The Dinosaur Feather (23 page)

On October 9 Michael and Clive flew to Copenhagen. He usually loathed the journey across the Atlantic, but when Michael secured them an upgrade to business class, his irritation melted away. Clive had gone to the lavatory and when he returned, there was Michael, grinning from ear to ear, and waving the boarding passes at him. They sat in supreme comfort the whole flight, discussing the presentation, while attractive cabin crew served drinks and snacks. Clive noticed how attentive and deferential Michael was. After Michael had finished his PhD, he had gone through a phase of wanting to decide everything for himself. Clive had been most offended. When you navigated a scientific minefield, as Clive did, you needed loyal support and not childish attempts at independence. He noted with delight that Michael had been brought to heel. He made hardly any objections, and when he did, his observations were insightful and only contributed to honing Clive’s argument. Somewhere across the Atlantic, Clive was overcome by an urge to confide in Michael.

“I’ve a feeling this will be my last time,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Michael said, stretching out in his seat.

“I don’t know . . .” Clive hesitated. What exactly was he trying to say?

“The presentation is good,” Michael prompted him. “The experiment bears scrutiny.”

“Yes, perhaps that’s what it’s about,” Clive replied. He looked out of the window. To the west, the setting sun painted the clouds beneath them tomato red, to the east, the European night awaited them, black and alien.

“My life seems to have reached a turning point,” he said. “I’m thinking of retiring, if the presentation is a success.” He had no idea what had triggered this.

Michael looked as if he was about to say something and he shifted uneasily, but when Clive finally looked up, Michael was engrossed in a magazine.

The hotel in Copenhagen was called Ascot and was located in the side street of a large, ugly square. The rooms were tiny and claustrophobic, and the sheets felt greasy, as though the washing machine had a faulty rinse cycle. There was no minibar. Clive called reception to get the code for wireless access, and having uploaded his presentation and the latest corrections to his server back in Canada, he fell asleep.

Wednesday morning Michael and Clive had breakfast in a large hall, which was half-empty and freezing cold. They had just sat down to scrambled eggs and newspapers, when two tall men entered through the revolving doors at the far end of the room. Clive watched them while they looked around. They began strolling in the direction of Clive and Michael’s table. Michael was eating and reading his newspaper and didn’t look up until the men were right next to them.

“Professor Freeman?” one of them asked, politely.

Clive stared at him. If Kay had died, he would . . . he would. . . . He didn’t know what he would do. He closed his eyes.

“Professor Clive Freeman?” the man repeated.

Michael nudged Clive, and Clive opened his eyes.

“Yes,” he croaked.

“I’m Superintendent Søren Marhauge from the Copenhagen Police. Could we have a word with you?” His English was perfect and fluent.

“Is it about my wife?” Clive whispered. The man smiled.

“It’s not about your wife or any of your family,” he said calmly. “It’s about Professor Helland.”

Clive was in shock. When the interview had finished and he left the police station, a young police officer had to help him into a taxi, as though Clive were an old man. The police officer placed his hand between Clive’s head and the car for protection, as Clive had seen the police do with criminals. They had all his e-mails. The tall superintendent with the dark eyes had spread them out on the table in front of him. He was about to argue this was illegal, but it occurred to him that it probably wasn’t. Lars Helland was dead, and the police were investigating all options, as Marhauge diplomatically phrased it, but Clive knew perfectly well what it meant. It meant Helland had been murdered. Marhauge had looked at him for a long time, scrutinizing him, Clive thought.

“We know you’re not responsible for Professor Helland’s death. I’ve checked your travel records, and you haven’t been to Europe since 2004, am I right?”

Clive nodded obediently.

“You’re here for the Bird Symposium at the Bella Centre?”

Clive nodded again.

“You’re giving a presentation there on Saturday?”

“Yes, Saturday evening.”

“Where were you in June?” the superintendent wanted to know.

Clive thought back. June was
before
Jack had betrayed him, and Kay had moved out.

“Nowhere,” he replied eventually. “Nowhere at all.”

