The Scream of the Butterfly (22 page)

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 30

48

LARS MADE COFFEE
and took a long shower. He was still mulling over yesterday's meeting with Niels Püchert. The Red Cross continued to deny that Mogens Winther-Sørensen had ever worked for them, but then why would Niels Püchert waste so much time editing the Wikipedia entry again and again?

Lars turned off the shower, dried himself, and got dressed. Then he went outside onto the balcony with a cup of coffee and the day's first cigarette, and watched the Metro workers who had started work below. They were not fumbling around blindly; they had their fixed routines, their tried-and-tested procedures.

Lars took a last drag on the cigarette and squashed it on the balcony. No way he was going to let them get away with this.

He closed the balcony door behind him to reduce the noise and looked up the telephone number online. To his enormous surprise, he was put straight through.

“Lars Winkler?” Merethe Winther-Sørensen's voice was cool. “I thought I had made my position perfectly clear.”

“Don't worry. I had no trouble understanding Kim A yesterday.” Lars took a sip from his coffee cup and made a point of slurping. “I just have one question. Did Mogens work for the Danish Red Cross when he went on leave in 1999?”

The slight hesitation before her answer was barely noticeable, but it was there.

“You would have to speak to the Red Cross about that. I have more important things to do.”

“Surely nothing is more important than finding Mogens's killer?”

But he received no reply. Merethe Winther-Sørensen had already hung up.

Lars returned to the kitchen to refill his coffee cup. So Mogens Winther-Sørensen did have some sort of connection to the Red Cross. But what exactly? It was time he spoke to the mayor's father, the eccentric Arne Winther-Sørensen.

Lars made another call.

“Lisa? You're the one who interviewed Arne Winther-Sørensen, weren't you?”

“Hang on . . .” Lisa's voice grew faint. She was speaking to someone at the office. “Toke, there you go. Please take . . .” Then she was back. “We're a bit busy right now. Ukë and Meriton Bukoshi were found murdered a couple of hours ago. Shotgun wounds.”

“What?” Everything was starting to happen a little too quickly.

“Out in Sydhavnen, in front of the Metro superstore. Toke says it looks like a professional hit.” Lisa broke off to answer a question. “Okay then . . . Now, Lars, what did you want . . . ? Arne, yes, I spoke to him — to the extent that was possible.”

“What do you mean?” Lars was sitting down on the sofa with his coffee, pen and notepad ready.

“Arne Winther-Sørensen is one of those absentminded-professor types. You know, super intelligent within their subject, but has the social skills of a five-year-old. And it wasn't just his social skills that were an issue; practically every other form of human interaction seemed stunted. I could barely get a word out of him. He just sat there in front of one of those giant jigsaw puzzles. It was a German castle, I believe.”

“He was working on it when we told him and his wife about their son's death.” Lars made notes. To be fair, there were many different ways to deal with such news.

“So you got nothing out of him?”

Lisa shuffled some papers.

“I don't think that he and his son were close. It seemed almost as if Arne Winther-Sørensen had repudiated him.”

Lars put his notepad down on the sofa.

“Did he mention the Danish Red Cross?”

49

THE ROYAL LIBRARY'S
black glass facade sparkled in competition with the harbour basin every time the autumn sun peeked out from behind the grey clouds. Down on the water, two kayakers were battling their way through the waves to Knippel Bridge.

Lars walked past the basin in front of the library entrance and entered through the swinging door.

“Arne Winther-Sørensen?”

“Down to the basement and turn left.” The woman behind the counter pointed to an elevator on her right. “Go down as far as you can. Hey, wait.” She stepped out from behind the counter, hurrying after him with short, stiff strides. “You're not allowed to go down there unaccompanied.”

The elevator opened with a small ping and they stepped inside. Lars let the woman press the button marked
Basement
.

“Do you know if he's in yet?”

The lift started moving with a lengthy sigh.

“Arne? I can't remember the last time he was ill.” She lowered her voice as the elevator came to a halt. “Is this about his son?” The doors opened, and they stepped out and turned left. “It's a terrible business. Right, here we are.” She knocked.

