They hadn’t been able to reach the victim’s wife, Kirsten Winther-Sørensen. Papers found in the apartment indicated that the family owned a holiday home in Hornbæk, but also that the dead man’s mother, Merethe Winther-Sørensen, lived in a house on Amicisvej, not far from where they were now. Breaking the sad news to the family was their immediate priority, although Kim A had probably already done that. And the post-mortem awaited them first thing tomorrow morning.
Lars took a deep breath and arched his back. The air was moist and cold, but it felt refreshing after the nauseating smell of blood and perfume in the apartment above.
Sanne’s wispy hair had grown since the summer. He wanted to reach out and run his fingers through it. At that moment, the light from a street lamp fell across her face and he took a step back.
“What’s wrong?”
Sanne gestured. A figure had moved out from the shadows under the lime trees.
“Sanne? Lars?”
“Ulrik?” Lars started buttoning his coat. Sanne said nothing, taking out her car keys.
“Horrible business.” Chief Inspector Ulrik Sommer nodded up toward the second-floor windows. “And for this to happen now. We can’t afford to put a foot wrong.”
Lars thrust his hands into his pockets. Since when had that ever been an option?
“I’ve briefed the justice minister, who will be calling the prime minister, but I insisted that we would inform the victim’s mother in person.”
“That’s actually where we’re going now.”
“Right . . . I thought I might come with you.”
A taxi raced past them in the street, going well above the fifty kilometre per hour speed limit.
Sanne concentrated on her driving. Lars sat in the back, gazing up at the roof of the small Fiat 500. The lights on the dashboard made Ulrik, in the front seat, appear even more gaunt than he really was; his skin looked grey, sunken, and drawn. The chief inspector ran his hand across his face.
“Merethe Winther-Sørensen has been the leader of the Radical Party for more than twenty years, and served as a minister in several governments. Mogens has been lined up to take over from her since the end of the last century. As far as the party is concerned, he has chosen a very unfortunate time to get himself killed.”
“You’re referring to the general election, aren’t you?”
Ulrik nodded.
“No one knows what this will mean for the election campaign. Whatever happens, Merethe Winther-Sørensen has more than one reason to mourn her son’s death, so show some discretion. Both of you.”
Sanne turned onto Amicisvej. The light was on behind the ground-floor windows of number 17.
“Our friends from the media have already been kind enough to call her.” Ulrik got out. Lars and Sanne followed him.
“It could have been Kim A,” Sanne said, locking the car. “He turned up at the crime scene and talked to Lars.”
Ulrik looked at him, and Lars nodded. Some way down Amicisvej, a man was leaning against a car, watching them. Kim A, perhaps.
It was Merethe Winther-Sørensen herself who opened the door to let them in. There was no need for them to say anything. Her eyes were milky and she was blinking constantly. Her white curls were a veil of candy floss around her small head.
“Please, come in.” The finance minister led the way through the hall and down a passage. Her lavender jacket and skirt were ill suited to her short, broad body.
A small, desiccated man was sitting at a circular table in an overfunished drawing room, the pieces of a huge jigsaw puzzle spread out before him. He didn’t look up when they entered, but kept his eyes on the piece in his hand, turning it over and over, trying to make it fit.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your son.” Ulrik stopped in front of Mogens Winther-Sørensen’s father, who looked up, squinting against the light.
“I don’t have a son.” Then he turned his attention back to his puzzle piece.
Ulrik looked briefly at Lars and Sanne. Merethe Winther-Sørensen pulled out an armchair.
“My husband always does puzzles when he’s upset.” She took a seat, leaving them the gaudy, floral sofa.
They fell silent. A clock was ticking somewhere in the house.
“Did that prostitute kill my son?” the minister asked Ulrik.
“A witness saw the killer.” Sanne went on to explain how the perpetrator had escaped down the back stairs.
