The Dinosaur Feather

by S. J. Gazan

  “With money comes responsibility,” she stated. “And the plan was that Johannes would join the firm. Jørgen had taught Johannes everything about the business. Everything. And suddenly, he wanted out.” She gave Søren a dark look. “He was adamant he wanted to be an academic, just like his biological father. It was very difficult for Jørgen to accept. It caused deep rifts between my husband and Johannes. They had huge arguments, but Johannes had made up his mind.

  “When their feud was at its peak, Johannes started to deliberately provoke Jørgen. He showed up in a skirt and wearing eye makeup for dinner on St. Martin’s Eve—would you believe it—I don’t know what he was thinking. His appearance had been becoming increasingly bizarre: the black boots in the hall, which I nudged behind the coats, and his hair, of course. He dyed it red. I noticed other details. The edge of some item of jewelry. His pierced ears, which he had the decency to keep unadorned when he visited us. I regarded this as a concession because Johannes knew his stepfather would fly into a rage. Jørgen didn’t approve of people being different.” Mrs. Kampe shook her head. “But that night, he showed up in a leather skirt and wearing eye makeup. At first I thought he must be drunk, but he wasn’t. His hands were shaking, I remember, but his eyes were challenging, as if he had decided to declare war. I knew there would be trouble.” Mrs. Kampe looked at Søren, her eyes filled with the trepidation and defiance she had previously attributed to her son.

  “Jørgen always saw Johannes in his study. That evening, I waited in the kitchen for an eternity. I solved a crossword. The food grew cold.” She smiled sheepishly. “Suddenly I noticed the door to my husband’s study was open. Jørgen was behind his desk, flicking through a hunting magazine. I asked him where Johannes was, and he said, ‘He’s gone and he won’t be coming back.’”

  “And did he?”

  “No,” Mrs. Kampe replied. “He didn’t. Not while Jørgen was alive. I called him many times. I missed him. Johannes wanted me to get a divorce. He said it as if visiting me depended on it. But, of course, I wasn’t going to. I loved Jørgen. So he started saying all sorts of vile things.” She hesitated.

  “Such as?” Søren wanted to know.

  “Things like I was a prisoner in my own home. That Jørgen was a tyrant, and I wore an invisible ball and chain. That if this was my idea of love, then I was blind.” She looked down.

  “Jørgen left Johannes nothing when he died. Or rather, he left him one of the stag heads in the corridor. It’s still there. Johannes refused to collect it. He was furious, but what did he expect? My husband had heard nothing from him for the better part of a year, not even when he was admitted to hospital and had only weeks to live. When Johannes found out he would inherit nothing, he was furious.”

  Her exasperation flared up, then her façade cracked.

  “I wish Johannes was still a little boy. He was a wonderful little boy. Gentle and industrious. He did as he was told and he was never any trouble. Neither of my children was. But as adults… I don’t know. We must have done something wrong. And now it’s too late.” She straightened up.

  “Why could Johannes’s sister be excused?” Søren asked.

  “Mental health problems,” Mrs. Kampe replied. “It started when she reached puberty. She lived with us for many years, but eventually the burden grew too heavy. So she moved into a residential home.”

  “Was Johannes gay?” Søren asked suddenly.

  “His sister said he wasn’t,” Mrs. Kampe replied. “I obviously suspected he might be. I mean, leather skirts and makeup? I’ve never met any of his boyfriends, but what do I know about gay men? I don’t approve of them and yes, for a time I believed he was gay. My daughter said he was merely a member of some club where men wore skirts and corsets. That he definitely wasn’t gay. She knew that because she had met his girlfriend. An older woman.”

  “I’ll need to speak to your daughter,” Søren said.

  “No,” Mrs. Kampe replied.

  Søren regretted his strategy.

  “I’ll need to speak to someone who knew Johannes,” he said kindly. “A friend, an ex-lover, or his sister.” He gave Mrs. Kampe a pleading look. “Right now, I’ve got nothing to go on.”

