The Scream of the Butterfly (11 page)

25

THORVALDSEN'S SCULPTURE OF
Christ extended his arms to receive the surge of murmuring that rose from the aisle. The grey and white marble statue exuded the gentle authority required in a situation like a funeral — not that the congregation would seem to have noticed it. They chatted, adjusted their clothing, and swapped seats. Vor Frue Cathedral was overflowing with people. And more rubberneckers were waiting outside on Nørregade and the cobbled Frue Plads between the cathedral and the university. TV vans were ready to film. The funeral of Mogens Winther-Sørensen was a proper Copenhagen event.

Lars was standing inside on the left-hand side, between statues of two of the apostles.

“Is everyone in place?”

“Yes.” Allan took up position next to him. Lars checked his watch. The funeral itself was due to start in five minutes. The body of the mayor was lying in a glossy white coffin in front of the altar. A carpet of flowers led from the plain coffin all the way down the aisle to the entrance.

Sanne was standing under the arch opposite him, scanning the crowd. Their eyes met and locked for a brief second. Then she pulled an indefinable face and looked away. Allan scraped his shoe across a marble tile. It made a faint dragging sound, which was drowned out by the monotonous murmuring.

“What is it with you two?”

“What?”

“You and Sanne? I thought — well, I don't know . . . You can always tell me to mind my own business.”

Lars didn't reply, and scanned the crowd of mourners instead. There were politicians, both from the city council and from parliament, political friends and foes alike. Danish commerce was strongly represented. As for the media, you couldn't hope to keep the fourth estate away.

“She's really got it in for you.” Allan shrugged his shoulders. “You'd think —”

Lars interrupted him. “I think you need to take it up with Sanne. I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Okay, okay.” Allan held up his hands. “If you don't want to talk about it, fine, but you could at least tell me what you're looking for here.”

“I don't know. I just have a hunch that something is wrong.”

“Don't you think we ought to use our resources on something else?”

Lars wasn't listening and was craning his neck to look up at the front pew, where the family were sitting, all dressed in black. Arne Winther-Sørensen was wearing a shapeless suit and staring straight into the air. Kirsten Winther-Sørensen was sitting furthest away from them, with Sarah close to her.

“Where's Merethe?” A sudden noise caused Lars to turn his head toward the entrance. Merethe Winther-Sørensen, wearing a small black hat with a veil, was standing under the arch to the right of the church door, in animated conversation with an older, compact man. Kim A was hovering a short distance away, stony-faced, his hands folded in front of his groin.

“Who is she arguing with?”

“It's difficult to see.” Allan narrowed his eyes. “I don't think I recognize him.”

At that moment, Merethe Winther-Sørensen turned to Kim A and said something. Kim A took one step forward, grabbed the man by his arm, and dragged him away. The older man gesticulated in protest.

Lars nudged Allan.

“Off you go. Find out who he is.”

Allan slipped behind him and ran down the walkway toward the exit. The doors were closing. The sound swelled as the first notes of “The Lord Is My Shepherd” poured out from the enormous organ. Kim A dragged the man outside, just as Allan rounded the corner. The first, tentative voices mixed with the pure note of the cantor. Then the priest stepped in front of the altar and welcomed the congregation.

“Let us pray.”

Lars heard footsteps approaching from the colonnade. Without taking his eyes off the mourners, he tilted his head and whispered, “Did you find out who he was?”

“I beg your pardon?” The voice was bright and sharp, so very different from Allan's meaty baritone. Sandra Kørner looked at him quizzically.

“My first reading is taken from the Book of Job.” The priest had marked the passage in his Bible with a fraying bookmark. Lars was reminded of his own red bookmark back home in
The Tempest
. Merethe Winther-Sørensen slipped into the seat next to her husband.

“Who
is this ‘who'?” Sandra Kørner whispered in his ear as the priest's voice boomed through the crackling loudspeakers.

“Do you have any idea how many problems you've caused me with that article?” Lars kept his eyes fixed on Merethe Winther-Sørensen. She was staring straight ahead. The veil hanging from the pillbox hat fluttered slightly when the priest reached a particularly emotive passage.

Sandra Kørner chuckled.

“I'm just doing my job, like you. What are the police doing here?”

The priest asked the congregation to sing “Fairest Lord Jesus.”

