The Scream of the Butterfly (7 page)

15

AN ELDERLY LIBRARIAN
wearing designer jeans and a light blue pashmina draped over her shoulders ushered Lars over to the microfilm reader at the Royal Library's East Reading Room. The room was packed, mostly with elderly people and students.

“Here is the Powerscan 2000.” The librarian patted the grey and white machine. The computer screen next to the scanner was turned to portrait position, probably in order to replicate the old broadsheet format that most newspapers had now abandoned.

“It's the best investment we've made in a long time,” the librarian enthused. Lars was more interested in the box tucked under her arm: microfilms of all national newspapers from the second half of 1999.

She put the box next to the machine, opened it, and took out the first reel of film.

“Allow me.”

Lars wasn't watching: he was busy examining the remaining reels of film, one by one. Dates had been written with a felt-tip pen on ageing tape strips stuck to the sides.

“There you are. It's all ready to go.” The librarian took a step to the side.

Lars looked up. “Something's missing.”

“Impossible.”

Lars pointed. He had arranged the reels on the table in chronological order. His fingers ran from August 1, 1999 onward. There was a big gap from October 1 to December 31. The librarian tilted the empty box to get a better look: Lars had included every reel.

“I don't understand.” The librarian had to sit down. “This has never . . .” Disapproving glares cut through the large glass wall that separated the area with the scanners from the reading room itself. An elderly man placed a hushing finger in front of his lips. “I think we had better move.” She packed up the film reels into the box, then gestured for Lars to follow her.

A door at the back of the reading room led to a cramped office, which also served as a staff room. The smell of salami and cheese was overpowering. A chubby man in his fifties was sitting behind a low desk piled high with bound books and notes. His whole body quivered as he chuckled.

“These YouTube videos are absolutely hilarious. Come and have a look, Lis.” Then he noticed Lars.

“How can I help you?”

Lars introduced himself, explained his problem, and gave him the reference number. The man on the other side of the desk entered the digits into his computer.

“Yes . . .” He leaned closer to the screen and read. His eyes moved along the lines. “No, that's all we have here.” He looked up. Everything about him was bloated, including his eyes.

“You have nothing from October up to and including December 1999?”

“If they're not in the boxes, then I can't help you.” He fidgeted with his reading glasses, which were lying next to the keyboard.

“This is a murder inquiry.”

The man's gaze flitted sideways, and suddenly Lars realized what had happened. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth without lighting it.

“Now, listen to me. You don't have to say anything, all you have to do is nod.” Lars cracked his knuckles, and leaned over the desk and computer. “You and I both know that you have those films. The question is why you won't hand them over to me. My guess is you've had a visit from PET. And PET told you not to. I'm going to give you ten seconds to consider the consequences of it becoming public knowledge that the Royal Library — that you, personally — is preventing Copenhagen Police from accessing information vital to a murder investigation. And I don't think you should count on any help from PET in this instance.”

The man opened his mouth. Then he closed it again and nodded.

“Good,” Lars continued, holding out his hand. “I'd like the missing films.”

“He — he took them. We don't have them here.”

Lars was about to say something in a very loud voice when his phone rang.

“It's Ulrik here. Are you on your way to Sandholm?”

“Not yet. First I wanted to —”

“Then get up there, right now. We need to talk to her before she —”

“Is shipped back to Germany. Yes, I get it, but . . . the minister and Kim A —”

“We can talk once you've interviewed the witness. I don't want to hear another word. Get moving. Now.” Ulrik hung up.

16

T
HE TREES SURROUNDING
the Sandholm Centre towered over the flat landscape. Red and yellow leaves clung to the half-naked branches. A truck drove past outside on Sandholmgårdsvej, then silence descended on the area. Heavy clouds drifted above Allerød.

Lars showed his badge at the entrance and signed the visitors' register. A Roma family wearing identical, colourful track suits were on their way out. He waited until they had left before he addressed the receptionist.

“We sent you an asylum seeker yesterday named Serafine Haxhi. She's waiting to be returned to Germany.”

The receptionist leafed through several papers.

“She's in Room 36. Hang on a second. Carsten?” She yelled over her shoulder. “That prostitute the police brought in last night, didn't she ask to see a doctor?”

Lars was given directions to the medical clinic and walked through the centre, cutting diagonally across the square between the yellow buildings. A Red Cross flag flapped lazily from a flagpole in the light breeze.