“I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say.”

A grunt came from behind the door. Lars pushed down the handle. “Thanks for your help.”

Arne Winther-Sørensen sat hunched over his desk in the low-ceilinged office. He was peering through an illuminated magnifying glass at a confusion of ageing paper. Behind him, several yards of shelving was filled with stacks of paper, magazine holders, and ring binders. In the far corner at the top, boxes of old jigsaws were squeezed in between the shelf and the ceiling. There was a noticeboard above the desk. A jumble of notes, scraps of paper, and letters covered the cork surface.

“Arne?” Lars shut the door behind him. “Lars Winkler, Copenhagen Police. I would like —” Arne Winther-Sørensen looked up. An expression of disgust crossed his face. “Have you got a few minutes?” Lars took a step forward. The heat was suffocating.

Arne Winther-Sørensen muttered something that could be either yes or no.

“We've been told that Mogens worked for the Danish Red Cross back in —”

Arne got up and shuffled to the far corner of a bookshelf. He found a folder, removed it from the shelf, and carried it with him back to his desk. He opened it and started studying the densely written notes as if no one else were present.

“Perhaps we could go upstairs to the café? I'll buy you a cup of coffee.”

Arne Winther-Sørensen merely hunched even further over his work.

Lars changed tack.

“What are you working on?”

Arne Winther-Sørensen looked up. His face gained colour and his eyes lit up.

“This is a draft of a letter from Council President D. G. Monrad to the king of Sweden suggesting a Nordic union by way of a royal marriage.” Lars must have looked at him with a blank expression, because Arne Winther-Sørensen continued with mild irritation. “Monrad, the one from the Battle of Dybbøl. The letter to the king of Sweden was written after the armistice and before Denmark's war with the Germans had flared up again. I guess he was seeking support from the Swedes for the ongoing war effort. According to the Swedes, their king couldn't make up his mind if Monrad's letter was a joke,or should be taken seriously.”

Lars knew absolutely nothing about it, and yet he nodded.

“The draft has been torn up. It'll be interesting to see if there are shifts in meaning between that and the final letter. I already think —”

“That sounds fascinating.But I'm here to talk about your son.”

The spark in Arne Winther-Sørensen's eyes extinguished, and he turned his attention back to the magnifying glass and the papers underneath.

Lars continued: “We've been told that Mogens worked for the Danish Red Cross back in 1999. Is that correct?”

If possible, Arne Winther-Sørensen immersed himself even further into his work, trying to shut Lars out with his hunched back.

“This is about your son's murder.” Lars leaned across the desk. The archivist pushed him away with a sudden and violent movement.

“Go away. You'll only ruin . . .” At last he looked up. A shadow of the revulsion returned. “Ask Merethe.”

“We can either do this here, or I can bring you in. It's your choice.”

Arne Winther-Sørensen pushed back his chair and got up.

“Mogens has been dead to me for more than ten years. I . . .” He stared at Lars with wild eyes before he stormed out of the office. The door slammed shut.

Lars looked after him, mystified. What was wrong with this family?

He took in the magnifying glass and the scraps of paper on the desk. The bookshelves behind the desk sagged with papers and looked close to collapsing under the weight. The desk itself was also covered with piles of paper and leather-bound books. A tall jar with rolled-up posters stood by the door. And then there was the noticeboard. Lars got up, and skimmed the invitations to openings and the internal memos. There was a menu from a pizzeria on Strøget, and photos of people he presumed to be Arne Winther-Sørensen's colleagues.

He reviewed the papers on the noticeboard, then his gaze moved across the piles on the desk. So many papers, holding memories from a whole life. He went behind the desk and sat down, leafing through trays and stacks, carefully avoiding the sheet with the torn pieces of D. G. Monrad's draft letter. The desk contained nothing but work-related documents, but he wondered about the drawer unit that had been pushed under the desk. Lars wheeled it out and opened the top drawer: nothing but pens, paper clips, Post-it notes, erasers, and a hole punch. The bottom was stained dark from ink.

