The Butterfly House

by Katrine Engberg

  “Hi, you must be Tanja.” Anette wheeled her stroller up next to the tall blond-haired woman in a green-striped rain poncho and shook her hand. “I’m Anette Werner. Thank you for meeting me.”

  “Hi.” Tanja Kruse smiled widely, her gums showing. “I’ve got two policemen in tow, as I’m sure you already know.” She nodded toward two uniformed officers standing on the path about a hundred yards away from them. “But they’ll give us our space.”

  “Yes, we… thought that was the safest,” Anette lied, hoping the officers didn’t happen to know her.

  Tanja leaned over Anette’s stroller.

  “Oh, she’s so precious. A girl, right? She must have been a bit of a late addition, eh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “We haven’t decided yet.” Anette shrugged, then dutifully looked into Tanja Kruse’s beautiful, retro-style baby carriage, in which a doll wearing a crocheted hat lay tucked in under a pretty blanket. A very realistic doll, but still a doll.

  “Her name is Amalie,” Tanja said proudly.

  Anette was rarely at a loss for words, but this would be one of those times. She stood frozen, leaning over the glossy baby carriage, completely and utterly speechless.

  “I know she’s a doll, don’t worry.”

  “Okay, ha-ha, well, that’s good.” Anette looked around, embarrassed. “So, which way should we go?”

  “We always walk clockwise around the lake.”

  “Great.”

  Anette turned her stroller, and they set off along the path, two women with baby carriages and two policemen in tow. They wheeled along in awkward silence, Anette feeling winded and uncharacteristically shy.

  “I know my colleagues have already talked to you about the deaths, but as I said, I would really like to ask a few follow-up questions.” Anette fished out a pacifier for her daughter and tried to rise above the absurdity of the situation. “Kim Sejersen, can you tell me a little about him? About the accident?”

  “Oh, Kim. Such a sweet guy, and a good social worker. So awful that he had to die that way.… He was drunk that night. We had all been drinking, but Kim had had too much. I don’t know why Rita had decided to throw a summer party. It was really totally improper. Alcohol has no place at a residential treatment facility like that, but Rita has always made her own rules.”

  Tanja adjusted the blanket around the doll in the baby carriage as she spoke.

  “Kim was critical of Rita’s management, wanted her to lower the medication doses and change the patients’ diets instead. They argued about it frequently, Kim and the psychiatrist and Rita.”

  They walked along the gravel path that ran parallel to Farimagsgade, the grassy embankment sloping down to the lake on their right. In the summer the grass was always covered with young people chilling, but now only dead leaves and puddles dotted the green. Anette discovered to her relief that her daughter had fallen asleep.

  “The party started out fine. We lit a bonfire in the yard, barbecued, and drank red wine. Of course the patients couldn’t sleep now that there was a party, and they kept coming out to us. But Kim got drunk and started arguing with the management again. I went to bed around eleven p.m. The atmosphere just wasn’t pleasant.”

  “So you don’t actually know what happened to Kim?”

  “No…” The tall woman walked with her shoulders lifted up toward her ears and her eyes in a squint, surrounded by a web of premature wrinkles. She looked like someone heading straight for a slipped disc and a pair of reading glasses.

  “Some people seem to think Pernille had a crush on Kim,” Anette ventured. “And that she felt rejected by him. Could she and her friends have gotten back at him for that—?”

  “That is the worst nonsense I’ve ever heard!” Tanja cut her off. “Just downright lies. The residents adored Kim, and Pernille loved him like an older brother. They would never have done anything to hurt him, never! Besides, she was completely and utterly harmless, never acted out in the least. Who would even say that?”

  “Peter Demant,” Anette admitted. She didn’t see any reason to keep it secret.

  “Ha! Demant.” She snorted scornfully so that clouds of steam rose around her in the chilly air. “If anyone had reason to murder Kim, it was him!”

  “But he wasn’t there that night.” Anette started pushing her stroller again, and Tanja followed.

