The Scream of the Butterfly (24 page)

54

THE SUN IS
high over the main building. The air quivers inside the narrow room between the urine-coloured walls. She lies in the bed with the blanket pulled right up to her nose, sweating in the cool room.

She has been given a single room at Ellebæk, the secure unit next to Sandholm — in a ward for single men. Because now they know, the staff — know what she is.

The residents know it too. They watch her. They prowl up and down the corridor, on the other side of the window, casting long glances at her.

She rolls over and curls up. Hunger gnaws at her stomach. She turned down the food the female police officer tried to give her. She has not eaten since the night the street-doc introduced her to the surgeon. That was Saturday. She's gone almost two days without food. She weighs so little that the slightest gust of wind threatens to carry her away.

The jar of pills she got yesterday is empty. She took the last ones early this morning. Zits have started erupting; her face is covered with infected craters. And hairs — she has hairs everywhere. The beast rears its head inside her and roars.

Outside, the men wander back and forth outside her window.

She hallucinates from hunger. From time to time she drifts off, her body releasing its hold on her. The room dissolves and she is elsewhere — in the bright room, a space with no walls or ceilings. She doesn't feel hungry. She has no acne. Only white butterflies everywhere. She sees her sister's figure between the butterfly wings. Afërdita glances over her shoulder, then turns her back on her.

And then the hunger returns, eating her up. She is back in the narrow bedroom. She clings to the dream, and tries to contain it in the bed under the blanket, every muscle locked in spasm. She tries to hold on to it, but it slips away and dissolves. What remains is a void demanding to be filled. She is dripping with sweat. She checks her cell phone. Yes, it is time. Dinner is being served in the cafeteria. She untangles herself from the blanket, staggers out into the bathroom, and splashes some water on her face. Her makeup is smeared; her face streaked. But that can't be helped right now. She needs something in her stomach before she disappears completely.

They grab her as she turns the corner, right before the open square of the cafeteria. Hands yank her into the darkness between two barracks. Their excited voices in the alleyway. She knows what comes next even before they tear off her clothes: hands on her, dicks inside her. It is the alien body they take — yet her they take it from.

She has no idea how much time has passed. It is not until the voices ebb away that she becomes aware of the damp ground underneath her, the grass tickling her left ear. Her mouth is sticky; something oozes out of her backside. The pain is everywhere.

Small clouds drift across the blue sky, high up between the roofs. The sun is shining. She lies gasping for a long time, trying to touch it, but every time she reaches out, it retreats — the sun is rejecting her, too. She closes her eyes, waiting only to disappear.

It is not until the hunger becomes unbearable that she forces herself to get up and lean against the wall for support. She tries wiping herself down with handfuls of grass and washes her mouth and chin with saliva.

The sun bounces off something in the grass near the building at the end of the alleyway. Some kids have thrown stones at it. Perhaps one of the residents got drunk and smashed it against the corner of the house — the shards of a broken glass bottle. But it's her way out, to the bright room and to Afërdita.

OCTOBER 1999

THE KEY IS
in the ignition, but he has yet to start the engine. The wheelhouse on the roof of the old naval base is almost hidden in the fog. A resident passes; their eyes meet. Then the man disappears, swallowed up by the grey mist. Mogens leans over the steering wheel and closes his eyes. His grip around the steering wheel is so hard that it hurts. The wheel is his only point of reference — without it he will be dragged down into the maelstrom that has opened up beneath him. How long will it be before Søren calls the police? Perhaps he is talking to them at this very moment. Everything is floating, falling apart, except for Kirsten and Sarah. Kirsten has to listen to him — she must.

Mogens starts the car and pulls out onto Forlandet. His thoughts turn to Kirsten, but all the way through Holmen and the city of Copenhagen, he can't shake the image of Arbën's terrified face.

“Where have you been?” Kirsten shoots up from the chair when he enters her office. Her dark hair is a mess and the bags under her eyes speak volumes, but anger simmers under the thin varnish of concern.

