The Scream of the Butterfly (27 page)

62

LARS TURNED THE
corner, joined Luftmarinegade, pulled up next to Sanne's Fiat 500, and turned off the engine.

He had decided against going to
Ekstra Bladet
's editorial office. Instead, he had met with Sandra Kørner in the 7-Eleven on the corner of Rådhuspladsen and Strøget, where he gave her a copy of the photograph of Mogens Winther-Sørensen with Serafine as a child, along with a brief outline of the story — including the most recent information from Søren Gjerding.

“This is a game changer, especially before the election.” Sandra Kørner's eyes sparkled. “It makes me wonder if there's anything I can do for you in return.”

“Just make sure it gets published. As long as you keep my name out of it, I'll be happy.”

He got out of the car at Margretheholm and listened. It was so close to the city, and yet so very quiet. A black border hung in the night sky to the south, probably the cloudburst they had been predicting all day. He shuddered in the wind and pulled up his collar. Where were Sanne and Serafine? He scanned the area. It looked the part exactly — an abandoned ruin. Garbage and weeds fought for open space. High above and behind the old naval base, red lights flashed on the chimneys of Lynetten. He stepped over a partly burnt running shoe, then froze.

Sounds of quick footsteps and strangled shouting were coming from inside the building. Then he heard a crash and a howl of pain. Lars set off, running toward the door at the end of the building. He pulled at it, but it refused to open.

“Sanne!” he screamed, rattling the door. A faint whimper was coming from inside the building.

63

W
HAT'S KEEPING HIM?
The stocky figure blurs, disappearing into the darkness. Further away, her flashlight has started flickering irregularly in the corridor. Then she realizes why it's taking him so long to climb over the boxes: the pepper spray. She dropped it on the floor at the far end of the hallway.

“Who are you?” she whispers.

But there is no reply. Then the massive dark shape looms right in front of her, his knife pointing straight ahead. He is holding the shiny black cylinder with a firm grip in his other hand. Sanne lashes out at him, hitting something soft and squishy. He winces, aims at her face, and presses the button.

The muscles around her eyes go into spasms. She is blinded; her entire face burns. Now she knows how Lars must have felt when he and his punk friends were tear-gassed in the 1980s.
My eyes
, a voice screams inside her.
I'm blind
. She tries rubbing away the pepper spray, but it only exacerbates the pain. Then she is pushed aside. She falls into the corridor, rolling in the contents of the fallen cardboard boxes: glass, clothing, and plates are crushed underneath her. His heavy body smashes into the door frame, straightens up, and disappears inside the small room.

Run, Serafine
, the voice inside her yells. But the satisfied grunt and the scream coming from the room indicate that Serafine has not escaped. And where would she go? They are trapped in here.

The scream rises and changes pitch. The vile, wet sound of a knife penetrating flesh. Serafine's death cries fly out into the hallway, mixing with her own. The door to freedom rattles in its frame, and a familiar voice calls out from another world:

“Sanne!”

But it is too late. It's all too late.

OCTOBER 1999

A VEIL OF
fog engulfs the street lamps on Amicisvej. Mogens forces himself to walk up the four steps to the front door and rings the bell, shuddering. When Merethe calls, you obey.

It is cold, almost midnight. He is hungry. And yet, he has not been able to eat since this morning. Kirsten threw him out of her office; then she grabbed Sarah from preschool and drove to Hornbæk.

Despite the cold, he is sweating. He looks around, half-expecting to see TV cameras, microphones, and a furious mob.

He hears footsteps from inside. A silhouette appears behind the yellow glass in the heavy oak door.

Arne doesn't look at him when he opens the door, nor does he say anything. He just steps aside to let him pass.

“Hello Dad.” There is no reply. The conversation they had at Margretheholm was less than three weeks ago, but Mogens doesn't bring it up. He just follows Arne into the drawing room.

“There you are, my boy.” Merethe doesn't look at him either as she gets up from the sofa. Newspaper sections spill out of
Berlingske Tidende
, flopping onto the floor. A section ironically titled “Free” catches his eye. She air-kisses his cheek. Then she sits down again. It's not as obvious as with Arne, but it's there — the distance.

“I'm sorry.” The words fly out of his mouth before he has time to think, but it's too late. They have already accepted Søren's version of events. They won't listen to him — not anymore.

“Now let's see how we can get you out of this mess you've got yourself into.” Merethe brushes a crumb from the coffee table. “How is Kirsten dealing with it?”

Mogens sits down in the armchair opposite her.

“She's totally behind me, obviously — one hundred percent.” It's not until now that he realizes: he is utterly alone.

“Of course, of course. I was just thinking . . . Never mind.”

Arne has sat down behind them with his jigsaw puzzle.

“That kind of thing never used to interest him, but he has been busy with it all day, ever since . . .” Merethe raises her eyebrows. “Six thousand pieces.”

The lid of the jigsaw puzzle is filled with an image of a benign God reaching out toward Adam, surrounded by a myriad of naked children. Arne turns and follows his gaze. Then he takes the lid and places it picture side down.