  “Is that what he says?” She was gripping the handle of her carriage tight and seemed to debate something to herself. “Well, that’s a lie. Kim argued with both Rita and Peter Demant that night; I remember it quite vividly.”

  “Maybe he just remembers it wrong?”

  They passed a statue Anette noticed was called The Dying Gaul, and there was something oddly appropriate about that.

  “Maybe…” Tanja sighed. “As I said, I had already gone to bed when Kim drowned, and I haven’t actually ever questioned whether it was an accident. Of course you would want it to be an accident, because the thought that someone you know… But Demant…”

  “What about Demant?”

  A gust of wind sent an eddy of dried leaves up into the air, and they drifted down over the two women and their carriages like dead butterflies. The leaves were damp and carried a faint whiff of dirt and decay.

  “I don’t like to spread rumors, but I’ve never felt confident about Demant. No doubt he’s qualified. It’s just that he’s a little imperial, kind of a despot, if you know what I mean?”

  “He was domineering?”

  “Oh, and then some! He wanted people to kowtow to him, wanted to be idolized. You know the type?” Tanja gave a little head shake. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I can hear how backstabbing that sounds. It’s just so crazy and incomprehensible that all these people have been murdered. Something has to be wrong, you know, really wrong!”

  They wheeled along Nørrevold, back toward their starting point, gravel crunching under the stroller wheels.

  “Maybe you should talk to Kim’s girlfriend, Inge. I have her address. She has always had her own opinion about what happened back then.”

  The bridge appeared in front of them. As if on command, Anette’s daughter woke up and started to cry.

  Tanja was right. Something was wrong, really wrong.

  * * *

  “OKAY, STATUS UPDATES!” Jeppe opened the wrapper, took a bite of his Mars bar, and prayed that the gooey caramel would transform into a quick wave of energy.

  “Still no useful witness testimony or any new information about the cargo bike that was used to transport the bodies. On the other hand, we have two incidents in the victims’ shared history: social worker Kim Sejersen’s accidental drowning at Butterfly House on August 8, 2014”—Jeppe pointed to the staff photo hanging on the board—“and the suicide on August 3, 2015, of one of the patients at the home, Pernille Ramsgaard. She slit her wrists and bled to death in a bathtub.”

  Jeppe washed his candy bar down with lukewarm coffee and enjoyed the rush of sugar and caffeine.

  “Larsen has identified the last of the Butterfly House employees. We still haven’t located the cook, Alex Jacobsen, but we have been in touch with the two nurses, Andrea Jørgensen and Trine Bremen. The former is on a prolonged hiking tour in Spain and is out of the picture, but Falck and I interviewed Trine Bremen earlier today. She is on friendly terms with Peter Demant and visited him at his home last night.”

  “Unfortunately she has an alibi for all the other evenings and nights this week,” Falck cut in. “I just talked to her husband, Klaus. She has been home with him and the kids every night. Plus, Monday they had the neighbors over for dinner.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “Yes, the neighbors confirm that they were over until one in the morning. Played some game called Davoserjaz.” Falck shrugged and continued, “A card game. I don’t know it, but Trine Bremen didn’t murder Nicola Ambrosio Monday night. Unless both her husband and her neighbors are lying.”

 
“She’s still the last person to have seen Peter Demant. He hasn’t turned up, anything new on him?”

  Larsen, Saidani, and Falck all shook their heads simultaneously.

  “Isak Brügger is also still missing. Two out of three suspects have disappeared from the surface of the earth.”

  “Demant and Brügger. Who’s the third?” Falck asked.

  “Bo Ramsgaard,” Sara said, holding up her phone. “I just talked to his wife, Lisbeth, who’s on her way back to Copenhagen. She thinks she’ll make it home by eight tonight.”

  “Can she confirm her husband’s alibi?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Jeppe swallowed the piece of chocolate he had just bitten off before he had a chance to chew it.

