The Scream of the Butterfly (21 page)

46

A SOLITARY STREET
lamp glowed in the car park behind the Metro superstore in Sydhavnen, casting a yellow oval across the cracked sidewalk. A red Taurus was parked near the wire mesh fence in a corner of the lot.

The cone of light had sharp edges and bounced off the bronze paint on the brothers' Suzuki Grand Vitara. The new apartment blocks by the harbour glowed in the distance. The steep, glass walls of the telecommunications companies flared up in the dying sun.

“When is he coming?” Ukë chewed on his gum and scratched his neck. He had gotten a rash under his chins while he was in custody. Meriton rolled an unlit cigarette back and forth between his fingers, peering out into the darkness.

“Oh, relax,
vëlla
.”

He pressed the cigarette lighter in. Ukë muttered something Meriton didn't catch. The sound of his brother's scratching drowned out his voice.

“Eh?”

“He had better get a move on. I'm starting to get fed up with him.”

“Easy now. He got us out, didn't he? And he knows he's a dead man if he tries to pull any tricks.”

A shadow dashed across the rear-view mirror. Was that movement behind the Taurus over by the distant fence? Meriton straightened up in his seat, and moved his head in order to get a better look. “What the . . . ?”

The scratching next to him had ceased. Ukë had seen it too.

“Is that him? I swear . . .”

A dark figure crossed the car park and headed toward their car. A long jacket flapped in the wind. They both followed it in the rear-view mirror.

“Do you think Valmir has fixed it yet?” Ukë whispered.

“Don't know. We'll call him later. Right, there he is.”

The dark figure was now standing alongside their car. It knocked on the passenger-side window. Meriton stuck the cigarette in his mouth and pressed a button. The electric windows rolled down with a low hum.

“About time.” He took the lighter, held it up to his cigarette, and inhaled. The tobacco started to glow. Ukë snorted next to him. Something shiny and black was sticking through the window.

“Goodbye, assholes.”

Meriton didn't have time to hear the gunshot — he only caught a glimpse of the flash before his face was ripped to pieces, torn off his skull by hundreds of small pellets.

Ukë swore; a bubbling sound came from the open wound to his neck where part of the load, which had missed Meriton's face, had hit him. He fumbled with the door lock, blood pouring down his grey sweatshirt. The shotgun turned, pointing straight at him.

“Sorry.” The voice behind the weapon rasped in the wind. “But it's time to clean up. They're getting too close.”

Ukë held up his free hand, trying to shield himself. His gaze darted to the side. A plastic bag tumbled across the empty parking lot, carried along by the wind. The other barrel fired. Pain. Then — nothing.

47

“SO WE'RE BACK
to square one.” Lars flopped down into his chair. Right now, all he wanted to do was put his feet up on the desk and close his eyes. Sanne shut the door behind them, and leaned against the filing cabinet. Lisa had been sitting on the windowsill when they came in. She had already heard.

They had closed off the whole area between the Royal Theatre, Nyhavn, the Port of Copenhagen, and the National Bank, and searched every stairwell and courtyard. Ulrik had even deployed a helicopter, all to no avail. Serafine seemed to have vanished into thin air. Dogs had followed her trail through the apartment, down the back stairs, across the courtyard, and out onto Holbergsgade, where the scent disappeared in the middle of the street. They hadn't been able to pick it up again.

However, they had learned something new in the last two days. Serafine was related to Ukë and Meriton. She had seen Mogens's photograph in a newspaper in Hamburg and decided to travel to Denmark to get him to help her with her surgery. The two of them must have known each other, so why would Serafine want to kill the very man she was hoping would come to her rescue? And, more importantly, there was still the question of the third, unidentified set of fingerprints on the murder weapon.

The process of elimination was continuing. The fingerprints didn't belong to the victim's family or acquaintances, or anyone else who had been in the apartment by Sankt Thomas Plads in the week leading up to the murder. The investigation now needed to focus on this third person.

It had started to rain outside, which was exactly what they needed right now.

The surgeon, who was supposed to have carried out the operation, didn't know anything, having only met Serafine the day before. He claimed it had been a completely innocent appointment regarding a urinary tract infection. Now, it was remarkable that a surgeon like him who specialized in obstetrics would offer urinary tract treatment to a man, but he had taken his Hippocratic oath and so forth . . .

They had confiscated the Jaeger-LeCoultre watch that Serafine had used as payment. At least it could now be returned to its rightful owner.

Sanne sat down opposite Lars.

“I know it's my fault, and —”

“Don't.” Lars opened his eyes. “She also got away from me up at Sandholm. We all thought she would be so high on morphine she wouldn't be able to think, let alone avoid capture.” He scratched his stubble. “We just have to move on.”

