The Dinosaur Feather

by S. J. Gazan

  “We’ve all changed, Anna.”

  Anna went to the bathroom. When she came back, Karen had put on a CD of eighties music and was singing along to it.

  “Did someone called Birgit manage to get hold of you?” she said, halfway through a verse.

  “No.” Anna froze. “When did she call?”

  “At five o’clock. Birgit Helland. I got her number, and I gave her your cell number.”

  Anna hurried to her jacket. Her mobile showed one message. Birgit had called just after five and left a message: “I need to speak to you. It’s important. Nanna and I are going to our cottage tomorrow afternoon. Please could we meet before? Tonight, preferably. I’m begging you. Please call me. I can pick you up. Thanks.”

  Anna went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Then she applied a little makeup and brushed her teeth. Before she left the bathroom, she called Mrs. Helland. They spoke for less than a minute. Mrs. Helland would leave her house now and pick Anna up on the corner of Jagtvejen and Borups Allé in twenty minutes. Anna checked her watch. It was almost eleven. Then she went to the living room and asked casually: “You’re sleeping over, aren’t you?”

  Karen turned and smiled. “I told you, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. Hey, where are you off to?” She whistled softly.

  “I’ve got to do something.” Anna couldn’t help smiling. “I have to go to Birgit Helland’s house. She wants to talk to me. She’s coming to pick me up. I’ll be back in a few hours.” Anna looked at her watch. “But if I don’t. If I’m not here when you wake up tomorrow morning,” Anna swallowed, “call Superintendent Søren Marhauge and raise the alarm, okay?” Anna gave Karen a note with Søren’s cell number.

  “What do you mean? What could possibly happen?” Karen stared at Anna.

  “Nothing,” Anna said, lightly. She went to the hall and Karen followed her. Anna put on her army jacket, checked the battery level on her cell, and opened the cupboard in the hall where she kept her toolbox. She stuffed two cable ties and a small, sharp screwdriver into her pocket.

  “What do you need those for?” Karen wanted to know. Anna grabbed her shoulders and looked firmly into her eyes.

  “Karen. Don’t worry about me. God help anyone who tries to hurt me.” She smiled. “I’m merely taking precautions because I’m a paranoid bitch who doesn’t want to end up dead.” She kissed Karen’s cheek.

  “See you soon,” she said and before Karen could respond, Anna had closed the door.

  It was snowing lightly outside, but the tarmac was wet and dark. She waited on the corner, in the doorway of a bicycle shop. A girl’s bicycle was on display. Pink with a basket. There was a strawberry on the basket.

  A horn beeped.

  Mrs. Helland pulled over, leaned across and opened the passenger door. Anna got in. Mrs. Helland looked exhausted.

  “Hi, Anna,” she said, weakly. Anna put on her seatbelt.

  “Is it all right if we drive back to my place? It’s so cold. I don’t really want to sit in the car or go somewhere there are other people. It’s been a long day.” She smiled faintly.

  Anna nodded.

  “Thanks for coming to Lars’s funeral.” Mrs. Helland focused on driving.

  “Not at all.”

  “No, I don’t take it for granted. I appreciate it. I understand why you didn’t come to the wake. I was close to not showing up myself.” She laughed a brittle laugh.

  “I had to be somewhere else.”

  “It’s quite all right.” They drove on in silence.

  “Where’s your daughter tonight?” Mrs. Helland asked, looking at Anna.

  “At home,” Anna replied, trying to sound calm. “My friend Karen is with her.”

  Why the hell did Birgit Helland want to know that?

  When they pulled up in front of the house, it was almost half past midnight. The road was deserted, but the cars parked on either side indicated the houses weren’t empty. The light was on and Birgit must have put another log on the fire before picking Anna up, because it was roaring merrily when they entered the living room.

  “No, not for me, thank you,” Anna said, declining an offer of wine. Mrs. Helland poured herself a glass and downed two large mouthfuls. Anna wondered how much she had already drunk. Had she been over the limit when she drove? Mrs. Helland emptied her glass and refilled it.

  “Come on, we’re going upstairs. I’ve something to show you.”

