by S. J. Gazan
Shortly after Lily was born, the rug was pulled from under Anna’s feet. Lily woke up four to five times every night, and Anna could barely breathe when Thomas came home from work; it felt like she had a metal hoop clamped around her chest. She cried; she screamed. She hammered her fists against his chest, woke him up at night because she couldn’t bear to be alone. Thomas withdrew from her. He worked late, went to bed early, ignored her when she spoke to him. And yet she didn’t see the split coming.
With her voice subdued and her head lowered, she confessed the most shameful moment of her life to Johannes.
Lily was eleven months old and could say “Dad” and “Mom” and “hi” though she still didn’t walk. One Saturday, when Anna and Lily came back from swim class, Thomas’s stuff was gone. She had been out for four hours. The stereo and two framed posters were missing from the living room, the espresso maker had gone from the kitchen, and Thomas’s office was empty. On the floor was a box containing the instructions for the dishwasher and the warranty for the blender. He called her later to say: “We’re not together anymore.” How stupid did he think she was?
The shock hit her that night and lasted three months. She couldn’t sleep and kept shaking all over; she sweated and had palpitations. Lily cried and cried and wanted to get into Thomas’s office. Anna tried to breastfeed her and kiss her clammy forehead, reassuring her everything would be all right, but Lily just screamed even louder. Seeing her eleven-month-old daughter grieve was the worst thing Anna had ever experienced, and she had no idea how to console her. The latch on Thomas’s office was worn and the door kept opening of its own accord. Lily would crawl in and sit on the wooden floor, rocking back and forth, in an attempt to comfort herself. Finally, Anna nailed the door shut.
“Come on, darling, have some food,” she whispered, but whenever Lily saw Anna’s breasts, which she used to worship, she would howl. At last, Anna squeezed out a drop of milk and tasted it. It was bitter. After four days of hell, she called Jens, who called Cecilie, and an hour later, Cecilie moved in. Cecilie wanted to open the door to Thomas’s office, but Anna threw a fit. Eventually Cecilie gave up, and the door remained closed.
“It must have been hard for you both,” Johannes said, when she had finished.
“For me and Cecilie or for me and Lily?” Anna asked.
“No, for you and Thomas,” he said.
“Don’t you dare defend Thomas!” Anna sneered. “We can’t be friends if you take his side!”
Johannes looked at her for a long time.
“No man wants to desert his woman and his child, Anna. No one in his right mind would do that. And, yes, it was hard for him. It was probably a thousand times harder for him than it will ever be for you. His pain will last his whole life. You’ll find another man, Lily will have another father. But Thomas will never have another you. Never.”
Anna started crying.
“Thomas said it was all my fault.”
“Yes, of course he did. What else could he say? How else would he explain himself? I don’t doubt for a second that you were hard work, Anna. You screamed and shouted, you hit him and you turned his life into a living hell. You’ve just told me. You give off twenty thousand volts. But nothing, nothing excuses cowardice. He could have done anything. Bound you, gagged you, had you committed or called the police, or fined you every time you freaked out, but he should have given you a chance. He should have given his family a chance. Leaving like that was cowardly. And you can’t live with a coward. Period.”
It was the period that had touched Anna the most. Johannes’s assurance. What Thomas had done wasn’t okay. Period. Later, they had talked about forgiveness, and Johannes had asked Anna if she intended to forgive her ex. Anna replied she didn’t know if she could.
“But you have to,” Johannes insisted. “Promise me you’ll forgive him. For your sake and for Lily’s.” He looked at her earnestly, and she looked away. Johannes stood up and grabbed her firmly by the shoulders.
“Anna, I mean it. If you don’t forgive him, you’ll never move on. Promise me you will.” Anna nodded, but Johannes didn’t let go of her.
“I’ll hold you to your promise,” he said. “And don’t take too long,” he added. “Hey, look at me!” Anna looked into his eyes without blinking.
“Johannes. I’ll forgive him. I promise you. Not today, please? But soon.”
Anna turned into Kongshøjgade and stopped dead. Three police cars were parked in the street outside Johannes’s apartment and a dozen people had gathered outside the stairwell, which was cordoned off with red-and-white police tape. Slowly, Anna walked closer, her heart pounding.