“I was woken up by a journalist from — just a moment . . .” Merethe Winther-Sørensen found a small notepad in her pocket and held up her reading glasses in front of her eyes. “Ekstra Bladet. She said it was a sex killing.”
Ulrik rubbed his forehead.
“We don’t know much yet. I’m afraid tomorrow and the next few days may well be unpleasant. Might I suggest that you turn off all your phones and let the party issue a press release?”
“Absolutely out of the question. I can’t just disappear in the middle of an election campaign!” Merethe Winther-Sørensen looked outraged. “Will you be holding a press conference? I want to take part.”
“I don’t believe that’s —”
“It’s not up for discussion. I presume you’re doing everything in your power to catch my son’s killer.”
“It’ll be detective sergeants Lars Winkler and Sanne Bissen here in charge of the investigation.” Ulrik placed a hand on Sanne’s shoulder and nodded in Lars’s direction. “Sanne?”
Sanne straightened up on the sofa.
“The whole area is currently being searched, and all of the neighbours are being interviewed. There will be a post-mortem tomorrow.”
Lars looked out of the window while Sanne spoke. The PET close-protection officer who may or may not be Kim A was still leaning against the car further down Amicisvej. Merethe Winther-Sørensen bent forward.
“About the press conference —”
Lars interrupted the minister as he continued to stare out of the window. The PET officer hadn’t moved.
“Would you happen to have a phone number for your daughter-in-law? Or your granddaughter, perhaps? We’ll need to talk to them.”
Merethe Winther-Sørensen frowned. Then she wrote down a number on her notepad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Sanne across the coffee table.
“This is the number for Sarah, my granddaughter. They’re at their holiday cottage in Hornbæk. Would you please be so kind to not call for a couple of hours? It’s probably best that I’m the one to tell them . . .” Merethe Winther-Sørensen trailed off and clasped her hand over her mouth.
“I think we had better . . .” Ulrik rose.
Merethe Winther-Sørensen got up as well.
“Yes, of course.” Her facial expression was completely composed once again. “I’ll show you out.”
Two sombre portraits of thin men with pained expressions were hanging in the hallway. A more recent painting of Merethe Winther-Sørensen in yellow and mauve shades was hanging next to them. All three were placed at eye level on the wall facing the front door.
“That’s my father, Mogens Winther-Sørensen. My son is named after him.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen pointed to the individual portraits as she spoke. “And that’s my grandfather, Holger Winther-Sørensen. And that’s me of course.” Lars was sweating. Suddenly, the hall felt oppressive.
The minister continued.
“My father served as a minister in Hilmar Baunsgaard’s government. My grandfather served under both Kampmann and Krag. I had hoped that Mogens’s portrait would hang here one day, too.” She straightened her jacket. “I expect to be informed about the press conference tomorrow morning.”
Lars watched while Ulrik shook her hand. Sanne hesitated, trying to attract his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shake the minister’s hand. Lars left without saying goodbye.
“A woman of stron
g opinions.” Sanne said, buttoning up her jacket. She stepped out into the street and unlocked her car.
“Merethe Winther-Sørensen has controlled and toppled prime ministers. You don’t want to make an enemy out of her.” Ulrik looked at Lars as he spoke. Then he got into the passenger seat.
3
AN S-TRAIN LEFT the platform. The carriages accelerated and the light from their windows flickered across the building behind him. Lars stuffed his hands in his pockets and crossed Lundtoftegade, heading for the construction site that had spread across Folmer Bendtsen Plads during the late summer. An old Opel raced past him, spraying water across the sidewalk and up the legs of his jeans. Lars swore under his breath as he jogged along the fence surrounding the site. Soon the drilling would be all day and night. In six years he might be the lucky owner of an apartment with a Metro station right on his doorstep. But would he still be living here in six years? He hoped not.
They hadn’t exchanged many words on the way back from their visit with Merethe Winther-Sørensen and her idiosyncratic husband. Sanne had dropped Lars and Ulrik on Sankt Thomas Plads before driving home. To Martin.
