The Scream of the Butterfly

by Jakob Melander

  “I need a surgeon.” She pulls out a chair and sits down opposite him.

  The doctor studies her.

  “I see.”

  “Can you help?”

  “Can you pay? It’s not cheap.”

  Serafine nods. The doctor takes out a yellow, pre-printed pad that looks like it’s for writing prescriptions, and a ballpoint pen. He scribbles down an address, tears off the top sheet, and hands it to her across the table.

  “I make no promises. Meet me outside this address at nine o’clock tonight. Do you know where it is?”

  “Yes,” she lies, and gets up. The doctor reaches out to hold her back.

  “Five percent, do you understand?”

  She understands. Everybody wants a piece of her. It’s just the way it is.

  39

  “A JAEGER-LECOULTRE . . . DO you have any idea how much they cost?”

  Lars shook his head, and picked up his crumpled pack of King’s Blue. Was it all right if he smoked? The man reporting the crime, Aksel Lynge, a thirty-three-year-old banker, flung out his hand and rolled his eyes.

  “About ninety thousand kroner. So you can probably guess why I’m exceedingly keen to get it back.”

  “Take it easy.” Lisa closed the door to the enormous kitchen outfitted with black cabinets, dark grey marble flooring and counters, a stone sink, and a specialty coffee machine that probably cost as much as the watch, which Aksel Lynge had made no bones about wanting back.

  He had come to the station the day before, but due to the general bureaucracy and chaos of police headquarters, his report hadn’t been passed on to them. It wasn’t until today that some bright spark had connected the description of the thief as “English-speaking with a German accent” to Serafine and passed the file up to the Violent Crime Unit. Then it had taken another couple of hours for them to contact the victim.

  Aksel Lynge sent Lisa a look of despair and raked his hand through his hair. Then he sat down in a designer chair covered with black leather. It didn’t look comfortable.

  “I knew I should’ve stayed away from her, but those eyes . . .”

  Lars took his time lighting his cigarette. He inhaled and then expelled a cloud of smoke through the balcony door. The view across Trianglen wasn’t half bad, better than his own of the Metro building site. Car headlights swept down Blegdamsvej, neon advertisements glowed on the other side of the street.

  “So you met Serafine at Café Intime Wednesday evening. And the two of you agreed to carry on the party back here?”

  Aksel Lynge nodded.

  “And then?” Lars looked around. The man followed his eyes, and then pointed to an ashtray sitting on a steel grey Montana bookcase by the door. Lars took the ashtray and tapped off the ash.

  “Well, we weren’t playing tiddlywinks, were we?” Aksel Lynge moved the ashtray a few centimetres closer to Lars. The aggression had vanished from his voice.

  “We’re aware that this is uncomfortable, but we have to ask.” Lisa was making notes and didn’t look up.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. We had sex, all right? Afterward I fell asleep. And when I woke up — well, she was gone, and had taken my watch and any cash I had lying around.”

  Lars took out a photograph from his inside pocket.

  “Is this her?” He put the picture on the table in front of him. Aksel Lynge took one look at it.

  “Yes, yes! That’s her.” He pressed the tips of his fingers against his eyelids. His hands were shaking.

  “Please look carefully.” Lars pushed the photograph closer toward him. The banker sighed and bent over the picture again. The seconds passed.

  “Those eyes . . . You’re not likely to forget them in a hurry.” He looked up. “It’s her, except for the hair and the nails, I mean. She wasn’t wearing any makeup either.”

  Lars nearly dropped his cigarette. Lisa had stopped making notes. “What do you mean?”

  “She wasn’t dressed up. She looked like the other guys. But I could tell just by looking at her what she was.”

  Lars closed his eyes. It was obvious now. Serafine had cut her hair, removed her makeup, and changed her clothing. It was so incredibly simple and effective. All their efforts to trace her in the last few days had been in vain. He tapped the ash off his cigarette with an irritated movement.

  “So she didn’t speak Danish?” He exchanged a brief glance with Lisa.

  “No, she spoke English with a German accent, like in those films, you know? But I’ve already told you this.” He rummaged around in his pocket. “Listen, I have the receipt for the watch, but I’ll need it back for the insurance. You can’t —”

  “We’ll make a copy. We promise to return it to you.” Lisa reviewed her notes.

  “Don’t get your hopes up.” Lars stubbed out his King’s. “Your watch is probably already out of the country.”

  His phone started ringing in his inside pocket.

  “Yes? Lars speaking.”

  Lisa concluded the interview with Aksel Lynge while Lars was on the phone. He didn’t hang up until they were out on the stairwell and Lisa had closed the apartment door behind them.

  “That was the duty officer.” Lars was half-running down the curved staircase. “An Albanian guy tried to stab someone at Central Station. It could be Serafine — without the hair and the makeup.”

  “Right, so we’ve got her.”

  “Unfortunately not. She got away. But the Albanian is back at headquarters.”

  Lars looked up from the surveillance footage from Copenhagen Central Station as Sanne entered his office. She didn’t bother to say hello.

  So that was how it was going to be from now on.