  Janna Kampe looked at him for a long time. Then she took the scrapbook and flicked to the third page. Søren had noticed the picture, but paid no attention to it. The photo showed a curvaceous woman around forty, with thick curly hair held in place by a spotted bandana. Her smile sparkled. Søren skimmed the text. The article was about a vintage furniture store in Nordre Frihavnsgade. The owner’s name was Susanne Winther; she was a trained psychotherapist and now a passionate furniture collector. She loved spending her weekends tracking down hidden treasures at flea markets in and around Copenhagen, with her boyfriend Johannes. His name was highlighted, and the article was published two years ago.

  “My daughter gave me this. She said the woman was Johannes’s girlfriend. She told me to tell Dad, to tell Jørgen. So Jørgen wouldn’t think Johannes was… a shirt-lifter.”

  Søren wrote Susanne Winther’s name and the date of the article in his notepad. Johannes had had a girlfriend. Calling it a breakthrough might be an exaggeration, he thought wryly. But it was a start.

  “It’s helpful,” Søren said. “But before I speak to her, I really want to talk to Johannes’s sister. I presume her surname’s also Trøjborg? Where does she live?”

  “In heaven,” Janna Kampe said quietly. “She took her own life last summer. She suffered from schizophrenia and was frequently hospitalized. In the end, she gave up.”

  Søren sat, shaken, in front of a woman who had lost both her children. He had run out of questions and got up to leave. Mrs. Kampe escorted him through the fine, cold house, and he promised to call her with any news.

  When he drove back to the city, he could smell his own sweat.

  Under normal circumstances, he would have dropped by Bellahøj police station and picked up Henrik, but suddenly he found himself at the junction with Jagtvejen, a long way from the police station, very close to Nordre Frihavn, and still angry with Henrik. He parked on Strandboulevarden and walked up Nordre Frihavnsgade where he soon found Susanne Winther’s store, which was called The Apple. When he entered, the first thing that caught his eye was a dozen apple-shaped bowls arranged on a teak table, which could easily have come from his childhood home in Snerlevej. Faint music could be heard and there was an aroma of apples and cinnamon.

  “Be with you in a minute,” a voice called out from the back room.

  Søren sat down in a high-backed armchair, which someone had updated by decorating its worn armrests with red appliqué apples. He thought about Vibe. About her open face, eyes that had trusted him since that high-school disco. He thought about Maja. The memory of the last time he saw her hadn’t faded. Her singular smell, sweet and enticing, and her foot, tiny inside her booties, even smaller in his hand. The lie weighed him down. Knud had urged him to live his life right, free from lies, free from secrets. He had said lies never expired, but Søren had been arrogant and believed his lie would dissolve and evaporate. And when that had happened, his life would once more consist of manageable fluctuations within a normal range. No more hurt. No more pain. Like all the years with Vibe. A nice, quiet life, free from drama, free from loss. Now he had ended up with the exact opposite. He was attracted to Anna. It was unprofessional and risky. Anna had upset his careful balancing act. What was it all about? Her yellow eyes, her volatility, her devil-may-care attitude. He didn’t even dare to think how scared he would be, all the time, if she were his. All that drama, every day, upending every stone, stirring everything up, turning everything inside out.

  There were apples everywhere in Susanne Winther’s store. A mirror with a plastic apple frame hung on the wall, and on the floor lay a crocheted rug with a picture of a large red apple.

  “Hi.”

  Søren instantly recognized Susanne Winther from the picture. She was obese and very beautiful. White flawless skin, freckles do
wn the bridge of her nose, and an impressive head of cascading curls, kept away from her face with a headband. She was wearing an apron with a large red apple and green trimming, and she offered Søren a plate.

  “I’ve been baking,” she said cheerfully. “And made a fresh pot of tea. You looking for anything in particular?”

  Søren suddenly realized how hungry he was and took a slice of cake.

  “Someone’s got an apple obsession,” he remarked.

  Susanne Winther laughed.

  “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You were looking for a dining table? I happen to have one in the back. Do you want to have a look? You did want a solid wood one, didn’t you? That was you?”

  Søren stood up abruptly.

  “I’m with the police,” he said, feeling guilty as he wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth. Susanne Winther chuckled and winked at him. Then she froze.

