The Scream of the Butterfly

by Jakob Melander

  Lars crept further into the apartment. A floorboard squeaked inside the living room on the other side of the wall. The intruder could be armed. It could be a desperate junkie on a bad trip, brandishing a used syringe? He looked around for something that would serve as a weapon. All he found was a small, foldable umbrella. He was probably better off without it. The squeaking from the living room returned. Lars counted to three and took one long leap to the door of the living room.

  “What are you doing . . . ?”

  He caught a glimpse of a foot wearing a white running shoe disappearing through the door to Maria’s room. The door slammed shut. Without thinking, Lars pulled it open and gave chase. At that moment the door to the stairwell closed with a bang.

  Lars swore, and ran through Maria’s bedroom and out into the hall, tearing open the door. Hasty steps disappeared down the stairs. He only got as far as the landing between the first and second floors when the door to the street slammed shut. Lars leaped down the last few steps and was outside seconds later. The passage was deserted.

  He flung open the door to the Ring Café. Fifteen pairs of glazed eyes stared at him from the Pilsner-tinted darkness. The bartender was struggling to focus. The smell of stale hamburgers and cigarette smoke wafted toward Lars. He would bet that none of them had been outside the bar in the last few hours.

  Lars went back up to his apartment. He kicked off his shoes in the hall, put the bag with his food on the coffee table, and looked around. Nothing appeared to be missing. Someone had rummaged through a pile of papers and old bills. The letter from the lawyer requesting his signature for the sale of his and Elena’s old house was lying separately in the middle of the table. Apart from that, everything looked normal. But the apartment definitely smelled different — a stranger had been in his home.

  Lars opened the balcony door, went outside, and lit a cigarette. The nicotine coursed through his veins and started its attack on his pituitary gland. He trailed a finger across the railings, rubbing the white dust from the construction site between his fingers, and coughed. He wouldn’t be able to use the balcony for the next few years. He went inside and closed the door.

  Lars thought about the white running shoe that had disappeared through the door to Maria’s room. It had been significantly cleaner than that of your average junkie, and come to think of it, it had been a long time since he had come across a junkie who could run that fast. Nothing was missing from the apartment and nothing had been interfered with other than the papers on the coffee table. This was definitely not a standard burglary. He decided not to trouble his colleagues by reporting it since there was no need for him to file an insurance claim. Lars stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

  He was sorely tempted to go to bed, but it was way too early. His fingers toyed with the phone in his pocket. He couldn’t shake off the funeral. He took out his phone and saw a text message from Lisa. It must have arrived while he was chasing the intruder. Lars swore, and opened the laconic message: There is no record of Malene Rørdam’s current address at the National Register of Persons.

  Lars tossed aside the phone in irritation. Yet another dead end. It was unbelievable. He turned on his computer to search the register. Lisa was quite right — her civil registration number produced no recent hits. Lars drummed his fingers on the edge of the keyboard. Where could she be? Her last recorded address back in December 1999 was Vesterbrogade 44. Since then — nothing. Lars read through her family relationships. Her older brother had lectured at Aarhus University, but had died in 2004. Her father, who had died the year after his son, had just the one sister, who had married a Swede in the 1960s. Since then Malene hadn’t been registered in Denmark. Her mother was still alive and living at a care home in Borup. Lars called and spoke to an aide there who was friendly and obliging, but the information he was able to give him was depressing. Malene Rørdam’s mother had severe dementia, and couldn’t remember anything at all. And no, they didn’t have any information about the daughter either.

  He turned off the computer and went to fetch a fork and a glass of water from the kitchen. He sat down to eat green curry with prawns, squid, and jasmine rice, but the food was already cold. Consolers of the Lonely by The Raconteurs sounded from the record player.

  It was just another evening at Nørrebro Station.

  OCTOBER 1999

  A PALE SUN draws light yellow squares on the grey linoleum in front of the sports hall. The children mill around him, impatient to be let in. They have been waiting all morning and are close to bursting with explosive energy and life. Their non-stop chatter and shouting makes thinking impossible, but he can’t shake the image of the man slipping out of the door next to Arbën and Afërdita’s room at the end of the building. He has asked the other residents, but all he’s received for an answer are evasive replies and downcast eyes. He has watched their corridor, but there have been no more mysterious visitors. However, there is no doubt that his investigations have been noticed.

  Mogens fumbles with the keys, pushing his way through the eager children.

  “All right, all right, kids. There’s plenty of time. How about a game of softball?”

  The children’s excited screams come to an abrupt end. The squares of sunlight disappear.

  “We need to talk, my friend.” The hand that lands on his shoulder is heavy and fleshy.

  He turns around. The hand belongs to Arbën’s uncle, Ukë, the bigger of the two. All jowls and rolls of fat under a grey sweatshirt. His brother, Meriton, is in the doorway behind him.

  “Later.” He tries to pull his shoulder away to elude the hand, but it is too heavy. “The kids —”

  “Talk now.” Ukë’s hand moves to his neck as he drags him along. He manages to catch a glimpse of Arbën. The boy stares down at the floor as he retreats to a corner. Then they reach a corridor and the noises fade into the distance. His heart is pounding and he starts to sweat, even though he knows they won’t dare to harm him — not here.