Mogens slumps, gripping the armrest.

“I don't know what you've heard, but —”

Merethe's gaze loses its focus and becomes steely. Her mouth is a line in her chiselled features.

“I'm not interested in your excuses.”

“But I didn't do the things they say I did.” Mogens wrings his hands. “You must —”

“I just told you I'm not interested. What you have done . . .” Her eyebrows arch independently of each other. “There is no . . .” Her voice cools. “I want you to know that what I'm about to do is for the sake of the family.”

A drunk staggers by on Amicisvej heading for Frederiksberg Allé, singing
“Erase/Rewind” by The Cardigans at the top of his lungs. Merethe continues.

“I have spent all day in a meeting at the Town Hall with the Socialist People's Party and the Conservatives. Both parties are willing to break their coalition with the Social Democrats if you” — she points a finger at him — “return to local politics. Mogens, they'll make you mayor.”

“Mother, we agreed —”

“Be quiet. You know perfectly well what this means for the party, both locally and nationally. You're a Winther-Sørensen, so help me God. And we respond when duty calls.”

“But that would be the same as admitting the accusations are true.” He rubs his temple. Everything is spinning; he feels nauseous and afraid. On the other side of the table his mother seems to expand and become two people.

The two Merethes get up.

“Let me make this quite clear: you will not get another chance. Either you leave here as mayor, or there's nothing more I can do for you.”

They hear a crash from the other table. The jigsaw pieces rain down on the carpet.

Arne runs up the stairs, knocking over his chair on the way. Mogens half gets up, staring after him.

“Look at me. Look at me, I said.” Merethe slaps him hard across the face. He blinks and touches his cheek. The skin burns under his hand. Just when he thought he was free and had finally escaped the suffocating embrace of his family.

“I . . .” He can't talk. He just shakes his head.

Merethe says nothing. She bends down over the sofa, picks up the newspaper, and unfolds it. There is no picture, only a tabloid headline in a fat font that fills the whole front page.

100
YEARS OF SOCIAL DEMOCRATIC RULE OF COPENHAGEN HAS ENDED

MOGENS WINTHER-SØRENSEN IS THE NEW RADICAL MAYOR

Mogens has to read the words three times before the full impact dawns on him. Then he collapses on the sofa and buries his face in his hands.

64

“
S
O HE FLED
when you arrived?” Allan was sitting on the other side of the table, reviewing his notes inside the well-lit mobile police unit.

Lars squashed his umpteenth cigarette in the ashtray, nodding. The area around the unit was teeming with police officers and curious onlookers from the terraced houses on Luftmarinegade. The first press photographers had already arrived.

Sanne and Serafine had been taken to Rigshospitalet — Sanne with a broken shoulder and temporary eye injuries. The attacker had used her own pepper spray against her. Serafine's condition was more serious: a deep stab wound to her left shoulder. She had lost a lot of blood. Bint believed the attacker had aimed for her heart, but she had managed to turn just in time. The act had saved her life.

Lars rubbed his face. He was tired. He hadn't slept properly since . . . well, since when, really?

“What are you doing here?” The voice rang out through the mobile unit. “I thought you had been suspended.” Lisa was standing at the door, one foot placed inside.

Allan looked over his shoulder.

“Ulrik called. Staff shortage.” He tried to placate her: “Have the dogs found anything?”

Lisa hesitated.

“They lost the scent somewhere along the embankment.” She entered the mobile unit. “It looks like he ran through Christiania, and on through the community gardens. He's probably hiding in one of the sheds along Forlandet.”

But Lars didn't think so. They were too late. He had gotten away.

“Allan leaked the pedophile story to
Ekstra Bladet
.” Lisa folded her arms across her chest.

“All I did was confirm it. She already knew everything.” Allan slammed his notebook shut. “But if that's how it's going to be . . .” He stormed out.

“Well, what did he expect?” Lisa sat down in the seat Allan had left. “ Low-life snitch.”

Lars held up his hand to stop her.

“Not now, please? It's for Ulrik to deal with.”

“Sorry.” Lisa sat down. “I'm guessing you want to go home now?”

Did he?

“Have the technicians finished inside?”

“Don't you think it's best that you let the rest of us handle it? You look exhausted.”

“I'll just take a peek. Then I promise I'll go home.”

“Okay. In the meantime I'll find someone who can drive you.”

Lars walked across a small patch of grass and through the door at the end of the dilapidated building.

He had managed to remove the chain locking the door immediately after hearing the heartbreaking cry and the terrible moaning coming from inside. But the assailant had gotten away. Lars had found Sanne lying on a pile of crumpled cardboard boxes and old household items, screaming. Serafine was in a pool of blood on a bed. Her breathing was very faint, and blood was spurting from a stab wound to her shoulder, pouring along her arm and onto the floor. He had made a simple pressure bandage from his shirt before dialling 112. The dog handler had arrived a minute later, and helped him administer first aid.

