Esther felt a warm discomfort sneaking up her throat and spreading over her face. She turned away from his piercing eyes and studied the decorations on the wall. Who the hell collects maimed butterflies, anyway?
“But now the trauma is catching up with you. Unprocessed emotions have a way of doing that,” Peter Demant said, putting his glasses back on. “Let’s plan a course of treatment for this fall. You’ll come in every two weeks, and we can get to the bottom of what’s holding you back.”
“Couldn’t a pill help me?” Esther held up a hand defensively. “A happy pill?”
“You mean an antidepressant?” He smiled wryly, setting his notepad down on the highly polished desk in front of the window. “Those doesn’t make people happy, only relieve the acute crisis for those suffering from depression. It’s not something I prescribe until I’ve had a chance to become familiar with a patient’s condition.”
“It’s not that I don’t want therapy. I just have…”
“No one is forcing you into anything. If you’re asking for my advice, therapy is the way forward, to begin with at any rate.” He stood up. “If you wish to continue treatment, then make an appointment in a couple of weeks, but please hurry, my appointments fill up quickly.”
Peter walked around his desk and opened the door to the waiting room. In the doorway he shook her hand.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
Esther was relegated to the smiling receptionist who sat ready, manning the credit card terminal. Esther found her wallet and entered her PIN, took her receipt, and hurried out to the gilded curlicues in the imposing stairwell.
She had been in there for forty-five minutes and ought to be furious at the sum on the receipt. Normally she would have been furious, too. Normally she would have protested to this kind of rip-off. She clenched the railing and quickly descended, eager to get out into the fresh air. Maybe this was the way forward, even though it would be a difficult, expensive endeavor. Was it just childish vanity that made her feel so exposed, almost humiliated? Because the psychiatrist was so certain of his observations, that he could pin her personality down in an instant. Because she apparently radiated gloomy self-denial.
Sankt Annæ Square greeted her with heavy clouds and puddles on its wide sidewalks. She stepped out into the wind and let the door bang shut behind her, closed her eyes for a moment, and inhaled deeply before she began walking. There was a juice bar across the square. She cut over to it and walked into the shop’s warm pink-and-black interior with its pumping bass. People sat on barstools, chatting over the loud music, as if everything was just fine. Esther got in line and watched the young men behind the bar juggling apples and winking flirtatiously at the female patrons. It looked a bit forced. Still, there was something oddly soothing about the display.
She ordered a smoothie and received a flirtatious smile back from a young man who couldn’t be more than a third of her age. His blue eyes shone with a zest for life and faith in the world. His enthusiasm was contagious. When Esther reached to get her wallet out of her purse, she realized that she was still holding the receipt from Demant’s office in her hand. Without thinking, she crumpled it up and tossed it in the cup intended for tips and cute girls’ phone numbers. Then she returned his smile.
CHAPTER 3
The Holte family’s whitewashed brick home stood in a peaceful residential neighborhood a couple of miles west of Copenhagen, amid bungalows and prewar houses with sandboxes and swing sets in their yards. Jeppe looked out the car window with a brief memory of his own former suburban Copenhagen home, which he and his ex-wife had finally sold. The lilacs, the garden shed, and the half-finished patio now belonged to new owners. He didn’t miss any of it.
At the end of a long driveway a well-built carport made of high-quality wood welcomed visitors along with pots of lavender plants and a freshly painted fence. This family clearly loved their home and spent time and energy on it. Jeppe and Detective Falck followed a stone pathway, with no moss between the stones, lined by neatly tended planting beds up to a white front door.
Under the doorbell a brassy sign read BETTINA & MICHAEL, both with the last name Holte. Jeppe rang the bell and stepped back so that he and Falck stood shoulder to shoulder when the door opened. A woman peered out at them from under a set of very long bangs, which seemed to force her red-rimmed gaze even farther down. When she saw them, she spontaneously shook her head and started crying. As if their presence made an unreal situation more real and thus more painful.