A garment rack with spring's must-haves stands in a corner. A petrol blue, A-line blouse lies across the desk on top of fashion magazines and catalogues. The rich silk shimmers in the glow from concealed spotlights. There is a single gladiolus in a glass vase next to the telephone.

Mogens flops into the armchair in front of the desk and buries his face in his hands.

“Hornbæk — the cottage. Kirsten . . .” Everything is spinning and it is impossible to think straight. “It's all so horrible.”

Kirsten folds her arms across her chest and stares at him for long, terrible seconds. He can imagine only too vividly what she must be thinking. Then she turns around, rummages in a cupboard behind her, and takes out a bottle. She pours a few fingers' worth of the amber liquid into a glass and pushes it across the desk.

“Here. Drink.”

Mogens drinks, clutching the glass with both hands. Southern Comfort, the excessively sweet liqueur, burns all the way down to his stomach. He sets down the glass, letting Kirsten refill it.

“I kept calling . . .” She puts down the bottle and takes a seat. “Do you have any idea how worried I've been?”

“I needed time to think. It's all so messed up.” He looks down at his wet clothes. And then the words pour out. He tells her about the scene at Søren's office, the accusation, and the uncles' triumphant smiles.

Kirsten lets him talk without interrupting. Once he's finished, she perches on the edge of the desk and takes his hand.

“Do you think Søren will call the police?”

“It sounded as if they would carry out an internal investigation first . . . before . . .” Mogens rubs his temples with his forefingers.

“You should never have brought that boy to the apartment.”

“I would have never got him to talk otherwise.” He leans his head back and stares up at the ceiling. “But you're right, of course.”

Kirsten tries again. “You say that his sister is missing?”

“The other day I went to their room to fetch Arbën. He wasn't there. Do you remember the man I told you about? The one I saw leaving their room? You thought they were dealing drugs. But they weren't.” Mogens buried his face in his hands. “I asked Afërdita who he was. And then she started to kiss me.”

“Kiss you? But she's just a child.”

“She was totally dolled up. She looked . . .” His fingers scrunch up the pattern on the A-line blouse. The thin white paper crackles against the fabric.

Kirsten makes a strange sound. Then she pours herself a double.

“So they're pimping their own niece.” She gulps down almost all the liqueur. “Christ almighty.”

“Kirsten?” A young assistant in a very short skirt opens the door without knocking. “I've got the Danish Design Centre on the phone. They would like to confirm that booking.” The assistant, whose name Mogens has forgotten, looks from one of them to the other.

Kirsten ushers her out with a well-placed “later.”

“Well, you haven't done anything.” Kirsten puts the cap back on the bottle and returns it to the cupboard. Mogens desperately wants to rip it from her hands and chug it back in one long gulp. But he controls himself. He needs a clear head. And then he can't keep it in any longer; the words just spill out of his mouth.

“When I was about to leave the other day, I suddenly found myself standing outside her door. I tried to leave, but . . .” The words almost choke him, but he cannot suppress them any longer. “I'm not like that, but my body. It . . . Kirsten, you know me . . . I didn't do anything!”

There is silence, broken only by the static crackling of Kirsten's shoes as she glides across the carpet, away from him.

“What are you saying? That you wanted to . . . ?”

Then she explodes. She snatches his glass and smashes it at his feet. “You sick —” The other glass is ready in her hand, but he ducks in time. It hits the wall behind him and shatters. The rest of the Southern Comfort and the shards of glass slide down the white wall. The smell of sugar and alcohol stings his nose and throat.

“Kirsten . . .” He hides behind the armchair. “But I didn't go into her room.”

“You bastard. You'll never see Sarah again!”

She spits at him, then turns on her heel and marches out of the office. Out in the corridor he catches a glimpse of her staff's terrified faces, before she slams the door shut. The vase holding the long gladiolus is knocked over, a dark stain spreads across the silk blouse.

