The Scream of the Butterfly (5 page)

OCTOBER 1999

THE RED CROSS
worker leads Mogens down the long, yellow corridor. The noise of children outside the sports hall disappears behind them.

“I think Søren is free now, if we're lucky . . . Yes, it appears so.”

Two residents in shabby track suits emerge from a door further down the hall, followed by a stocky Danish man. They exchange a few words in English, but Mogens can't decipher the meaning, and the trio disappear in the opposite direction. The Red Cross worker pops his head around the door, which is decorated with a piece of paper that has DIRECTOR written on it.

“Søren? The new volunteer is here.”

There is a grunt from inside the office. The Red Cross worker nods to Mogens, edges around him, and disappears back down the corridor.

The office is narrow and dark and painted yellow like the corridor outside. There is a desk covered with papers, files, and coffee cups. Two square windows provide a view of a low, grey barrack behind the Margretheholm Refugee Centre. Beyond it is an open area scattered with tufts of grass, wrecked bicycles, and car tires, and the remains of a concrete foundation from a building that was never finished. In the distance, masts from the marina behind Lynetten form a backdrop to the sordid spectacle. Slender trees border the area to the west. A large group of dark-skinned children are using the area as a playground, kicking a ball around under the cold October sun.

“Welcome.” Søren gets up from his chair behind the desk, extending his hand. He is a compact man with a barrel chest. He might be in his early fifties; his black, wispy hair has hints of grey.

Mogens sits down.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Søren rakes his hand through his hair. It sticks up in the air. “I had to deal with some stolen bicycles. Our residents feel safer when a Red Cross worker attends police interviews.”

Mogens nods. So the police had been here?

“I gather you're experiencing a rise in the number of refugees?”

“The events in Kosovo have taken us all by surprise. We're building several centres across Denmark, but Margretheholm is the biggest, so we're grateful for all the volunteers we can get. You want to study education?”

“Yes. I was hoping to use this for an assignment, if you'll allow me?”

“I'm sure we can work something out. Have you had the tour?”

“Not yet.”

“Our facilities aren't modern, as you can see. This place used to be an old naval base, which explains the wheelhouse on the roof.” Søren drums his fingers on the desk and clears his throat. “I have to ask . . . Your surname?”

Of course, it had to come up.
It always does
.

“Yes, she's my mother.” Mogens looks out of the window. He
could
take Kirsten's surname.

“This is the sports hall.” Søren points through the dilapidated, brown double doors at their first stop on the tour of the residents' area. The hall echoes with laughter and shouting. Some young Danish men are playing volleyball with far too many boys and girls. “We try to make sure there are lots of things for the kids to do here. Hopefully it'll stop them from dwelling too much on what they've seen and where they've come from.”

Mogens nods. Right now it seems to be working.

The tour continues to the centre office, the nurses' station, and the storeroom.

“The residents live in quarters like this one.” Søren walks him down a long corridor. Brown chipboard covers the bottom half of the walls on both sides, interrupted only by the blue doors. “Each corridor has its own kitchen where residents can cook. There's also a cafeteria for bigger events, but the bedrooms are small. Excuse us . . .” Søren greets an older man in sweatpants and a flat cap, who leans his hand on the door handle to one of the rooms while kicking off his plastic sandals. “Could we have a look inside?”

The man steps aside so Mogens and Søren can see in. Bunk beds made of red metal pipes with foam mattresses are lined against both walls; a table under the open, square window is covered by groceries, folded clothing, and books. A young woman sits on one of the lower bunks with her legs pulled under her and an infant in her arms. It is hot, despite the autumn chill outside. It smells of too many people in too little space. Søren smiles at the woman and thanks the man in the flat cap.

They proceed down the corridor.

“Each family is allocated a room similar to the one you've just seen. We also have a number of accompanied unaccompanied children.”

Mogens stops.

“
Accompanied unaccompanied
?”

“Yes — funny term, isn't it?” Søren walks on and Mogens has no choice but to follow him. “Children and teenagers under eighteen who arrive without parents — they might be missing or even dead — but these children aren't necessarily alone either, hence the term
accompanied unaccompanied
. Most come with other family members: uncles, aunts, grandparents. Others have been brought here by neighbours or friends of the family.”

“But that's terrible. Do you have many of them?”

“A few. As you know, children are the most vulnerable and always suffer most in a conflict.” They stop at the end of the corridor. “Two of them live in here.” He knocks on the door frame. “Afërdita?”