The waiting room was crowded with families and elderly people. A tall, dark-skinned man sat right at the back, in the corner below a window. His facial muscles and jaw moved in spasms and tics. His eyes were wild, and thick yellow froth bubbled from the corners of his mouth. The chairs around him were empty. Lars nodded as he entered, but no one made eye contact with him. He walked down the aisle and sat down next to the tall man. The asylum seeker looked at him with what resembled astonishment. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and continued staring into nothing.

A baby whimpered; its father tried to comfort it. The waiting room smelled of cigarette smoke and solvents.

Serafine's voice coming from inside in the examination room made him snap out of his reverie. It was hoarse and flat, a little too deep, and yet agitated with hysteria.

“Asshole!”

A male voice tried to reassure her. Then the door opened and Serafine emerged, her face a contorted mask. She slammed the door shut behind her, and marched out between the chairs and the waiting patients, who retreated from her.

Lars got up and ran after her. They had already arrived at the square between the yellow buildings when he caught up with her.

“Serafine?” He reached out and got hold of her arm. “Wait.”

It took a moment, but then the harshness disappeared from her face and her body slumped. At least she recognized him.

“The doctor . . . he won't . . . I need medicine.” Then she gave up and staggered toward Lars, who had to take a step back so as not to fall over.

A group of children were playing softball between the buildings.

“There, there.”Lars walked her to a bench under a tree and helped her to sit down. “Do you want me to have a word with him?”

Lars didn't knock; he just walked straight into the doctor's examination room.

“Sorry for interrupting. Copenhagen Police.” He pulled out his badge and nodded to the young mother, who held her baby tight as she stared at him.

“You can't just barge in like this.” The doctor's big hands flapped in the air. Lars ignored him and stuffed the badge back into his pocket.

“It's about that woman who just left. She needs medication.”

“If that's a woman, then I'm the prime minister.” The doctor laughed. “It's a transsexual. He's trying to blag his way to get hormone treatment.”

Lars must have looked astounded because the doctor continued.

“Hormone treatment isn't available on demand. It requires several sessions with a psychiatrist before you
might
be deemed suitable for HRT. It's a very serious intervention.”

Lars sat down on a chair. His head was spinning. A transsexual? And none of them had noticed?

“He — she — is our only witness to the murder of Mogens Winther-Sørensen. It would be a great help if you could ignore the rules just this once. In her current state, our chances of getting anything sensible out of her aren't —”

“I'm sorry. I can't do that.” The doctor shook his head. “Please excuse me, but I have other patients to see.”

It was Lars's turn to slam the door.

Outside the children were still playing softball, but Serafine had disappeared. He tried speaking to them in English, but they just shook their heads and carried on with their game.

Lars looked around. Where could she be?

A group of young men came walking toward the gate; they stopped when Lars called out to them. They pointed behind the buildings.

“Behind that one, third row.”

The third row turned out to be a narrow alleyway between two barracks. Young children were playing outside the open doors. A smell of food hung over the area.

Room 36 was roughly halfway down. Men in tank tops and sweatpants, and women with scarves around their heads, appeared in the doorways, watching him.

The door was locked. He knocked, but there was no reply.

“Looking for the whore?” A middle-aged man with a fat belly under his red T-shirt was standing in the doorway behind him. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. “Haven't seen her since this morning.”

Lars gave up and returned to the front desk.

“She just left.” The receptionist looked up from her book.

“Left? What do you mean?”

“This isn't a prison. Visitors have to sign in, but residents can come and go as they please.”

“But she was our only witness.” Lars had to lean on the desk for support. How could this happen?

“Like I said, it's not prison.” The woman shrugged her shoulders.

“She can't have got very far, don't you think?” Lars was already halfway out the door.

“Well, she caught the bus five minutes ago. It was going to Allerød station.” She waved her hand to indicate the direction.

Lars ran to his car and sped down Saldholmgårdsvej toward Allerød. Serafine wouldn't have gotten off yet, not while the bus was winding its way through the residential area or driving through the forest. He parked outside the station, jumped out of the car, and started running just as the back of the E-line train bound for Copenhagen left the platform.

Lars closed his eyes and started counting. He stopped at four and took out his cell.

“Lisa, it's Lars. Where are you?”

“At HQ, enjoying tip-offs from the public. Wasting my time and the taxpayers' money.”

“Right.” Lars was back at his car, unlocking the door. “Serafine has done a runner. I think she's on the train going to Copenhagen.”

“What? From Sandholm?”

“I left her alone for five minutes max. Damn it.” Lars kicked the front tire of his car and got in. The sound of Lisa's fingers racing across the keyboard were coming through his cell phone.

“I'll issue a wanted notice immediately.”