  “It turns out, they’re getting a divorce. Officially they still live together, but they take turns sleeping elsewhere. Lisbeth Ramsgaard spent the night with a girlfriend Sunday night and then left for Sweden. She and Bo had agreed that he would stay home with their daughter while she was away. But when our Swedish colleagues reached her earlier today and she turned on her cell phone, she saw that her daughter had called a bunch of times on Tuesday night. She was home alone feeling scared.” Sara spoke with the indignation all parents feel at the thought of an abandoned child.

  “But Tuesday we had a surveillance team stationed outside the Ramsgaards’ house all evening and overnight.…” Even as he spoke Jeppe knew his protest was pointless.

  “So he went out the back door or some other way. He wasn’t home. Why would the daughter lie about that? The mother told me something else as well.…” Sara paused for a moment, looking around. “She revealed to me that Bo Ramsgaard has a massive drinking problem.”

  “Is he…?”

  Sara shook her head.

  “Or if he is, she’s not prepared to admit that. But he does have a temper. In the wake of Pernille’s death, he apparently had a violent conflict with their eldest son, so bad they no longer have any contact with each other. Not so strange that she wants a divorce. I’ll question her properly as soon as possible.”

  The office fell quiet. Each of the four detectives followed their train of thought to the same conclusion.

  “I guess we should bring Bo Ramsgaard in for questioning, a more formal one.”

  “Agreed.” Sara nodded. “But I don’t think we can narrow it down to three suspects, even if that seems to be the general opinion.”

  Jeppe gave her a questioning look.

  “Marie Birch! Hello, what’s wrong with you? She must be hiding for a reason. Yes, she’s small and skinny, but maybe someone’s helping her. Do I need to remind you of how cold-blooded young female murderers can be? And what about Rita’s ex-husband, and Alex Jacobsen, the missing cook…?”

  There was a knock on the door and the superintendent’s friendly face poked in. At the moment it didn’t look particularly friendly, though.

  “Kørner, my office. Right away, please.”

  She shut the door, leaving the room in another uncomfortable silence. The detectives all knew that Jeppe had to walk the carpet as a scolding from the boss was generally referred to.

  Jeppe stood up with what he hoped was most of his dignity intact.

  “Falck,” he said, “let’s go fetch Bo Ramsgaard. Find out where he is. We’ll leave in half an hour.”

  He took the stairs up to admin and found the superintendent’s door, annoyance building inside him like trapped steam. He wasn’t a magician after all!

  The superintendent sat at her desk and regarded him somberly over the top of her eyeglasses.

  “Kørner, have a seat.”

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  She took off her glasses, making her brown eyes suddenly twice as big under the heavy eyelids.

  “We’re not going to have a conflict about this.” She wasn’t negotiating with him, just warning him. “I know you’re doing what you can, but people are scared, Kørner. Three brutal murders, a psychiatric patient on the loose, and no suspect actually charged.”

  She looked at him with concern. Jeppe resolved that it was probably better not to start defending himself.

  “And we’re not just talking about a jealous husband or something like that?” she suggested. “It’s not Michael Holte who lost his shit?”

  Jeppe shook his head.

  She sighed impatiently and asked, “What do you expect from me?”

  “Time. To be able to work in peace. For you to keep the press and the bigwigs busy while I solve the case.”

  The superintendent didn’t break eye contact, didn’t even wink.

  Jeppe stood as calmly as he could in the middle of her office floor between her fly-fishing poles and pictures of her grandkids. She regarded him for a long time, then put her glasses back on.

  “You have twenty-four hours. I’m sorry, Kørner, but I need to show my superiors and the media that we’re taking this seriously. I’m sick of sounding like some TV crime drama, but if there’s no breakthrough by tomorrow afternoon, I’m officially handing the case over to Thomas Larsen. Close the door behind you.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Esther de Laurenti opened the door to her apartment and was struck by the quiet in the front hall. She set down her shopping bags and stood still, unmoving in her woolen coat. After spending an hour home alone, dogs will run out to meet their owners, barking and drooling. But right now there was no activity. The hall was quiet, far too quiet.

