The Scream of the Butterfly Page 6

  The private secretary reappeared. He handed her the phone across the table.

  “It’s the prime minister’s office, they —”

  “Not now.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen cut him off. “Is it quite impossible to have five minutes of peace?”

  The private secretary sent Kim a vitriolic stare and disappeared back inside the house. Merethe Winther-Sørensen put down the secateurs and pulled off her gardening gloves.

  “As I was saying: Lars Winkler . . .”

  Kim stared at his saucer, circling the cup around the edge of the dip. A small pool of spilled coffee stained the white china. Discussing a colleague was always a delicate matter, but this one in particular . . .

  “Lars is an incredibly skilled investigator,” he began. “One of the best I’ve worked with.”

  “But?”

  “He’s also unorthodox. You can’t trust him. He pretty much does whatever he wants. He doesn’t care about chains of command or hierarchies. Ulrik Sommer, the chief inspector, is an old friend of his. He lets Lars do his own thing. And . . .” He trailed off, running his hand over his bald head. “He’s an ex-punk rocker.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen looked at her geraniums while the pruning shears snipped holes in the air. “You see, there are certain aspects of this case, certain details . . . As an intelligence officer, you know that not everything can bear public scrutiny . . . The public lacks an appreciation of the finer details.”

  “Precisely. That’s why I spoke to Infomedia earlier today. About these.” He placed the envelope on the table.

  “That’s what I like about you, Kim.” The minister picked up the envelope and opened it. “You’re proactive.”

  Merethe Winther-Sørensen took her reading glasses from the table and skimmed the printouts of the many articles before handing them back.

  “I trust you’ll think of something.” She finished her coffee and pulled her gloves back on. Then she summoned her private secretary.

  “So, what did the prime minister want?”

  14

  THE BALCONY RAN all the way around the huge hall of Frederiksberg High School. The principal was half-running, half-walking in front of Sanne and Allan. He was a small, portly man whose name Sanne had already forgotten.

  Martin had called on the way here, asking if she could come with him to the hospital later today — they’d had a cancellation and were moving his appointment forward. Should she be worried? At the last appointment the doctor had tried to reassure them, saying he didn’t think it was serious, but then why reschedule Martin’s appointment at all?

  She was lagging behind Allan and the principal, and had to run to catch up. Sarah Winther-Sørensen was further ahead, at the rear of a group of girls. The principal had to put his hand on her shoulder before she acknowledged them.

  “Sarah.” The principal took off his glasses, wheezing. “These people are police officers. They would like to talk to you.”

  Sarah Winther-Sørensen turned around. She was wearing jeans and a hoodie; her eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. She had inherited her mother’s features: a broad, olive face and dark, thick hair. She was carrying a knapsack over one shoulder and had earbuds in. The skin on her neck and the top of her chest was still glowing. She must have spent the last summer days on Hornbæk beach. Her holiday had come to an abrupt end.

  The other students thronged around them. The principal put his glasses back on his nose and addressed them: “You’ll be late for your next class. Off you go.”

  The girls flicked their hair, then took another look at Sanne and Allan and left.

  “Yes, Sarah,” Sanne began. “We would like to ask you some questions.”

  “But . . .” Sarah gestured to her friends, who were disappearing around the corner.

  “It’s all right,” The principal assured her. “I’ll walk you to your next class afterward.”

  Allan had found his notebook and was flicking back through his notes.

  “It’s about Monday. Your mother said she was at the holiday cottage in Hornbæk from early that afternoon. Is that correct?”

  Sarah’s eyes moved from one of them to the other. She was sweating.

  “Yes?”

  Allan stuck his hand into his bag and found the printout from Nets. Sanne placed her finger on the entry that was underlined in red pen.

  “Can you see what it says here?”

  The bell went off, announcing the start of the class. Sarah jumped. The last students left the hall. Only a small group working with laptops and notes at a table below remained. Sarah tucked her hair behind her ear and bent over the printout.

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “It’s the number of your mother’s debit card. These numbers here represent the date and time of the transaction, and this is the address of the store where the card was used. If you don’t recognize the date, I can tell you —”

  Sarah looked up. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Monday. Do you really think I’ll ever forget?”

  “Sarah.” Allan’s voice was low and soft. “We’re trying to find out who killed your father.” The girl stared at her shoes. Allan continued: “We know it’s hard. But this isn’t good enough. Your mother didn’t spend all afternoon at the cottage, did she?”

  Sarah’s lower lip started to quiver.

  “Right.” The principal was practically jumping up and down on the spot, glancing at the group of students congregating at the table. “I think . . . Why don’t we go to my office?”

  The light came through the window in a sharp rectangle, falling on a row of hand-carved figures on the bookcase. Apparently the principal had spent time in Greenland. The rest of the office lay in half-light. Sanne waited until Sarah had sat down on the shabby sofa. Then she cleared her throat.

  “Sarah?” She paused. “We need your help.”

  Sarah turned away from them and studied the walrus-tooth figurines. Her jaw was clenched.

  “You can’t force her to talk. Sarah —”

  The girl looked up at the principal and shook her head. Sanne waited. Here it was, that bubbling sensation in her gut just before a breakthrough. So why was she feeling so rotten?

  “When did your mother leave?”

  And then it all came pouring out, so quickly that Sanne and Allan struggled to keep up.

  Kirsten Winther-Sørensen had left the cottage somewhere between 3:30 p.m. and 4:45 p.m., and hadn’t returned until eight o’clock in the evening, angry and grim-faced. They’d been eating breakfast the next morning when Merethe Winther-Sørensen called with the terrible news. At this point Sarah started to cry and Sanne suggested a break.

  Sarah went to the bathroom while Allan fetched coffee and mineral water from the cafeteria.

  “Are you ready?” Sanne poured the coffee. “I’m afraid I have some more questions for you.”

  Sarah nodded and took a sip of mineral water from the glass in front of her. Then she crossed her legs, wedging her folded hands in between her thighs.

  “How was the relationship between your parents?” Allan asked.

  “Good. They were happy.” Sarah didn’t look up. “Why do you ask?”

  “Your father wasn’t at the cottage. Wasn’t he supposed to be with you?”

  “The thing is,” Sarah chewed her lip. “He had some meetings at the Town Hall that day. He was meant to join us in the evening. He called to say he couldn’t make it after all.”

  “And then your mother got mad?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Mom was impossible to be around after that. I went for a walk on the beach and by the time I came back she had left. She hardly said a word when she returned from the city. We had a barbecue that night. I watched TV until I went to bed. Mom just sat there smoking and drinking red wine.” Sarah buried her face i
n her hands.

  Sanne and Allan looked at each other.

  “Looks like we need to go to Hornbæk.” Sanne turned toward the principal. “I’m afraid Sarah will have to miss the rest of her classes today.”

  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

  THE 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 transsexua
l. 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.”