The Scream of the Butterfly Read online

  “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 — Elen
a 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 Blå Avis. People collect the most bizarre things. And what do they do when they get bored of them?”

  Lars nodded.

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

  21

  IT WAS GETTING dark as Lars drove across the Fredensbro bridge. A narrow strip of yellow daylight still fell across the Panum Institute. The blue-black water of Sortedamssøen reflected the neon light from the Irma advertisement down by Dronning Louises Bridge. Christine had sounded pleased to hear from him, but her delight had cooled noticeably when he had explained the reason for his call.

  He turned down Blegdamsvej, passed Amor Park, and pulled into the parking lot. Rigshospitalet towered over him, perforated by hundreds of parallel rectangles: yellow lights from the wards, offices, and corridors glowed in the dark.

  Christine was sitting with a cup of coffee in the hospital reception area next to the 7-Eleven kiosk, checking her iPhone.

  “Hi Lars.” She got up. “You won’t get out of giving me a hug.” She reached up and hugged him. Her embrace was longer than strictly necessary and her warm lips brushed his earlobe. Her eyes were shining when she released him. Or were they simply reflecting the fluorescent lights?

  Lars took off his jacket and sat down. It really was hot in here.

  “I hope it’s okay to disturb you at work?”

  “My shift doesn’t start for another thirty minutes. So, what’s this about?”

  “Our prime witness escaped from the Sandholm Centre. She was last seen in central Copenhagen this afternoon, but since then . . . nothing, not a peep. But that wasn’t what I wanted to ask about. You see, she’s not a woman.”

  “What do you mean?” Christine tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, but she never stopped looking at him.

  “She’s a transsexual. A man who thinks he’s a woman. As a doctor —”

  Christine interrupted him.

  “Not a transsexual — transgender.”

  “Same thing, isn’t it?”

  “Far from it. It’s a question about gender identity, not sexuality. A transgender person can be homo-, hetero-, or bisexual. The whole spectrum, so to speak.”

  “But I thought —”

  Christine dragged a finger down his hand.

  “There is no such thing as a specific transgender object of desire . . .” She trailed off, but continued to hold his gaze for a long time. A red flush spread across her cheeks, down her neck. “Come with me.”

  “In here.”

  Christine shoved him inside the room, then slipped in behind him. She pushed a cleaning trolley in front of the door, wedging it under the door handle.

  “A cleaning cupboard?” Lars pulled off his jacket.

  “Shh.” Christine fumbled with his belt.

  A solitary beam of light from the corridor crept in under the door. The narrow room was filled with shadows. Lars could make out the contours of several other cleaning trolleys, and metal shelves with linen and cleaning agents. The only sounds were their frantic breaths and the throbbing of blood in his temples.

  Christine tore off his belt and kissed him with burning lips. Her hands were already inside his pants.

  Lars kissed her back. Teeth grated against teeth. His fingers wandered across her white coat, and then gave up. There were too many buttons. He turned her around and pulled her coat and dress over her hips while she wiggled out of her panties.

  He parted her buttocks, and guided his penis inside her. He let himself be engulfed by the warmth and wetness. She gasped, thrusting back against his hips while her fingers grabbed sheets and towels. The metal shelving swayed and creaked. The rhythm was awkward at first, but then they found it. He could make out Christine’s white butt in the darkness, rotating around his hard, deep thrusts.

  “Come!” she moaned, turning her face toward his. Lars reached up inside her coat, seeking the heavy roundness of her breasts. He leaned forward and kissed the corner of her mouth. They were both sweating. The shelving squeaked again. Something fell down, hitting the floor before rolling away noisily.

  He stopped and listened. Christine reached back with one hand and pulled him toward her. They could hear footsteps in the corridor, but this time neither of them tried to hold back. There was a tension in his groin, then his balls contracted and let go. He had to bite down on her coat so that he didn’t cry out loud.

  She pressed against him, everything quivering. They gasped for air as they kissed, tasting each other’s lips and tongues.

  “Ouch.” Christine drew in her leg and whispered. “My back.”

  “Sorry.” He withdrew and pulled up his pants. Christine turned around, fumbling for her panties while she straightened herself out. There were beads of sweat on her forehead.

  Lars squinted against the sharp, white light when she opened the door. His eyes began to water. Blurred shadows were coming down the corridor, materializing into the form of a nurse followed by two figures.

  “You’ll be given an enema before the colonoscopy.”

  The figures drifted across the veil of tears in his pupils before they came into focus. Finally, he was able to see clearly again.

  Sanne and Martin were walking behind the nurse. Sanne had already spotted them and came to a halt, but Martin had yet to notice that anything was amiss and kept following the nurse. His fingers were clutching a folder with information from the hospital. He looked pale.

  Christine looked up. Her eyes were shining and her neck and cheeks were flushed.

  “Isn’t that your colleague?”

  Lars nodded, trying to adjust his shirt. He ran a hand through his hair. Sanne stared at him and Christine with a strangely dead expression in her eyes. She flinched. Then she looked away.

  “Martin.”
>
  Martin turned around. His gaze flitted from Sanne to Lars, ignoring Christine. His face reddened.

  “What are you doing here?” Lars nodded at Martin, and took a step forward.

  Sanne waved her hand.

  “Martin . . . He has to — we . . .” Then her hand came to rest on her chest, and she ran past them after the nurse.

  Christine tried to catch his eye. “I thought you were both working that case.”

  Lars looked after Sanne and nodded.

  “Well, that’ll be fun.” Christine gave him a quick squeeze, then glanced at her watch. “Jesus. My shift starts now. Call me soon?”

  Then she was gone.

  He stopped to put on his jacket by the swinging door that led onto Blegdamsvej. A taxi drove around the fountain, before pulling up to drop off a young man. Lars took out his phone. He had twelve messages on his voicemail. The first two were from the Danish Broadcasting Company and BT. He deleted every single one without listening to them. The 3A bus drove past him on Blegdamsvej.

  He stood still for a moment holding his phone, looking at the list of outgoing calls. His thumb hovered over Christine’s number. Then he shook his head, pulled up his collar, and left.

  OCTOBER 1999

  MOGENS PARKS OUTSIDE the fence and walks toward the open, wrought-iron gate to the Margretheholm Centre. The sun is shining, but the temperature has started to drop. He pulls his cardigan tighter around him.

  “Moo-genz, Moo-genz!” Arbën comes running toward him, waving the photograph of Sarah. “Sa-rah, Sa-rah!” It has become their ritual.

  Mogens shifts his bag to his other hand and ruffles Arbën’s hair. Someone has organized a softball tournament on the lawn in front of the centre. The children have been split into teams, and the game is well under way. Folding tables with fruit juice and bread rolls have been set up along the playing field.

  “Play, Moo-genz. Play!” Arbën sprints onto the lawn, turning to see if he follows. Mogens laughs. Søren is standing by one of the tables, busy pouring fruit juice.