The Scream of the Butterfly (6 page)

12

“ENTER.” ULRIK WAS
sitting behind his desk with his back to the window that overlooked the Tivoli Gardens, the SAS Royal Hotel, and the Axelborg office building. In the white and blue sky, torn clouds were drifting over a restless sea of red and brown leaves. The trees in Tivoli were changing into their winter clothing.

As usual, Ulrik's office smelled of dust, linoleum, and stale sweat.

The chief inspector — Lars's former friend — was in uniform, a tight knot in his tie. His cap lay on the far corner of the desk.

Lars closed the door and took a seat.

“You wanted to see me?”

“It has been more than twenty-four hours since this investigation began.” Ulrik moved his fountain pen slightly to the left.

Lars listed the main points from the morning briefing. Ulrik nodded.

“What does Serafine say?”

“I interviewed her yesterday. She still refuses to say anything, but we've heard back from our colleagues in Germany. She applied for asylum in Ilmenau in 1999; Lisa is processing her deportation.”

“I would like you to try again, before she's sent back to Germany. We need to solve this case as quickly as possible. The press is all over us, and politically . . .” Ulrik ran a hand over his forehead. It was deathly pale and sweaty.

“Is it Merethe Winther-Sørensen?” Lars almost felt sorry for him. “She should never have been allowed to attend that press conference.”

“It would have gone better without her, I admit that.”

“Since we're on the subject . . . Mogens Winther-Sørensen's parents — what's the deal with them?”

Ulrik folded his hands in front of him on the desk.

“Is this relevant, Lars?”

“Merethe Winther-Sørensen can think of nothing but the election, while her husband does jigsaw puzzles. And their son has just been murdered! I did some research on Infomedia. There are plenty of articles about Mogens Winther-Sørensen and his mother, but there's one small gap which is completely blank.” Lars pulled out the pale blue Post-it note from his pocket. “Between September seventeenth to just before New Year's in 1999, not a single Danish newspaper mentions the two politicians. Doesn't that strike you as odd?”

Ulrik didn't reply, but he continued to listen.

“I called the Royal Library. They have every single newspaper up to 2009 on microfilm. I can go over later today to view the ones from the latter part of 1999.”

“Are you suggesting someone is attempting a cover-up?” Ulrik looked weary. “Promise me you'll be discreet, won't you? I have enough on my plate as it is.”

“Uh-huh.” Lars looked over the top of Ulrik's head. The wind had gotten hold of a newspaper page outside the window. It rose and fell with the air current until it finally disappeared from his field of vision. “There was a letter in my mailbox this morning from Elena.”

Ulrik twitched.

“Yes?”

“It was from some lawyer. He wanted me to sign an agreement to sell the house.” The arches of Central Station were visible behind the trees of Tivoli. The Liberty Memorial was hidden, but Lars knew it was there. Somewhere. “I thought all that had been sorted out ages ago?”

“I don't know very much about it, Lars. I try not to interfere in your . . . in it. But, as far as I understand, the sale can't be completed unless you both sign it.”

“Okay.” There were more important things than selling houses right now.

“Listen,” Ulrik hesitated. “Elena has found a holiday cottage in Dronningmølle, a place she's really quite keen on. You would be doing her — I mean me — a huge favour if you would sign and return that sales agreement as quickly as possible, preferably today. There are other potential buyers, and Elena's share of the money would cover the down payment.” A bead of sweat trickled down Ulrik's upper lip and dangled from the corner of his mouth.

Lars got up. Suddenly he wasn't sure that he wanted to sell the house after all.

13

MERETHE WINTHER-SØRENSEN WAS
on the terrace, bent over her flowerpots, when he opened the garden gate. The terrace looked sheltered from the wind, and it caught the sun. Kim turned around, clutching the envelope in his hand. He glanced quickly up and down Amicisvej. Everything was quiet. There were no reporters in sight. The election had been called two weeks ago and the campaign was in full swing. After the murder of the minister's son, everything had spiralled. And yet here she was, tending to her flowers. Impressive.

Her private secretary came out with his cell phone pressed to his ear. Kim couldn't hear what was being said, but the secretary turned around and disappeared back inside the house soon afterward.

Gravel and soil crunched under the soles of his shoes as he climbed the few steps leading up to the terrace.

“Are you a keen gardener?” She was standing with her back to him, still bent over the flowerpots, panting and out of breath.

He stopped at the second step from the top and leaned against the railing.

“Not really.”

The minister straightened up, secateurs in hand. Her stripey apron was speckled with soil and patches of old mould.

“It feels good to get your hands dirty. Politics is mentally exhausting. Would you like some coffee?” An Alfi thermos flask and a pair of Royal Copenhagen china cups had been set out on the garden table. The minister sat down on a stool and pulled one of the flowerpots toward her before starting to prune the new shoots.

Kim walked across to the table and poured coffee for them both.

“But one thing I do know about gardening . . .” He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. The coffee was lukewarm at best. “Is that you usually prune in the spring.”

The minister put down the secateurs for a moment. Her fingers caressed the plant.

“These are British pelargoniums — Bushfires, to be more specific. They must be pruned in the autumn or you risk removing the new shoots and they won't flower. I tend to put them in the greenhouse in the winter. And when it rains . . . They don't like rain very much. Anyway, that's not why I asked you to come here.” She picked up the secateurs again and continued to snip away. The tender shoots rained down around her. “Your former colleague, Lars Winkler —”

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 in 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.”