The Scream of the Butterfly (10 page)

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26

22

IT WAS EARLY
morning on Folmer Bendtsens Plads. Bottles were rattling outside the Ring Café. The drilling from the Metro construction drowned out even the S-train on the overhead rail. Raindrops trailed down the window.

Lars rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and turned off the alarm on his phone. He folded his hands behind his head and studied the cracks that branched out from the stucco rose in the centre of the ceiling. Just thinking about yesterday made him hot all over. It had been a long time. But it was more than that.

He rolled onto his stomach. Christine had said something before — about Serafine. Lars got up, made coffee, relieved himself, and took a shower.

The coffee had finished brewing by the time he came out of the bathroom. Lars dried himself off, got dressed, and ate some rolled oats. There had to be a reason why Serafine had come to Copenhagen. Some connection to the mayor maybe?

He went out into the hallway and stuck his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. It was empty. If he was to have any hope of getting the cogs in his brain to start turning, he needed to smoke.

He walked to the SUPER CORN RSTORE at Folder Bendtsens Plads 4, which was squeezed in behind the front of the building and the fence around the Metro construction site. There were no longer any flowers displayed outside. The thick layer of dust from the construction that had forced its way through cracks in the windows of his apartment had probably killed them off.

The young guy who had been there earlier in the summer was behind the counter. Languorous music swayed through from the back room, which was concealed behind a curtain of green and pink beads. A sweet scent of incense wafted out into the shop.

“Hi.” He saluted him with two fingers as he entered. “The usual.”

The guy looked puzzled.

“Yeah, I know it's been a while.” Lars made a second attempt. “Have you been away travelling?”

“Do I know you?” The young man stared at him, furrowing his brow.

“You could say that.” Lars's gaze scanned the adult magazines on the top shelf behind the cashier. “We used to chat last summer; I had just moved in.”

“Ah.” The boy lit up with a big smile. “That would have been my brother, Alexander. He minds the shop sometimes.”

Lars nodded to himself. Twins, of course.

“I live at number two. Your brother used to put two packs of King's Blue on the counter whenever I came in.”

The boy took two packs from the shelf behind him.

“There you go. My name is Patrick.”

“Lars.” He picked up the cigarettes, paid, and made to leave.

“Wait.” The boy came out from behind the counter. He wore the same type of grubby track suit as his brother, but the pants were baggy around his thighs. “I remember now. Sander talked about you. You're a cop, aren't you? You tracked down that rapist?”

“Yes. It —”

“I just wanted to say thank you. I know one of the girls. Not well, but —”

“Who? Stine?” Lars peeled the cellophane off one of the packs.

“No, Caroline Størup. She rented my buddy's big brother's apartment last summer.”

“Caroline,” Lars's fingers stopped. The cellophane stuck to the back of his hand. “She's a friend of my daughter's.”

“Do you know how she is?”

“Better. She's in New York. I'm sorry, but I need to get to work.” He gestured outside.

“Of course.” The boy reversed back behind the counter. “I'll tell Sander you said hi.”

Back in his apartment, Lars lit up a King's and closed his eyes while the nicotine kickstarted his system. He was about to pour himself some coffee when he remembered Toke's suggestion. He went into the living room and turned on his computer. Lars went to the DBA website and searched for back issues of
Politiken
, the newspaper that had traditionally supported the Radical Party.

There were several hits, most of them provincial, and practically nothing in Copenhagen. And no one had issues going back fifteen years.

But in Haslev on Midtsjælland someone claimed to have “
almost complete sets from 1995 to 2008
.” The guy had probably hoped that the newspapers would one day turn into a collector's item. Now he couldn't even be bothered to suggest a price. Yet another victim of the digital age.

Lars sent a message to the seller:
Could I please visit to have a look at the 1999 issues tomorrow?

Let Kim A and the minister try to stop him.

23

“DON'T SAY ANYTHING.”
Lars closed the door behind him and tossed his jacket over the chair. He could tell from the looks on their faces and the big newspaper pile on one table that they had all read Sandra Kørner's article yesterday. Sanne had picked a seat at the back of the room and was sitting with her side to him, pretending to study
Jyllands-Posten
's “Copenhagen” section. Were those red spots on her cheeks? None of the others seemed to notice anything was amiss.

Ulrik entered just at that moment.

“Good morning. I suggest we get going.” He sat down and turned to Lars. “Have you made arrangements for the funeral?”

“Everything should be set to go.” Lars had sent a mass email yesterday with detailed instructions for each of them. “The funeral is at noon at Vor Frue Cathedral. If I can have you all at my disposal until two o'clock, I'll be happy.”

The others nodded. Ulrik cleared his throat.

“Fine. But until noon and after two o'clock, it's all about Serafine. Sanne? Allan?”

Sanne rose. She started pinning still photographs from various surveillance videos onto the noticeboard. Lars recognized Serafine on Kultorvet by the Round Tower and at the colonnade under Regensen across the street.

“You are all familiar with these images. We've extended our search area and got some of our colleagues to check security cameras from troubled neighbourhoods, but so far it's slim pickings. The gay bars haven't produced any results either.”

Ulrik ran his hand across his chin. His stubble grated against his palm.

“Anything else?”

“I visited the Sandholm Centre last night to search her room,” Allan said. “The technicians say there's DNA evidence, but there were no notes or photographs. She left practically no trace of herself.”

“What about the businessman she robbed in Hamburg?” Ulrik turned to Lisa. “Has anyone talked to him?”

“Not yet. He's still out of the country.”

“What are you thinking, Lars?” Allan looked worried.

“All this time we've thought of Serafine as a female prostitute. Now it turns out that she's transgender. No —” he raised his hand when Lisa was about to protest. “Not transsexual . . .
transgender
.”

