The Scream of the Butterfly (8 page)

18

LARS HALF-RAN UP
the stairs to the parliament building in Rigsdagsgården, flashed his badge at an official, and went in. He shared the elevator with a young woman he thought he had seen on TV, a member of the Socialist People's Party. The official at the entrance had told him that the finance minister was in a meeting with her fellow party members. It was impossible to say when it would finish.

Today's events had done nothing to improve his mood. He looked at his watch. It was almost four in the afternoon. He was sorely tempted to kick down the door to the meeting room — not even a minister had the right to obstruct a police investigation. This had to stop. Now.

The Socialist People's Party politician got off on the first floor, and Lars rode alone up to the second. He got off in a red corridor, which led to the parliamentary offices of the Radical Party.

The corridor was crammed with journalists. Parliamentary officials tried in vain to impose some sort of order. Camera crews from TV 2 News and TV Avisen were there, and the printed press was out in full force too. The door to the meeting room could only just be seen through the swarm of reporters. The thick shag carpet on the floor and the numerous bodies in the corridor all helped to absorb the sound waves, but the noise was still deafening. They smelled blood.

A skinny woman separated from the crowd and walked toward him. It wasn't until she started speaking that he recognized her as the pushy journalist from the press conference yesterday.

“Lars Winkler?”

“Might be.” Lars tried to keep an eye on the door. “Who wants to know?”

“Sandra Kørner,
Ekstra Bladet
.” She held out her hand. Lars ignored it. She let her hand drop and laughed. “You chucked out my photographer from Mogens Winther-Sørensen's apartment on Monday and had him driven halfway to the other side of Amager. Are you aware he's going to file a complaint about you?”

“Let him.” Lars continued to stare past her. “He should expect to be summoned for a DNA test within the next few days.”

Sandra Kørner scratched her ear.

“I'm just giving you information. I'm not defending him.”

“Hmm.” Was she actually trying to be friendly? “Do you know when they'll finish?”

“They've been at it for hours.” Sandra Kørner turned around and followed Lars's gaze to the door to the meeting room. “Do you have any new leads? Is this why you need to talk to the minister?”

“Listen, we have a press officer who works for our communications department. Try them.”

“Oh, come on.” Sandra Kørner laughed. “Surely we can help each other out here. For example, I could —”

The door to the meeting room creaked. Lars couldn't see what was happening, but it sounded as if the handle had been pushed down from the inside. The journalists surged toward the door; TV cameras ploughed through the crowd of reporters. A forest of cameras rose from outstretched arms. Sandra Kørner pushed her way to the front.

Lars tried to get an overview. There was no way he would reach the door. It was better to wait until the minister left — but would she turn left or right?

The door opened and the crowd in front grew.

“Hey, hey. Step back, would you?” The minister's distinctive voice cut through the noise. Officials herded the reporters back in an attempt to clear enough space to allow the politicians and the party's press officers to leave.

“Minister, can you tell us what the meeting was about? Did you discuss the situation at the Town Hall?” It was impossible to determine which journalist was asking the questions. Lars didn't care, didn't listen to the minister's reply. Kim A was standing behind her. His bald head mirrored the TV light's glossy reflection in the white woodwork. For a brief moment they locked eyes across the crowd. Then Kim A bent down and whispered in the minister's ear; he nudged her gently, but firmly, in the direction of the nearest exit. Lars followed, hugging the wall, but the reporters formed an aggressive doughnut around the minister. It was impossible to get in close. He rushed after them, following the crowd down the broad staircase, and out through the hall onto RigsdagsgÃ¥rden where the minister got into her car, which drove off before she had answered a single question. Lars caught a glimpse of her in the back seat, a pair of piercing little eyes staring back into his. Then she was gone.

He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. Then he closed his eyes as he inhaled — yet another disappointment.

“So you didn't get anything from her either?” He opened his eyes. Sandra Kørner was standing next to him, watching her fellow journalists disperse toward the waiting cars.

“Can I bum a smoke?” She pointed her pen at his cigarette. Lars produced his pack and Sandra Kørner took one. She used his lit cigarette as a lighter.

“Thank you.” She handed it back to him. “Are you sure you don't want to tell me why you're here?”

Lars narrowed his eyes against the smoke. He could tell her about PET and the minister's attempts to block his investigation. He could already imagine the headlines. They wouldn't be welcome in the final stages of the election campaign.

He removed the cigarette from his mouth and tapped off the ash.

“Have a nice day.” He started walking to his car.

“Oh, come on.” Sandra Kørner followed him. “Just some background. I promise I won't quote you.”