  The brothers shove him into one of the big communal kitchens with cupboards and industrial cookers. Each family has its own locker for plates, cups, utensils, and groceries. The fridges are shared. The kitchen is swimming with light from the broad windows that is reflected in the steel tables.

  Meriton flaps his hands, barks something in Albanian, and herds the three women who were in the kitchen out the door.

  Ukë pushes him down onto a stool while Meriton fetches tulip-shaped glasses, small saucers, teaspoons, and sugar cubes from a cupboard. A packet of the inevitable apple tea is put on the table and Ukë pours water from an electric kettle.

  “Drink the çai. It’s good. My brother wants to tell you a story.”

  Meriton sits down opposite him and folds his hands on the table.

  “In our village there was a man named Shpëtim. He was a good man.” The brothers exchange a lengthy glance. “Good to his family and good for the village. You could trust him. A man like you.”

  Mogens looks from one brother to the other. The light pours in behind Meriton. His upper body is backlit, so it is impossible to make out the expression on his face.

  “Shpëtim had a friend who lived further up the mountain. Shpëtim went to see his friend because they were going hunting the next day. The sun was shining and it was spring. But Shpëtim’s friend wasn’t at home; he had gone to the neighbouring village to buy cartridges. After all, you can’t go hunting if you haven’t got any cartridges for your rifle, can you?” The brothers smile. Mogens squirms on the stool. Why are they telling him this story?

  “It’s a long hike up the mountain and it’s hot, so when he gets there in the afternoon, he’s sweating. He knocks on the door, but there’s no reply. It’s not a big house: there’s a room at the back where the family sleeps, and a room where they cook, eat, and — well — everything else. But he’s thirsty, and it’s his friend’s house, after all, so Shpëtim opens the door. He pro
bably wants to drink some water and wait until his friend returns. But when Shpëtim enters, his friend’s wife is washing herself. She has no clothes on, do you understand?” Ukë and Meriton both laugh uproariously. Mogens tries to join in. Then Ukë stops laughing.

  “You shouldn’t see your friend’s wife like that. It’s not good. You’re not drinking your çai?”

  Mogens jolts, raises the glass to his lips, and sips the tea, which has gotten cold in the meantime.

  “You’re not scared, are you?” Ukë slaps him on the back. “It’s just a story.”

  “Shpëtim goes outside again and sits down,” Meriton continues. “And waits until his friend returns with the cartridges. That evening, neither of them mentions what Shpëtim has seen. The next day they hike further up the mountain to go hunting. They shoot mountain goats, and probably some sheep from the village. Shpëtim and his friend set up camp on the mountain, eat roast mutton, and drink raki. But there are bears on the mountain, hungry after hibernating all winter, and they are attracted by the smell of meat. When it has grown dark, a bear comes out from the woods, attacks their camp, and bites Shpëtim’s knee. His friend manages to chase it away, but the bear is very hungry, so it comes back.” Meriton pauses. “This time Shpëtim’s friend can’t help him because he can’t fire his rifle. Shpëtim is in his way and he doesn’t want to shoot his friend. Do you understand? So the bear drags Shpëtim away and kills him.”

  Ukë gets up, pulling Mogens with him.

  “We thought it would be good for you to hear this story. Now, come on, the children are waiting for you.”

  Mogens is shaking when he leaves the kitchen between the brothers. They frogmarch him down the corridor back to the hallway outside the sports hall. Children are leaning up against the wall and sitting on the floor. They don’t look as if they stirred while he was gone.

  Mogens drops the keys when he tries to unlock the door to the hall. He looks around for Arbën, but the boy has vanished. The children shuffle through the door and those at the front start to run. The oppressive mood lightens a little.

  Meriton pops his head around the door.

  “It’s good to have friends when you’re in trouble.” Then the door slams shut.

  FRIDAY,

  SEPTEMBER 27

  28

  THE KØGE BUGT motorway on a Friday morning; Sticky Fingers in the CD player; “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” blasting from the speakers. The clouds were high and flimsy. The traffic was going the opposite way, toward Copenhagen. There were few cars heading south and he could stay close to the speed limit.

  Lars turned off the E20 after Køge. The flat landscape in the centre of Zealand flared past. He realized he was singing along to the Stones’ version of Freddy McDowell’s gospel song “You Gotta Move,” with its twelve-string slide guitar and primal bass drum.

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up outside the farm, parking near what he presumed to be the barn. It looked deserted, but the junk merchant, whose name he had forgotten, had promised that he would be in. Lars walked up to the main door and knocked.

  Silence. Lars waited for a short while, then he knocked again, a little harder this time. A little later, the sound of shuffling footsteps was audible from behind the rustic blue door. A key turned, and the squeaky door opened.

  “Yes?” The voice was coarse, the face bearded. Suspicious eyes peered out through the narrow gap. Lars caught a glimpse of a staircase, a stone floor, and a chest freezer further inside the house. The rest of the interior lay in darkness.

  “Lars Winkler, Copenhagen Police. We spoke yesterday.”