“How are you?” Jeppe began. “We’re from the Copenhagen Police, Homicide Department. We need to speak to Michael.…”
The woman turned and started walking away from the open door but only made it a few steps before it seemed to occur to her that it might be interpreted as rude. She turned around again.
“I’m sorry. Please come in. I’m Michael’s sister, Rikke. Normally visitors are asked to take their shoes off in this house, but… just wipe them off so you don’t leave tracks. Bettina…” She stopped, looked defeatedly down at the whitewashed wooden floor and then continued into a kitchen/multipurpose room that took up most of the first floor of the house. The walls were painted white with practically no adornment, the windowsills free of knickknacks, and everything looked extremely clean. This home, thought Jeppe, gave a functional but not particularly warm first impression.
The man who sat hunched over at the kitchen island in the middle of the room seemed like a direct extension of his house, graying brown hair worn combed back in a neat haircut, clean-shaven cheeks, and a discreetly woven car logo on the chest of his white shirt.
“Michael, the police are here.”
Michael Holte looked up and immediately lost some of his well-coifed sleekness. His eyes were deep-set with heavy lids and dark circles underneath, but it was hard to tell whether that was due to lack of sleep and despair or if he always looked this way. He stood up, revealing an athletic build. Michael Holte was, despite his sad eyes, a handsome man in his midfifties, more attractive, Jeppe thought cruelly, than his newly deceased wife.
“I’m Lead Investigator Jeppe Kørner and this is Detective Falck. We’re very sorry about your wife. Please know that we fully understand if this is the last thing you have the energy for right now. We just need to ask you a few questions.”
Michael Holte nodded briefly and gestured toward a white sofa set.
“Let’s sit in the living area,” Michael said. “Rikke, could you bring us something to drink?” He looked at Jeppe questioningly.
“Water is fine, thanks.”
Michael Holte fastidiously pulled up his pressed trouser legs before bending his knees and taking a seat on the sofa, stiffly upright, as if it truly wasn’t to his liking to sit on something soft. Rikke entered with a pitcher of water and glasses and sat down right next to her brother. He instinctively pulled away from her slightly. Not enough that she noticed it, but enough that Jeppe did.
“Bettina disappeared yesterday. Tell us where, when, and by whom she was last seen.”
Michael Holte took a deep breath before responding.
“Bettina goes dancing every Sunday at four p.m. at Pejsegaarden School of Dance up by Husum Square. It’s, um, jazz dance. She loves it. Yesterday she left at three thirty, on foot as usual, with an umbrella and her workout clothes. She normally gets a cup of coffee with the others afterward. I talked to the dance instructor, who said she was in a good mood when she waved goodbye to walk home in the rain. No one has seen her since then. Until…”
He looked down at the floor. Jeppe waited for a moment before continuing.
“What time did she said goodbye?”
“A few minutes before six, I think. When she wasn’t home by supper, I started to worry. She didn’t answer her phone, and none of the other students from her dance class knew anything. At nine o’clock I called the police. You know, one always thinks the worst…”
Jeppe watched as Michael Holte remembered that the worst was exactly what had happen
ed.
“Your wife worked at Herlev Hospital, is that right?” Jeppe asked.
“Yes, in the maternity ward. She was the training supervisor for the student health-care aides. Bettina has always worked with children in one capacity or another.”
“And did she like her job?”
Michael Holte tilted his head slightly from side to side in a gesture that meant neither yes nor no.
“It was not the most exciting job that Bettina’s had,” he said. “She’s worked at lots of different places, but she needed something that wasn’t too demanding. Her previous job sort of worked her half to death.”
“Did she get along with her coworkers, with her boss?”
“Absolutely, no problems there,” Michael said, and then took a sip of water. “My wife is not afraid to speak her mind, but she’s quite competent and professional. And people know where they stand with her.”
Not always a quality that makes a person popular, Jeppe thought.
“So did she have any enemies to speak of?” he asked. “Anyone she might have had a falling-out with? A former girlfriend or an ex-boyfriend?”
