The Scream of the Butterfly (4 page)

7

GREY CLOUDS DRIFTED
across the sky, filtering the harsh, sharp light. Lars got out of the car and waited until Sanne had slammed the door on the passenger side.

A figure waved as it crossed the parking lot on the way to Rigshospitalet. Lars narrowed his eyes.

Then he recognized the red glasses and the short bob.

“Christine.” He waved back. Christine Fogh stuffed her hands into the pockets of her white coat, jogging the last stretch. Sanne had come to a halt a few steps behind him.

“Hey Lars.” Christine stopped, slightly out of breath. She nodded to Sanne. “What are you doing here?”

“Post-mortem. We're . . . Sanne?” He looked over his shoulder. “You go on ahead. I'll be with you in a sec.”

Sanne hesitated. Her arm twitched briefly. Then she headed for the back entrance, bowing her head against the wind.

Lars turned to Christine.

“How are you?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, but the wind blew it out of place.

“You never called.”

“No . . . I've been a bit busy, you know.” Even he could hear how feeble it sounded.

Christine folded her arms across her chest.

“Is it about the mayor?”

Lars nodded.

She wavered for a moment, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Then she reached out and trailed her finger down to his forearm.

“So when can I expect to hear from you?” She didn't wait for a reply, instead taking a pen from her chest pocket and scribbling down a number.

“But . . .” Lars took the note and checked the number before stuffing it into his pocket.

When he looked up again, she was already on her way back to the hospital. She stopped briefly and lowered her voice.

“I think your colleague is watching us from the window.” Lars turned around, just in time to see Sanne's back retreat from the first-floor window. When he turned around again, Christine Fogh was between two cars, slipping into the shadow of the monolithic Rigshospitalet. He followed her sturdy figure with his eyes.

Sanne was waiting for him by the door to the morgue, fiddling with the handle.

“What did she want?” Her tone was casual.

“Oh, she . . .” He pointed to the door. “Shall we?”

Sanne hesitated, her hand still on the handle. Then she pushed open the door and marched down the corridor toward Frelsén and Bint, who were at the furthest workstation.

Frelsén plunged the scalpel into the body the moment they stepped inside the narrow cubicle. He made an incision from the breastbone down the stomach toward the pubic bone. Yellow fat oozed out on both sides of the cut; blood collected in the grooves in the steel table. Lars took off his jacket and put it down on a chair. It was hard to believe that the victim still contained so much blood. There had been several litres on the kitchen floor last night.

“Sanne, Lars.” Frelsén didn't look up. “Glad you could come.”

Lars stepped closer. Mogens Winther-Sørensen's face looked peaceful as he lay on the table. His black stubble stood out against his skin, which had the bluish hue of skimmed milk.

“No traces of saliva on the victim's penis or scrotum, and there are no other indications of sexual activity such as vaginal fluid. You didn't find a condom in the apartment, did you?” Frelsén looked at them over the rim of his glasses. They both shook their heads. “Right,” he continued. “So if this was a transaction, they hadn't reached the delivery stage yet.” He suppressed a giggle. Sanne shook her head; Lars said nothing. This was classic Frelsén.

“What about the cut to his throat?” Sanne took out a transparent plastic bag from her purse and held it up. “Our colleagues found this in the courtyard, some distance from the crime scene. The blade is bloodstained.”

Sanne removed the knife from the bag and placed it on the table alongside the body. It was a Japanese cook's knife made by Hocho, heavy and with a broad blade, and suitable for cutting vegetables. The serrated edge was caked with a mixture of congealed blood and an indeterminable, stringy white substance.

Frelsén gave it the once-over.

“Ah, that looks interesting. I wonder what that could be.” He put his glasses back on, and then leaned over the knife. “We found tiny metal fragments in the wound, so we'll see if we can match them to the metal alloy of the knife. We should have an answer for you later today or tomorrow.” He bent over the knife once more. “But I'd still like to know —”

“Mozzarella.” Lars was leaning against the wall. “Mogens and Serafine used the knife to cut pizza. The killer went for the first weapon available.”

Frelsén raised his eyebrows, then returned to the deceased. Suddenly the knife was no longer quite so interesting.

“Time of death?” Lars sat down on one of the chairs along the wall.

“The upstairs neighbour saw the perpetrator leave the apartment around 6:45 p.m., which would fit with the body temperature. So, thereabouts, I would say.”

“You'll send us the test result from the knife, won't you? There's a press conference at three thirty this afternoon. It would be great if we could introduce the murder weapon then.”

Frelsén adjusted his gold glasses.

“I'll see what I can do.”

Lars walked toward the car. It wasn't until he stuck the key in the ignition that he realized Sanne wasn't behind him. She was nowhere to be seen. He didn't spot her until he turned onto Frederik V's Vej. Lars drove up alongside her and rolled down the window.

“Jump in.”

Sanne shook her head, stared down at the sidewalk, and continued walking. Lars followed her in the car.