“Sorry, no.” Lars unlocked his car and got in. “Goodbye.”

19

SANNE DUMPED HER
handbag on her desk. Allan sat down on the windowsill, dangling his legs.

“What do we do?”

She ran her hands through her hair. They didn't have enough on Kirsten Winther-Sørensen, except a missing alibi and a lie. But there was something. Somewhere, there was a missing piece. If they could only . . .

“Do you kill your husband because he fails to show up at your holiday home?”

“It could have been the last straw?” Allan's cheeks coloured. “The culmination of years of irritation and anger just waiting for an opportunity to explode. What's the deal with that guy Peter?”

Sanne nodded while rummaging around her handbag.

“Here.” She pulled out the business card. “I'll check him out. You go over the surveillance cameras from highways and banks. Make sure to review all the routes she could have taken from Hillerød and into Copenhagen.”

Allan jumped down from the windowsill and smiled. She could feel it, too. They were back on track.

People were walking around outside. Lisa popped her head in.

“How are you two doing?”

“Mogens Winther-Sørensen and his wife had a fight Monday afternoon.” Sanne turned her chair to face her. “And we think she's sleeping with her lawyer.”

Lisa closed the door behind her.

“Forget about the wife.”

Allan sat down again. Sanne blinked.

“What?”

“I've already seen
Ekstra Bladet
's homepage” Lisa said. “It changes nothing.”

“
Ekstra Bladet
? What are you talking about?”

“Some genius here at police headquarters leaked the story about Kirsten Winther-Sørensen and her lawyer. It's breaking news right now. But it doesn't change anything. Can you look up her criminal record?”

“Why? That story seems legit. Who could have . . . ?”

“Just do as I say.”

Sanne dragged her chair over to the desk and logged on. Lisa was standing with her arms folded across her chest.

“A speed camera caught Kirsten Winther-Sørensen on the Hillerød road going toward Fredensborg at 6:23 p.m on Monday. She exceeded the speed limit by thirty-three percent in an area with a fifty-kilometre limit. That was twenty-two minutes before the time of the murder. This will be one occasion where somebody will be pleased to get demerit points.”

“Oh.” Sanne let go of the mouse. There really wasn't much to say. “So what do we do now?”

“There's still Serafine.” Lisa took a chair and sat down in the middle of the room. “She ran away from the Sandholm Centre.”

“Just because she's run away . . .” Allan started. Sanne nodded. There was something about the wife, something Sanne didn't want to let go of.

Lisa held up a hand and started counting on her fingers.

“Number one, Serafine escapes. Then we hear back from the German police: on Sunday night she robbed a Danish businessman at a sex club in Hamburg. It's one of those places with a bit of dancing where you can buy yourself a private session with the performers in the back. The businessman was carrying a copy of
Børsen
with a photograph of him and Mogens Winther-Sørensen on the front page. He said that Serafine asked about the mayor when she saw the photo. The following day she turned up here.”

“And what about the knife?” Allan asked.

“Well, she could have chucked it out the window. It was lying some distance away in the courtyard, but a proper throw could have gotten it that far.” Lisa shrugged her shoulders. “Allan, you checked buses, trains, and the Metro. Any results?”

Allan chewed his lip and shook his head.

“But . . .”

“We've dispatched patrol cars to the gay bars. Fortunately, we photographed Serafine on Monday. She's not someone you tend to overlook.”

Allan said nothing. His legs had started dangling again.

“The gay bars?” Sanne tossed Peter Egethorn's business card into a drawer.

“Oh, I forgot to mention.” Lisa laughed. “Serafine isn't a woman — she's a transsexual.”

“A transvestite?” Sanne was nonplussed. Allan stayed silent.

“A transsexual: a man born in a woman's body or — in this case — a woman born in a man's. I read a bit about it after speaking to Lars. They say it's like being born into the wrong body. Don't ask.” Lisa got up.

“It sounds . . . ” Sanne didn't know what to say.

“Yes, it does, doesn't it?” Lisa put the chair back. “Allan? Don't nod off. We have a killer to catch.” Allan jolted. It seemed as if he had really been asleep. He looked like someone who had just fallen from the moon.

“Where do we start?”

20

“WHAT'S GOING ON?”
Ulrik turned his screen so that Lars could see it. The smell of sweat and dust in Ulrik's office was more intrusive than usual. Was it frustration? The chief inspector looked grim. “It's not the article about Kirsten Winther-Sørensen and her lawyer that I'm interested in.”