  “Please tell me you’re joking?” she said. For the second time that day, he pulled out his badge. Susanne Winther buried her face in her hands.

  “Is Magnus all right?”

  Somewhere, at the back of Søren’s mind, an alarm went off.

  “I’m here because Johannes Trøjborg’s dead, and I have reason to believe you knew him.” Søren waited for her reaction. She seemed relieved.

  “Sorry,” she said and slumped down on a sofa. “But that’s dreadful. What happened? Christ Almighty. I’ve a little boy. Magnus. He’s seven months old, and he’s at home with his daddy. For a moment, I thought something terrible had happened to them. That they had been killed.” She gave Søren a dazed look. “So Johannes is dead? How? Did he have a crash? Why are you here?”

  “Were you Johannes Trøjborg’s girlfriend two or three years ago?” Søren asked.

  “Yes, we were together. For a year. But we haven’t seen each other for a long time.” Again she buried her face in her hands. “But, Jesus Christ, I spoke to him recently,” she said, “less than two weeks ago. We were really good friends, or whatever you call it when you don’t see each other very often. He wanted to see Magnus. He promised to call soon and arrange a time when he was less busy. That’s why I didn’t worry when I hadn’t heard from him. So he’s dead?” She stared at Søren.

  “Did he have a crash?” she asked again.

  Søren shook his head.

  Susanne Winther closed the store and called her husband. Søren could hear her speak in a low voice in the back room. It sounded as if she were crying. Søren helped her carry two chests on the pavement back inside the store. Together, they walked to his car and Søren opened the door for her. The sun was shining, and he put on his sunglasses. He slid his cell into its holder and inserted his earpiece. Two messages. The first one was unimportant, and the other was from Henrik, wondering where the hell he was. There was still no sign of Dr. Tybjerg, and Henrik wanted to know if they should issue a wanted by police notice or what? They needed a breakthrough, no matter how small. Søren hated it when Henrik lectured him and was about to get annoyed when he spotted a newspaper headline outside a newsagent.

  PSYCHO PROF KILLS AGAIN it said in large letters, and below that Cops clueless. At the same time he heard Henrik’s recorded voice:

  “I don’t know if you’ve seen the tabloids today, but the Police Commissioner just charged past the office with steam coming out of his ears. He’s looking for you as well. I think the time is ripe for a press conference, and you need to find something we can feed the sharks with. So, see ya! Honestly, dude, what do you think you’re doing?” And he hung up.

  Søren and Susanne Winther drove in silence. Suddenly, Søren’s cell rang. It was Henrik again.

  “Where the hell are you?” he shouted.

  “I’ll be at the station in three minutes. Can you find an interview room for me? I’m with Susanne Winther, Johannes Trøjborg’s ex-girlfriend.”

  “I get the impression you suspect me of something,” Susanne began, when Søren had hung up. “An interview. That sounds very serious.” She looked at Søren. “Johannes and I were together for just under a year, a couple of years ago. It seems a little over the top to be picked up by the police and brought in for questioning without warning.”

  Søren was tempted to exploit her uncertainty and let her roast in the silence. He was good at that.

  “We don’t suspect you of anything,” he said, kindly. “Of course we don’t. But I need to understand what kind of person Johannes was in order to find out who killed him. I need your help. I really need your help.”

  Susanne Winther sighed.

  “All right,” she said.

  Susanne Winther met Johannes on the goth scene. They got talking at the bar in the Red Mask, a candlelit semicircle in a crowded room, somewhere in Østerbro. Relatively soon afterward, they began a sexual relationship wherein Susanne dominated Johannes. Later, Susanne introduced Johannes to the fetish scene and Inkognito.

  Johannes was ten years Susanne’s junior and, to begin with, when their relationship was purely sexual, this had been irrelevant. However, when they grew closer and Susanne told Johannes she would like to have a child, Johannes had cooled. Not in a hurtful way, not at all. They talked about it at length and their subsequent split came with considerable sadness. Johannes didn’t want to have children, and she did. They were equally insistent. That was the bottom line. Now she was married to Ulf, whom she had met at a fetish event.