  “Dóxa! Epistéme! Where are you guys?”

  Esther closed the front door. A faint sound, a scratching and whining, came from far away. She followed the sound, not caring that she was leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her on the pale wood floor.

  At the back of the apartment, the door to Gregers’s room was closed. It usually was. The sounds were coming from his room.

  “Dóxa! Epistéme!”

  Her call elicited a cacophony of angry barks behind the door. She ran and opened it, and her dogs darted out, jumping up and almost knocking her over. As she crouched down to pet them and reassure them, the anxiety rose in her body. The dogs had followed her to her front door when she left to go do the shopping. She had told them goodbye and promised a long afternoon walk as she closed the door.

  There was only one way they could have been shut into Gregers’s room. Someone else had been in the apartment while she was gone.

  Esther got up slowly. Who had a key aside from herself and Gregers? Their cleaning lady, but she was in Poland for the whole month of October.

  She retraced her wet steps to the front hall. Could someone else be here right now? The place didn’t look different. The kitchen was still in its usual state of comfortable untidyness, with dishes in the sink, unopened mail, and a box of vegetables on the table waiting to be put away. Esther spun around holding her breath. It would be easier to tell if someone had messed with her things if she were more organized. She carried the shopping bags into the kitchen, hung her coat on the hook, and got out a cloth to wipe the floor. Where would one search if looking for valuables?

  The wallet in her purse.

  She always kept cash in her purse in the front hall. Not a lot, just enough in case anything unexpected came up. And next to the coat hooks her spare keys in a tidy bundle on the table, only they weren’t there anymore.

  Esther picked up newspapers and dug around in bowls, looked on the floor underneath and behind the table. The keys were gone.

  With her heart in her throat, she found her purse on the hook. That at least was still there. She had left both it and her wallet behind when she went shopping, just tucking a credit card in her pocket. Her wallet was also still there, thank God.

  Tuesday morning she had withdrawn four thousand kroner for her hairdresser, who preferred cash, and for an upcoming flea market at Blågård Square this weekend. In fact, she herself still preferred doing her shopping with cash.

  She opened her wallet. In it she found a handful of coins and two crumpled hundred kroner bills. She had been
robbed.

  Her stomach lurched. Alain.

  Esther tossed the wallet on the floor and put her hands over her face. The first feeling to wash over her was shame. He had lied to her, used her. How could she have believed that she was still attractive, a wrinkled old hag like her?

  She slapped herself on the cheeks over and over again and let a good cry shake her stupid, old body. The dogs crept up to her, whining.

  As she wiped her face, she realized that she needed to both change the locks and establish if he had taken anything else from the apartment. He probably thought that she would be too proud to report him to the police, but he was in for a surprise. She would get him evicted from the building before he had even finished moving in.

  Esther did another round through the apartment. The art still hung on the walls; the vases were all where they should be. He had rifled through her drawers, she could see that, but hadn’t found anything other than old bills and her notepads. They’ll be worth a lot someday; he should have had the foresight to nick them, she thought in a vain attempt to regain her footing. All her securities were kept in a safe-deposit box, along with most of her silver. Apparently he had only gotten away with the cash and her keys.

  She sat down to her computer and requested a locksmith as soon as possible. Then she typed Alain Jacolbe into her browser’s search bar. No apparent matches turned up, certainly no concert pianists.

  Esther went to the kitchen, opened a bottle of Shiraz and poured herself a large glass of the red wine. She needed something to numb the effect of this quantum-mechanics-worthy love life, which sent her straight from exhilarated to the doldrums of despair.

  She brought the wine back to the computer. How do you find information about a man if you don’t know his real name?

  She drank, letting the alcohol deaden her frayed nerves. What did she know about him, actually? That he was French?

  Not necessarily. She didn’t speak French herself and had perhaps allowed herself in a moment of weakness to be duped by an accent and a few French terms of endearment. He knew La Bohème, loved food. Gregers claimed to have seen him in that fast food place on Nørrebrogade. And he had just moved into her building.