Sandra Kørner shrugged. “Well, if you won't tell me . . .”

Lars pretended to be singing along, mouthing the words, but it had been too long since he'd last sung them — he couldn't remember the lyrics. Eventually he gave up and whispered, “I thought this was supposed to be a quiet service for close family only?”

“Oh, please. The minister made a point of listing the time and place in the press release that asked us to respect the family's privacy. So tell me: Do you think the killer is here in the cathedral?”

Lars couldn't help but laugh.

“You don't give up, do you?”

She was about to reply when the priest stepped forward, took a small trowel, and started scattering earth on top of the coffin. Kirsten Winther-Sørensen and Sarah were sobbing loudly. Merethe Winther-Sørensen had bowed her head.

When the last notes of the organ music faded away, an expressionless Arne Winther-Sørensen rose and walked up to the coffin. Five others followed. Together they carried the coffin through the cathedral, along the impressive path of flowers.

“Anyway, I've got work to do. Catch you later.” Sandra Kørner slipped out the same way as Allan and left the building.

When Lars finally managed to push his way out, the hearse with the coffin was about to depart up Nørregade toward Nørreport. The body would be cremated and Lars knew that the internment of the urn, in contrast to the church service, would be exclusively a family affair. Besides, it wasn't as great a photo opportunity.

The colonnade outside was packed with mourners still leaving. Others pushed in the opposite direction, up the broad marble steps from the street and into the colonnade where Merethe Winther-Sørensen was standing with her advisers, Kirsten, and Sarah. There was no sign of Arne Winther-Sørensen. Lars moved across the front of the cathedral, edging his way closer to the minister. Numerous microphones were aimed at her face.

Just as he came within hearing range, Sandra Kørner pushed her way to the front.

“Your political opponents are accusing you of exploiting your son's murder to win the election. Would you care to comment?”

Even the people standing further away fell silent. Merethe Winther-Sørensen bowed her head. Then she looked up.

“Bear them from hence. Our present business is to general woe.” She raised her head. “Shakespeare.
King Lear
.” The minister paused briefly to regain control of her voice before she continued: “Today I bury my son. Tomorrow the election campaign continues. I have nothing further to say on the matter. However . . .” She reached behind her. One of her press officers pushed Sarah Winther-Sørensen forward, gently but firmly. Sarah glanced briefly at her mother, but Merethe Winther-Sørensen claimed her before Kirsten had time to react. “However, I would like to introduce my granddaughter, Sarah Winther-Sørensen. Sarah has just been elected the new chairman — or chairwoman, I should say — of the party's youth branch. She is too upset to make a statement today, but —”

Sandra Kørner interrupted her, thrusting her cell phone at Sarah.

“Congratulations on your election, Sarah. Can you comment on the latest development in the case — the fact that the prostitute who was with your father when he was murdered is a transsexual?”

Sarah Winther-Sørensen's gaze flitted about. Merethe Winther-Sørensen stared hard at Sandra Kørner.

“What do you mean?”

Sandra Kørner addressed the minister: “Was your son gay?”

Noise erupted around the columns — an ear-shattering cacophony. Lars didn't hear the reply and forced his way out through the crowds, desperate to get away.

Allan came through the door to Lars's office, flopped down in the nearest chair, and tried to catch his breath. Beads of sweat stuck to his eyebrows.

“I lost him on RÃ¥dhuspladsen. It's a nightmare trying to get through central Copenhagen by car with all that construction work.”

“And you didn't manage to get any pictures, either?”

Allan produced a small Sony camera and scrolled through the images.

“This is the best one. Still not good enough.” He passed over the camera. The image showed Kim A pushing a man into the passenger seat of the ministerial car. The man had his back to them. He was wearing a grey coat and black shoes, and had short, white hair.

Lars looked around at his colleagues' tired faces. There was no reaction.

“Okay. Let's move to the pictures from the funeral itself. There's one I want to look at.”

Lisa looked at a series of photographs on her computer screen, stopping at a picture of the altar and Mogens Winther-Sørensen's coffin. A slim, middle-aged woman in jeans, high-heeled boots, and a short, dark jacket was standing by the coffin. She wore a broad-brimmed black hat; her long hair, streaked with grey, covered her face.

“She stood there, all alone, by the coffin for over a minute. Do you know who she is?”