Lars turned the key in the ignition and reversed out.

“There's more. The doctor up here claims that Serafine isn't a she.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's a transsexual. She was trying to get the doctor to give her sex hormones, but he wouldn't. I left her outside and went back to persuade him. I thought she just needed cough medicine or something. And then she ran while I was in there.”

Lisa laughed.

“It's all very funny, isn't it?” Lars accelerated, overtaking an old Citroën. “Can't believe we didn't figure it out.”

“I'll tell our fellow officers to ignore Skelbækgade and Istedgade. The gay bars are more likely to produce a result.”

Lars muttered curses under his breath. He was on the highway. “I'm heading to HQ. There's just one thing I need to stop off and do on my way.”

Lars hung up. The needle was quivering at around 140 kilometres per hour. He hadn't forgotten the stunt Merethe Winther-Sørensen and Kim A had pulled with Infomedia and the Royal Library. They weren't going to get away with it.

17

THE FASHIONABLE SEASIDE
town of Hornbæk on a typical Danish autumn day. A strong wind was blowing from the Kattegat; leaden clouds were visible through the bare branches overhanging the road. Sarah, who hadn't uttered one word the whole trip, leapt out from the back seat, ran up the driveway, and disappeared into the garden.

Sanne followed the driveway through the gate to the salmon-pink house. Windswept pines and torn shrubs dominated the front lawn; the grass was knee-high around the tree trunks.

“What a mess.” The lawns in the holiday home area on the outskirts of Kolding, back where she came from, would be newly mowed, the bushes and shrubs trimmed into ruler-straight rows.

Sanne opened the gate. Sarah was nowhere to be seen.

“It's meant to look this way.” Allan held up his hand, shielding his eyes against a stray sunbeam that sliced through all the grey. “I would guess a house like this costs over ten million.”

Sanne surveyed the cottage and then shook her head. She was caught off guard and her cheeks grew hot when he asked the question.

“Tell me, why are you so pissed off with Lars?”

“I don't think I am.”
Was it really that obvious?
“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I was just wondering . . . Wait, can you hear that?” Allan turned his head and sidled up to the house. Now she picked up on it too: angry voices, the odd word, half-sentences tossed and turned by the wind.

“You stay away.”

“Kirsten, she's also my —”

“That sounds like Merethe Winther-Sørensen, doesn't it?” Sanne walked through the gate. In the garden, a tall man with a bald head stood under one of the pine trees, pulling his blazer tight against the wind. “Kim A?”

“Sanne . . . Allan.” He greeted them. “Sarah went inside.”

“Are they fighting?”

Kim shrugged his shoulders and carried on smoking.

Sanne and Allan walked up to the terrace and entered through the open door. In the kitchen, mother and daughter were standing in a close embrace. Kirsten Winther-Sørensen was rubbing her nose against her daughter's hair.

“What do you think you're doing?” She let go of Sarah, who dried her eyes. “Surely you have no right to talk to her without me being present.” Kirsten Winther-Sørensen straightened her back, but stayed where she was. Merethe Winther-Sørensen entered the kitchen from the hallway behind Kirsten and Sarah, and gave Sanne and Allan the ministerial stare.

“What's going on here?”

Sanne glared at Kirsten Winther-Sørensen, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the dining table.

“Sit down.” She smacked her palm on the tabletop in front of a vacant chair. The dirty plates shook.

“What gives you the right to interview my granddaughter?” Merethe Winther-Sørensen folded her arms across her chest. “It's been two days since my son —”

Kirsten Winther-Sørensen looked away.

“Merethe, mind your own business.”

Sarah disappeared into the bathroom in the hallway. At that same moment, Kim A entered the room.

“Your meeting with the justice minister . . . If we're going to be on time, we need to leave now.”

Merethe Winther-Sørensen looked hard at Sanne, then at Kirsten, then back at Sanne again. She nodded.

“I expect you to treat my family properly.” She raised her voice, calling out toward the bathroom. “Sarah? See you at the meeting this afternoon. You'll put up your hair like we agreed, won't you? It looks better, more serious.” Then the minister marched out of the kitchen, followed by Kim A.

Kirsten Winther-Sørensen grimaced and started picking at a napkin. She hugged one shoulder with her other arm. Outside, the noise from a revving engine drowned out the wind for a brief second. Then it disappeared.

“What was all that about?” Sanne spoke in a soft voice.

But Kirsten Winther-Sørensen didn't take the bait.

“What do you want?”

Allan took a seat at the end of the table.

“We wanted to talk to you about Monday afternoon and evening, between three p.m. and eight p.m. specifically.”

