The Scream of the Butterfly

by Jakob Melander

  “But she was our only witness.” Lars had to lean on the desk for support. How could this happen?

  “Like I said, it’s not prison.” The woman shrugged her shoulders.

  “She can’t have got very far, don’t you think?” Lars was already halfway out the door.

  “Well, she caught the bus five minutes ago. It was going to Allerød station.” She waved her hand to indicate the direction.

  Lars ran to his car and sped down Saldholmgårdsvej toward Allerød. Serafine wouldn’t have gotten off yet, not while the bus was winding its way through the residential area or driving through the forest. He parked outside the station, jumped out of the car, and started running just as the back of the E-line train bound for Copenhagen left the platform.

  Lars closed his eyes and started counting. He stopped at four and took out his cell.

  “Lisa, it’s Lars. Where are you?”

  “At HQ, enjoying tip-offs from the public. Wasting my time and the taxpayers’ money.”

  “Right.” Lars was back at his car, unlocking the door. “Serafine has done a runner. I think she’s on the train going to Copenhagen.”

  “What? From Sandholm?”

  “I left her alone for five minutes max. Damn it.” Lars kicked the front tire of his car and got in. The sound of Lisa’s fingers racing across the keyboard were coming through his cell phone.

  “I’ll issue a wanted notice immediately.”

  Lars turned the key in the ignition and reversed out.

  “There’s more. The doctor up here claims that Serafine isn’t a she.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s a transsexual. She was trying to get the doctor to give her sex hormones, but he wouldn’t. I left her outside and went back to persuade him. I thought she just needed cough medicine or something. And then she ran while I was in there.”

  Lisa laughed.

  “It’s all very funny, isn’t it?” Lars accelerated, overtaking an old Citroën. “Can’t believe we didn’t figure it out.”

  “I’ll tell our fellow officers to ignore Skelbækgade and Istedgade. The gay bars are more likely to produce a result.”

  Lars muttered curses under his breath. He was on the highway. “I’m heading to HQ. There’s just one thing I need to stop off and do on my way.”

  Lars hung up. The needle was quivering at around 140 kilometres per hour. He hadn’t forgotten the stunt Merethe Winther-Sørensen and Kim A had pulled with Infomedia and the Royal Library. They weren’t going to get away with it.

  17

  THE FASHIONABLE SEASIDE town of Hornbæk on a typical Danish autumn day. A strong wind was blowing from the Kattegat; leaden clouds were visible through the bare branches overhanging the road. Sarah, who hadn’t uttered one word the whole trip, leapt out from the back seat, ran up the driveway, and disappeared into the garden.

  Sanne followed the driveway through the gate to the salmon-pink house. Windswept pines and torn shrubs dominated the front lawn; the grass was knee-high around the tree trunks.

  “What a mess.” The lawns in the holiday home area on the outskirts of Kolding, back where she came from, would be newly mowed, the bushes and shrubs trimmed into ruler-straight rows.

  Sanne opened the gate. Sarah was nowhere to be seen.

  “It’s meant to look this way.” Allan held up his hand, shielding his eyes against a stray sunbeam that sliced through all the grey. “I would guess a house like this costs over ten million.”

  Sanne surveyed the cottage and then shook her head. She was caught off guard and her cheeks grew hot when he asked the question.

  “Tell me, why are you so pissed off with Lars?”

  “I don’t think I am.” Was it really that obvious? “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I was just wondering . . . Wait, can you hear that?” Allan turned his head and sidled up to the house. Now she picked up on it too: angry voices, the odd word, half-sentences tossed and turned by the wind.

  “You stay away.”

  “Kirsten, she’s also my —”

  “That sounds like Merethe Winther-Sørensen, doesn’t it?” Sanne walked through the gate. In the garden, a tall man with a bald head stood under one of the pine trees, pulling his blazer tight against the wind. “Kim A?”

  “Sanne . . . Allan.” He greeted them. “Sarah went inside.”