  He pulled out a chair for her and pointed to the screen. Sanne stared at the chair, about to protest. Then she snorted and sat down, leaning back with her arms folded across her chest.

  At that moment, Toke popped his head around the door.

  “Lars? I thought you might want an update on the Wikipedia business. I’ve just spoken to IT. Turns out it’s a bit more complicated than they originally thought. Your guy is hiding behind several proxy servers. They’ve followed the trail to Dubai, but it looks as if there’s at least one more.”

  “Are you telling me my guy is in the Middle East?” Lars spun around in his chair.

  “No, no.” Toke laughed. “But the proxy server is. He could be sitting next door or in the corner behind you.” He winked. Then he was gone.

  Lars turned back. Sanne had changed position while he’d been speaking to Toke. Now her head was close to the screen. Her face was open and attentive, lit up by the blue-grey glow from the monitor.

  “There.” Her finger followed a thin, short-haired figure passing diagonally between the picture frames. “That has to be her. But what happened to her hair?

  “She cut it off and removed the makeup.” Lars looked at her. Sanne’s gaze had cooled once more. So they were back to square one.

  40

  VALMIR WAS SITTING at the square table in the interview room. A whitish substance had dried on the collar of his leather jacket and the shirt underneath it. The stain had cracked and was emitting the sweet-and-sour smell of yogurt. Lars closed the door and sat down. Sanne looked down at the report with her pen poised.

  Lars smiled. “Right, Valmir. That is your name, isn’t it?”

  Valmir swept his longish hair away from his face. “Got any smokes?”

  “Sorry, no. Perhaps we can take a cigarette break later. But first we have to get started, don’t we? What’s your last name?”

  Valmir stared out the window. He knew the drill.

  “Valmir Shqender.” He reeled off an address. Sanne wrote it down. All three of them knew that the address was fake, but none of them said anything.

  “Okay, that didn’t hurt very much, did it?” Lars folded his hands on the
desk. “So what were you doing at the railway station?”

  “Meeting someone.” Valmir was still sitting with his side to them, staring out of the window. A police officer sat bent over his desk on the other side of the oval courtyard.

  “Would that be Serafine?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Oh, give us a break. The person you chased after with a knife.” There was no need to mention her transgender status at this point.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Lars looked at Sanne, who stared at her notepad with her lips pursed in a smile. What was so funny? Lars leaned back in his chair. If she had any better ideas, he’d like to hear them.

  There was a moment of silence. Then Sanne looked up and put down her pen.

  “Listen.” She took out the knife, which they had found in Valmir’s possession, and put it on the table between them. It was a heavy hunting knife with a short, broad blade, wrapped in a transparent plastic bag. “Security footage shows you clearly pulling out the knife the moment you saw Serafine. You’re just wasting everybody’s time.”

  Valmir shrugged his shoulders.

  “We could always have another look at your residence permit.” Sanne had picked up her pen again, but had yet to make any notes.

  Lars had another go.

  “More than twenty witnesses saw you chase Serafine through the railway station. Four of them are the police officers who arrested you. If you think —”

  Sanne interrupted him. “Did your crew pay Serafine to kill Mogens Winther-Sørensen?”

  Valmir raised his eyebrows.

  “I don’t think . . .” Lars frowned at Sanne. What was she getting at? But Sanne wasn’t listening.

  “Answer me. Did you pay her for the murder?”

  Lars got up.

  “Sanne, could I please have a —”

  Sanne leaned across the table, locking eyes with Valmir.

  “Because that’s what happened, isn’t it? You paid Serafine to kill the mayor, and now she’s an awkward witness you need to get rid of.”

  “Sanne.” Lars opened the door. “Outside. Now.”

  Sanne rolled her eyes at the ceiling. Then she got up and followed. It was dark and quiet in the reception area. Most people had gone home. Only a strip of light was visible under the door to Ulrik’s office — that was it. Lars closed the door behind her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Questioning the suspect.” Sanne blew a lock of hair away from her face.

  “It looks more like an attempt to derail my interview.” He tried to keep his voice calm. “We had agreed that you would make notes and I would ask the questions.”

  “But he isn’t going to say anything.”

  “It can take hours, you know that. He’s been here before. The moment he senses that you and I aren’t working together —”

  “You’re obsessed with Merethe Winther-Sørensen.” Sanne half-turned away from him, waving her hands. “Why complicate everything?”

  “So you think Serafine is an obvious hired killer, do you? I can give you at least five reasons —”

  A door squeaked. Lars paused. The strip of light under the door to Ulrik’s office widened on the threadbare carpet.

  “Sanne, Lars. Can you please step inside for a moment?”

  Ulrik was standing with his back to his desk, arms folded across his chest.

  “Care to tell me what’s going on?” He looked from one to the other.

  Lars sat down. “We’re questioning Valmir Shqender.”

  “From where I’m sitting, it sounded more like you were about to start a fight. Sanne?”

  Sanne clicked the nails of her thumb and middle fingers. She hesitated. Then out it came: “I think Lars’s angle is wrong. All the evidence from the crime scene points to Serafine being the killer. There’s no reason to —”

  “You’re forgetting the fingerprints on the murder weapon.” Lars studied his nails.