Chapter 10
Thursday morning Søren woke up far too early. He gave up trying to go back to sleep and got up. He lit a fire in the living room, heated frozen rolls in the oven, and forced himself to enjoy two minutes of home life wherein he wasn’t thinking about the case. At 7:20 a.m. it began to get light. Søren put on thick socks as he contemplated how cold it was for October. Perhaps it was a sign of a hard winter to come?
Søren remembered the ice winter of 1987 when Denmark had been landlocked with Sweden for over two months. Søren had been seventeen years old and Knud had taken him ice-fishing. They had put snow tires on Knud’s Citroën, set off in severe frost and brilliant sunshine, and driven across the ice to Sweden. A state of enjoyable mayhem had reigned on the ice with cars weaving gingerly in and out between each other, people on foot chatting as they pulled children on sleds, and skaters with scarves flapping in the wind. When they reached Sweden, they headed north. Knud had borrowed a friend’s cabin on an island.
“How can we fish when the lake is frozen solid?” a baffled Søren had asked as they walked across the ice to the island. Knud winked conspiratorially at him.
They had lazed about all weekend. They played cards or Mastermind and ate chocolate in the cabin. They threw logs on the fire and went for a walk around the island. Knud had brought a dartboard and they played outside until the light faded, wearing gloves so they could hold bottles of beer without getting frostbite on their hands. Knud asked Søren what was on his mind these days. Søren’s initial reaction was that it was a weird question, but then he got the urge to confide in his grandfather. Tell him the things he thought about, the people he thought about, who his real friends were and who weren’t, why he had been bored on a school visit to the Royal Theatre for a stage version of Hosekræmmeren, though he loved the original short story, why he didn’t have time for a girlfriend right now but there were some girls he liked; there was this girl in his class, her name was Vibe, she had completely green eyes.
It was evening now, there were millions of stars over Sweden, and they sat outside gazing at them, even though it was at least minus ten degrees. Knud made hot cocoa and warmed their sleeping bags by the fire and there they sat, like two fat caterpillars, in the darkness, in Sweden. Suddenly Søren turned to his grandfather and raised a subject they rarely discussed.
“There’s a boy in my year called Gert. He lost his parents when he was ten years old. Car crash. He’s gone completely off the rails. He cuts school, he drinks, and never does his homework. I think he might be expelled. They say he used to live with his aunt. I don’t know him all that well. I think she got fed up with him. So he went into foster care. Two different homes. Finally, he was sent to boarding school. He’s back with his aunt now, but only until he finishes school. If he finishes, that is.”
Knud stared into the darkness. The constellations were clear and the darkness between them endless.
“But I’m not unhappy, Knud,” Søren said. “I know Peter and Kristine are dead. I know they were my parents, and they loved me. But I’m not sad. Not about that.” He fell silent.
They sat next to each other without speaking for almost five minutes. Then, in a thick voice, Knud said, “Sometimes, when I look at you, I miss them so much I think my heart will break.”
Søren said nothing, but he took Knud’s hand.
Søren decided to go to work early rather than try to relax at home. The rising sun made the sky glow flaming red. The heater was on. Søren switched on his radio but turned it off again. He needed silence to review the last few days. The College of Natural Science simultaneously fascinated him and drove him insane. Practically all its staff were friendly and helpful, and they had answered his questions willingly, yet he still felt as if he had made no progress. As if they weren’t telling him everything.
The forensic evidence turned out to be equally inconclusive. There were prints everywhere in Helland’s office. Anna Bella Nor’s, Johannes Trøjborg’s, Professor Ewald’s, and Professor Jørgensen’s along with a million others. It made no sense. Nothing significant had been found on Helland, only a micro-layer of soap with a hint of lavender, which merely confirmed Helland had showered before going to work on the day he died. There were no prints, no skin cells, no sweat, and no saliva that wasn’t Helland’s. Everything confirmed if Helland had been murdered, it had technically happened three to four months ago.