Lars turned the corner and reached the small passage between the construction site and the front of his apartment block. A drunk staggered out from the Ring Café just as he passed it and bumped into him.
“Hey —hey, man. Look where you’re going.” Lars caught a glimpse of bloodshot eyes, week-old stubble, and nicotine-stained fingers. A stench of beer and cigarettes briefly engulfed him before the guy moved on, stumbling around the corner toward Nørrebrogade while muttering to himself.
Once inside his second-floor apartment, Lars hung his jacket on a hanger, went to the bathroom, and washed his hands; he also splashed cold water on his face, but to no avail. The skin around his eyes was still puffy. His bones ached from fatigue and he was starving, but he had no appetite. The pennant of blood against the checkered floor cast a dark shadow over his field of vision. Coffee? No — it was almost midnight; he would never be able to sleep.
He kicked off his Converses, went into the living room, and turned on the stereo, flicking through his vinyl records until he reached Bowie’s Heroes. He put the needle on “Neuköln.” Somehow that track felt appropriate right now. He sat down on the sofa and leaned back. Bowie’s breath moaned through the saxophone while Lars lit up a Blue King’s.
What had it been like to see Sanne again? She had never responded properly to his offer of going with him to New York, and then she had suddenly left on holiday. With Martin. And now — well, now what? He studied the smoke rising toward the nicotine-stained ceiling. Someone was shouting outside. He heard a window slam shut. Best just to forget about the whole thing.
Lars got up. The dystopian romance of “Neuköln” turned into a simple exchange between congas and rhythm guitar, a pulse, a beating heart: “The Secret Life of Arabia.” He was alive!
He turned on the tap in the kitchen and flicked the ash off his cigarette in the sink while he waited for the water to turn cold. Then he filled a glass and walked back to the living room. Maria’s room yawned emptily at him. He still hadn’t grown used to her absence. How lonely could you possibly be in a two-bedroom apartment in outer Nørrebro?
Well, now he knew.
He lay down on her bed and rested the cigarette on her desk. He inhaled her scent, which still lingered on the bedspread, and stared up at the posters of young men. He had no idea who they were: singers, actors, sports stars? There was no doubt that the idea of a year of high school in New York had been a good one, both for Maria and for Caroline, her friend who had been raped last summer. They had been staying with Lars’s father in Brooklyn these past two months. Maria sounded happy whenever he spoke to her, and she talked about their classmates and the teachers at St. Ann’s School. His father had assured him that all was well and that the girls were having a whale of a time. Only it wasn’t the same as having her living here at home.
The day’s events began to seep into his thoughts. Merethe Winther-Sørensen had been scarily intent on securing a place for her son in the line of great politicians, on adding Mogens to the illustrious Winther-Sørensen family dynasty. And now his body was resting in a temperature-controlled steel drawer in the morgue on Frederiks V’s Vej in Østerbro.
Lars sighed, swung his legs over the edge of Maria’s bed, and got up. He might as well get some sleep. They weren’t going to solve the case tonight.
SEPTEMBER 1999
“YOU CAN’T DO this to me, Mogens, or to your father.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen half-rises from her armchair. Berlingske Tidende slides onto the floor, the newspaper’s sections scattering across the deep pile carpet. The front-page story about the government reshuffle, which has made her finance minister, faces upward. There is a big colour photograph of Prime Minister Poul Nyrup Rasmussen with his arms extended, the new team of ministers gathered in front of his office. His mother, sporting a silly grin, is standing right next to the prime minister.
Outside, above Amicisvej, the last bits of daylight are burning out, pulsing orange and red over the roofs of Gammel Kongevej.
Mogens rubs his palms on his pants and takes a deep breath. It’s going to be a tough evening.
“I’ve made up my mind, Mother.” He struggles to keep his voice steady.