Then his phone rings.

“It's your mother. We have quite a lot to talk about. Why don't you come by. After midnight, okay?”

55

“YOU JUST NEED
to sign here, then you can take him with you.” The Red Cross worker pointed to a dotted line on the document. Sanne scribbled something illegible and pushed the form back across the counter.

After interviewing Peter Egethorn, she had told Ulrik about Allan leaking information to
Ekstra Bladet
. Ulrik had been livid and summoned Allan immediately. After a tongue-lashing that could be heard throughout the whole department, he had been escorted out of the building; his cell phone and computer sent to IT. Ulrik wanted to make absolutely sure that Allan hadn't leaked anything else. Shortly afterward, they got a call from Ellebæk. Serafine had tried to kill herself.

Now Serafine was slumped against the counter next to her. She had yet to say a word. Her left hand was resting on the countertop, hidden under a thick bandage. She looked exhausted and wasn't wearing any makeup. Her skin was grey and pale, almost transparent. Her dress was practically reduced to threads below the waist.

“Do you know how it happened?”

The Red Cross worker, a well-upholstered guy in a charcoal-grey T-shirt and black jeans, took the form with Sanne's signature and filed it in a ring binder, which he then put back on the shelf.

“Sorry, no. One of the cafeteria workers found him outside the door to his room. He had lost quite a lot of blood. If you're referring to the dress . . .” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess he fell or something.”

They had reached the Hillerød highway. Serafine leaned her head against the window and gazed out at the rush-hour traffic. Sanne chewed her lip.

Serafine had blinked once when Sanne repeated the conversation with the Red Cross worker, but said nothing. Sanne continued: “And do you know what he said? That you must have fallen. If you want me to help you, you have to tell me what really happened.”

Serafine turned her head. Was she smiling? If so it was a strange, lost smile.

“No one can help me. It was already too late, many, many years ago.” It was the longest sentence Sanne had heard escape from Serafine's lips. Was she finally lowering her guard?

“There's always someone who can help,” she tried to explain. “No one should be alone.”

“Do you take me for an idiot?” Serafine's voice was so sharp in the little car that Sanne's hands yanked at the steering wheel out of sheer fright. The car skidded. She straightened out, forcing herself to concentrate on her driving. Serafine continue shouting with her eyes closed. A spray of saliva coated the inside of the windshield. “People like me, we're killed and raped. And those of us who survive commit suicide — half of us before we turn twenty.” She sat back in the seat and smoothed out the remains of her dress. Her voice settled into a calmer tone. “And I've tried all three.”

Sanne forced herself to breathe deeply and slowly. She was getting somewhere. She tried reviewing all the bits of information they had gathered in the last few days over in her head. She rubbed her face with one of her hands.

“You've been to Denmark before — with your uncles, Meriton and Ukë, and your sister. Am I right?”

Serafine didn't react. She appeared to have said all she wanted to on the matter; now she just stared at the Ring 3 beltway.

“Oh, come on. If you won't help yourself, then at least help me. Mogens Winther-Sørensen practically died in your arms. What happened?”

Serafine gave her a quick look, a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. She was on the verge of loosening up and letting go. Then her gaze died, and she looked away.

Sanne had to try to tempt her and reel her in. They drove past Utterslev Mose park and overtook a silver Å koda.

“We know that you and Mogens met at Margretheholm.”

Serafine closed her eyes.

Sanne was getting desperate. She sifted through the information yet another time.

“Okay, you said you had tried all three. You've just tried to kill yourself. There has to be a reason why you slit your wrist.” She paused when she realized what she had just said. “They raped you.”

Sanne shuddered. The traffic enclosed them and she was forced to reduce her speed.

“They raped you,” she repeated. “At the centre. And nobody did anything?”

56

“THE PARTY LEADER
debate?” The receptionist looked briefly at his badge before letting him in. “You want Studio 6. It's through the gate at the end, then go left.”