“Why is that important? I mean, you say
to-may-to
, I say
to-mah-to
?” Sanne had sat down with her newspaper again.

“If she did it — and I simply refuse to believe that she did — she must have had a motive. Why is she here? Why leave Hamburg and go to Copenhagen? Why kill the mayor?”

No one said anything. Lars continued: “Remember, we have a witness who saw a man disappear through the back door. And we have unidentified fingerprints on the knife —”

Allan interrupted him. “Yes, the third man. I interviewed the guy who lives above Winther-Sørensen again yesterday. He's no longer sure that he saw anything. The kitchen floor was covered with blood; it was a mess. You know what witnesses are like. He probably thought that he saw movement. And that turned into the killer.”

Ulrik looked at each of them in turn and then slammed his hands on the table.

“Okay. We continue with Serafine. Sanne, Allan, you two will co-ordinate the ongoing review of the security camera footage. Lisa, keep in contact with our colleagues on the street. They've all been issued with her photo; she has to show up sometime.”

“What about Lars?” Sanne put the newspaper away.

“What do you mean?” Ulrik had gotten up. Now he sat down again.

“Well, what will he be doing? After all, he was the one who let her get away.” There was total silence for a few seconds.

“I've given Lars permission to pursue his own lead.”

“Why?”

Ulrik was about to reply, but Lars interrupted him.

“I think we need to explore Mogens and Merethe Winther-Sørensen's past. Something doesn't add up. And that information doesn't leave this room.”

24

AFËRDITA. SHE WAKES
with a start, pain radiating from her back. Her neck is stiff; her teeth furry. Her sister's name echoes through her head. The dream sends a frisson through her body. Together they escaped from the uncles while fleeing through the Czech Republic. Then they bumped into a group of fellow Albanians who took them across the border to Germany. They pretended they were part of their family when they applied for asylum. And when the Red Cross worker asked what her name was and the others hesitated, it was Afërdita who stepped forward and named her Serafine. Even then her sister could see the butterfly.

But rumours spread quickly, even among asylum seekers. Before a few weeks had passed the uncles had tracked them down again and forced them to travel onward.

Sweating, she looks around at the brown walls and bumpy floor. Where is she?

She can only recall fragmented episodes from yesterday: the police officer who left her on the bench in the Red Cross centre; the children who started to shout at her and threw stones. But what happened after that?

She tries to stretch out her neck by lifting up her head, but bangs her forehead against a rough ceiling. Did she sleep under some stairs? Testosterone rages in her once again, but if the years in Hamburg have taught her anything, it's that you pay for relief. More images from the previous day return: the train to Copenhagen; staggering through the city; stealing clothes, jeans, a T-shirt, and running shoes. These are the kind of clothes she hasn't worn for years. She reaches up and touches her hair. The scissors. It'll take years for it to grow long again. After cutting her hair she roams through the city, trying to track down the usual places. Blisters grow and burst on her heels and toes and turn into sores. The only place she knows in Copenhagen is Central Station. She finds a brochure for gay Copenhagen and picks out Café Intime at random.

Her first customer is an older gay man, whom she sucks off in an alleyway for five hundred kroner. The smell of sweat and genitals is overpowering. She tries converting it into euros in her head and figures it must be about €70. She folds the notes, putting them into her makeup bag with the €550 she has left from Hamburg. But she still doesn't know what the street-doc charges for HRT here, so when a somewhat younger man hits on her and invites her home, she accepts.

Her fingers glide across his thigh in the taxi on the way to his apartment. The bulge grows between his legs. Somehow it feels easier when it's not her own. The driver watches them in the rear-view mirror, but says nothing. Up in the apartment the guy is so aroused that he only just manages to get it in before he comes.

As soon as he starts snoring, she checks out his clothes and his apartment. There is cash, a cell phone, and a watch — a Jaeger-LeCoultre. It looks expensive. Her heart is pounding as she scoops it all up. She is too scared to count the money there and just stuffs everything in her makeup bag. She grabs her clothes, finds a jacket in the hall, and lets herself out into the stairwell. She doesn't get dressed until she is outside.

Then she runs out into the street. There is neither time nor energy for regrets or plans.

She doesn't know how she found the stairwell or how long she has been asleep. She is about to count the money when she hears heavy footsteps on the stairs above. Then comes a light, something scratching on the linoleum: a dog or another animal? She can see people passing by on the street outside through the narrow windowpanes in the front door. Serafine presses herself into the corner of the stairwell. And then suddenly he's there — a fat man with suspenders, standing right in front of her. He has an Alsatian on a leash. Its tongue flops out of its jaws.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He spits out the words. “We're fed up with junkies in our building.” The dog barks once. Serafine looks away from the dog, trying to disappear into the shadows.

“Get out of here!” He is shouting now. The dog rears up on its hind legs and barks again.

Her legs give way under her out in the street. A sign on the corner says Århusgade. She needs to sit down and have some coffee, and a shower. Her whole body is sticky with sweat and cum.

She disappears into a café; she has no idea how far away she is from the guy she ran away from last night. It is not until she has an overpriced
caffe latte
in front of her that her body starts to calm down and she can breathe normally again.

Various machines are lined up against the wall, with clothes whirling around behind circular windows. People are doing their laundry while having their morning coffee.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a pair of narrowed eyes watching her. Is that him? He's out there somewhere, waiting. But no, it's only a father hushing his son.

More than anything she needs something to suppress it — the testosterone — at least until tonight, then she'll see what she can do. There's always someone in the community who knows how much it costs. And if she doesn't have enough money, she'll have to get some more. The guy she was with yesterday mentioned a place near the Town Hall called NeverMind. She must be able to find a street-doc there.

She looks up. A police car passes by the window. That's all it takes for her to be on the run again. Eyes are watching her everywhere, following her.