June had been windy, and all he wanted to do was work. Kay had ordered him to take a break and they had gone to their cabin, where they lasted two whole weeks together. Kay made salads and he barbecued. They had several visitors, all couples, where the wife was a friend of Kay’s and the husband was utterly dull. Jack and Molly had been busy. Finally, he had resorted to clearing out the shed, and Kay had remarked that this was a strange way to spend a vacation. And that was when Clive had snapped.

“I don’t want to be on vacation,” he shouted. “My work is too important. Look what happened the last time. I close my eyes for two seconds, and someone finds a feathered dinosaur!”

Kay gave Clive permission to return to work.

“And what did you do in July?” the detective asked.

He had been alone in the house, living on canned food, sausages, and bread.

“I worked,” he said. “Preparing the presentation I’m giving on Saturday, among other things.”

The superintendent handed him a sheet of paper. Clive read:
You will pay for what you have done.

“Did you write that?”

“Of course not,” Clive replied, outraged. “I don’t threaten people.”

Finally, he was allowed to leave.

When Clive returned to his hotel, he collapsed on his bed and dreamt about his own funeral. Kay wore a black veil and was in deep distress; the boys, looking suitably cowed, flanked her. The sobbing widow was about to throw herself on his coffin . . . when the dream suddenly restarted. This time the church was empty. His coffin rested, white and lonely, in front of the altar; the priest rushed in and went through the motions. Clive tried to call out from his coffin, tell him to make more of an effort, but the priest didn’t hear him. Then the door at the back of the church was opened, a solitary mourner entered and took a seat at the farthest pew. The priest beckoned him to the front—after all, there was plenty of room.

“The deceased had very few friends,” the priest whispered. “Not even his widow is here. I’m delighted to see you.”

The mourner approached. Suddenly Clive recognized Tybjerg. He sat in the first row, in Kay’s place.

At first, Clive thought Tybjerg had started clapping, but then he realized someone was knocking on the door to his room. Dazed, he let Michael in. Together they went down to the hotel bar for a drink, where they discussed Helland’s death at length before going to the Bella Centre. It was Wednesday evening and they had time for a quick look around the science fair.

Michael nudged him.

“Over here,” he whispered. Clive followed his finger, which was pointing at an electronic screen listing the program for the symposium. Clive squinted.

“What?”

“Tybjerg’s name has been removed. Look.” He tapped the screen lightly. “It says ‘Canceled. Please note replacement speaker’ next to the four lectures Tybjerg was due to give.”

Clive stared at the screen.

“He must be upset,” he mused. “After all, Helland was his mentor. Imagine how you would feel, if I had been murdered.”

Michael smiled. “Yes, can you imagine that!”

Thursday morning Clive ventured into the streets. A cold wind was blowing. He had consulted a map and located the university, where he had an appointment with Johan Fjeldberg. He had walked for thirty minutes when the College of Natural Science appeared to his left. The complex was unappealing: three tall 1960s blocks and several lower, yellow-brick buildings, each one more devoid of charm than the next. He walked through a park. At the museum reception he asked for Professor Fjeldberg, who appeared shortly afterward. Fjeldberg chattered away while he led Clive through a maze of restricted access doors and corridors. This business with Helland was dreadful. Such a good colleague. A brilliant man. Clive smiled and nodded. Fjeldberg said rumor had it Helland had been murdered. Fjeldberg simply refused to believe it.

“People are paranoid,” he scoffed. “One rumor even claims he was killed by parasites.”

Clive gave Fjeldberg a horrified look.

“Parasites?”

“Yes, his body supposedly was riddled with them,” Fjeldberg snorted.

They had reached the elevator, and while they waited for it Fjeldberg looked at Clive.

“How well did you really know him?”

“Well,” Clive began. The two men entered the elevator. “I knew him quite well. Professionally, we were polar opposites.”

Fjeldberg nodded.

“But privately we were really quite good friends,” he lied. “I’ll be there on Saturday, at his funeral, I mean.”

“I’ve never really understood people who can’t make the distinction between work and friendship,” Fjeldberg mused. “Can you? Helland excelled at keeping things separate. He picked fights with practically everyone, but he never allowed an argument to influence his personal opinion of them. In fact, there were times I thought he was fondest of those he had the biggest fights with. He loved confrontation. There’ll be a huge turnout on Saturday, I imagine. He was a highly respected man. Even by his academic opponents.”