Kirsten Winther-Sørensen's facial expression didn't change. Sanne produced the printed statement from Nets and placed it on the table.

“At 5:23 p.m. on Monday you used your debit card at the Shell gas station on Fredensborgvej in Hillerød.”

There was no reaction.

“Kirsten.” Sanne pointed to the printout. “Yesterday you told us that you were here all afternoon and evening.”

Kirsten had unfolded the napkin and was tearing little pieces from it, dumping them into a half-empty coffee. The fragments gathered at the bottom of the cup, where they turned into a brown, sticky pulp.

Sanne continued: “Sarah told us that you were gone between three thirty and eight o'clock that night.”

Kirsten Winther-Sørensen gathered her cardigan around her. She had finished with the napkin; there was nothing left to tear. Instead, she started picking at the veins in the wood of the table with the nail on her forefinger. Sarah was on her phone in the bathroom. She was sobbing; they couldn't make out individual words.

“You could start by telling us where you were.” Allan's chair creaked.

Kirsten Winther-Sørensen rubbed the skin under her nose. She glanced briefly at Sanne, then at the Nets statement.

“I was just driving around. I filled up the car and bought cigarettes in Hillerød and parked down by the marina. I sat staring across the water.”

“Was something troubling you?”

“What do you mean?”

Sanne took over.

“Sarah told us that you were angry with Mogens that day. He was supposed to have come up here, but changed his mind at the last minute. How would you describe your relationship with your husband?”

Kirsten Winther-Sørensen started to laugh. It began as hollow, rippling laughter that soon turned into a coughing fit.

“Are you suggesting that Mogens was having an affair?”

“I'm not suggesting anything. I'm asking you.” Sanne folded her hands. Now that she had finally made eye contact with Kirsten Winther-Sørensen, she didn't want to let her look away. “I don't think you sat down by the marina staring at the sea on Monday. I think you drove to Copenhagen once you'd filled up your gas tank.”

Kirsten Winther-Sørensen reacted for the first time. She pressed her hands over her ears and rocked back and forth. Sanne was about to continue when there was a knock on the French doors.

“Am I disturbing anything important?”

A tall man in his forties with short, mousy hair entered. He was wearing jeans and deck shoes. He took off his sunglasses and stuck them in his shirt pocket.

Kirsten Winther-Sørensen placed her hands on the table.

“Peter. The police are here.”

Sanne got up.

“We would like to speak to Kirsten Winther-Sørensen alone, so could you please come back later?”

Sarah rushed into the room and jumped into the arms of the new arrival.

“Peter! Thank God you're here.”

Peter hugged Sarah and put her down.

“It's good to see you too.” He looked from Sanne and Allan to Kirsten. His smile faded.

“What's going on here?”

“And who are you?” Allan took out his notepad.

“Peter is an old friend.” Kirsten got up. “Without him —”

Sarah began to sob, leaning against the table for support. Her hair was a mess.

“I'm going to ask you to leave now.” Kirsten Winther-Sørensen put her arm around her daughter.

“We're just trying to do our job,” Allan responded.

“What questions do you have for Kirsten?” Peter folded his arms across his chest. “And Sarah? I understand that you interviewed her too?” He turned to Allan. “By the way, my name is Peter Egethorn. I'm a defence lawyer.” He produced a business card from his back pocket and slid it across the table. “Well?”

Sanne studied the card.

“May I?” When Peter Egethorn nodded, Sanne dropped the card into her handbag before summarizing their conversation.

Allan passed the printout across the table. Peter scanned the sheet and then he looked up.

“Do you have any other questions?”

“She said that Mogens was having an affair.” Kirsten pointed at Sanne.

“I see.” Peter Egethorn placed his hand on her shoulder. Then he turned to Sanne. “On what basis?”

“Sarah told us that Kirsten got angry when Mogens called on Monday to say that he wasn't going to come up here after all.”

The lawyer sighed.

“Surely even a police officer would concede that it's normal for people to have marital problems without them killing each other.”

Sanne shrugged. “We're trying to find out what happened. It's our job.”

Peter nodded.

“I understand. But Kirsten and Sarah have already been through more than anyone should be subjected to. If you don't have anything else to add, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. So either arrest Kirsten, or interview her under caution.”

“Peter!” Kirsten's head shot up.

“Easy now.” He put his hand over hers. “Everything will be all right.”

Sanne opened the door on the driver's side. She looked up just before she got behind the wheel. Peter Egethorn was standing on the terrace with his arm around Sarah, watching them.