all finished in gilded metal. Two identical deep red towels hung either side of the sink.

Serafine lay curled up on the floor; her empty eyes staring out from under her hair. She was clutching a jar of pills in her hand. The lid was off, and the remaining pills were scattered across the floor.

A butterfly had been drawn on the mirror and below it a single verse, both in pink lipstick.

Before I sink

Into the big sleep

I want to hear

The scream of the butterfly

“She arrived just under an hour ago.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen had come up behind them, followed closely by Ulrik. “She claimed that my son had promised her that I would help. But . . . as a member of parliament — well, she's an illegal. I offered to pay for a taxi to take her to Sandholm.” The minister leaned her head against the door frame. “She wanted to use the bathroom. When she didn't come out . . .”

Sanne knelt down next to Serafine and closed the girl's eyes. She didn't look at Merethe Winther-Sørensen when she got up, but dragged Lars with her.

“Let's get out of here.”

Neither of them said anything on their way through the drawing room and the hall. Lars took a final glance at the three portraits of the minister and her father and grandfather.

Outside, it had started to drizzle.

“What did she write on the mirror?” Sanne stopped on the steps, and raised her gaze toward the grey sky.

“It's from a song by The Doors, ‘When the Music's Over.'”

“But what does it mean?”

Sanne walked down the steps. Lars followed.

“To her? Who knows?”

They left through the garden gate. Lars pointed across the sidewalk to the other side of the street. The TV vans had arrived. Sandra Kørner's tall figure stood in the middle of a group of reporters behind the barricade.

“I have a hunch Ulrik tipped them off.”

“It's a great PR opportunity.” Sanne pulled a face. “I don't think he would want to miss out on it.”

They turned right, to the white Fiat 500 that was parked outside number 23.

“What was in the other envelope you gave to Ulrik just now?” Sanne unlocked the car.

“A holiday cottage.” Lars took out a King's and lit it. “I could use a cup of coffee right now. How about you?”

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. The Copenhagen you have just been reading about has many features in common with the real Copenhagen, where I have lived most of my life. But the city and the universe depicted in this book do not reflect reality. So I offer you no guarantee that you can use this book as a guide or a key for anything other than a specific Copenhagen, the Copenhagen that exists in my mind and in my books.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The people below have in their various ways contributed to the realization of this book. I would like to take the opportunity to thank them here:

Camilla Schneekloth Melander · Julie Paludan-Müller · Cecilie Højmark · Find Sørensen · Stephanie Gaarde Caruana · Ulrich Sonnenberg · Sofie Voller · Jenny Thor · Lydia Constance Grønkvist Pedersen

Author photograph © Robin Skjoldborg

JAKOB MELANDER is the author of the internationally acclaimed Lars Winkler crime series. Born in 1965, he entered the eighties punk scene as a bass player and guitar player in various bands. He lives in Copenhagen.

CHARLOTTE BARSLUND is a Scandinavian translator. She has translated novels by Jonas T. Bengtsson, Peter Adolphsen, Mikkel Birkegaard, Izzet Celasin, Thomas Enger, Karin Fossum, Sissel-Jo Gazan, Steffen Jacobsen, Carsten Jensen, and Per Petterson, as well as a wide range of classic and contemporary plays. She lives in the U.K.

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

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