“Is it okay if I join in?”
“Of course it is. Arbën, why don’t you add Mogens to your team?” Søren signals with his hands, and Arbën nods.
The next hours disappear in a confusion of sweat and laughter. It’s been a long time since Mogens had this much fun.
It is nearly time for lunch; Mogens and Arbën are standing by one of the tables drinking juice and watching the others play.
“You look happy.”
Mogens turns around. Arne is standing there, smiling. “Just wanted to see how you were getting on, son.” His father has never grown used to his name.
“This is Arbën. Arbën, this is my father, Arne.”
“Ar-ne.” Arbën pronounces it with equal stress on both syllables and shakes his hand. Arne laughs.
At that moment, a fat man in a track suit appears by the main entrance and shields his eyes with his hand. He peers at them and summons Arbën.
Arbën looks up.
“Later, Moo-genz?”
“Yeah, off you go. I’ll see you later.”
Arbën waves and sprints across the lawn.
“Looks like you’ve made a friend.” Arne folds his hands behind his back. They start to walk across the grass.
“He came up here with his sister and two uncles. They don’t know what happened to their parents.”
“How awful. But how about you? You look like you’re thriving.”
“You have no idea how happy I am. I’m never going back to politics.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to —”
“Relax, son,” Arne continues, pulling him alongside the building. “In fact, I’m here to tell you that I think it’s great — your decision, I mean. When I was younger, I too had plans.” Arne looks toward the trees; his gaze grows distant. “Your mother is a very strong-willed woman. She always gets her own way. You were born, and she became leader of the party.” Arne shrugs his shoulders. Suddenly he looks tired and old.
“Is something wrong?” Mogens stops.
“Moo-genz.” Arbën comes darting out from behind the centre toward them.
“Nothing, my boy. I’m proud of you. Come.” He gestures for Arbën to join them. “Am I allowed to take photographs here?”
“Oh, Dad.” Mogens shakes his head. Then he runs onto the grass, picks up a tennis ball, and throws it to Arbën. The boy goes to catch it, but loses his balance and collapses, giggling, on the grass.
“Tomorrow?” Arbën looks up at him. They are warm and sweaty as they walk through the centre. The tournament has lasted most of the day.
“Of course. And tomorrow I’ll win.” They turn a corner and walk down the stairs to the corridor where Arbën lives with his sister. On the last step the boy stops; his tiny body frozen. The doors to the rooms are closed all the way down the corridor, which is odd — they’re usually left open. The corridor should be bustling with residents on their way to the kitchen or the bathroom opposite the room where the siblings live. Children should be playing.
But now it is deserted. There are shoes on the mats of nearly every door, meaning the residents are inside.
“Why are all the doors shut?”
Arbën winces at the question. Then he starts running down the corridor. He turns just before he reaches his room and waves.
“Is everything all right?” Mogens calls out after him. He wants Arbën to stop, but the boy continues and shakes his head.
The sound of a door opening behind him causes him to stop. A man mumbles something. Arbën replies in English, but Mogens is too far away to be able to hear what is said.
He turns around and walks softly down the stairs. The door to Arbën and Afërdita’s room is closed. The large door at the end of the building is open, and the silhouette of a broad man with a meaty backside fills the frame. The man sticks something in his pocket and turns briefly, staring at Mogens. Then he is gone, closing the door behind him.
“She’s asleep now.” Mogens rubs his face as he comes down the stairs. Outside, the wind shakes the conifers. The waves pound Hornbæk beach. A gale is blowing tonight.
Kirsten puts the last few items in the dishwasher, but doesn’t reply. It is their standard evening ritual. They gave up pretending to be a family after Sarah’s bedtime a long time ago. He doesn’t know why he even bothers these days. And yet, he starts talking to her back.
“Something strange happened today when I walked Arbën back to his room.”
She wrings out the dishcloth over the sink, and doesn’t answer. Now that he’s started, it feels weird to stop, so he carries on. He talks about the deserted corridor; Arbën hurrying away; and the man coming out of the children’s room, leaving through the door at the end of the building. “It looked like he was slipping something in his pocket,” he says in closing.
“And?” She doesn’t look at him.
“Well, what do you think he was doing?”
“Perhaps they’re dealing drugs? How would I know?”
His efforts are futile. She has shut down. He gets up, goes to the bathroom. When he comes back, Kirsten is pouring water into the French press. Her shoulders are tense under the thin, white shirt. His hands long to massage her aching muscles until they are soft and pliable. Instead, he flops down in the chair.
Kirsten puts the lid on the coffee pot and turns around.
“I spoke to Peter today.” She looks at him.
Mogens closes his eyes. Here it comes, everything he has been dreading. He doesn’t want to hear it. Her footsteps across the bleached floorboards, the sound of a chair being pulled out. She puts the French press on the table and sits down next to him. Her breath is very close, a faint quiver against his skin. It hurts deep inside his chest.
“I’ve decided to find another lawyer for the company.” Her hand settles on top of his, soft and warm. “Did you hear what I said? That I’m going to stop seeing him?”
He opens his eyes. What did she just say?