These were just platitudes, stock phrases you used in situations like this. There was nothing to do but to move on.

His cell phone rang. It was the duty officer.

“Hey Lars. Listen, we've just received a tip — anonymously, of course — but I thought I had better tell you just in case.”

“Fire away.'”

“Caller was an elderly man. He claims someone made a complaint that Mogens Winther-Sørensen was a pedophile.”

“And?”

“Well, that was pretty much all he said.”

Sanne raised her eyebrows. Lars held up two fingers.

“No year or location? Nothing?”

“Sadly no. I've checked the records without success. But I thought you ought to know.”

Once Lars had repeated the conversation to her, Sanne started flicking through a file. “It sounds a bit feeble.”

Lisa nodded at Lars, who was still holding his phone. “Do we do anything with it?”

Lars stuffed the cell phone in his pocket.

“Right now I think —”

There was a knock at the half-open door. Toke popped his head in.

“You may want to sit down. We've just had a call from Café Intime.”

Lars opened the door for Sanne. The café was quiet; it was still too early for the Sunday crowds. A transvestite in high heels and a tight blue dress was standing next to the piano, singing:

Someday I'll wish upon a star

And wake up where the clouds are far behind me.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops,

High above the chimney tops,

That's where you'll find me.

Somewhere over the rainbow

Blue birds fly

Birds fly over the rainbow

Why then, oh why can't I?

If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow

Why, oh why can't I?

Serafine was sitting in a corner, staring at the table. Her jeans were filthy, ripped across her knees and thighs. One sleeve of her jacket was coming apart at the shoulder where the stitches had been torn. Aksel Lynge, the man who had reported his watch stolen the day before, was sitting opposite her. He was scowling; his arms were folded across his chest. He also had a nasty cut on his cheek. Two bartenders were keeping guard.

Aksel Lynge was the first to spot them. He knocked over his chair as he got up.

“I only wanted my watch back. Tell —”

“Sit down, man.” One of the bartenders pushed him back into the chair.

Serafine looked around with a panicked expression, desperate for a way out. Lars walked straight across the bar and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Serafine?”

“Five minutes?” She looked ravaged and exhausted. “Please?” Lars looked around. Why was she so keen to wait five minutes?

Serafine's hands fluttered across the table. The transvestite by the piano sang the last line of the song, received her applause, and walked away. The pianist continued to play on alone.

“Come on,” he began, but she wasn't listening. Her eyes shifted from side to side, scanning the room every few seconds.

“What's the problem?” Lars was addressing the nearer of the two bartenders.

“Something about a watch.” The bartender shrugged. “Fortunately, we managed to separate them before anyone got seriously hurt. To be honest, I don't know who to believe.”

Lars stuck his hand into his pocket and placed the watch on the table in front of Aksel Lynge.

“I'll need you to sign for this.”

Lynge snatched the watch and raised it up to his lips.

“Thank you. You don't know how happy you've made me.”

Aksel Lynge had barely crossed the threshold before Serafine started to murmur. She half-rose, then fell back into the chair.

“There he is!” she exclaimed.

Lars looked over his shoulder. An elderly man walked in, wearing a shabby suit jacket and jeans and carrying a bag. It was the same man they had interviewed earlier. The doctor had yet to notice them.

Sanne got up and walked across the room.

“Good evening.” She grabbed the doctor's arm and marched him over to the table where Serafine was sitting.

“Good eve —” The doctor's face lost all colour. “What the . . . ? Since when is it a crime to pop in for a drink?”

“Sit down, doctor.” Lars pointed to the chair Aksel Lynge had just vacated. The doctor sat down with a surprised thud. “We're willing to accept that you just came in for a drink, aren't we?” He looked at Sanne, who nodded.

The doctor wiped his forehead.

“But then —”

“As long as,” Lars continued, “you give her what she needs. Now.”

The doctor gawped at him, clutching his bag. A strand of white hair fell onto his forehead. Then he nodded, opened the bag, and put a small jar of tablets on the table in front of Serafine.

“That's all I've got.”

Serafine grabbed the jar and took out some pills — Lars couldn't see exactly how many, more than two and less than seven — and shoved them into her mouth.

“Lucrative sideline you've got there,” Lars said before pointing to the door.

The doctor jumped up and knocked over the chair as he fled. Lars turned to Serafine, who was washing down the pills with a gulp of her cosmopolitan. Her hands stopped flapping; the frantic expression disappeared.

“Perhaps we can go now?”

Sanne was already outside on the steps when Serafine stopped, balancing with her foot on the threshold. Her posture had stiffened. Lars nudged her from behind.

