The Scream of the Butterfly (25 page)

57

SANNE UNLOCKED THE
door. The apartment was dark and empty. Thank God Martin was working late at the office again.

“So this is where I live. Make yourself at home.” She put her handbag on the chest of drawers. Serafine said nothing, but looked around. She stayed close to Sanne, following her into the kitchen.

It was early evening now and growing dark outside. Sanne opened the freezer and pulled out a couple of ready meals.

“You can choose between lasagna and lasagna.” Sanne flashed Serafine a cautious smile as she put the trays in the microwave. They stood for some minutes in silence while the food heated up. Then Sanne plated their dinners and carried them into the living room. She lit a candle and opened a bottle of red wine. Serafine still had not said anything, but she was smiling — or it looked that way, at least.

There was a beep from her handbag. Sanne returned to the hallway, Serafine following at her heels. Not a surprise that she didn't want to be alone.

Sanne found the cell phone in her bag.
Hi, Sanne. Lisa says you've picked up Serafine? Am on my way to the airport. Call me when you can. It's starting to make sense. Lars

Typical Lars. No information but an order. What use was that? She dropped the phone back into her bag. On the other hand, it was good to hear from him. That soft tingle in the pit of her stomach returned.

They went back to the living room. Sanne pulled out a chair and hung her handbag over it. She signalled to Serafine to sit down.

“Dig in.” She poured some wine and pushed a plate toward Serafine, then cut a corner off her own lasagna and tipped it onto her fork.

“Are you sure you don't want to report them? We can drive to Rigshospitalet immediately if . . .”

Serafine cut into her lasagna. Minced beef, béchamel sauce, and diced tomatoes oozed out over the plate. Steam rose up. She shook her head and smiled that wistful smile again.

“It doesn't matter.”

“I mean, I believe you.” Sanne put down her fork.

“You're sweet.” There it was again — that smile. It was so sad, it trickled down the walls.

Serafine placed a small piece of lasagna on her fork and put it in her mouth.

“What was it about? The text message? You didn't look happy. But at the same time, you kind of did.”

Sanne placed her hand on her chest and took a deep breath in.

“Oh, it was just a colleague. We had . . . a thing once. It's over now.”

“Men are bastards.” Serafine chewed with her front teeth and stared into the candlelight, losing herself in the flame that was dancing in the breeze from the window. Then she straightened up and looked directly at Sanne. “I was only eight years old. We lived here in Copenhagen at the Margretheholm Centre: my sister Afërdita, me, and our two uncles. One night . . .” Serafine fell silent and gulped. Then she pushed her plate away. She took the glass of red wine, drained it in one go, and held it out for more. Sanne took the bottle and filled up the glass, too scared to say anything for fear of breaking the spell. “Our uncles forced Afërdita to be with men. You know . . .” She waved her hand in the air as she emptied her glass a second time. “For money. Men from the centre and local Danes. They had usually finished by the time I came back. But one day . . .” Serafine broke off. This time she filled the glass herself. “When I opened the door, there was blood all over the floor. He had stabbed her to death with a pair of scissors.”

“Oh, Serafine . . .” Sanne clasped a hand over her mouth. Serafine stared into space. Her wistful expression had not changed.

“He was lying naked on top of her. I watched him open his eyes and look straight at me.” Serafine paused again, scratching her scarred forearm. Sanne tried to stop her, but Serafine wiggled free and held up her arms.

“No, I want . . .” She rubbed her eyes. “Do you have any cigarettes?”

Sanne reached for her bag and found a packet of Princes. Serafine took one and lit it from the candle. Sanne picked up the pack. Her hand shook as she took out a cigarette for herself. She had so many questions, so many things she wanted to know, but first she had to let Serafine tell the story in her own time.

“I got to know Moo-genz at Margretheholm. He was nice — gave me a photograph of his daughter. He tried to help.” She sucked hard on the cigarette. “But it went . . . wrong. After my sister . . . My uncles sent me to Hamburg. Last Sunday I saw his picture in a newspaper and heard that he had become . . . What do you call it?
Bürgermeister
?”

“Mayor.”

“Exactly. I thought he might be able to help me with my . . . condition. So I came here, tracked him down, and went with him to his apartment.” The smoke seeped out of the corner of her mouth and her face disappeared in the grey fog.