  Anna had hung up her jacket in the hall but put her cell, the cable ties, and the screwdriver in the back pockets of her jeans. Warily, she followed Mrs. Helland up the stairs. There was a powerful scent of flowers, and when they passed the bathroom Mrs. Helland pushed open the door.

  “I brought some of the flowers home,” she said in a flat voice. On the bathroom floor stood a large cluster of white plastic buckets with multicolored bouquets. They continued down the corridor, past a half-open door leading to a teenage bedroom, tasteful and tidy compared to how Anna’s room used to look when she was that age. The bed was covered with an old-fashioned crochet blanket, and next to the bed stood a low makeup table with a round mirror, bottles of perfume, and an iPod on charger. The curtains were drawn and the windows glared ominously at Anna.

  “Nanna insisted on seeing a friend.” Birgit raised her arms and let them drop. “Life goes on.”

  They had reached the end of the corridor and Birgit opened the door to a surprisingly large room. To the left, a desk was pushed against a bare wall and, to the right, there was a built-in couch with scatter cushions covered in coarse fabric. The end wall was one large window and a magnolia tree, naked in winter, grew outside. On the desk was a computer, which turned out to be on when Mrs. Helland nudged the mouse.

  “I found something today…” she began. Anna looked at the screen and recognized the logo of an online bank she used herself. Mrs. Helland logged on using a pin code she copied from a piece of paper. A screen picture of account activities emerged.

  “Look at this,” Mrs. Helland said, pointing to the screen. Anna followed her finger, but found it hard to figure out what she was supposed to be looking at. The blood roared in her ears.

  “What is it?” she stuttered.

  “Payments. Every month during the last three years. I’ve checked our bank statements. Seven thousand kroner per month, money Lars transferred from his private account to an Amager Bank account. And do you know who owns that account?”

  Anna shook her head.

  “Erik Tybjerg.”

  They both fell silent.

  “So what does it mean?” Anna asked, slowly.

  “No idea. But we’re talking about a quarter of a million kroner.” Birgit let the amount linger in the air. Anna swallowed. Her brain was annoyingly sluggish.

  “And you knew nothing about this until today?”

  “No. The money came from Lars’s private account. I found the pin code in his desk drawer, and I logged on to see how much money he had left. Nanna got worried today and asked if we could afford to stay in the house, and I wanted to know where we stood. When I had accessed the account and found the transfers to Tybjerg, I went through Lars’s office systematically. Every drawer, every cupboard.” Mrs. Helland had been bending over the computer, now she straightened up and looked at Anna. The tears started rolling down her cheeks.

  “You were right,” she whispered. “Lars was ill. Much more so than I could have imagined in my worst nightmares.”

  “What did you find?” Anna dreaded the answer.

  “A bag filled with blood-soaked tissues.”

  “What?” Anna thought she must have misheard. Mrs. Helland went over to the couch, pulled out a drawer, and retrieved a plastic bag. It was stuffed full, but seemed light, precisely as if it really was full of tissues. Blood-soaked tissues. Fear started spreading through Anna’s body.

  “I found another bag. Behind this one.” She swallowed. “Full of support aids. Support bandages, a neck brace.” She gave Anna a look of despair. “And a t
eething ring, the kind you give to babies, with deep teeth marks. The police told me he was covered in bruises, like after a fall. Old injuries. That he must have fallen, and he had fractures to several of his fingers and toes—they even found two healed cuts to his scalp, which weren’t sutured though they ought to have been. I had dismissed what they said, you know, because they suspected me. The police always leave something out, and they always say things that aren’t true. They lay traps.” Mrs. Helland was panting now.

  “Erik Tybjerg was blackmailing him,” she whispered, “and I’ve spent all evening thinking about what he might have had on him.”

  Anna waited for her to continue.