“Come on. It's no use.”

Serafine shuddered, then she started moving and they walked out into the street. A gay couple was sitting at a table outside in the September evening, smoking and holding hands. Allan and Lisa were waiting by the corner of Frederiksberg Bredegade.

Lisa looked at Serafine, who was struggling to stay upright between Lars and Sanne. “You won't get anything out of her tonight. She's completely out of it.”

“I'll drive her up to Sandholm.” Sanne unlocked her car. “We'll interview her tomorrow when the morphine has worn off. Everyone else can go home. We're done here.”

“She's bound to run away again,” Allan said. “She needs to go to Ellebæk, the secure unit right next to the Sandholm Centre. Why don't I take her.” Allan started walking toward his car.

“It's okay, I don't mind.”

“Are you sure? Do you want me to come with you?”

“There's no need. We won't have any problems, will we?”

Serafine shook her head, but kept her eyes on the sidewalk.

OCTOBER 1999

THE TRAFFIC ON
the Helsingør motorway is at a complete standstill. The wipers sweep across the windshield; the rain batters against the roof. Mogens drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He turns on the radio, then turns it off again. Now that he has made up his mind, he just wants it over and done with immediately. But instead he is sitting here, stuck in a traffic jam by Gammel Holte.

When they had finished eating their pizza, he drove Arbën back to the centre and walked the boy to his room. It was very quiet, the corridors were dark and deserted. He put the boy to bed and went up to the office to say hello to the night watchman, pretending he was looking for a missing wallet. Then he drove to Hornbæk, but found it impossible to think in the dark cottage. Instead, he went down to the beach and let the salty wind shake him up. His clothes still bear the scent of seaweed and sand.

The question was simple: Should he keep quiet or speak up? Would he be able to live with himself if he didn't?

He had spent most of the night going over the arguments for and against, and hadn't fallen asleep until three o'clock in the morning, on the sofa.

The backlog in front of him finally stirs, and the long snake of traffic edges forward at last. The clock on his dashboard shows 8:11 a.m.

It's 9:10 a.m. by the time he parks outside the centre. The rain has eased off now, and is down to a quiet trickle. He half-runs through the puddles, ignoring the splashes that stain his pants.

Mogens takes the stairs two at a time. His side hurts as he runs down the yellow corridor to Søren's office. He bursts in without looking left or right.

But Søren isn't alone.

The director is standing by the window with his hands in his pockets. He's staring into the distance, his attention far away. Three people sit in front of his desk. Arbën looks down when Mogens enters. Merton and Ukë are sitting on either side of him, smiling.

Mogens wheezes and leans against the door frame for support.

“Søren — I have . . . I know what happened. I —”

“Sit down, Mogens.”

“But . . .” He points at the brothers. “It's them. They rent out Afërdita — they sell their own niece. That's why she's run away. Call the police.”

Søren leans across his desk and rests on his palms.

“Sit down, Mogens.”

Mogens wipes his hand across his face, which is wet from the rain. He understands nothing. Why is the boy so scared? He pulls out the chair at the end of the desk and sits down.

“Is it correct that you took Arbën to your home yesterday?” Søren's diction is clear.

Oh, is that it?
Mogens laughs.

“You told me to find out what was wrong with him yourself. He refused to say anything, so I thought . . .”

Søren suddenly looks very tired.

“We have one inviolable rule here at the centre, at all Red Cross centres — a rule with absolutely no exceptions. I made it clear to you when you started working here that you must never enter into a dependent relationship with a resident. Do not borrow or accept anything from them and do not meet with them outside the centre. And never, ever take them to your home.”

Meriton and Ukë say nothing. They just sit there, either side of the boy, with inscrutable smiles.

Søren straightens up and resumes staring out of the window. Everything is wet outside. Mogens follows his gaze. The water splashes over the rim of the gutter on the low barrack. A couple of children are jumping in puddles.

“Arbën says that you touched him.” Søren's voice is devoid of expression.

The boy jolts.
So he understands what is being said?

“What?!”

Søren turns around. His voice is louder now.

“He says that you took off his clothes and took off your own clothes, and touched his genitals and made him touch you.”

No
. Everything drains of colour. He feels leaden inside and tries to straighten up in the chair.

“But that's . . .” He can barely speak. The uncles are grinning from ear to ear. “But they're making him say that. Can't you see? So you won't believe that they're running a brothel.”

Søren sits down, defeated and resigned.

“I need you to hand over your ID card and your keys. You're banned from the centre until we've investigated the matter thoroughly.”

Everything happens in slow motion. Mogens reaches down for the leather briefcase he has put on the floor containing his ID card and keys. It's so heavy he can't even lift it.