The Butterfly House

by Katrine Engberg

  She had been too open about her own medical history of borderline personality disorder and the antianxiety drugs she took. Naively she had thought it would have a disarming effect and build trust, but it had had the opposite effect. They had used her weakness against her and attacked her with the very weapon she had put in their hands.

  She reached the block of modern luxury apartments on Holmen and looked up at the windows of the topmost unit. The lights were on. A police car was parked right in front of the entrance with two cops in it; they must be keeping an eye on him. Trine smiled to herself and started to make her way around the building across the sodden lawn. As long as she kept her distance, she would be invisible in the dark.

  When she reached the far side of the property, she walked down the narrow dock along the water to the back door of the building. It was rarely locked. She tried it and felt it open with a cute little creak, letting her into the dark vestibule where a staircase led up to the roof unimpeded. She walked past the light switches and started climbing in darkness.

  Through the glass facade she could see glimpses of light, reflecting on the coal-black water. There was something naughty about sneaking past the police. Unannounced. A wave of excitement washed over her, and for a moment she forgot the dreary mood that had brought her out there to begin with. She squeezed the little box in her pocket between sweaty palms.

  She wondered if he could sense her coming. Did he have any idea what was coming?

  * * *

  PETER DEMANT PRICKED up his ears. Was someone at the door? That couldn’t be. He had been standing in his dark library for the last ten or fifteen minutes looking at the police car in front of his building. No one had gotten out of the car, no one had passed it to go in the front door, no one had buzzed. Of course it could be a neighbor, but in the five years Peter had lived here, he had never yet had a neighbor knock on his door. And it was after 10:00 p.m.

  There was another knock, this time there was no mistaking it. Only one person in his life was in the habit of stopping by unannounced, and he had no wish to see her. He took a couple of quiet steps and stopped.

  Maybe she would ultimately go away again. Ugh, but then the calls would start, and they would keep coming late into the night and in the morning, too, until she eventually turned up in the clinic.

  Peter looked through the peephole and reluctantly unlocked the door. There she was, dripping with rain, wrapped in a long, black trench coat worthy of a movie diva.

  “Hi, Trine. How did you get in the front door?”

  She smiled secretively and streaked past him into the apartment without taking off her shoes. Peter felt nauseated by the wet footprints she left on his hardwood floor, but didn’t say anything.

  “It’s late. What can I do for you?”

  Trine sat down on the ottoman that went with his white leather Eames chair and crossed her legs without taking off her coat. He regarded her with growing loathing. Her doughy, scarred face, which she believed could be made attractive by caking it in powder and rouge, that sly look that exposed her enormous, bloated overestimation of her own intellect, and that plump body in cheap clothes, which was occupying his furniture right now. She reminded him of that night at Butterfly House when Bettina Holte had made a pass at him. Stinking of sour wine, too drunk to know her own limits, she had offered herself up. The memory of that night still revolted him.

  Peter looked at Trine and thought—not for the first time—that it would be a relief if she ceased to exist.

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 12

  CHAPTER 17

  If you have trouble sleeping at night for more than four weeks, you might have chronic insomnia, unless a baby or a new lover is keeping you awake, of course. For those who lie awake for no reason, sleeplessness is often related to:

  Stress.

  Unhealthy lifestyle factors (including smoking).

  Poor sleep hygiene (an uncomfortable guest bed in your mother’s apartment, for example).

  Mental illness.

  Thursday morning at eight, when Jeppe sat in his office at police headquarters, he was inclined to check all the boxes on the list, including the last one. If you don’t have a mental illness to begin with, not sleeping at night will eventually give you one. That feeling of being chronically drunk, motion sick, and jet-lagged increased for every sleepless night that passed, even if one of the reasons for the fatigue was all his enjoyable nighttime messing around with Sara.

  Jeppe felt sick.