The door opened behind him. He had just enough time to catch a glimpse of Arne Winther-Sørensen's face before it closed again. Apparently he was checking up on him. Lars took a step toward the door, then changed his mind. Arne Winther-Sørensen had clearly indicated that he didn't want to contribute to the investigation.

He returned to the desk and examined the other drawers one by one. The second and third drawer contained papers, printouts of emails, and handwritten letters from the 1970s. Should he call in the technicians? Lars tried the bottom drawer, but it was locked. He swore, yanking the drawer, but it refused to budge. He had no search warrant, but surely he couldn't give up now? A drop of sweat trickled from his hairline down across his forehead to his nose, and dripped onto his thigh. The boiler room had to be close by. He opened the top drawer, pulled out a paper clip, straightened it, and bent down.

It took him only a few seconds to pick the lock.

The bottom drawer contained a number of suspension files, each one labelled with the year. They contained handwritten minutes from meetings, organized chronologically. The meticulous order in the drawer was in stark contrast to the rest of Arne Winther-Sørensen's office, but there was nothing of interest to the investigation. Lars swore again, slamming shut the drawer. The metal framework rattled. Something skated back and forth inside, across the bottom. Lars opened the drawer again, flicking through the files. Everything looked the same. Then he tilted the drawer upward, pulling it out of its tracks and placing it on his lap. He could see the bottom of the drawer when he pressed the files together. Something was glittering in the darkness at the front. Lars stuck his hand inside. His fingertips fumbled across a knobbly surface that had once been smooth. It was a photograph. Lars pulled it out and held it up. A younger version of Mogens Winther-Sørensen was throwing a tennis ball to a dark-skinned boy who looked about eight years old, on a lawn. They were both laughing and looked happy. A table with bread rolls and jugs of fruit juice was in the background. The Red Cross flag was flying from a flagpole. Lars put the drawer on the floor and held the photograph under the magnifying glass. There was something familiar about the boy's face. Lars moved the picture back and forth under the lens to achieve the maximum enlargement.

The grinning boy, who was gazing up at Mogens Winther-Sørensen, could only be a younger version of Serafine.

50

THE GRAVEL CRUNCHED
under the winter tires.

“We've arrived.” Kim drove the car up the driveway and parked along the row of yew trees behind the red Toyota. The light inside the bungalow was on. “Don't forget you're due to visit a factory in less than an hour.
News
will be there, and —”

“But that factory is here in Nærum, isn't it? We have plenty of time.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen produced a fat envelope from her bag. “I would appreciate it if you dealt with this, Kim.”

“You won't be joining me?” He placed his left arm on the steering wheel and the right on the back of his seat as he turned around.

“You'll manage fine on your own.” She handed him the envelope. “Now, this is what I want you to do.”

Søren Gjerding opened the door before Kim had even pressed his finger to the bell. The man, whom he had escorted away from Mogens's funeral, was in his late fifties and had once been stocky and broad across the shoulders, but the years had shrunk him. He slumped as he leaned against the door, waiting passively.

“You?”

Kim nodded. The man cast stolen glances over Kim's shoulder toward the ministerial car in the driveway. Kim followed his gaze. The minister was staring at them from the back seat. He turned back again just in time to see the small tic by Søren Gjerding's right eyelid. The man was terrified.

Kim took a step forward and entered. Søren Gjerding wavered, shifting his weight from foot to foot, still staring at the car. Then he closed the door and followed Kim inside.

Søren Gjerding's wife served coffee and biscuits in the living room. Kim had to force himself to eat the stale shortbread, but the coffee was good.

Kim finished chewing. “The minister sends her regards. She thinks you're doing well.'”

“I've been lucky.” Søren Gjerding looked glum.

“Yes, that job at Blegdamsvej came in very handy.”

Søren Gjerding stared into his cup. “I don't believe it was solely to my advantage.”

Kim set his coffee down on the smoked-glass table.

“There are certain . . . unforeseen events we've been forced to deal with.”