The previous day Søren had been informed that Professor Freeman had checked into Hotel Ascot. He was briefly cheered up by this; but a) Freeman was clearly here for the bird symposium, and b) Søren didn’t for a moment believe that an ageing ornithologist from Canada had traveled to Denmark four months ago to infect Professor Helland with parasite eggs. Nevertheless, Søren and Henrik went to pick him up at his hotel, and while in the car, Søren wondered if his decision to interview Clive Freeman was an act of desperation rather than real investigation work. When you had nothing to go on, you clutched at straws. The interview did indeed prove to be a waste of time, and when he sent the professor home two hours later, the case had progressed no further. It remained bizarrely devoid of clues.
Søren spent the rest of the day at his desk growing increasingly frustrated. Finally, he decided to turn the spotlight back on Erik Tybjerg, and just after 4 p.m. he returned to the Natural History Museum. This time, his first port of call was the reception, but the receptionist was unable to help him.
“By the way, you’re not the only person looking for him,” the young woman behind the counter added. Søren was exasperated. What kind of workplace was this where you could just vanish without anyone taking the slightest notice? He asked to speak to the head of the institute. The young woman gave him a skeptical look but picked up the telephone and dialed a number. Ten minutes later a man appeared and introduced himself as Professor Fjeldberg. He was bony and gray, but his eyes sparkled.
“How can I help you?” he said, politely.
“I’m Superintendent Marhauge,” Søren said, showing him his badge. “I would like to see Dr. Tybjerg’s office. I’ve been looking for him for the last two days in connection with the death of Professor Helland. I would like to stress Dr. Tybjerg isn’t a suspect, but I would very much like to talk to him to establish Professor Helland’s movements up to his death.” Søren sounded like he was reading from a script, and the older man looked at him for a long time.
“You know very well I can’t let you into Dr. Tybjerg’s office without a warrant.”
Søren looked resigned. Professor Fjeldberg continued: “But I’ll allow it this once. I, too, have been wondering where he is.”
They followed a different path through the confusing building, and it wasn’t until they reached the windowless corridor that Søren realized where they were: in the basement facing the University Park. They entered the laboratory in front of Tybjerg’s office, and Søren had a look around. The room looked unused. The trash cans were empty and the microscopes were shrouded.
“Here you are,” Fjeldberg said when he had unlocked the door to Tybjerg’s office. “How long will you need?”
“Twenty-five minutes,” Søren said.
Fjeldberg lingered in the doorway. “Is it true about the parasites?” he asked, hesitantly.
Søren groaned inwardly. “What do you mean?” he said, feigning ignorance.
“Is it true that Helland died because he was riddled with parasites?”
Søren laughed briefly. “You know I can’t discuss the case with you. But the parasite story is news to me.”
“I knew it couldn’t be true!” Fjeldberg exclaimed triumphantly, and marched down the corridor.
“Damn, damn, damn,” Søren muttered to himself as Fjeldberg’s footsteps faded away. The parasite rumor was spreading like wildfire. He entered Tybjerg’s office. It was small and full to bursting without being messy. There were bookcases on two walls, a display cabinet against the third, and a desk against the fourth. No old mugs or glasses, no journals lying around. Tybjerg had around fifteen classical music CDs lined up next to his computer, but otherwise very few personal possessions were in evidence.
Søren studied the room for a long time. It looked like something out of an IKEA catalogue rather than the office of a real human being. He read the book spines and discovered that Dr. Tybjerg’s own publications took up almost two shelves. They were mostly journals with Post-it notes attached to the pages where his articles appeared, but there were also a dozen books with his name on the title page. His most recent work was a reference book on birds that had been published earlier that year, Søren read on the title page. An A to Z of Modern Dinosaurs, it was called.
Hey, what was this? He pulled out a thick volume and discovered a beaker with a toothbrush and a disposable razor behind it. He removed more books and his eyes widened. Shaving cream, shampoo, a bottle of aftershave, a cheap plastic comb, stacks of clean underwear, socks rolled up in pairs, three pairs of jeans folded double. When he searched the other shelves, he found personal items behind every book. More clothes, more toiletries, four novels, a stamp collection, a blanket, a torch, an old-fashioned Walkman, and a bag of audio books, including Lord of the Rings.