  Right now his coffee cup swam around in his field of vision on the table in front of him like some kind of malignant perpetual-motion machine. He wasn’t sure if he had met his mother last night when he got up to pee. Had she actually been standing in the hallway in the dark, looking confused? And had he walked her back to bed again, or was it just something he had dreamed during one of the night’s fleeting bubbles of sleep?

  Jeppe knew that the feeling would soon recede for the day. As he consumed coffee and breakfast and interacted with other humans, he would slowly but surely begin to feel normal again. Tired but functional, until tonight when it would start all over. He looked at the Klimt poster’s hollow-eyed skeletons and decided to hang up something else instead as soon as he had the energy.

  A glance at his watch revealed that Peter Demant was late. He didn’t really strike Jeppe as the type to not be punctual. On the contrary, he gave off the almost rigid vibe of someone who was in superhuman control, a man who oozed a professional courtesy that seemed precisely dosed and calculated.

  A crackling sound made Jeppe look up.

  Falck stood in his doorway, eating a Danish out of a paper bakery bag. Today he was wearing suspenders with red and green cars on them, a piece of icing balancing on his mustache.

  “Well…?” Falck said.

  Just that, a well expressed as a question, followed by vigorous munching. Jeppe felt his latent irritation spring to life, sending snide remarks thronging to his mouth.

  “Well, what? What’s the question, Falck? Well, how did you sleep last night? or maybe Well, did they find another body this morning? or what about Well, how did it go with Peter Demant? Did he leave already? To which I would respond that I didn’t sleep well at all, no new victims have been found, and Demant seems to be blowing me off. Any other questions?”

  Falck seemed immune to Jeppe’s grumpy mood. He made himself comfortable in Anette’s chair across the desk from Jeppe.

  “Would you like a Halloween bun? They’re shaped like little pumpkins, see?”

  No, thought Jeppe. I want a murderer locked up, a good night’s sleep, and a girlfriend I don’t have to be unsure about.

  “Why not.”

  Jeppe let hunger win over his germophobia, and they sat chewing in silence until Falck cleared his throat.

  “Do you know where ghosts go when they’re on vacation?” Falck asked.

  Jeppe swallowed a mouthful of his pastry and thought that wherever it was, he wished Falck would go there with them.

  “To the Dead Sea.”

  “Har,” Jeppe grunted.

  At nine o’clock, he brushed the crumbs off his fingers and called Peter Demant. It went straight to voice mail. Jeppe already knew that he wasn’t going to bring Pernille Ramsgaard’s files over. Still, he called Demant’s clinic as well, where a friendly answering machine informed him that the clinic didn’t open again till Thursday next week.

  “Do you think he’s run off?” Falck asked, crumpling up the bakery bag. He still had icing in his mustache.

  “Either that or he’s lying in a fountain somewhere in town and just hasn’t been found yet. There’s no telling anymore.”

  “We do have a patrol car sitting outside his front door.” Falck nodded pensively. “For protection.” He put air quotes around the last part to show it might have more to do with surveillance than protection.

  “Will you find out who’s on duty and call them?”

  Falck got up with a pained grunt and left the office. In the silence of his abs
ence, Jeppe tried to empty his brain of all the jumbled thoughts so that he could focus and let the relevant emerge by itself. A revelation was what he was waiting for.

  He closed his eyes and calmed his breathing, relaxed his body, and tried to let go of his irritability. Tried to shake the feeling that he was chasing after a beam of light that was nothing but a flicker.

  Gaslights.

  A glimpse of something.

  Then came the image.

  There was no thought process or explanation, but it was unambiguous. The image that popped into Jeppe’s head was Pernille Ramsgaard’s face from the portrait in her parents’ house, standing between her siblings, pale with big eyes and a brave smile.

  Jeppe opened his eyes. Falck had returned and was standing next to the desk, looking embarrassed, as if he felt self-conscious in the presence of Jeppe’s meditations. Falck coughed into his hand and then mumbled in his teddy bear voice.