  “Lars was diagnosed with a brain tumor nine years ago. He had surgery and made a full recovery. There has been nothing since. Last August we held a barbecue for Nanna when she graduated from high school. Lars was tending to the grill when he suddenly collapsed. We were frightened, but he made light of it. He sat on the lawn for ten minutes to collect himself and was in great shape the rest of the evening. He flipped burgers, happy as a clam, and joined Nanna and her friends in a croquet tournament.” Mrs. Helland looked at Anna. “Lars’s greatest fear was losing his intellect. Being slowly stripped of everything and ending up a vegetable. Shortly afterward, he moved out of the bedroom and into his study. I wondered why but not for very long. He didn’t want his snoring to disturb me, he said. And he was right, it had gotten worse, I must admit, so it suited me fine.” Again the tears rolled down Mrs. Helland’s cheeks in an asymmetrical pattern. “But this was the real reason.” She gestured toward the plastic bags. “He didn’t want me to know that his illness had returned. That the tumor had started growing again.” She looked into the distance. “I think Tybjerg knew about the tumor. He knew Lars had been seriously ill. Perhaps he tried to use it against Lars? Tybjerg has always been envious because Lars had tenure and he didn’t. I’m convinced Tybjerg was blackmailing him. What else could it be? Seven thousand kroner per month. That’s a lot of money. I’ve been trying to contact him today, but he’s not answering his phone or replying to e-mails. And do you know what really puzzles me?”

  Anna shook her head.

  “He didn’t attend the funeral. Isn’t that odd? Even Professor Freeman was there. But not Tybjerg. Anna, I think he killed Lars.” Mrs. Helland looked at Anna with burning eyes.

  “You need to tell all this to the police.”

  “I know.”

  “Why did you call me, Mrs. Helland?”

  “When you were here last, I could tell from looking at you that you thought I had killed my husband. You looked at me with contempt written large across your face. I couldn’t stand that.”

  “I don’t think you killed Lars,” Anna said, gently.

  “I loved Lars,” Mrs. Helland said.

  Anna walked home from Herlev. It took her ninety minutes. The cable ties and screwdriver were back in her jacket pocket; the mission had been called off. The night was crystal clear and the wind had died down. The cold was biting. She walked briskly, swinging her arms. For a moment, she was the only person alive, the only one who millions of stars had come out to see.

  There was a beeping sound from her back pocket. It was almost one thirty a.m. It was probably Karen who had woken up and was worried about her. She fished out her mobile and stopped under a bus shelter.

  It was a text message from Johannes.

  Can we meet? it read.

  Anna stared at the display in disbelief.

  Chapter 14

  On the morning of Saturday October 13, Clive went looking for a florist, and when he found one he meditated on the vagaries of life. Here he was, buying flowers for Helland’s funeral. He had skipped breakfast at the hotel, and when he had got the flowers he stopped for coffee and a bagel. He thought about Kay. About what she might be doing. They had met through mutual friends. Kay hadn’t been the most striking woman present that night, but she had exuded something old-fashioned and meticulous, which appealed to Clive. They quickly became a couple and married on the anniversary of their first date. A common enough story, Clive thought, and there was nothing wrong with that. Franz and Tom had followed in quick succession and Kay stayed home with the children while Clive went to work. So far their marriage had been undramatic. In fact, it reminded Clive very much of his parents’ marriage with one exception: Clive made an effort with Kay. He knew she didn’t always understand his work, but he made a point of keeping her informed about major developments. They had always spoken politely to each other, both when they were alone and in front of the children. Clive knew he had behaved well. He had no interest at all in other women; he didn’t drink or gamble. Nor had he ever hit Kay. Until now. He looked out at the gray capital and cursed Jack. Jack was responsible for the vast majority of drama in Clive’s life. He was a thirty-year curse that had refused to release him. Clive had never suffered as much as he did when Jack became a teenager, lost interest in him, and moved away. Not even his intellectual clash with his father had cost him so dear. He had been unable to sleep and had desperately wished for Jack to come back. The anguish faded only slowly. He thought it must be fate when he met Jack again. Clive was a scientist and didn’t believe in fate, but when he spotted Jack in the university lobby, he refused to accept it was a coincidence. Their paths kept crossing and all they had to do was reach out. But Jack didn’t reach out. Clive had given him hundreds of chances, but Jack hadn’t followed him since childhood.

  Clive massaged his eyebrows. He wouldn’t think about Jack. His lecture was at six o’clock and before that there was Helland’s funeral.