When Søren had checked everything, he replaced the books and once again the office became bland and impersonal. Behind the door he discovered a fold-out bed, without its mattress. Weird. Søren looked inside the bin, but it was empty. Then he caught sight of a card sticking out between two books. He pulled it out. It was a colorful postcard from Malaysia, the handwriting was sloped and childish. Malaysia is great, but the food very spicy. Will be home soon. Cheers, Asger. A postcard from a friend. He glanced at his watch, then he scribbled down his telephone number on a piece of paper and put it on Dr. Tybjerg’s keyboard. He left the office with one clear goal: to find Tybjerg. He heard Fjeldberg’s footsteps in the corridor.
On their way back to civilization, Søren tried to quiz Professor Fjeldberg about Dr. Tybjerg, but it proved to be difficult.
“He’s good,” Fjeldberg kept stressing. “Very good. Plenty of publications, a visionary. But not terribly well liked.”
“Why not?”
“He’s rather eccentric,” Fjeldberg said, bluntly. “But then again, who isn’t around here?”
“Can you be more specific?” Søren pressed him. Fjeldberg thought about it.
“Erik Tybjerg has been associated with this museum since he was fourteen years old. I first heard about him through a friend who worked with his foster father, and I contacted him at the beginning of the 1980s. Tybjerg has a photographic memory and he knows everything there is to know about birds. I tasked him with reviewing the collection, and he organized and arranged the whole thing and has been maintaining it ever since. He knows every bone fragment and every feather in every drawer. He graduated as a biologist, but though he has been a fixture in this place for the last twenty-five years, I don’t really know him. We’ve worked together on several occasions, most recently in connection with a feather exhibition currently on public display upstairs. You must have experienced this yourself: some people you just can’t get close to. Dr. Tybjerg is one such person. He always talks about his subject in an odd, rather chanting manner, and he works nonstop. My wife will tell you I work far too much, you have to in this business. The competition is very stiff. But I’m a slacker compared to Dr. Tybjerg. He’s always her
e. In the Vertebrate Collection, in the corridor outside the collection, in his basement office, or in the cafeteria. Always. Last year, I even ran into him on Christmas Eve.” Fjeldberg looked at Søren and added. “I had left my wife’s Christmas present behind in my office, and I stopped by around 3 p.m. to pick it up. All the lights were off, and I could have sworn I was alone. Suddenly I heard footsteps. I turned around, thinking it must be the security guard, but it was Tybjerg. He was carrying a bag of shopping and seemed to be in a good mood. We wished each other a Merry Christmas and as he was about to leave, I casually said, ‘Aren’t you going home for Christmas?’ He muttered something, but when I asked him to repeat it, he gave a different answer. He said he was an atheist. Like I said, he didn’t seem sad at all, or I would have invited him to spend Christmas with us—I mean, if he had no family to go to. But he seemed fine. Scientific work clearly is his whole life.”
Søren looked at Fjeldberg. They were back at the main entrance, where he had been met less than an hour ago.
“There’s something I don’t understand,” Søren said. “Dr. Tybjerg’s relatively young, he’s talented, he publishes prolifically, he’s dedicated and hard working, but according to your administrator with whom I spoke yesterday, he has never been offered tenure. Why on earth not?”
Professor Fjeldberg sighed, and Søren’s seismograph reacted.
“Personally, I’m not surprised—it’s a rare thing. We have to be selective, and there are many high-quality candidates out there.” Fjeldberg looked straight at Søren. “What does puzzle me is how Tybjerg manages to work here as though he had tenure. He must have found a way, I can see that, but where does he find the money to fund his research? Of course, he has worked with Helland on several of his projects, but that… that’ll come to an end now. I imagine he will be forced to apply for jobs abroad, and I think that would be a good thing. This is a very small pond, if you catch my drift. Dr. Tybjerg is hugely overqualified, scientifically speaking, but his social skills are poor. The University of Copenhagen is completely the wrong place for someone like him. Too many sharp elbows, too much professional jealousy, and meager prospects for an oddball like Tybjerg who can’t teach, nor should he; he should be allowed to get on with his specialized research. That would be the ideal solution: Enough money to invest in scientists with social and educational skills and also in experts who research exclusively within a narrow field. But we don’t have the money, it’s as simple as that. So we only hire people with sound subject knowledge and teaching qualifications, i.e., people who can get along with others and teach them something.”