Allan stared at the picture, then shook his head.

26

LARS FOLLOWED THE
Town Hall official down the second storey colonnade, which opened out to a large hall inside the building. Visitors could follow highlights from Copenhagen's history on a frieze on three sides of the foyer, from when Bishop Absalon founded the city in 1167 up until the inauguration of the Town Hall in 1905.

He fiddled with the printout of the photograph from Mogens Winther-Sørensen's funeral in his inside pocket. None of the Radical Party's city councillors had recognized the woman in the picture. But you never knew when politicians were lying. Through her private secretary, Merethe Winther-Sørensen had informed him that she didn't recognize the woman by the coffin either, but Lars knew better than to trust her.

A group of schoolchildren was crossing the granite floor in the foyer. Their happy voices collided and ricocheted between the naked stone walls. Lars stopped. Even if Mogens Winther-Sørensen's mother and his fellow party members were all lying to him, there was always the chance that their political enemies, if such a thing existed in local politics, would love to help him.

“How about Kristian Havholm?” He had to speak loudly to drown out the hard echo of the children's voices. The Town Hall official turned around.

“From the Danish People's Party? Then we need to go back the way we came. I think you might just be in luck.”

“Lars Winkler.” Kristian Havholm was in shirt sleeves and standing in the middle of his office reading a file. They shook hands. “I caught a glimpse of you at the funeral. Is this still about Mogens's murder?”

Kristian Havholm's secretary was sitting in an armchair with a notepad on her knee. She put her pen and pad aside.

“Would you like . . . ?”

Lars shook his head and produced the photograph.

“I'll be quick. I can see that you're in the middle of something. The woman in this picture.” He held up the photo. “Do you know who she is?”

Kristian Havholm studied the picture.

“I'm sorry, I don't. But I haven't been here all that long. She could be a personal friend.”

“You're suggesting . . .”

Kristian Havholm shrugged.

“I've heard nothing to indicate that Mogens had someone on the side, but who knows?”

“Okay.” Lars folded up the printout. “Thanks for your time.”

The secretary got up and reached for the photograph.

“Please, may I?”

“Edna has been here since the dawn of time.” Kristian Havholm looked almost proud. “If that woman has ever set foot in the Town Hall . . .” He didn't complete his sentence.

Edna took the photograph from Lars's hand, walked up to the desk, and held it under the lamp.

“No, I don't think . . . And yet . . . that nose.” She stared at the picture for a few more seconds. Then she straightened up and returned it to him.

“Malene Rørdam.”

“Rørdam?” Lars had never heard the name before.

“She was Mogens's head of communications in the first few months of his time as mayor. Then suddenly she quit. There were rumours about an affair . . . and substance abuse. Prescription drugs, I believe.”

27

LARS NIPPED INTO
the alleyway between the fence and the front of Folmer Bendtsens Plads 2. He had left work early; it wasn't even five o'clock yet. Construction was continuing on the Metro site — constant hammering and drilling chewed its way through the earth under his feet, and the whole thing was starting to feel strangely familiar. He needed an evening on the couch with the Thai takeout he had picked up at Aroii on Guldbergsgade. He couldn't wait to kick off his shoes and listen to some loud music.

He had asked Lisa to track down Malene Rørdam, the woman by the coffin. She might be able to shed some light on Mogens Winther-Sørensen's past. But Lisa hadn't got back to him yet. The day's only highlight was that the guy from Den Blå Avis with the old newspapers in Haslev had returned his message. Lars was welcome to drop by tomorrow morning and have a good look through.

The stairwell was very quiet; even the drilling and hammering from the construction site outside had stopped. The whole building was holding its breath. Lars put his foot on the last step before the landing and looked up. The door to his apartment was ajar — just a few millimetres, but it was definitely open. He paused with his hand on the banister. Had he forgotten to lock the door this morning? Or had he been burgled? That really would be the last straw. If they had nicked his stereo . . . He put down the takeout and nudged the door, which swung open slowly. Silence poured out toward him. He bent down, picked up the bag, and was about to enter when a faint hissing noise from inside the apartment made him stop dead in his tracks.

Someone was breathing inside.