Lars half-ran through DR's headquarters. The debate would be going live in ten minutes. Hopefully he'd made it in time.

He dashed through the gate and down a high-ceilinged corridor with concrete walls and floors. It resembled a factory more than anything else. Staff, politicians, and press officers were standing or wandering around in small groups, moving toward the studio. A host from a TV show whose name he couldn't remember started walking in his direction with a cup of coffee in his hand. Lars narrowly avoided bumping into him, but knocked over the paper cup. Half the contents splashed over the man's shirt.

“Look where you're going, moron.”

Lars ignored him and carried on toward Studio 6. Kim A was standing outside the entrance wearing a black suit and an earpiece. Lars's ex-colleague took a step forward and held up his hand when he spotted him.

“And that's as far as you go.”

“Kim A.” Lars stopped. “So, tell me, does your jurisdiction extend to lying in a murder investigation?” The words came out louder than strictly necessary. It fell silent around them. Makeup artists and press officers from various parties stared at them. A young Social Democrat — a tall, blonde girl — gave Lars a terrified look before slipping behind Kim A and through the black door to the studio.

“You watch your mouth,” Kim A hissed before coming right up to him, but he was intercepted by the minister who was walking toward them.

“Kim. Let me talk to him.”

Kim A blinked twice, then stepped aside.

Merethe Winther-Sørensen took Lars by the arm and dragged him down toward the washrooms by the glass wall at the end of the corridor.

“What on earth do you think you're doing?” She kept her voice low and neutral. “Are you aware that you're only one phone call away from being fired?”

Lars said nothing, and slipped his hand inside his jacket to produce the picture of Mogens Winther-Sørensen and Serafine as a child.

“Does this ring any bells?”

Merethe Winther-Sørensen glanced at the photograph.

“My son playing with a ball?” She didn't move a muscle.

“I have repeatedly asked you about your son's past, and every time you've either denied knowing anything or prevented me from finding the information I need. This photograph was taken at a Danish Red Cross centre called Margretheholm back in 1999. Do you deny that Mogens worked there for a month before he became mayor? That he met Serafine there? Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell me? About him being accused of pedophilia, perhaps?”

The minister was more than a head shorter than him, but that didn't appear to bother her. She lowered her voice.

“If I were you, I wouldn't be quite so loud. Something about a red bookmark containing a small wrap? Its contents aren't standard equipment for a police officer, I believe. It could very easily find its way into the wrong hands.”

A producer came toward them holding up two fingers.

“Two minutes. You're on now.”

“Please excuse me.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen turned and walked away. “I'm going to be on TV.”

Lars was still shaking when he returned to his car. He sat on the hood and lit a King's as he looked out across West Amager. He had read somewhere that nicotine affects the same pleasure centres in the brain as cocaine — and music. Right now, he was prepared to believe it. His heart rate settled, and the hand holding the cigarette stopped shaking. It was growing dark; projectors lit up the blue canvas that surrounded the cube-shaped Concert Hall. Inside, the minister — along with the leaders from the other parties represented in parliament — were about to hold a debate that would make absolutely no difference to the election.

He took out his phone. Lisa had called him twice within the last ten minutes.

“Lisa, what's happening?” He took a drag of his cigarette. The wind snatched away the smoke the moment he exhaled it through his nose.

“Serafine tried to kill herself.”

“What?” He nearly choked.

“Are you sick?”

“It's just smoke.” Lars finished coughing. “When?”

“A couple of hours ago. I think she's all right. Sanne went up there to bring her back so we could interview her. I think Sanne felt that Serafine shouldn't be left alone. And another thing: we got a call from the airport. You told them to be on the lookout for a Søren Gjerding?”

“A-ha?” Lars took one last drag, and then squashed the cigarette on the tarmac with the sole of his shoe.

“Airport police are holding him right now. He was on his way to Thailand with his wife.”