“After all the work I’ve done for you? That your grandfather and great-grandfather have done? Does none of that matter?” Merethe Winther-Sørensen sits down again. The last newspaper section, entitled “Free,” flops onto the floor.
Mogens starts to sweat. All throughout his childhood, the demonic images of his grandfather and great-grandfather grew in his mind, spreading their sombre wings until they engulfed his whole world in their silent, stern embrace. No one escapes from the shadow of these idols who demand total obedience — and yet he is attempting the impossible. A strong sense of responsibility for the family project has been impressed on him ever since he was a little boy. This endgame fans a permanently guilty conscience, the knowledge that everything you do can always be done just that little bit better. And his mother knows exactly which buttons to push. She is a master.
But this time — for once — he will decide for himself.
“This isn’t about my grandfather or great-grandfather. Or you. This is about me. What I want to do and how I want to live my life. And politics, the city council . . .” He rests his palms on his lap and stares down. “Well, it doesn’t interest me.”
“Shh.” His mother hushes him. He can almost hear the ancestral portraits in the hall rattling in sheer outrage. “Don’t say such things.”
“But it’s the truth. I’m not suited for it.”
Merethe Winther-Sørensen raises her chin. The sound of her voice fills the drawing room.
“I have devoted my life to politics.” Her gaze fixes on him. “What does Kirsten say?”
Kirsten?
“It’s her idea. She can see how little time I have for Sarah.”
Bull’s eye. It takes a few seconds before she has recovered enough to breathe again. Then she pulls herself up on the armrests and staggers out of the room. Her heels clip-clop up the stairs.
Total silence ensues. Mogens closes his eyes and leans back against the cushions. A car passes by slowly outside. Victory is only partly assured. He needs her acceptance. A total break would be too costly — for both of them.
When Mogens opens his eyes, his father is looking at him.
“You have to give her something, son.”
“What do you mean?”
Arne turns in his chair, lowering his voice.
“Your mother can’t bear losing face. If this was a budget negotiation —”
“But how? Either I’m on the city council or I’m not. There’s no compromise, nothing to negotiate.”
“You could give her time to get used to it. Take administrative leave, perhaps? After six
months, who knows? Maybe she’ll have accepted it by then?”
Mogens’s hand flops down on the sofa cushion. He had hoped for a permanent solution — a result. But his father is right. His mother won’t surrender, not now. And the bottom line is that he gets away. Now. That’s what matters. He can start his new life.
The sound of steps on the stairs returns. His mother sweeps into the drawing room, filling it wall to wall.
“I’m prepared to agree to a leave of absence, three to six months.” She stops behind the armchair; stiff fingers grip the back. Her parchment-white skin is stretched taut across her face.
Mogens and Arne exchange glances.
“Six months, minimum.” His hands are shaking.
His mother grimaces. Then she laughs so wide he can see her molars.
“This, just as I return as minister? No flies on you, are there? I hope you know what you’re doing. And what are you going to do?”
“You’ll find out.” Mogens dries his sweaty palms on his pants again. He can hardly believe that he has gotten this far.
“Secrets, eh? Well, I suppose you need to rebel at some point. Before you come to your senses.” She walks up to him and pats his cheek.
Mogens closes his eyes, fighting the urge to flinch. He’ll ring his stand-in first thing tomorrow morning.
TUESDAY,
SEPTEMBER 24
4
“SHE’S BEEN CLIMBING up the walls in there for the last three hours.” The duty officer walked with Lars down the corridor of cells, keys jingling in his fleshy hands.
It was eight o’clock in the morning. Lars had had a restless night, slipping in and out of a dream where Sanne kept scolding him. Why hadn’t he called her since the summer? He had woken up at five o’clock, his rage a knot in his stomach. He had tried calling her. She was the one who hadn’t . . . He found it impossible to go back to sleep again, and when the alarm went off at a quarter after seven it had been a blessing in disguise.
The Scream of the Butterfly Page 2