“Why?”
“I had my doubts when you said you were going to quit politics. But these last few weeks . . . You’re a totally different person. Sarah can feel it too.” She squeezes his hand. Then she takes the coffee cups and fills them. “I’ve decided that you and I — our family — deserve a second chance.”
Everything bubbles up inside him. Kirsten’s face starts to swirl before he realizes it is because of the tears welling up in his eyes.
Then she sits in his lap. His hands climb up her back and soon they are everywhere on her skin, ripping open her bra hooks. They writhe naked on the floor in front of the fireplace, their skin glowing in the warmth of its flames. And everything is hands and lips and heavy breathing.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
22
IT WAS EARLY morning on Folmer Bendtsens Plads. Bottles were rattling outside the Ring Café. The drilling from the Metro construction drowned out even the S-train on the overhead rail. Raindrops trailed down the window.
Lars rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and turned off the alarm on his phone. He folded his hands behind his head and studied the cracks that branched out from the stucco rose in the centre of the ceiling. Just thinking about yesterday made him hot all over. It had been a long time. But it was more than that.
He rolled onto his stomach. Christine had said something before — about Serafine. Lars got up, made coffee, relieved himself, and took a shower.
The coffee had finished brewing by the time he came out of the bathroom. Lars dried himself off, got dressed, and ate some rolled oats. There had to be a reason why Serafine had come to Copenhagen. Some connection to the mayor maybe?
He went out into the hallway and stuck his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. It was empty. If he was to have any hope of getting the cogs in his brain to start turning, he needed to smoke.
He walked to the SUPER CORN RSTORE at Folder Bendtsens
Plads 4, which was squeezed in behind the front of the building and the fence around the Metro construction site. There were no longer any flowers displayed outside. The thick layer of dust from the construction that had forced its way through cracks in the windows of his apartment had probably killed them off.
The young guy who had been there earlier in the summer was behind the counter. Languorous music swayed through from the back room, which was concealed behind a curtain of green and pink beads. A sweet scent of incense wafted out into the shop.
“Hi.” He saluted him with two fingers as he entered. “The usual.”
The guy looked puzzled.
“Yeah, I know it’s been a while.” Lars made a second attempt. “Have you been away travelling?”
“Do I know you?” The young man stared at him, furrowing his brow.
“You could say that.” Lars’s gaze scanned the adult magazines on the top shelf behind the cashier. “We used to chat last summer; I had just moved in.”
“Ah.” The boy lit up with a big smile. “That would have been my brother, Alexander. He minds the shop sometimes.”
Lars nodded to himself. Twins, of course.
“I live at number two. Your brother used to put two packs of King’s Blue on the counter whenever I came in.”
The boy took two packs from the shelf behind him.
“There you go. My name is Patrick.”
“Lars.” He picked up the cigarettes, paid, and made to leave.
“Wait.” The boy came out from behind the counter. He wore the same type of grubby track suit as his brother, but the pants were baggy around his thighs. “I remember now. Sander talked about you. You’re a cop, aren’t you? You tracked down that rapist?”
“Yes. It —”
“I just wanted to say thank you. I know one of the girls. Not well, but —”
“Who? Stine?” Lars peeled the cellophane off one of the packs.
“No, Caroline Størup. She rented my buddy’s big brother’s apartment last summer.”
“Caroline,” Lars’s fingers stopped. The cellophane stuck to the back of his hand. “She’s a friend of my daughter’s.”
“Do you know how she is?”
“Better. She’s in New York. I’m sorry, but I need to get to work.” He gestured outside.
“Of course.” The boy reversed back behind the counter. “I’ll tell Sander you said hi.”
Back in his apartment, Lars lit up a King’s and closed his eyes while the nicotine kickstarted his system. He was about to pour himself some coffee when he remembered Toke’s suggestion. He went into the living room and turned on his computer. Lars went to the DBA website and searched for back issues of Politiken, the newspaper that had traditionally supported the Radical Party.
There were several hits, most of them provincial, and practically nothing in Copenhagen. And no one had issues going back fifteen years.
But in Haslev on Midtsjælland someone claimed to have “almost complete sets from 1995 to 2008.” The guy had probably hoped that the newspapers would one day turn into a collector’s item. Now he couldn’t even be bothered to suggest a price. Yet another victim of the digital age.
Lars sent a message to the seller: Could I please visit to have a look at the 1999 issues tomorrow?
Let Kim A and the minister try to stop him.
23
“DON’T SAY ANYTHING.” Lars closed the door behind him and tossed his jacket over the chair. He could tell from the looks on their faces and the big newspaper pile on one table that they had all read Sandra Kørner’s article yesterday. Sanne had picked a seat at the back of the room and was sitting with her side to him, pretending to study Jyllands-Posten’s “Copenhagen” section. Were those red spots on her cheeks? None of the others seemed to notice anything was amiss.
Ulrik entered just at that moment.
“Good morning. I suggest we get going.” He sat down and turned to Lars. “Have you made arrangements for the funeral?”