  “Serafine’s fingerprints were on it too.”

  “I interviewed Malene Rørdam earlier today. She overheard a fight between Mogens Winther-Sørensen and his wife at a Christmas party in 1999, during the very period the minister is trying to stop us from investigating. She was fired soon afterward. I —”

  Ulrik raised his hand.

  “You two are my best people. I — we — can’t afford to have you wasting your energy fighting each other. And that guy in there?” He pointed in the direction of the interview room. “Is a waste of time. You’ll get nothing out of him. As far as I can tell, we have enough witnesses and security footage to charge him. But Serafine got away — again. Regardless of which one of you is right, she needs to be found.”

  “Hello?” There was shouting from the reception, someone swore.

  “In here.” Ulrik got up from the desk.

  A uniformed officer appeared in the doorway with a firm grip on Valmir’s arm. He had twisted it behind his back in a stranglehold. In the other hand, the officer was holding the hunting knife they had left behind on the desk.

  “You need to keep a closer eye on your suspects in here, or somebody might get hurt.”

  “I think I’m going to retract what I said about you being my best people.” Ulrik laughed. The uniformed officer had put Valmir in a cell. “What on earth were you thinking, leaving a suspect alone with a murder weapon?”

  Lars and Sanne looked at each other for a long time. There was nothing they could do, except suck it up and leave.

  Lars held open the door for Sanne, and then closed it carefully behind them. They couldn’t carry on like this. One of them had to make the first move.

  He caught up with her halfway across the reception area.

  “Is Martin very ill?”

  She flinched. Then she carried on walking.

  “I saw you at the hospital. Oh, come on. We can’t act like this forever. What’s wrong with him?”

  She stopped. They were now in his office.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” She grimaced. “What about you and that doctor?”

  Lars took Sanne’s leather jacket from the chair. She let him hold it for her while she put it on.

  “It was a one-time thing.” He followed the line of her neck. The fine hairs below her hairline shone in the light from the anglepoise lamp. He could be mistaken, but was that a faint smile on her lips?

  Sanne turned around and pulled up her collar.

  “I’m going home to get some sleep. Tomorrow . . .” She chewed her lip. “Tomorrow we’ll start over. Okay?”

  41

  SERAFINE GETS UP from the café chair, stuffs her hands into her pockets, and walks down through Nyhavn. The area looks like Grosse Freiheit and the horny mile, but the attempt at gentrification has failed. A single glance convinces her that this place is just as cheap as back home, only there is no room here for those who don’t fit in — the freaks. Only tourists with fat wallets are welcome.

  Night has fallen and the first drunks appear on the streets. The neon lights from the tourist traps along the quay reflect in the water. She hurries across the small bridge by the harbour entrance and down Holbergsgade. Cort Adelers Gade lies a little further ahead on her left. A taxi passes in the opposite direction, and Serafine crosses the street.

  A silhouette is waiting outside number 17. The glow from his cigarette brightens, lighting up his face for a moment. It has to be him. There is no one else on the street — no life. She can see the wide entrance to the harbour behind the figure.

  “Finally.” The street-doc tosses aside his cigarette and picks up his bag. “Do you have the money?”

  Serafine squeezes the watch in her pocket. It has to be enough.

  “Right. Let’s go inside.” The street-doc rings the bell. They are let into a lobby with white pane
ls and walls the colour of blood. She follows him up to the second-floor landing. He rings another bell, and they wait until a bald, elderly man opens the door. He greets the street-doc briefly, and looks her up and down several times. Then he grunts something in Danish and lets them in. So this is the surgeon who will be performing her operation.

  Serafine follows the two men into the consulting room. The surgeon sits down behind the desk and crosses his legs.

  “You realize this can be dangerous?”

  “Yes.” She shudders as she sees a glass cabinet of surgical tools.

  The surgeon laughs.

  “Relax. The operating room is next door.” Then his voice becomes businesslike. “And the money? How will you pay?”

  She sticks her hand into her pocket and pulls out the watch. She hasn’t had time to check how much it is worth, but she has seen the brand in expensive shops at home on Neuer Wall. It’s a Jaeger-LeCoultre. She places it on the desk in front of the surgeon.

  The surgeon’s eyes narrow. He picks up the watch and examines it, turning it over in his hands. His fingers tremble with excitement as he grabs the magnifying glass in his desk drawer. He holds it up to the back of the watch, rotating it to find the best angle from which to read. Finally he looks up.

  “That’ll do.”

  She feels a tingle run up and down her spine, a flutter of butterfly wings. Now. It’s about to happen.

  Then he says: “I can’t operate now.” The surgeon gives a light, regretful shrug. “It’s impossible to get a nurse at such short notice, but tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock will work. You can eat breakfast, but don’t eat or drink anything after that, do you understand? It’s dangerous because of the anesthetic.”

  The street-doc raises an eyebrow. “And my cut?”

  Serafine looks down. It has to be enough. She needs the last of the money for clothes and a ticket home.

  The surgeon says something in Danish. The street-doc appears to accept it.

  “Well then,” the surgeon says, getting up. “You can walk down with me. We’ll take the back stairs.”