  The church was full to the rafters when Michael and Clive entered. The tall superintendent, Marhauge, sat right inside the door, in the last row, and he nodded kindly to Clive. The usher took his flowers, and Clive looked for a vacant pew. Michael fell behind, but Clive was pushed forward and ended up sitting near the front. At least two hundred people were there. The coffin, decorated with flowers, shone brightly in front of the altar. In the first pew, to the right, were two distraught-looking women in black who spoke in hushed voices. They had to be Helland’s family. Clive found it unreal that Helland had a family. Helland, that evil man. Several men sat in the front pew to the left, suggesting Helland had been one of several brothers. He had certainly had many friends and colleagues.

  Diagonally behind him, Clive spotted a young woman who was looking in his direction. She had light brown bobbed hair, sneakers on her feet, and she wore jeans and an inappropriate army jacket with a hood. She seemed very angry.

  What on earth was she staring at? He tried to follow her gaze, but no one stood out in the sea of people in front of him. Everyone was busy taking off their coats and opening hymnals. He realized the young woman was staring at him. At that moment the service began.

  Later, at the Bella Centre, Clive noted to his delight that around one hundred and twenty people had shown up to hear him speak. He trawled the audience for familiar faces but found none. A heated debate followed the lecture. Clive knew the routine and had, by now, been on the receiving end of so many attacks that he would have been very surprised if his audience had responded with silence. Yet he noticed the results of the cartilage condensation experiment weren’t considered as revolutionary as Michael and he had hoped.

  “It’s an interesting experiment,” someone said. “But it doesn’t cancel out the 286 apomorphies linking modern birds to dinosaurs.”

  “I agree,” another said, nodding in Clive’s direction. “The ontogenesis of the bird hand is one of the weakest areas of the dinosaur theory. But we have to live with that. We can’t know the embryonic development of dinosaurs, for obvious reasons. But even without an insight into embryonic development, we have more than sufficient evidence to conclude that there’s a relationship. We really do, Professor Freeman.”

  “Yes,” a third person called out. “It’s the equivalent of doing a thousand-piece jigsaw of the New York skyline. Only one piece is missing, and yet you claim you can
’t see what city it is.”

  “I agree,” a fourth person said.

  Clive inevitably reached the point where he simply stuck to his guns and dismissed all criticism. Two people walked out, fewer than usual. He wasn’t facing a polite and sympathetic crowd who lapped up his every word, but they weren’t bad, either. He thought their eyes showed evidence of genuine interest.

  One hour later the room was deserted. Clive couldn’t hide his disappointment. A few members of the audience had come down to shake his hand, but he didn’t feel the cartilage condensation experiment had won over anyone. He couldn’t see why. It was a good experiment.

  “What do you think?” he asked Michael. “It felt like they didn’t quite follow.” Clive shook his head with frustration. Michael seemed distracted by something. He had been busy taking down the large, colorful posters but had stopped.

  “Michael?”

  Michael didn’t react until Clive was right next to him.

  “Earth to Michael,” Clive said.

  “Clive,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

  Clive looked baffled.

  “The department is closing,” Michael explained. Clive gasped. “The decision has been made. Our department will be merged with the department of Vertebrate Morphology and you…” Michael touched his head and said in an anguished voice, “There isn’t a position for you. That’s the official version. You’re being made emeritus professor. On paper. Of course, we’ll continue to include you. Well, I’ll include you in my projects, definitely. I was supposed to tell you before we went to Europe. But I couldn’t. I’ll understand if you’re angry.”

  “But why?” Clive stuttered. He was stunned.

  “I’m on your side, Clive,” Michael hastened to add. “It’s not that. Look at the condensation results. I support you. But every day new evidence emerges suggesting we could be wrong. We have to allow for the possibility that we might be wrong. The department of Bird Evolution, Paleobiology, and Systematics has become synonymous with your scientific position and that was never the intention. It can’t happen; it’s hurting UBC. We’re known as the Creationist Faculty. We have fewer students than ever, and you know what that means.” He rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “No one takes our graduates seriously, they can’t find work, and the faculty desperately needs money. We have to change course if we’re to have a hope of increasing our student numbers. And you’re too well known, Clive. The feeling is that we can’t save the sinking ship as long as you’re the captain.”