“Everything should be set to go.” Lars had sent a mass email yesterday with detailed instructions for each of them. “The funeral is at noon at Vor Frue Cathedral. If I can have you all at my disposal until two o’clock, I’ll be happy.”
The others nodded. Ulrik cleared his throat.
“Fine. But until noon and after two o’clock, it’s all about Serafine. Sanne? Allan?”
Sanne rose. She started pinning still photographs from various surveillance videos onto the noticeboard. Lars recognized Serafine on Kultorvet by the Round Tower and at the colonnade under Regensen across the street.
“You are all familiar with these images. We’ve extended our search area and got some of our colleagues to check security cameras from troubled neighbourhoods, but so far it’s slim pickings. The gay bars haven’t produced any results either.”
Ulrik ran his hand across his chin. His stubble grated against his palm.
“Anything else?”
“I visited the Sandholm Centre last night to search her room,” Allan said. “The technicians say there’s DNA evidence, but there were no notes or photographs. She left practically no trace of herself.”
“What about the businessman she robbed in Hamburg?” Ulrik turned to Lisa. “Has anyone talked to him?”
“Not yet. He’s still out of the country.”
“What are you thinking, Lars?” Allan looked worried.
“All this time we’ve thought of Serafine as a female prostitute. Now it turns out that she’s transgender. No —” he raised his hand when Lisa was about to protest. “Not transsexual . . . transgender.”
“Why is that important? I mean, you say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to?” Sanne had sat down with her newspaper again.
“If she did it — and I simply refuse to believe that she did — she must have had a motive. Why is she here? Why leave Hamburg and go to Copenhagen? Why kill the mayor?”
No one said anything. Lars continued: “Remember, we have a witness who saw a man disappear through the back door. And we have unidentified fingerprints on the knife —”
Allan interrupted him. “Yes, the third man. I interviewed the guy who lives above Winther-Sørensen again yesterday. He’s no longer sure that he saw anything. The kitchen floor was covered with blood; it was a mess. You know what witnesses are like. He probably thought that he saw movement. And that turned into the killer.”
Ulrik looked at each of them in turn and then slammed his hands on the table.
“Okay. We continue with Serafine. Sanne, Allan, you two will co-ordinate the ongoing review of the security camera footage. Lisa, keep in contact with our colleagues on the street. They’ve all been issued with her photo; she has to show up sometime.”
“What about Lars?” Sanne put the newspaper away.
“What do you mean?” Ulrik had gotten up. Now he sat down again.
“Well, what will he be doing? After all, he was the one who let her get away.” There was total silence for a few seconds.
“I’ve given Lars permission to pursue his own lead.”
“Why?”
Ulrik was about to reply, but Lars interrupted him.
“I think we need to explore Mogens and Merethe Winther-Sørensen’s past. Something doesn’t add up. And that information doesn’t leave this room.”
24
AFËRDITA. SHE WAKES with a start, pain radiating from her back. Her neck is stiff; her teeth furry. Her sister’s name echoes through her head. The dream sends a frisson through her body. Together they escaped from the uncles while fleeing through the Czech Republic. Then they bumped into a group of fellow Albanians who took them across the border to Germany. They pretended they were part of their family when they applied for asylum. And when the Red Cross worker asked what her name was and the others hesitated, it was Afërdita who stepped forward and named her Serafine. Even then her
sister could see the butterfly.
But rumours spread quickly, even among asylum seekers. Before a few weeks had passed the uncles had tracked them down again and forced them to travel onward.
Sweating, she looks around at the brown walls and bumpy floor. Where is she?
She can only recall fragmented episodes from yesterday: the police officer who left her on the bench in the Red Cross centre; the children who started to shout at her and threw stones. But what happened after that?
She tries to stretch out her neck by lifting up her head, but bangs her forehead against a rough ceiling. Did she sleep under some stairs? Testosterone rages in her once again, but if the years in Hamburg have taught her anything, it’s that you pay for relief. More images from the previous day return: the train to Copenhagen; staggering through the city; stealing clothes, jeans, a T-shirt, and running shoes. These are the kind of clothes she hasn’t worn for years. She reaches up and touches her hair. The scissors. It’ll take years for it to grow long again. After cutting her hair she roams through the city, trying to track down the usual places. Blisters grow and burst on her heels and toes and turn into sores. The only place she knows in Copenhagen is Central Station. She finds a brochure for gay Copenhagen and picks out Café Intime at random.
Her first customer is an older gay man, whom she sucks off in an alleyway for five hundred kroner. The smell of sweat and genitals is overpowering. She tries converting it into euros in her head and figures it must be about €70. She folds the notes, putting them into her makeup bag with the €550 she has left from Hamburg. But she still doesn’t know what the street-doc charges for HRT here, so when a somewhat younger man hits on her and invites her home, she accepts.
Her fingers glide across his thigh in the taxi on the way to his apartment. The bulge grows between his legs. Somehow it feels easier when it’s not her own. The driver watches them in the rear-view mirror, but says nothing. Up in the apartment the guy is so aroused that he only just manages to get it in before he comes.
The Scream of the Butterfly Page 9