“Bettina and I have been together since high school.” Michael eyed him sharply. “There aren’t any ex-boyfriends.”
Jeppe nodded. “I ask because the crime has… elements that might suggest a perpetrator with some emotional involvement.”
Michael’s sister put her hands over her face and started sobbing. Her brother sent her a look of annoyance.
“Why don’t you go up to the study and get ahold of an undertaker, like we talked about?” he asked. “Please.”
She blinked indecisively beneath the heavy bangs and then got up and quickly left the living room in her stocking feet.
“It’s never good to be alone in a situation like this,” Jeppe said with an understanding smile, “even though it can be trying to have company.…”
Michael stopped him with a tired look.
Jeppe cleared his throat and continued, “What else did Bettina like to do in her free time, besides dancing?”
“You mean like hobbies?” Michael asked, seeming perplexed. “She liked gardening.…”
He paused.
“How long have you two been a couple?”
Michael’s phone vibrated on the glass table, and he glanced at the screen before declining the call.
“Bettina and I have been married for twenty-seven years. We’ve raised two children together and have been empty nesters for a while now.” He lowered his voice as if to confide something to the detectives. “The honeymoon phase was well and truly over, and we’ve had our challenges like anyone else, but we’ve chosen to face them together. We’re a good team.”
“In other words, you have no idea who would have had a motive to hurt your wife?”
“My wife…,” Michael began, and then swallowed. “In my wildest imagination, I can’t imagine it being anything other than a crazy person, a psychopath, who should be locked up.”
Jeppe decided not to comment. Victims’ families generally tipped the killer to be an unknown psychopath, even though it often turned out to be someone in the family itself.
“Where were you yesterday afternoon at four p.m.?” Jeppe asked.
There was a pause, just a brief one, before he answered, “Here. I did a little work, made dinner, waited for Bettina.”
“Can anyone confirm that?” Jeppe asked. “We need to ask, I hope you understand.”
“Unfortunately, no,” Michael said, shaking his head.
“Okay. In a case as serious as this one, we’ll need to examine some of Bettina’s belongings. We’d like to send a team out here to collect evidence and take some samples.”
Michael nodded reluctantly. What Jeppe didn’t tell him was that the forensic investigators would primarily be searching for traces of blood. He glanced at his old Omega watch, handed down from his father and now worn on his right wrist, which reliably lost a minute every day. It was 2:30 p.m.
“We would also like to borrow your wife’s computer, if that’s all right, and get her phone number, email address, and all the passwords you know. And then I’ll ask you to write a list of your wife’s friends, coworkers, boss, and family, including contact information. Falck here will give you an email address to send it to, preferably as soon as possible.”
Falck dug around in his pockets looking for a pen, and it struck Jeppe that what he was beginning to miss about Anette was all the things about her he usually found the most annoying. Right now he wouldn’t mind a partner with some energy and initiative, even if it was of the obnoxious kind.
“I’ll get her laptop for you.” Michael got on his feet. “It’s upstairs.”
He left the kitchen. Jeppe could hear him exchange a few words with his sister irritably. A moment later, he was back in the living room holding a silver-colored computer.
“Thank you. We’ll leave you in peace for now. I’m sure you have quite a few things to sort out. We’ll be in touch as soon as there are any developments in the case. Make sure to call us if you happen to think of anything that might be relevant.”
When he reached the front door, Jeppe realized that Falck had not kept up. He took a step back and saw the older detective still sitting calmly on the sofa, fiddling with the cap of his pen.
“Falck, are you coming?” Jeppe prompted.
“Yeah, sure, I’m on my way.”
Falck got up from the sofa with some difficulty, as if his round belly was pulling him down into the cushions. An investigator didn’t need to resemble a triathlete, but it’s a plus to be able to get up from the furniture while interviewing witnesses and next of kin.