Sanne tried to make sense of it all.

“Who . . .” She cleared her throat. “Are you telling me that the same man killed Mogens
and
your sister? Can you describe him? Would you be able to recognize him?”

“I've seen him here — with you.” Serafine's face was frozen in an expressionless mask.

There was a tiny sound from the stairwell; Serafine jumped and curled up on the chair.

“There's someone there,” she whispered. “By the door.”

Sanne turned her head and listened. A sudden draft blew out the candle flame, the wick hissing in the melted wax. They heard shouting in the street, a child crying. Music was playing. Was someone really there?

Sanne got up.

“Don't.” Serafine reached out her hand, tried to stop her, but Sanne was already in the hallway opening the door.

Darkness there and nothing more. Sanne shut the door and returned to her chair.

“There's nobody here. You can relax.” She sat down and poured more wine for both of them. “You were telling me about the killer?”

Serafine stared at her. Her fear slowly ebbed away, only to be replaced with resignation. Her black pupils looked straight through Sanne. She shrugged and stubbed out the cigarette in the remains of the lasagna on her plate.

“After I found my sister . . .” She reached out for the cigarettes, which Sanne had left on the table between them, then took Sanne's cigarette from her hand and lit her own before handing it back. “The next thing I remember is my uncles coming into our room, talking to him and helping him get dressed. Then they forced both of us to bury her outside the centre. They ordered me to hold the flashlight so they could see. While they . . .”

Sanne was quiet for a long time, breathing through the cigarette.

“They forced you to bury your own sister?”

Serafine nodded, fixing her gaze on her. Sanne extinguished her cigarette next to Serafine's.

“Can you show me where?”

58

LARS PUSHED HIS
way up the escalator to airport security, past the business people, regular tourists, and families with children on their last holiday before the melancholy of winter set in.

An officer from Copenhagen Airport Police met him just before passport control, then guided him around the line and through the shopping area's glittering mix of high street, luxury brands, and empty calories, to the airport police office by Gate C.

“They had already gone through security, but we managed to stop them at passport control.” The big airport officer was sweating in his uniform as he pushed his glasses back in place with his forefinger.

“Has he said anything?” Lars peered through the small window in the door at the couple sitting at a white, laminated square table. They looked pale and weren't talking. He had seen the man before — it was the same man Kim A had led away from the cathedral during Mogens Winther-Sørensen's funeral.

His colleague shrugged.

“The usual. He says that it must be some kind of mix-up. His wife is mostly worried that they'll miss their flight.”

“I think they can forget about that. Can I go in?”

Lars left the door open behind him. “Søren Gjerding?” The elderly man did not look up. His face was hidden in his hands and his elbows were resting on the table. The retired director of the Margretheholm Refugee Centre and former head of the Danish Red Cross's asylum section had once been an imposing man, but age and the usual physical decay had caused him to slump, as fat replaced muscle. He was wearing a short-sleeved, checked shirt and had a Skagen watch on his left wrist. A small, brown-leather bag was lying on the table in front of him. Lars guessed it contained a Canon camera more sophisticated than Søren Gjerding knew how to operate and a wallet that was probably full. The wife fiddled with her fingers and looked up hastily as Lars entered the room.

“What's the point of keeping us here? We'll miss our flight.” She got up and stood with her hand on the back of the chair, ready to leave.

“Would you please follow my colleague?” Lars gestured behind him to the airport officer filling the doorway. “I would like to speak to your husband alone.”

“Out of the question, we demand —”

“Just do as he says.” Søren Gjerding didn't look up. His wife fell silent and looked from the officer by the door to her husband. Then she pushed the chair back under the table with a slam and left.

Lars pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the former Red Cross director.

“Lars Winkler, Copenhagen Police. You look like you know why we're here.”

Søren Gjerding shook his head, but he still didn't look up.

“It's about the murder of Mogens Winther-Sørensen.”

The other man started scratching his hair in short, manic jerks. Lars took off his jacket.

“He used to work for you, at the Margretheholm Centre.”

Søren Gjerding's large and wrinkled hands fell to the table.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” For the first time, he raised his head and looked straight at Lars. His eyes were grey and watery, the bags below dragging his whole face toward his chin.