“Sanne —”

“I just need a bit of air. I'll see you back at HQ.” She looked toward Blegdamsvej and carried on in a straight line.

8

THE WIND SHAKES
the woodwork outside, but the air inside her room is stagnant. Her eyes are sticky with caked make-up; her throat is dry. Her head is heavy and confused. The clock on her cell phone insists it's late afternoon. Her third leg rises; the nausea between her thighs. Lust, which doesn't belong to her, rages, ripping her body apart.

She looks around for something she can use to cut the thing off, but there is nothing in the small single bedroom they have given her that will do the job. There is just a bed, table, chair, and a small cupboard for her personal effects. She has nothing to put in the cupboard. The small parcel she was given upon her arrival at the Sandholm Centre sits on the table, containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, and sanitary napkins.

Her vision blurs.

She closes her eyes, pressing her fingertips against her eyelids until the pain comes and coloured dots dance in front of her. The bed merges with the kitchen, the checkered floor, the dead body, and the night in the strange city. A red fog, a huge wave of blood rises and rips the bed from the floor. Bolts moan as they are torn out of the floorboards. The flood turns and hurtles her through the darkness toward the bright room with no walls or ceilings — the room where her sister waits for her, surrounded by a cloud of white butterflies.

Gasping, she comes to, unable to stand up or stay lying down. It has been several days since she could last afford HRT treatment from the street-doc in the Reeperbahn. Her body and brain cry out for the hormone.

She stumbles out of bed. Her eyes avoid the pointy erection, the thing that isn't her and yet is a part of her body. She can't go outside like this; the tight-fitting dress will reveal it immediately, the animal she inhabits. On hands and knees she makes her way to the toilet and tries to pee. Sometimes it helps, but not now. Not a drop comes out. She gets up, ties a scarf around her hair, splashes water on her face, and starts removing her makeup to apply a fresh layer.

Half an hour later she is just about presentable. The bruises to her forehead are barely visible under the foundation. She slips back into the dress. The thing between her legs is still shamelessly drawing attention to itself. She tries one last time to fold it away between her legs, to make it disappear. Her fingers follow the knobbly scars around her scrotum. Finally she bundles up the bedsheet, holds it in front of her and goes outside. There has to be a doctor somewhere, someone who can help.

She is in some sort of alleyway between two long barracks. There are narrow doors on both sides and several bedrooms. Outside an open door diagonally across from her, children sit in a circle playing with a stick and bottle. The moment she closes the door behind her, the first one starts to point with laughter and revulsion. Their parents appear and shout at her in a language she doesn't understand, but she recognizes the tone. She lifts her chin and holds her head high as she sashays between the barracks in her high heels. She smiles to herself when she succeeds, and doesn't start running until the third stone hits her back, knocking the air out of her.

The Red Cross worker at reception is flustered when she appears and can't understand her. It's not until she says the words
Doctor
and
German
that it seems to click. Then she has to wait in the office for hours before the duty doctor arrives. She is sweating and dizzy. The Red Cross worker brings her water, and she drinks a little. The yellow brickwork of the main building blurs into all the other refugee centres in Germany and Denmark. She nods off.

There is a banging sound close to her head. It takes a while before she realizes that this is not part of her dream. Someone has slammed their palm against the table. An older man with black bags under his eyes is leaning over her.

Later he tells her that he initially thought she was a drug addict, that she was looking to score methadone like all the others. But now he understands, and his features soften.

“I can only give you one injection. Normally several sessions with a psychiatrist are required. This isn't something we just hand out, you know, but it's quite obviously what you need. You're lucky I even brought one dose. You need to speak to the resident doctor tomorrow. I'll leave a note for him in his office.”

And then he gives her the HRT injection. The foreign body slumps, folding into itself. The testosterone retreats. Serafine lets herself fall, disappearing into the flutter of butterfly wings.

She doesn't feel the stones that hit her as she walks back to her room.

9

“ARE YOU READY?”
Ulrik placed his hand on the door handle. “It's twenty-five to.”

Merethe Winther-Sørensen wiped her forehead and looked straight ahead. The low, excited murmur of the journalists could be heard clearly through the grey door.

“Let's get started.”

Lars was standing behind Ulrik and Sanne, leaning against the wall. Sanne had done everything she could to avoid him after she had returned from the Institute of Forensic Medicine.

“Are you quite sure it's a good idea to bring her?” It was the first time Lars had opened his mouth.

“Lars —”

“Wait, Inspector.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen turned to Lars. “Even an ordinary police officer can surely understand that a minister's presence raises the interest in the press conference considerably. Hopefully it will lead to more tipoffs from the public, wouldn't you agree?”

Lars ignored Merethe Winther-Sørensen, addressing Ulrik instead. “The case is spectacular enough as it is. And this might sound pompous, but there's something about the separation of powers between the executive and the legislature that isn't quite —”

Merethe Winther-Sørensen took a deep breath.

“If the representative of the executive power could restrict himself to matters he understands, the representative of the legislature promises to do the same.”