Now the technicians were busy setting up generators and lamps. It was still fairly dark inside the building, but a single lamp shone just outside the room where he had found Serafine. It looked like something out of a war zone: upturned tables; a candle that had burned down to a black spot on the linoleum floor among all the red; blood spatters on the walls; books, papers, and clothing scattered all over. Serafine's blood had smeared when the paramedics took her away, and the red had turned into a viscous brown gloop.

Something was bothering him — something that didn't add up. He pressed the tips of his fingers against his closed eyelids and tried to work out what it was: the investigation, the murder of Mogens Winther-Sørensen, the initial, futile interview with Serafine in the victim's apartment.

“Lars?”

He turned around. Kim A was standing at the door.

“What happened?”

“Sanne and the witness to the murder of Mogens Winther-Sørensen were attacked. Fortunately, it looks like they'll both make it.” Lars gave him a tired nod. “You're contaminating the crime scene. Go find the technicians and get yourself a face mask and some coveralls.”

“What about you?” Kim A looked him up and down.

“I found them and scared off the attacker. My DNA is already all over the place.”

Kim A dismissed his concerns. “Ah, well. They already have my profile. It's not the first time I've been at a crime scene, after all. It'll take less than five minutes to eliminate me.”

Lars gave up. Kim A would have to take it up with Frelsén and Bint in due course.

“What are you doing here?”

Kim A stood next to him and studied the pool of blood. Then he walked across the room and stopped by the window, which was swinging open on its hinges: the attacker's escape route.

“The minister . . . you know.” He flapped a hand over his shoulder. “I'm keeping her informed.” Kim A let the sentence linger in the stagnant air. “He bled like a pig, the tranny, eh? What a mess.”

Lars stared into space. It kept eluding him. He knew he almost had it. If only —

“What do think you're doing here?” Frelsén's fierce voice boomed from the door. “Get out of my crime scene.”

They drove through the city from Margretheholm to Folmer Bendtsens Plads in total silence. Neither Lars nor the officer who drove him said one word. He was dropped off outside the Ring Café and was briefly tempted to pop inside the corner store to buy a bottle of what they claimed was red wine, but decided against it. He said goodbye, thanking the officer, picked up his bag, unlocked the front door, and entered the stairwell. He would have to go back for his own car tomorrow.

The apartment looked like it always did. Lars put his bag in the hallway, went into the living room, and opened the door to the balcony. The place needed to be aired out. He knew he should take the garbage down as well, but he was distracted by a crumpled packet of King's Blue on the shelf above the fridge. There were a few left. The pack he had opened only a couple of hours ago outside the SAS Hotel was already empty.

He flopped down on the sofa, swung his leg up over the armrest, and lit a cigarette while he looked around for an ashtray. An S-train approached on the overhead railway outside: they had been fitted with silencers and sounded like a whisper in the night, not like the noisy hell they used to be. The cigarette smoke wafted up to the nicotine-stained ceiling. He wondered how Sanne was doing.

He took out his phone and was connected to Rigshospitalet's switchboard.

“Lars Winkler, Copenhagen Police. One of my colleagues was admitted earlier tonight with a broken shoulder and eye injuries from pepper spray. Her name is Sanne Bissen. How is she doing? Is she still at the trauma centre?”

The duty receptionist at the other end mumbled something to herself.

“Sanne Bissen, did you say?” The sound of typing on the keyboard came through the phone. “I can't tell you where she is. I've just been rebuked for giving that information to one of your colleagues.”

Lars sat upright.

“Someone else called to ask about her?”

“Her and the other one, the transvestite.”

A tiny twitch began by his right eyelid. It continued, refusing to go away. Which one of his colleagues would have rung to ask after Sanne
and
Serafine?

“Did you get their name?” He got up and chucked the cigarette out onto the balcony.

“I'm sorry, I didn't. Listen. I'm afraid that —”

“She — they mustn't be left alone, do you hear? Neither of them.”

Lars hung up. Then he called the duty office at police headquarters while he stepped into his heavily worn Converse.

“Dispatch a car to the trauma centre at Rigshospitalet. Sanne Bissen and the witness from the Winther-Sørensen killing need protection immediately. And I need a second car to number two, Folmer Bendtsens Plads. Now!”

He ran to his bedroom, found the small steel-and-plastic suitcase, and fumbled with the key until he managed to insert it into the lock. The suitcase was intended for the storage of his service weapon, but it also contained extra ammunition. Lars found his Heckler & Koch in the case and removed the magazine. It was full. He slammed it back into the gun butt, took an extra magazine from the suitcase, and put it in his pocket. He tucked the gun into his belt at the back, put on his jacket, and ran down the stairs.

It started pouring the minute he spotted the patrol car coming up Lundtoftegade. He was soaked to the bone before it had driven the last twenty-five metres.

He tore open the door and flung himself onto the back seat.

“Rigshospitalet — the trauma centre. And we're blue-lighting it.”