When they passed Michael Holte at the door, Jeppe could smell sweat lurking beneath the man’s overpowering cologne, a pungent, panicky smell that did not match the neatly groomed man. Jeppe walked away from his firm handshake with the thought that the smell might not be the only thing Michael was trying to cover up.
* * *
THE LITTLE BREAK room next to the head nurse’s office echoed with clinking cups and hoarse laughter. Jette with the thick upper arms and ginger helmet was celebrating her birthday with cake for the staff to go with the afternoon coffee in the cardiology department’s Ward 3144, probably a cinnamon braid, judging by the smell.
Trine Bremen approached with a sense of unease. Even before she made it through the doorway, the laughter stopped, as if the other nurses could tell she was coming. She felt the heat rise up over her jaw, the mark of shame. She had stopped saying hello ages ago and didn’t say anything now, just headed straight for the vinyl-covered cupboards to get a glass. With her back to her coworkers, she quickly filled the glass, counting the seconds in her head. The conversation started up again behind her, but forced now, chitchat about weather and traffic. She knew quite well what they said about her when she wasn’t there. She also knew who had started the rumors, that it was Jette who was making up stories. Because she envied her skill and youth, more likely than not.
Trine turned off the tap and left the break room with her head held high. They wouldn’t get her down, not now, not ever. She hurried down the hallway with the glass in her hand.
What had she expected? That they would suddenly offer her coffee and welcome her smilingly in their midst?
It was no different from how it had been in school, at the rec center, or at the vocational school. Always the same development. It usually started with cheerful, welcoming faces. But gradually the eyes hardened with doubt, distance, and finally scorn. The more she talked and tried to gain allies, the more she pushed people away. As if her eagerness and enthusiasm just made things worse.
Trine found a chair in an empty patient’s room. As she sat, her cup of water sloshed, spilling onto her white leather shoes. She looked at the puddle of water between her feet and wiped her eyes with her free hand. Crying didn’t help anything. She ran into the same problem again and again and knew perfectly well why.
Her diagnosis: borderline per
sonality disorder. What good did it do to be intelligent and skillful when people around you only saw what was different and wrong?
Thank God for Klaus! She had met him one night when she had tagged along with the study group to an Irish pub just to stand by the bar alone feeling foolish. Klaus had been standing next to her. He was a few years older than her, bald and a little fat, but he saw past her awkwardness and liked the sensitive, earnest girl within. He didn’t mind her quirks and her talkativeness; it seemed as if he enjoyed not having to say so much himself. And he tolerated her mood swings. They had quickly become a couple, and Trine hadn’t waited long before she made it clear to him that she wanted marriage and kids.
A month later they married. Not the big princess wedding of Trine’s dreams, but still long before any of her classmates.
“Hey, could I see you in room sixteen?”
Trine looked up into Chief Physician Dyring’s kind brown eyes. He was an elderly man but always warm and charming with both patients and coworkers. Kept the mood up, even when they were understaffed and busy. The doctors were generally immune to the nurses’ gossip, at least they never seemed to take notice. Professionalism was what counted to them, not whether or not one could be bothered to listen to coworkers’ boring vacation stories.
“Of course, I’m coming.” Trine set down her glass, got up, and followed the chief physician. “I’m actually not even on break now. I just needed to sit for a minute and rest my feet. It’s been a hard shift, it seems like. I don’t know if there’s something in the water, or what’s up, but the patients sure are ornery today.…”
Dr. Dyring nodded absentmindedly and led the way into a room, where a female patient had been admitted the day before for observation for an aortic dissection. She was heavyset with short hair and not particularly old, only about sixty-five. And she seemed less than satisfied with having to lie there and wait.
“Vibeke is getting a CT scan later today if the scanner is available. We need to check if the dissection is stable or if it is spreading. I’ve also ordered an EKG so we can see if her heart is pumping properly,” Dr. Dyring said, putting his hand on the patient’s shoulder and giving it a friendly pat. “Isn’t that right, Vibeke?”
The Butterfly House Page 4