  “Are they fighting?”

  Kim shrugged his shoulders and carried on smoking.

  Sanne and Allan walked up to the terrace and entered through the open door. In the kitchen, mother and daughter were standing in a close embrace. Kirsten Winther-Sørensen was rubbing her nose against her daughter’s hair.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” She let go of Sarah, who dried her eyes. “Surely you have no right to talk to her without me being present.” Kirsten Winther-Sørensen straightened her back, but stayed where she was. Merethe Winther-Sørensen entered the kitchen from the hallway behind Kirsten and Sarah, and gave Sanne and Allan the ministerial stare.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Sanne glared at Kirsten Winther-Sørensen, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the dining table.

  “Sit down.” She smacked her palm on the tabletop in front of a vacant chair. The dirty plates shook.

  “What gives you the right to interview my granddaughter?” Merethe Winther-Sørensen folded her arms across her chest. “It’s been two days since my son —”

  Kirsten Winther-Sørensen looked away.

  “Merethe, mind your own business.”

  Sarah disappeared into the bathroom in the hallway. At that same moment, Kim A entered the room.

  “Your meeting with the justice minister . . . If we’re going to be on time, we need to leave now.”

  Merethe Winther-Sørensen looked hard at Sanne, then at Kirsten, then back at Sanne again. She nodded.

  “I expect you to treat my family properly.” She raised her voice, calling out toward the bathroom. “Sarah? See you at the meeting this afternoon. You’ll put up your hair like we agreed, won’t you? It looks better, more serious.” Then the minister marched out of the kitchen, followed by Kim A.

  Kirsten Winther-Sørensen grimaced and started picking at a napkin. She hugged one shoulder with her other arm. Outside, the noise from a revving engine drowned out the wind for a brief second. Then it disappeared.

  “What was all that about?” Sanne spoke in a soft voice.

  But Kirsten Winther-Sørensen didn’t take the bait.

  “What do you want?”

  Allan took a seat at the end of the table.

  “We wanted to talk to you about Monday afternoon and evening, between three p.m. and eight p.m. specifically.”

  Kirsten Winther-Sørensen’s facial expression didn’t change. Sanne produced the printed statement from Nets and placed it on the table.

  “At 5:23 p.m. on Monday you used your debit card at the Shell gas station on Fredensborgvej in Hillerød.”

  There was no reaction.

  “Kirsten.” Sanne pointed to the printout. “Yesterday you told us that you were here all afternoon and evening.”

  Kirsten had unfolded the napkin and was tearing little pieces from it, dumping them into a half-empty coffee. The fragments gathered at the bottom of the cup, where they turned into a brown, sticky pulp.

  Sanne continued: “Sarah told us that you were gone between three thirty and eight o’clock that night.”

  Kirsten Winther-Sørensen gathered her cardigan around her. She had finished with the napkin; there was nothing left to tear. Instead, she started picking at the veins in the wood of the table with the nail on her forefinger. Sarah was on her phone in the bathroom. She was sobbing; they couldn’t make out individual words.

  “You could start by telling us where you were.” Allan’s chair creaked.

&
nbsp; Kirsten Winther-Sørensen rubbed the skin under her nose. She glanced briefly at Sanne, then at the Nets statement.

  “I was just driving around. I filled up the car and bought cigarettes in Hillerød and parked down by the marina. I sat staring across the water.”

  “Was something troubling you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sanne took over.

  “Sarah told us that you were angry with Mogens that day. He was supposed to have come up here, but changed his mind at the last minute. How would you describe your relationship with your husband?”

  Kirsten Winther-Sørensen started to laugh. It began as hollow, rippling laughter that soon turned into a coughing fit.

  “Are you suggesting that Mogens was having an affair?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking you.” Sanne folded her hands. Now that she had finally made eye contact with Kirsten Winther-Sørensen, she didn’t want to let her look away. “I don’t think you sat down by the marina staring at the sea on Monday. I think you drove to Copenhagen once you’d filled up your gas tank.”