  The man stared at him without blinking.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “We did.” Lars shifted his weight from foot to foot on the stone steps outside the front door. “It’s about back issues of Politiken from the mid-1990s onward. You promised that I could have a look at them?”

  “You must have the wrong house.” The man spoke quickly, avoiding his eyes.

  “But isn’t this Sanderhusvej? Number eight?”

  “There are no newspapers here. Try next door. I’m busy. I . . . Goodbye.” The door shut. Lars was left alone in the empty farmyard.

  He knocked again, but there was no reply. Lars walked back to his car and leaned against the hood. He was sure he had the right address.

  There were curtains covering the windows in the main building. One twitched before it settled. Lars returned to the door and knocked again. But there was no response this time, either.

  He could always go inside the barn and try to find the newspapers himself, but he had come without a warrant. He got into his car and started the engine. Another wasted morning.

  He turned on the radio when he got back on the highway. Lou Reed’s voice filled the car with “How Do You Think It Feels.” Then Steve Hunter’s guitar took over and the last desperate bends faded into the hourly news update.

  “A new Gallup poll predicts that the Radical Party has gained three more seats since last week. The poll was carried out after the murder of Copenhagen’s mayor, Mogens Winther-Sørensen. It’s still too early to say how Winther-Sørensen’s daughter joining the party will impact the election campaign, but observers think she could attract the youth vote. The party is already experiencing a significant surge of support, according to —”

  Lars reached out to turn it off. For some reason he started thinking about Christine.

  The traffic jam began just before Køge. He took his foot off the accelerator and swore. His phone rang.

  “Hello Lars.” He recognized that voice. “It’s Kim here. I thought we should meet.”

  They met at Café Apropos on Halmtorvet, by the roundabout opposite Øksnehallen and the Husets Theatre. Kim A had suggested it would be easier for Lars if they met close to police headquarters. How very considerate of him.

  Lars opened the door and entered the long room, which was already fairly busy with antenatal groups and pseudo-creative types using the café as their meeting place and office. Kim A’s face grinned at him from the back of the room. Lars made a point of ordering himself a double espresso before he walked over to Kim A’s table.

  “Have you been out for a drive?”

  Lars said nothing and sat down. Was Kim A pulling his leg?

  “You wanted to talk to me?” The wall behind Kim A was made up of old wine boxes with names and addresses scorched into the wood, including Taylor’s Vintage Port, 1995 and Bouchard Père & Fils.

  Kim A picked at the label on his bottle of sparkling mineral water.

  “You have to stop harassing the minister.”

  “I’m not harassing anyone; I’m trying to solve the murder of her son.”

  “Lars. The election is less than two weeks away. Can’t you see you risk affecting the outcome? And for what? The minister’s past has nothing to do with her son’s murder. You’re on a wild goose chase.”

  Lars stirred his espresso. The light brown foam bubbled, drawing spirals on the dark surface.

  “I saw you remove an elderly man from the funeral. Who was he?” Kim A didn’t reply. Lars continued: “You can’t possibly have forgotten how we work, Kim — not that quickly.”

  “I’m only trying to help you.”

  “You have a strange way of going about it.” Lars looked out the window and took a sip. The coffee was bitter and strong — exactly what he needed.

  “Like I said, there’s nothing of interest in the minister’s past.” Kim A leaned back.

  “And you know that how?”

  Kim A didn’t reply. Lars finished his coffee and got up.

  “I thought not. I hope you’ve got a warrant to read my emails. Otherwise . . .” He paused, tossing fifty kroner on the table. “For the coffee.”

  He turned to leave without saying goodbye. He was already a few tables away when he heard a soft “enjoy the party
” behind him.

  29

  EVERY MAJOR CITY has an area like the one she needs. Here in Copenhagen she’ll find what she wants on the other side of the huge railway station, at the beginning of a long, straight street; Istedgade is Copenhagen’s version of the Reeperbahn.

  It’s neater than the Reeperbahn; not as shabby as back home in Hamburg. There are fewer bars. Cafés and Thai restaurants mix with sex shops and takeout stands. But the girls — they’re here, even in the middle of the day. There’s no mistaking them.

  The first two flap their hands to make her go away before she has even asked a question. The third, a beautiful black girl, looks her up and down with a wistful smile.

  “Bukoshi? Why would you want to talk to them, honey?” Serafine offers her a cigarette. The girl shrugs and points down the street. “Abel Cathrines Gade, beyond the church, in the basement of number fourteen. Look for Shqiptarë.”

  Serafine jolts. Shqiptarë — Albania. It’s been so long since she last heard the word that even the broken pronunciation doesn’t affect her. It’s home, but there is no home anymore. Only the uncles remain.

  Serafine continues down Istedgade, past the church. People are selling dope outside the fence; the junkies are waiting with their eyes closed. They belong near the central train station, like they do in other cities.

  Abel Cathrines Gade cuts diagonally across Istedgade. She turns right and finds number 14. There is light behind the windows, and a scruffy cardboard sign above the basement steps says Shqiptarë in large, clumsy, handwritten letters.

  The long basement room falls silent when she enters.