The room is similar to the first, only there are no bunk beds here. Two ordinary single beds made from the same red metal pipes are positioned on either side of the window, the brown chipboard covering the bottom half of the walls.

A young girl is sitting on the bed to the right. She has a pretty, elongated face, framed by dark hair that falls in waves over her shoulders. She is wearing a sleeveless dress and reading a magazine. The girl looks up, startled, but her features soften and she flashes them a shy smile once she recognizes it's Søren.

“This is Mogens.” Søren leans against the door frame. “Where's your brother?”

“Arbën is out somewhere.” The girl retreats a little on the bed. She can be no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, at most.

“Are you telling me that she and her brother arrived alone?” Mogens feels almost sick at the thought.

“They arrived with some family. Their uncles live slightly further down the corridor. Ah, here he is. Hi Arbën.” Søren places his hand on the head of a slender boy. He is wearing sequinned running shoes, and presses himself against the wall. A filthy doll trails along the floor behind him.

“How old is he?” Mogens looks down at the boy, whose dark eyes are staring up at him without blinking.

“They say he's eight. But it's hard to know for sure.”

“Does he understand English?” Mogens squats down on his haunches.

“Some.”

He turns to the boy. “I have a daughter. Sarah is almost five. Do you want to see her picture?”

The boy looks gravely at him. Mogens takes out his wallet and finds the small photograph.

“Here. This is Sarah. Maybe some day you can play with her, eh?”

The boy takes the photograph, studying it.

“I can see that no one has explained the rules to you yet.” Søren lowers his voice. “You'll be dismissed if you see the refugees privately. You're not allowed to invite them to your home or give them anything, nor borrow or accept anything from them.”

“But . . .” He looks at the boy. Arbën stands holding the photo of Sarah in both hands, completely mesmerized.

“It might sound harsh, but it's actually meant to protect them. They're in a vulnerable situation: they know no one here and nothing about how our society works. It's far too easy for them to end up in a relationship with an unhealthy level of dependency. They might think you can help them obtain asylum if they do favours for you. Many of them would do anything.”

Mogens gets up and reaches for the photograph, but Arbën retreats, clutching the small image in his hands.

“You'll have a hard time getting that off him.” Søren laughs. “I don't think a small picture of your daughter can do any harm, but you must take extra care, Mogens . . . with your family, I mean.”

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25

10

LARS HEADED DOWN
the red corridor to the Violent Crime Unit and opened the green door. A single letter was waiting for him in his mailbox. He took out the slender, white envelope and checked the sender:
Elena Winkler
. He closed his eyes. The murder of the mayor had almost made him forget about her, their unfinished divorce, and the dividing-up of their matrimonial assets — but only almost.

He had almost managed to forget about Ulrik, too.

Ulrik, with whom Elena now lived; his old friend and boss. The weasel.

Lars entered his office, tossed the envelope in a drawer, and slammed it shut. It was time for the morning briefing. The others would be here any minute.

Lisa was the first to arrive. Her short hair stood right up and her compact body bristled with energy. She nodded toward the stack of morning papers on his desk. Every single one had the press conference on the front page with headlines such as
MINISTER:
100,000
KRONER REWARD FOR INFORMATION ABOUT MY SON'S MURDER.

“The usual garbage.” Lars cleared away the pile of papers. “Sit down. There's nothing we can do about the media.”

A file folder appeared underneath the newspapers. It contained printouts of the findings from the first batch of calls to the Radical Party's phone line: the result of Merethe Winther-Sørensen's reward.

“We'll get some of our colleagues to trawl through these. Sanne and Allan should be here in a moment.” He looked at his watch. Ten past.

The door opened and Sanne entered, followed by Allan, who mopped sweat from his upper lip with a tissue, then placed his briefcase on the floor.

“Good morning.” Lars sat down. “Who has interviewed the neighbours?”

“I have. Hang on . . .” Allan rummaged through his bag. “Yes. I got nothing. All the good citizens of Frederiksberg keep to themselves.” He sat down. “I also stopped by the Town Hall yesterday, and spoke to one of the building's officials. Serafine met Mogens Winther-Sørensen outside the main entrance. She waited for over an hour before the mayor came out.”

“Did she ask about him inside, at reception?” Sanne asked.

“They wouldn't let her in. She looks like . . . well, you know.” Allan shrugged his shoulders.

“Are you suggesting that they knew each other?”