  Kirsten Winther-Sørensen reacted for the first time. She pressed her hands over her ears and rocked back and forth. Sanne was about to continue when there was a knock on the French doors.

  “Am I disturbing anything important?”

  A tall man in his forties with short, mousy hair entered. He was wearing jeans and deck shoes. He took off his sunglasses and stuck them in his shirt pocket.

  Kirsten Winther-Sørensen placed her hands on the table.

  “Peter. The police are here.”

  Sanne got up.

  “We would like to speak to Kirsten Winther-Sørensen alone, so could you please come back later?”

  Sarah rushed into the room and jumped into the arms of the new arrival.

  “Peter! Thank God you’re here.”

  Peter hugged Sarah and put her down.

  “It’s good to see you too.” He looked from Sanne and Allan to Kirsten. His smile faded.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “And who are you?” Allan took out his notepad.

  “Peter is an old friend.” Kirsten got up. “Without him —”

  Sarah began to sob, leaning against the table for support. Her hair was a mess.

  “I’m going to ask you to leave now.” Kirsten Winther-Sørensen put her arm around her daughter.

  “We’re just trying to do our job,” Allan responded.

  “What questions do you have for Kirsten?” Peter folded his arms across his chest. “And Sarah? I understand that you interviewed her too?” He turned to Allan. “By the way, my name is Peter Egethorn. I’m a defence lawyer.” He produced a business card from his back pocket and slid it across the table. “Well?”

  Sanne studied the card.

  “May I?” When Peter Egethorn nodded, Sanne dropped the card into her handbag before summarizing their conversation.

  Allan passed the printout across the table. Peter scanned the sheet and then he looked up.

  “Do you have any other questions?”

  “She said that Mogens was having an affair.” Kirsten pointed at Sanne.

  “I see.” Peter Egethorn placed his hand on her shoulder. Then he turned to Sanne. “On what basis?”

  “Sarah told us that Kirsten got angry when Mogens called on Monday to say that he wasn’t going to come up here after all.”

  The lawyer sighed.

  “Surely even a police officer would concede that it’s normal for people to have marital problems without them killing each other.”

  Sanne shrugged. “We’re trying to find out what happened. It’s our job.”

  Peter nodded.

  “I understand. But Kirsten and Sarah have already been through more than anyone should be subjected to. If you don’t have anything else to add, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. So either arrest Kirsten, or interview her under caution.”

  “Peter!” Kirsten’s head shot up.

  “Easy now.” He put his hand over hers. “Everything will be all right.”

  Sanne opened the door on the driver’s side. She looked up just before she got behind the wheel. Peter Egethorn was standing on the terrace with his arm around Sarah, watching them.

  18

  LARS HALF-RAN UP the stairs to the parliament building in Rigsdagsgården, flashed his badge at an official, and went in. He shared the elevator with a young woman he thought he had seen on TV, a member of the Socialist People’s Party. The official at the entrance had told him that the finance minister was in a meeting with her fellow party members. It was impossible to say when it would finish.

  Today’s events had done nothing to improve his mood. He looked at his watch. It was almost four in the afternoon. He was sorely tempted to kick down the door to the meeting room — not even a minister had the right to obstruct a police investigation. This had to stop. Now.

  The Socialist People’s Party politician got off on the first floor, and Lars rode alone up to the second. He got off in a red corridor, which led to the parliamentary offices of the Radical Party.

  The corridor was crammed with journalists. Parliamentary officials tried in vain to impose some sort of order. Camera crews from TV 2 News and TV Avisen were there, and the printed press was out in full force too. The door to the meeting room could only just be seen through the swarm of reporters. The thick shag carpet on the floor and the numerous bodies in the corridor all helped to absorb the sound waves, but the noise was still deafening. They smelled blood.