Ekstra Bladet
's homepage used a large font, but Lars was no longer a young man. His doctor had muttered something about reading glasses being a good idea the last time he had gone for a checkup. Apparently the rot set in as early as your mid-forties these days. Lars brushed the thought aside and concentrated on the headline:

ELECTION BOMBSHELL: DO POLICE SUSPECT

FINANCE MINISTER OF KILLING HER OWN SON?

There was a large photograph from outside the Radical Party's meeting room under the headline. Lars was in the photo, standing at the back by the red wall, and the pack of journalists were pushing against the white door. The picture caption wasn't much better:
Head of investigation, Lars Winkler, tried in vain to interview Finance Minister Merethe Winther-Sørensen after the Radical Party met today. Do the police have new leads? Is the finger pointing at a high-voltage political drama?

Lars's eyes sought out the byline. Sandra Kørner, of course.

“That's pure speculation.”

Ulrik turned the screen back. His mouth was closed, but his cheeks moved as he ground his teeth. Someone had called and pressured him. It wasn't hard to guess who.

“What made you even go there in the first place?” His voice was weary. “It won't be long before every journalist calls for a comment. If I were you, I would switch off my phone.” He looked down at the papers on his desk, massaging his temples with his thumbs and forefingers.

“Kim A has access to my email account.” Lars sat down. “And I suspect him of bugging my cell phone.”

Ulrik looked up. At least he was reacting. Lars continued and told him about his visit to the Royal Library and about the microfilms Kim A had removed.

“They're trying to cover something up.” He took a deep breath. “I would like to attend the funeral tomorrow — to see who turns up and takes pictures. I'm going to need the others.”

Ulrik thought about it for a long time.

“Is this really relevant? It's my impression that we've just had a breakthrough, even if you did let our prime suspect escape.”

“I had absolutely no idea that the centre would just let her go. But, given the way she looks, we'll find her soon.”

“Or him.”

Lars ignored Ulrik's comment and carried on.

“What about the third set of fingerprints on the murder weapon?”

“It could have been a guest. That print could be days old. Lars —”

“There's something wrong with that family. You saw the minister's husband. Do you think that's normal?”

“I don't know. All I know is that you have to watch your step. We're in the middle of an election. If you're going to continue, promise me you'll be more discreet?”

Lars got up.

“So you're saying it's okay if I go to the funeral?”

“Giving you a slightly longer leash usually pays off, Lars, even if I risk taking a lot of flak afterward. I would appreciate it if you could bear that in mind. Now leave before I change my mind.”

Lars was on his way out of the office when Ulrik got up. “The agreement about your old house — Elena asked about it this morning. Please would you . . . ?”

Lars turned around.

“I promise to look at it, all right?”

Then he slammed the door.

Forty-five minutes later, Lars was standing by the coffee maker. He had turned off his cell phone after his meeting with Ulrik and was following the stream of information about the search for Serafine on his computer. She had got off at Nørreport Station; there were nicely sharp surveillance photographs from the S-train and the station itself. From there she'd walked down Frederiksborgade in the direction of Amagertorv, but disappeared after the Round Tower. The last picture they had was of her outside the Marimekko store, holding a pair of running shoes. Lars picked up a plastic cup and filled it with coffee. Proper police coffee: acrid and bitter.

Toke emerged from his office. His blond hair stood out in dishevelled tufts; his pale blue eyes were bleary and drawn.

“You look wiped out.” Lars took another cup and filled it for him.

“I need to have all the evidence ready for the prosecutor first thing tomorrow morning. Ukë and Meriton Bukoshi are due in court. We caught them red-handed this time.”

“Let's hope so.” Lars stared at a stain on the wall. “Listen, Toke. I need some background material, and I'm afraid that PET is trying to block me. Someone has intimidated the staff at Infomedia and the Royal Library. And I can't contact the papers directly without PET finding out. So what's another way of getting hold of old newspaper articles?”

Toke shrugged his shoulders and took the cup Lars had put on the table. He finished it in one gulp and filled it up again.

“Don't you ever get heartburn or indigestion?” Lars raised his cup as a farewell gesture and walked back toward his office.

“After fifteen years with the police?” Toke laughed. “My stomach is lined with Teflon.”

Lars shook his head and opened the door.

“Wait.” Toke's voice sounded higher than usual, bouncing back and forth in the empty reception area. “DBA.”

“Pardon?” Lars turned around.

“Den BlÃ¥ Avis. People collect the most bizarre things. And what do they do when they get bored of them?”

Lars nodded.

“Sell them through Den BlÃ¥ Avis. Nice one, Toke.”