Ulrik sent Lars a warning glance.

“I think it's time we went inside.”

Lars shrugged. If Ulrik was happy to let himself be bossed about by the minister, it was no skin off his back.

The questions began the moment they stepped through the door.

“Do you have a suspect?”

“Do the police have any idea of the motive?”

The journalists were shouting over each other, producing a cacophony of scattered demands. The heat from the squashed bodies combined with the moisture from the exhalations of too many people in not enough space was overwhelming. Ulrik, Merethe Winther-Sørensen, and Sanne reached the podium and sat down, ignoring the questions. A number of cell phones lay on the long table in front of them, ready to record.

Lars positioned himself at the edge of the room and leaned against the wall with his arms across his chest. Ulrik glanced over at him, pointing to the empty chair next to Sanne while pouring water from a carafe into Merethe Winther-Sørensen's glass. Lars shook his head.

A woman's voice cut through the noise.

“How do you think it's going to affect your election campaign, that your son was visited by a prostitute?”

There was total silence. Merethe Winther-Sørensen grabbed her glass and took a sip. Lars looked along the rows and found the journalist who had spoken. She was a skinny, freckled woman of around forty, sitting in the second row. Her hair was partly covered by a blue scarf. It was the same woman who had tried to corner him at the crime scene yesterday.

Merethe Winther-Sørensen leaned forward.

“I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.” Her voice was cool.

“Sandra Kørner,
Ekstra Bladet
.” The journalist didn't even bat an eyelid.

“Thank you.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen rested her elbows on the table and folded her hands. “According to the police, there was no sexual contact between my son and . . . the witness. Perhaps we should let the police present the facts before we start speculating?”

Sandra Kørner's pen flew across her notepad.

“Was that the reason he —” she continued, but Merethe Winther-Sørensen cut her off, looking across the assembly.

“I'm available for questions afterward, obviously, but first of all I would like to say that we're all deeply upset by the terrible loss that the Radical Party, our family, and Copenhagen suffered last night. Mogens was a wonderful son, and a rare politician with a remarkable career ahead of him . . .” She trailed off and reached out for the glass of water in front of her. Her hand was trembling. “My party has issued a press release, which should be with your editors as we speak. It will also be distributed as you leave. I'll now hand you over to Chief Inspector Ulrik Sommer and Sanne Bissen, who is heading the investigation for the police. Go ahead.”

Lars caught Sanne's eye. She blinked and looked away, her cheeks flushed. It suited her.

“Thank you.” Ulrik coughed. “Sorry. As you'll be aware, Mogens Winther-Sørensen, the mayor of Copenhagen, was found murdered last night at his home in Frederiksberg. A young woman was also found at the crime scene. She arrived from Hamburg yesterday, but we presume she's not German.”

An older man shouted from the back: “Is she a suspect? Was it a sex killing?”

Lars shut his eyes. He knew he shouldn't be surprised, but had they really not been listening to a word of what had just been said?

Sanne stood up.

“A witness saw the perpetrator escape. But I'd like to turn to another matter: we've just confirmed the murder weapon. Lights off, please.” The room went dark.

Sanne tapped her phone and a photograph of the kitchen knife appeared enlarged on the screen behind them. A ruler at the bottom of the photograph indicated its measurements.

“We've found three sets of fingerprints on the knife. Mogens Winther-Sørensen's, the woman with him, and a third person who isn't a family member. We're currently focusing our investigation on this third person.”

“The woman . . . you're saying this wasn't about prostitution?” asked a young man sitting next to Sandra Kørner. “Then what was she doing with the mayor?”

“Like I said, we've found no forensic evidence to indicate sexual contact between the two of them, and —”

“As far as
we
 . . .” Sandra was speaking now. She made a sweeping gesture to include all of the journalists, “Gather, the deceased was found with his pants around his ankles, lying next to this woman.” Lars thought about the photograph that had been on the front page of every tabloid newspaper. He cursed himself for not having kept the photographer out of the apartment. Sandra Kørner continued: “Surely it's no wonder that we have some theories about what might have happened?”

Merethe Winther-Sørensen had been stirring restlessly in her chair during the latter part of the press conference. She couldn't restrain herself any longer.

“Please may I?” But she didn't wait for permission before she continued. “Like I said, my son's death is a great loss for the family and for my party. But it's also a great loss for Danish politics, which is why the party and I have decided to issue a reward of a hundred thousand kroner for information leading to the apprehension of my son's killer. You can call the Radical Party in Copenhagen on the number specified in the press release with any information.”

Lars closed his eyes. Anything but that. He peered at Ulrik, who was gritting his teeth and staring at the table. The whole thing was spinning out of control. Interns and students would be receiving information from the public and be their first point of contact at the very stage where it was of vital importance that calls were handled by professionals who knew how to listen. And, more importantly, ask the right questions. Merethe Winther-Sørensen had just done everything she possibly could to wreck the investigation. The questions rained down over the podium. The mucky heat made his shirt stick to his back.