He carefully put his foot inside the hallway, praying that the floorboards wouldn't squeak. The hissing sound had disappeared. Had it been all in his mind? He risked another footstep. The hallway was dark; only the shapeless silhouettes of his coats were visible in the afternoon light coming from the kitchen and the living room at the end of the hall.

“Is anyone here?”

An echo was the only response. The hissing returned. Then it disappeared. Lars put down the bag on the floor, closing the door behind him. He tiptoed past the closed door leading to Maria's room. The sound was coming from the living room. Out on the stairwell one of his upstairs neighbours came thundering down, pausing on the landing. Lars held his breath and waited. Then the footsteps continued down and out into the street. He craned his neck, looking around the door frame. The kitchen was empty.

Lars crept further into the apartment. A floorboard squeaked inside the living room on the other side of the wall. The intruder could be armed. It could be a desperate junkie on a bad trip, brandishing a used syringe? He looked around for something that would serve as a weapon. All he found was a small, foldable umbrella. He was probably better off without it. The squeaking from the living room returned. Lars counted to three and took one long leap to the door of the living room.

“What are you doing . . . ?”

He caught a glimpse of a foot wearing a white running shoe disappearing through the door to Maria's room. The door slammed shut. Without thinking, Lars pulled it open and gave chase. At that moment the door to the stairwell closed with a bang.

Lars swore, and ran through Maria's bedroom and out into the hall, tearing open the door. Hasty steps disappeared down the stairs. He only got as far as the landing between the first and second floors when the door to the street slammed shut. Lars leaped down the last few steps and was outside seconds later. The passage was deserted.

He flung open the door to the Ring Café. Fifteen pairs of glazed eyes stared at him from the Pilsner-tinted darkness. The bartender was struggling to focus. The smell of stale hamburgers and cigarette smoke wafted toward Lars. He would bet that none of them had been outside the bar in the last few hours.

Lars went back up to his apartment. He kicked off his shoes in the hall, put the bag with his food on the coffee table, and looked around. Nothing appeared to be missing. Someone had rummaged through a pile of papers and old bills. The letter from the lawyer requesting his signature for the sale of his and Elena's old house was lying separately in the middle of the table. Apart from that, everything looked normal. But the apartment definitely smelled different — a stranger had been in his home.

Lars opened the balcony door, went outside, and lit a cigarette. The nicotine coursed through his veins and started its attack on his pituitary gland. He trailed a finger across the railings, rubbing the white dust from the construction site between his fingers, and coughed. He wouldn't be able to use the balcony for the next few years. He went inside and closed the door.

Lars thought about the white running shoe that had disappeared through the door to Maria's room. It had been significantly cleaner than that of your average junkie, and come to think of it, it had been a long time since he had come across a junkie who could run that fast. Nothing was missing from the apartment and nothing had been interfered with other than the papers on the coffee table. This was definitely not a standard burglary. He decided not to trouble his colleagues by reporting it since there was no need for him to file an insurance claim. Lars stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

He was sorely tempted to go to bed, but it was way too early. His fingers toyed with the phone in his pocket. He couldn't shake off the funeral. He took out his phone and saw a text message from Lisa. It must have arrived while he was chasing the intruder. Lars swore, and opened the laconic message:
There is no record of Malene Rørdam's current address at the National Register of Persons.

Lars tossed aside the phone in irritation. Yet another dead end. It was unbelievable. He turned on his computer to search the register. Lisa was quite right — her civil registration number produced no recent hits. Lars drummed his fingers on the edge of the keyboard. Where could she be? Her last recorded address back in December 1999 was Vesterbrogade 44. Since then — nothing. Lars read through her family relationships. Her older brother had lectured at Aarhus University, but had died in 2004. Her father, who had died the year after his son, had just the one sister, who had married a Swede in the 1960s. Since then Malene hadn't been registered in Denmark. Her mother was still alive and living at a care home in Borup. Lars called and spoke to an aide there who was friendly and obliging, but the information he was able to give him was depressing. Malene Rørdam's mother had severe dementia, and couldn't remember anything at all. And no, they didn't have any information about the daughter either.

He turned off the computer and went to fetch a fork and a glass of water from the kitchen. He sat down to eat green curry with prawns, squid, and jasmine rice, but the food was already cold.
Consolers of the Lonely
by The Raconteurs sounded from the record player
.

It was just another evening at Nørrebro Station.