  “The patrol car has been sitting outside Demant’s building all night and no one has been seen coming or going. The light in Demant’s flat was turned off at eleven thirty p.m., so they assumed he went to bed. But they actually rang his bell a little while ago because they were wondering why he hadn’t gone to work this morning. No response. His car is still parked in front, but there’s a rear exit that leads directly out to the water.”

  “So he sailed away by boat? Is that what you’re saying?” Jeppe shook his head. “First Isak Brügger runs off, and now Demant has disappeared? And we still haven’t spoken to Marie Birch.”

  “Yes, that is unfortunate.”

  Three killed, three disappeared, one murderer still on the loose. Unfortunate seemed like a relatively inadequate word for the situation.

  Jeppe got up. What good did it do to sit there and send prayers to the universe while waiting for the next disaster, whether it be in the form of another corpse or a scolding from his superiors.

  “Come on, Falck. Let’s go for a ride.”

  “Okay. Where to?” Falck picked up his raincoat from the desk chair, where it had hung, dripping.

  “Out to Fredens Havn to visit Marie Birch. We may risk scaring her away, but we’ve got to do something.”

  The short trip from police headquarters to Erdkehlgraven passed in silence. Falck didn’t ask how Jeppe knew where Marie Birch was living. He just sat behind the wheel and concentrated on the roadway. Jeppe looked out the window and let the pace of the hectic morning commuter traffic turn into a pulse of its own. At Refshalevej they parked by the water and got out of the car, looking over at the ramshackle floating squatters’ homes hidden behind the trees.

  Across the water, the rebuilt boathouses at Holmen were visible and off to the left, the modern condos where Peter Demant lived. A stone’s throw from the bank groups of pontoons, boats, and shacks floated in the calm water. Jeppe recognized the camper Anette had described.

  They approached the water’s edge, where two men were standing by a dinghy, talking in hushed tones. When they spotted Jeppe and Falck, they stopped and glared at them. Jeppe walked over.

  “Good morning, we’re with the Copenhagen Police. We’re looking for a young woman, who apparently lives here, Marie Birch.”

  The two men exchanged looks.

  “She’s a suspect in a murder case. Withholding information about her location is a punishable offence.”

  “You’re too late,” one of the men drawled. His long hair was gathered in a ponytail and he was wearing a heavy sweater that seemed to greedily suck the moisture right out of the air. “Marie lived in my camper, but she’s left.”

  The Count, presumably.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. In the afternoon, right? She had packed her bag and all when she came to say goodbye.”

  “She didn’t happen to mention where she was going?” Jeppe asked. “Do you know her family, friends? Anywhere where she might have gone?”

  The Count shook his head. Jeppe had a hunch that he wouldn’t tell them anything even if he did know.

  “If she turns up again, please have her contact us right away.” He handed the man his card.

  The Count took it with a slight smile that clearly said Nope.

  Jeppe and Falck trudged back to the car and got in. The two men remained on the shore, staring at them openly.

  Jeppe found his cigarettes in a pocket and shook one out. One raised eyebrow from Falck made him put them away again with a resigned sigh. Another dead end. The car fell quiet and Jeppe sensed his colleague’s gaze on his cheek.

  “Well, damn it, let’s swing by Bispebjerg Hospital then. You know who we need to talk to. If Isak Brügger has in fact run away and gone back to the hospital before, maybe he’ll do it again.”

  * * *

  ON THURSDAY MORNING Esther found a totally transformed Gregers at the hospital. Even in the hallway she could hear cheerful voices from inside his room, and when she opened the door it revealed the unexpected sight of a grinning Gregers chatting with the patient next to him. He was sitting up in bed, some color in his cheeks.

  “Here she is, my young roommate! Esther, come, you have to meet John!” Gregers cocked a thumb at the patient in the bed next to his, who was smiling, his frameless glasses gleaming. “Imagine, it turns out that John used to be a typesetter at Berlingske. Can you believe it?”

  Gregers himself had worked as a printer for the newspaper Politiken his whole life.

  “And now here we are, two old newsprint typographers, in the same room. Isn’t that funny?”