“I think you do.” Lars fiddled with the cigarette packet in his pocket. “Mogens Winther-Sørensen took leave from the city council in October 1999, just before he returned as mayor. The original plan was that he would work for the Red Cross for at least six months, but it turned out to be just one month. Why?”

Søren Gjerding shook his head, then hid his face in his hands again.

Lars produced a photograph from his inside pocket.

“I want you to look at this picture.” He raised his voice when the other man did not react. “It was taken at the Margretheholm Centre.”

Søren Gjerding removed his hands from his face and studied the photograph with a resigned expression.

“That's Mogens Winther-Sørensen and Serafine — our main witness — as a child.”

Søren Gjerding stared at the image for a long time. Then he picked it up with trembling fingers.

“It . . . I think . . .” His shoulders slumped and he dropped the photo. “It's no use. It's too late.”

“It's never too late.” Lars pushed the picture to the middle of the table and turned it toward the former centre director. “To tell the truth.”

Søren Gjerding fixed his eyes on the yellowing colour photograph and made a few false starts before he found his words.

“Mogens Winther-Sørensen started working with us as a volunteer — 1999 sounds about right.” He pulled at his cheeks. “The boy, whom you call Serafine, was known as Arbën back then. He came up here with his older sister and two uncles, Meriton and —”

“Ukë. Thanks, we know. They won't bother anyone anymore.”

Søren Gjerding gulped.

“The boy grew very fond of Mogens, and Mogens of him. Arbën's sister disappeared after Mogens had been with us about a month. Obviously we were all upset, but I think Mogens might have taken it the worst. The following day Mogens broke an inviolable rule and invited Arbën back to his apartment. Arbën told him that his uncles forced his sister to prostitute herself. After the boy returned, his uncles must have made him repeat what he told Mogens, because the next morning they were in my office, accusing Mogens of sexually abusing him.”

“And had he?”

Søren Gjerding shook his head.

“I really don't think so. It was an attempt by the uncles to protect their business. And it worked.” He closed his eyes. “You must understand the whole thing was incredibly sensitive. One word to the media, and the entire Danish Red Cross would have been dragged through the mud. Our work with refugees would have suffered. I had no choice. I suspended Mogens, and I was going to report him to the police — to you.”

“But you never did?”

“No.” His hands began to shake. “The finance minister called.”

“Ah?” Now this was getting interesting.

Søren Gjerding doodled in the dust on the table with his pinky finger.

“Well, I might as well . . . now that I've started . . .” He peered at the picture. Lars waited. Suddenly, Søren Gjerding straightened up with surprising agility. “She offered me a deal that would make me director of the asylum section of the Red Cross. It was a big move up. She also promised to secure an extra one hundred million kroner for refugee work in the next year's budget. That money was badly needed, I can assure you.” Søren Gjerding put his hand on the photo and pulled it toward him.

“In return for you forgetting all about the uncles' accusation.” Lars reached out, took the picture, and stuck it in his inside pocket. “Then what happened?”

“I was going to get the boy an appointment with a psychologist, but he disappeared that same evening, just like his sister.”

“Disappeared? Where did he go?”

“I don't know. It's normal for both children and adults to disappear from asylum centres if their application for asylum is turned down. But neither Arbën nor his sister had been refused.”

Lars drummed his fingers on the table and looked out through the small window behind Søren Gjerding. So that's what Merethe Winther-Sørensen had been trying to hide. There was no doubt the story would be toxic for her party during the election, but to go as far as sabotaging the investigation into the murder of her own son?

Outside the window, a Lufthansa aircraft taxied to the runway. Its lights reflected in the wet tarmac. It had already started to drizzle.

Lars's attention returned to the stuffy office.

“And now you're on your way to Thailand. Why now?”

Søren Gjerding looked down at the table.

“The minister . . .”

“She wanted you out of the way until the election was over? Until things had settled down?”

Søren Gjerding stared at the plane now roaring down the runway.

“She gave us money and the address of a remote farmhouse in Sweden. We weren't supposed to come back until after Christmas.”

“But you preferred Thailand. Let me guess: your wife doesn't like the cold?”

Søren Gjerding nodded. Lars got up.

“I'll get an officer to drive you to police headquarters so we can get a written statement from you. I don't think you'll be going to Phuket this year.”