“How likely is it that the mayor of Copenhagen would know a random German sex worker?” Allan paused for effect, letting the question sink in. “Not very, is it? Mogens Winther-Sørensen left the Town Hall around five thirty. I've put together some surveillance images . . .” He put his briefcase on his lap, opened it, and produced some still photographs. “Here. They spend a few minutes talking outside the Town Hall. Then they walk to the taxi stand by Burger King and get into a cab. You can see the registration number and everything. It only took me five minutes to find the driver.”

“And?” Lars flicked through the photos.

“He drove them straight to the victim's address at Sankt Thomas Plads. They stopped by a pizzeria on the way. According to the driver, they hardly said two words to each other the whole trip.”

Lars closed his eyes and leaned back. No such luck, of course.

“But there is one more thing.” Allan had something; they could hear it in his voice. “I spoke to a guy at Nets, the online payments company.” He took a printout from his briefcase and held it up so everyone could see the list of dates, times, and addresses. “Their records show that Kirsten Winther-Sørensen's debit card was swiped at the Shell gas station at Fredensborgvej 69 in Hillerød . . . ” Allan paused. “At 5:23 p.m. on Monday afternoon.”

“She was in Hillerød at 5:23 p.m.?” Sanne made a note. “And how long does it take to drive to Frederiksberg from there? Thirty to forty minutes? Frelsén put the time of death at 6:45 p.m.”

“In more than half of murder cases, the spouse is the perpetrator.” Allan's upper lip was sweaty again as he looked around.

“Okay.” Lars nodded. “You and Sanne go talk to Kirsten and her daughter.”

Sanne got up.

“And what are
you
going to do?”

“I've something I need to check.”

11

LARS WENT TO
the photocopy room to pick up the sizeable pile of paper he had printed out from Infomedia's database: every single article published in the last fifteen years in both national and Copenhagen newspapers about Mogens Winther-Sørensen and his mother.

Back in his office, he dumped the stack on the corner of his desk and shoved the keyboard under the monitor, but his movements were too forceful and he ended up nudging the bottom of the pile so that the top half fell over the edge of the desk and sailed onto the floor, where the papers scattered in an asymmetrical fan.

Lars swore, knelt down, and started gathering up stray sheets of paper. When he had finished he pulled out his chair and sat down to read, not worrying about chronology or whether the articles concerned the deceased or his mother.

He found stories describing how Merethe Winther-Sørensen had wept as she vacated the Ministry of the Interior in favour of her successor when the right-wing coalition had succeeded Poul Nyrup Rasmussen's left-wing coalition government in 2001. He read about Mogens Winther-Sørensen's fight to get parliament to understand that the capital had different needs than the rest of the country. Lars presumed that the family connection must have been of some use in this respect. And there was a lengthy feature about Merethe Winther-Sørensen and her political role model — her grandfather, the Radical foreign minister Holger Winther-Sørensen, who had served under Viggo Kampmann. Lars shuddered as he recalled the sombre portrait in the hall in the imposing house on Amicisvej.

Somewhere in the pile he also found a colourful feature in “Free,” the
Berlingske Tidende
supplement, in which Kirsten Winther-Sørensen, “
managing director and head of design for the über-cool Danish clothing brand [Hy:brid]
,” invited readers into her home on Sankt Thomas Plads in Frederiksberg. The apartment hadn't changed much in the intervening years, as far he could tell.

However, he failed to find any articles from the time Mogens Winther-Sørensen became mayor of Copenhagen, which was odd. It had been something of a coup for the Radical Party, since the capital had been a staunch Social Democratic bastion for almost one hundred years. Lars assumed it was an event that would have interested most people, and not just those living in Copenhagen.

He went to grab himself some coffee. When he came back to his office, he started organizing the printouts. Arranging hundreds of articles and notes in chronological order was a tedious job and it was late afternoon by the time he was finished. One emerging pattern was definitely clear: Mogens and Merethe Winther-Sørensen had appeared fairly regularly in the media throughout the entire fifteen-year period, but there was a big gap from the middle of September 1999 until just after Christmas that same year.

Lars scribbled down the dates on a pale blue Post-it note before calling Infomedia. A friendly but firm female voice answered.

“Lars Winkler, Copenhagen Police. I've been looking over some articles I found on your website and I just wanted to ensure that you've included every article published in the Danish media. There are several items that ought to be here, but . . .”

The silence at the other end was deafening.

“Of course.” She sounded almost offended when she finally responded.

“I'm just saying —” He wasn't even allowed to finish.

“We stake our reputation on being accurate and comprehensive. It's quite simply not possible for our material to be anything other than complete and exhaustive. Goodbye.” The call was terminated. At that moment, Lisa popped her head around the door.

“Ulrik wants a word with you.”