  A skinny woman separated from the crowd and walked toward him. It wasn’t until she started speaking that he recognized her as the pushy journalist from the press conference yesterday.

  “Lars Winkler?”

  “Might be.” Lars tried to keep an eye on the door. “Who wants to know?”

  “Sandra Kørner, Ekstra Bladet.” She held out her hand. Lars ignored it. She let her hand drop and laughed. “You chucked out my photographer from Mogens Winther-Sørensen’s apartment on Monday and had him driven halfway to the other side of Amager. Are you aware he’s going to file a complaint about you?”

  “Let him.” Lars continued to stare past her. “He should expect to be summoned for a DNA test within the next few days.”

  Sandra Kørner scratched her ear.

  “I’m just giving you information. I’m not defending him.”

  “Hmm.” Was she actually trying to be friendly? “Do you know when they’ll finish?”

  “They’ve been at it for hours.” Sandra Kørner turned around and followed Lars’s gaze to the door to the meeting room. “Do you have any new leads? Is this why you need to talk to the minister?”

  “Listen, we have a press officer who works for our communications department. Try them.”

  “Oh, come on.” Sandra Kørner laughed. “Surely we can help each other out here. For example, I could —”

  The door to the meeting room creaked. Lars couldn’t see what was happening, but it sounded as if the handle had been pushed down from the inside. The journalists surged toward the door; TV cameras ploughed through the crowd of reporters. A forest of cameras rose from outstretched arms. Sandra Kørner pushed her way to the front.

  Lars tried to get an overview. There was no way he would reach the door. It was better to wait until the minister left — but would she turn left or right?

  The door opened and the crowd in front grew.

  “Hey, hey. Step back, would you?” The minister’s distinctive voice cut through the noise. Officials herded the reporters back in an attempt to clear enough space to allow the politicians and the party’s press officers to leave.

  “Minister, can you tell us what the meeting was about? Did you discuss the situation at the Town Hall?” It was impossible to determine which journalist was asking the q
uestions. Lars didn’t care, didn’t listen to the minister’s reply. Kim A was standing behind her. His bald head mirrored the TV light’s glossy reflection in the white woodwork. For a brief moment they locked eyes across the crowd. Then Kim A bent down and whispered in the minister’s ear; he nudged her gently, but firmly, in the direction of the nearest exit. Lars followed, hugging the wall, but the reporters formed an aggressive doughnut around the minister. It was impossible to get in close. He rushed after them, following the crowd down the broad staircase, and out through the hall onto Rigsdagsgården where the minister got into her car, which drove off before she had answered a single question. Lars caught a glimpse of her in the back seat, a pair of piercing little eyes staring back into his. Then she was gone.

  He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. Then he closed his eyes as he inhaled — yet another disappointment.

  “So you didn’t get anything from her either?” He opened his eyes. Sandra Kørner was standing next to him, watching her fellow journalists disperse toward the waiting cars.

  “Can I bum a smoke?” She pointed her pen at his cigarette. Lars produced his pack and Sandra Kørner took one. She used his lit cigarette as a lighter.

  “Thank you.” She handed it back to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me why you’re here?”

  Lars narrowed his eyes against the smoke. He could tell her about PET and the minister’s attempts to block his investigation. He could already imagine the headlines. They wouldn’t be welcome in the final stages of the election campaign.

  He removed the cigarette from his mouth and tapped off the ash.

  “Have a nice day.” He started walking to his car.

  “Oh, come on.” Sandra Kørner followed him. “Just some background. I promise I won’t quote you.”

  “Sorry, no.” Lars unlocked his car and got in. “Goodbye.”

  19

  SANNE DUMPED HER handbag on her desk. Allan sat down on the windowsill, dangling his legs.

  “What do we do?”

  She ran her hands through her hair. They didn’t have enough on Kirsten Winther-Sørensen, except a missing alibi and a lie. But there was something. Somewhere, there was a missing piece. If they could only . . .