  Esther went over to the other bed and introduced herself, slightly embarrassed to be fully dressed in the presence of a man in a hospital gown, his skinny asparagus legs poking out.

  John’s handshake was firm and warm, and she irrationally thought to herself that he didn’t look especially sick, although neither did Gregers, she supposed. She pulled over a chair and took off her coat.

  “You look like you slept well, Gregers?”

  “Like a kitten!”

  She laughed in spite of her own so-so mood. Alain hadn’t called since he waltzed out her door with a thousand kroner yesterday, and the uncertainty was starting to bother her. Seeing Gregers happy helped, even if it took some getting used to.

  “Did you get the results from your scintigraphy exam?”

  “They just did their rounds a little while ago.” Gregers winked playfully. “It’s an open-and-shut case. Balloon expansions in three arteries and then that ought to do me for another ten years, at least. They’ll operate on Monday.”

  “That’s great news!” Esther gave his hand a squeeze. “Congratulations, my friend.”

  “If everything goes well, I can go home the same day. They don’t even need to put me under or anything. They can do the whole thing with a catheter from my groin.” Gregers smiled, relieved. “In a week, I’ll be fetching us bread in the mornings again. You’ll see. Then everything will be back to normal.”

  Esther smiled warmly to her friend, although she morosely suspected that for her things would not be normal for a long time.

  “That’s wonderful, Gregers. Maybe you’ll feel less tired. I’ll come on Monday and keep you company after the operation. And make sure you make it home all right.”

  “It’s not a given that he is going to want to leave, what with all the cute girls we have here in the department,” John said with a chuckle. “You never get too old to appreciate—”

  The door to the room banged open, effectively breaking the cheerful mood. A nurse with long, pinkish hair came in. Esther recognized her as Trine.

  “Breakfast time. Cheese or sausage?” she asked, casting a sideways glance at Esther. “Your lady friend can’t have any.”

  “Oh, that’s fine.” Esther flashed her a disarming smile. “I just had breakfast.”

  “So what is it? Cheese or sausage?”

  Gregers lifted a finger and asked, “I would just like to be permitted to graciously inquire if this was made by the same cook who prepared that damned overcooked
chicken breast without any salt or pepper that you tried to stuff down our throats for dinner yesterday? Because then I’m just having coffee, thanks.”

  “Ditto!” John agreed with a snicker.

  The nurse eyed them with a perfectly straight face. Disappointment emanated off her, so thick you could have sliced it and served that for breakfast instead. After a very long moment she lifted her chin defiantly and slammed two foil-covered trays down on their bedside tables.

  “If you knew how worn-out we are and how much pressure we’re under you wouldn’t make fun at our expense. Enjoy!”

  The nurse left the room without looking back.

  “Was I too harsh?” For once, Gregers sounded like he honestly wasn’t sure.

  “She’s just having a bad day, Gregers. Don’t worry about it,” Esther said, standing up. “Now I’ll leave you gentlemen to enjoy your meal. I have to get home and walk the dogs anyway.”

  “Oh, good, then John and I can talk about guy stuff.” Gregers winked at his neighbor. “You know, Esther, I remembered where I’ve seen that peacock before.”

  “Um, you’ll have to be a little more specific,” Esther said as she did up her coat. “Which peacock? I mean, you see them all the time.”

  “The new downstairs neighbor. The guy who was up begging for food when I got sick.”

  Alain! She blushed unwillingly.

  “He worked in the kitchen at that restaurant, well, it’s more of a fast-food place, really. The one on Nørrebrogade.” Gregers started peeling the aluminum foil off his food. “Ew, is that salami? It’s practically fluorescent.”

  “What are you talking about?” Esther asked. “Alain’s a musician.”

  “That may well be, but six months ago, he was cooking french fries on Nørrebrogade,” Gregers said, taking a tentative bite of the roll. “I never forget a face. John, what the hell are those little hard things? Radishes or something?”