Clive smiled, and he kept on smiling.

“Is Erik Tybjerg here?” Clive asked, feigning innocence. “I would like to express my condolences. He’s an old friend. Tybjerg and I fight like cats and dogs, of course, but purely professionally. I think it would be appropriate for me to shake his hand.”

Fjeldberg glanced at Clive as they stepped out of the elevator.

“Funny you should mention him,” he began, tentatively. “Because Tybjerg appears to be missing.”

“Missing?”

“Yes, several people are looking for him. Including the police.” Professor Fjeldberg gave Clive a mystified look. “He doesn’t respond to e-mails, he doesn’t answer his telephone, and he’s not in his office.”

“Perhaps he needs some space,” Clive suggested, compassionately. “After the sad news, I mean.”

What on earth was going on? Surely there was a limit to how many of his arch enemies could die or vanish before he would receive a more heavy-handed treatment by the authorities.

“Yes, perhaps,” Professor Fjeldberg replied. “Here we are.”

Clive had heard accounts of the Vertebrate Collection at the Natural History Museum in Denmark and his expectations were high, but even so, a ripple of anticipation ran through him when Fjeldberg and he entered. The ceiling was high and the room was filled to bursting with fine, original wooden cabinets with glass doors. The porcelain handles on the cabinets and drawers bore Latin inscriptions explaining which animals were kept behind the glass. Beautiful, hand-painted posters hung in the few places where there were no cabinets. Everything was unbelievably old and tasteful. There were study areas where each desk was equipped with angle-poise lamps that were at least fifty years old. The desks were made of dark varnished wood, and each had an old, leather-upholstered armchair with wooden armrests.

“It was the moa skeleton you wanted to see, wasn’t it?” Fjeldberg found a stepladder and started climbing it.

“Here we go,” he said, opening one of the glass doors.

“Do you need a hand?” Clive asked. With his thin legs in khaki trousers, Fjeldberg looked old and very frail balancing on the ladder.

“You can take the old beggar, when I manage to get him out.” Fjeldberg pulled out the drawer and stood on tiptoes.

“What on earth?” he exclaimed. “He’s not here.” Professor Fjeldberg felt inside the drawer. Then he climbed down.

“I don’t believe it.”

Clive stayed behind, somewhat baffled, while Fjeldberg marched back to the entrance. He switched on the ceiling lights and a rather merciless white glare revealed a layer of dust everywhere.

“He must be here somewhere,” Clive heard Fjeldberg mutter to himself.

Clive tried to find him between the cabinets by following the sound of his footsteps, now here, now there, but as Fjeldberg appeared to be checking the room from end to end, he escaped from Clive, who eventually decided to stay put. The room was a little eerie, in a deserted, beautiful way. He shuddered. A
Pteropus Lylei
hung suspended above his head with its wings unfurled. It had tiny white teeth, and its eyes were hollow sockets.

“Found it!” Fjeldberg exclaimed triumphantly. Clive started walking and found the old man at a large desk.

“Someone has been studying it, but didn’t check it out. And omitted to put it back. It happens. We have a number of students working with birds at the moment. Including one of Helland’s, by the way. It could have been her. Her dissertation defense is coming up, so she has a good excuse, I suppose,” he added and sighed.

“Oh, so what will she do now?” Clive asked. Professor Fjeldberg sighed again.

“I don’t know much about it, she’s registered with another department. But as far as I know she’s only waiting to defend her dissertation, then she can graduate. I don’t know who will examine her in Helland’s place. We don’t have that many paleoornithologists in Denmark . . . Perhaps you might extend your stay and examine her?”

Clive was well aware that Professor Fjeldberg was teasing him.

“I would have to fail her,” he said, archly. “If she has written her dissertation in line with Helland and Tybjerg’s scientific arguments, I don’t think she has grasped even elementary evolution, and that surely is a fundamental requirement for a biologist.”

Fjeldberg looked briefly at Clive and said, “Why don’t we say I let you work here for a couple of hours until . . .” He glanced at his watch. “12:30 p.m.? Then I’ll pick you up, and we can have a bite to eat. I’ve ordered in, sandwiches and so on.”