  “Johannes and I really liked each other, but we had incompatible views on children. Our breakup was final and clean. Soon after, I met Ulf, I got pregnant, and we stopped being part of the scene.”

  “Why?” Søren wanted to know.

  “Because we were in love, pregnant, and needed no one else.” Susanne smiled. Søren studied her face. Her expression was open and trusting.

  “Just now you described Johannes as ‘gentle,’” Søren said, flicking through his notes even though he hadn’t made any. “Earlier today I spoke to Johannes’s mother and she paints a different picture of her son. She describes him as both ‘ungrateful’ and ‘provocative.’”

  Susanne’s eyes darkened.

  “Don’t listen to a word she says,” she scoffed. “She destroyed her own daughter, and she tried to destroy Johannes, too.”

  Søren looked up in surprise.

  “When I spoke to her today, she seemed deeply affected by the loss of her son,” he objected, baiting her.

  “I don’t buy that for a moment,” Susanne sneered. “All right, she might worry about what to say to the ladies from the bridge club. It’s fashionable to have successful children in those circles. My son the CEO, my son the lawyer, and so on. I can imagine how inconvenient it must be for her to have to explain why she has no children left. Johannes’s sister killed herself, but you probably know that,” she added, when Søren failed to react. He nodded slowly.

  “I thought the tension came mainly from the stepfather, Jørgen… ?” Søren continued flicking through his notes.

  “Kampe,” Susanne prompted him. “As in Kampe Furniture. Yes, of course, a lot of it came from him, but at some level it suited Janna just fine to have a tyrant for a husband. It meant she never had to take responsibility for anything. And that was precisely how she wanted it. She behaved as the defenseless little wifey who couldn’t help having married a domineering brute who, in my opinion, abused his stepchildren. Not sexually,” she added quickly when Søren’s eyebrows shot up. “Metaphorically. His sister escaped, to some extent, by disappearing into her illness and by becoming just as passive and long-suffering as her mother. Johannes took the brunt of it. He was four years old and his sister was a baby when Jørgen entered their lives. And Jørgen cracked the whip from morning till night. Again, metaphorically speaking,” she repeated. “It was about elitism and winning. The kid should learn to ride thoroughbreds, play golf, sail, dive, stand at attention. He even criticized Johannes’s build; a real man didn’t weigh one hundred and forty pounds, a real man was over six feet tall, real men didn’t have slender, pi
ano-playing fingers. Certainly not in Jørgen’s eyes.” She stopped talking and studied her own hands. They were large and her fingers thick, but the backs of her hands were freckled and soft, and her nails gleamed. Søren looked at the beautiful woman in the far too heavy body.

  “I spent my teenage years thinking I should be different.” She glanced shyly at Søren. “My twenties were hard. In those days I truly believed visible ribs equaled happiness. If only I could lose weight, I would find a boyfriend with designer stubble, healthy interests, and a car. If only. When I turned thirty, I hit rock bottom. For nearly two years I languished in a prison of my own making…” She smiled at her choice of words and winked at Søren. “But then things changed. I went to therapy, I traveled, and I trained as a therapist myself. I worked as a therapist for nearly five years, then I had had my fill of navel gazing and bought The Apple. I know it might sound absurd, but suddenly I just knew I wanted to do something with apples and furniture. It was fun,” she said, sounding genuinely happy. “Building up the business from scratch. I was thirty-eight, and I was finally having fun. One of my customers, Stella, asked me if I wanted to check out the Red Mask. I knew of their parties, obviously, I had been active on the fetish scene for years, and many of the fetishists belong to both scenes, but until then the goth scene had never really appealed to me. I had joined the fetish scene purely for sex and, quite honestly, I couldn’t see the point of goth culture. But when Stella invited me, I gave it a try. Stella organizes goth and fetish events, and she often pops into the store,” she interposed and continued, “The goth scene changed my life. Here you’re accepted, respected, and valued right away and it continues like that, if you live and let live. Openness and tolerance toward anything outside the norm. I took to it like a fish to water. The third time I attended, I met Johannes. And do you know something?”