The Scream of the Butterfly

by Jakob Melander

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Don’t mention it.” The lawyer took out a packet of Craven “A” and lit one. “But I’m afraid he won’t get away with a slap on the wrist.”

  A big frying pan was simmering on the stove at the back of the room. The smell of onion and fried meat drifted through the club.

  While Goran divvied up the food, Meriton pulled out a chair and asked the lawyer to sit down. Valmir had already taken a seat. Meriton brought over a bottle of clear liquid, and poured about three to four fingers’ worth into tall, slim glasses. A splash of water from a jug gave the liquid a cloudy, milky appearance. Meriton handed glasses to Valmir and the lawyer.

  “Raki — lion’s milk. It’s good for the heart. Drink.”

  They raised their glasses, toasted, and drank. The lawyer spluttered, red-faced.

  “Well, I must say, that’s . . . special,” he gasped.

  Valmir and Meriton roared with laughter. Goran came over with three steaming plates of fried mince and onion. A dish of white flatbreads sat in the middle of the table.

  “Eat.”

  They ate in silence, tearing off chunks of bread, which they used to scoop up the meat and onion, before shoving the whole thing into their mouths. After a few bites, Meriton wiped meat and fat from his chin with the back of his hand, and finished chewing. It was good to have Valmir back, but an error was an error. Valmir ought to know that.

  Valmir understood, and put his glass down on the table, bowing his head.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Hey, before we go any further . . .” The lawyer mouthed bugs.

  Meriton laughed. “We got it sorted. We never leave this place unattended.”

  The lawyer looked around the room and lowered his voice.

  “I had a client once. Police got access to the neighbouring apartment, drilled holes in the wall, and placed microphones at the end of them. He got twelve years for murder and blackmail.”

  Meriton turned around.

  “Goran, put on some music.” Goran put on a CD and turned up the volume. A clarinet wrapped itself plaintively around a blanket of jumping percussion. In the background, someone was picking a Spanish guitar.

  “Better?” Meriton leaned across the table. The lawyer smiled, picking up his cigarette from the foil ashtray, and glanced at his raki.

  “I think I had better leave so you can talk business. I’ll send you my bill.”

  When the lawyer had left, Meriton moved his seat closer to Valmir. The song finished and Meriton waited until the next track began. It was faster and more hypnotic than the previous. He started talking again.

  “Having Arbën in Denmark is a risk. If the police catch him again, he could cause us a lot of trouble. It’s important, do you understand?”

  The door opened and a cold draft swept along the floor. Ukë squeezed himself into the club. A fat hand landed on Valmir’s shoulders.

  “Having a party, are we? Good to see you.” He sat down and turned to Meriton. “I’ve just gotten word from our guy inside.” The chair groaned underneath him.

  Meriton spat into his plate. “Derr.” That bastard. “It’s about time. Does he have anything for us?”

  “Tonight — the usual place.”

  45

  SERAFINE THROWS THE cigarette on the sidewalk and squashes it under her foot. The street is empty. It is mid-afternoon. Grey waves pass by briskly out in the windy harbour. Perhaps she should be nervous or procrastinate, but she doesn’t want to wait any longer. The time has come. Her transformation is about to begin.

  Serafine rings the bell and enters, leaving the animal, the alien, behind on the street.

  “Welcome.” A middle-aged woman in green scrubs meets her on the first floor and ushers her into what must be the operating room. “Have you eaten anything?”

  Serafine shakes her head. Hunger gnaws at her insides, but it means nothing compared to what is about to happen.

  “Good. You can undress in there. The doctor will be with you in a moment.” The woman points to a curtain in the corner. Serafine walks behind it, takes off her jacket, pants, T-shirt, and underwear, and puts everything in a pile on the small stool. She carefully avoids touching the thing between her legs. She has no desire to say goodbye to it. There is a bathrobe on a peg in the wall. She tries to put it on, but her hands and arms are shaking. The nerves are kicking in now. Everything spins. She reaches out and grabs hold of the curtain to stop herself from falling.

  “There, there. Come here.” The woman is supporting her weight. “Everything will be all right.” She puts an arm around her shoulder. “Most people are nervous at this stage; sometimes they have doubts. Are you sure you want to go through with it? Once it’s done, there’s no going back, you know that.”

  Serafine leans against the woman, hips against hers. Her scent, her breasts, and the soft curves of her body. She yearns for it, so much that it hurts.

  “I want to!” She reaches out and grabs hold of the nurse’s green scrubs.

  The woman laughs. And Serafine laughs with her. Everything spins. She is so relieved. She looks at the operating table, the windows, and the herringbone parquet floor. Then the flutter starts: butterfly wings carry her forward, welcoming her. Yes, she whispers. I’m coming.

  “Well.” The woman smiles at her. “Come on then.” She walks her to the operating table and helps her climb onto it. “Now I’m going to put in an IV.” She sterilizes Serafine’s wrist with a cotton ball. Serafine looks away while the nurse finds a vein and inserts the needle. The woman attaches the IV to her wrist with surgical tape, then she takes a small syringe with no needle and connects it to the hole in the green plastic drop. “This is morphine — it’ll relax you. Afterward you’ll be anesthetized. Are you ready?”

  Serafine sinks back into the pillow and closes her eyes. A wave of warmth and well-being washes over her, rocking her with soft movements. The butterflies are everywhere now, welcoming her. Time and place disappear.

  She has no idea how long she has been lying like this when a series of violent crashes wakes her up, pulling her back. The butterflies fade and fly away, one by one. She is back on the operating table, sweating. What’s happening?

  The woman is still there; she looks at the door, then the window. Her gaze flits around the operating room.

  Where is the surgeon?

  Now she can hear voices from the hallway. She recognizes the surgeon’s from yesterday, but there are others and they are coming closer. Suddenly the room is awash with strangers. Two uniformed police officers open the door and burst in, followed immediately by the surgeon, who tries to stop them. Then a man and a woman she recognizes from the apartment where Moo-genz was killed.

  They argue in Danish, but she doesn’t need to know the language to understand that today won’t be the day it happens either. Serafine closes her eyes, shutting out the voices. Someone helps her down from the operating table and puts the bathrobe on her. She opens her eyes. The man she recognizes from Moo-genz’s apartment and one of the uniformed officers have gone into the adjacent room with the surgeon. Their loud voices can be heard through the door.

  The woman and the other officer have stayed behind in the operating room with her and the nurse. The woman finds her clothes behind the curtain.

  “You can change in here.” She pulls aside the curtain for her. Serafine staggers across the room. She ought to be shaken, terrified, and completely knocked out. Her dream lies in ruins. But the morphine courses through her veins — she is numb. Nothing really matters.

  She changes back into her jeans and T-shirt behind the curtain and puts on her shoes. They start to argue on the other side of the curtain. The nurse is angry and shouts. Something crashes onto the floor. There is upheaval and she hears the sound of bodies rolling around.

  Serafine pulls the curtain aside and peers o
ut. The two police officers are busy subduing the nurse. The door to the hall is open.

  She tiptoes out into the hallway and looks around, listening to the agitated voices and the sound of the scuffle in the operating room. In a moment, the officers currently talking to the surgeon will rush to the aid of their colleagues. Then they will realize that she has escaped. The main staircase is the first place they will look, so she goes the other way, back into the apartment, and runs quietly down the long, red corridor, passing room after room until she reaches the kitchen. The morphine makes her dizzy, and she bumps into walls and side tables along the way, hurting herself. She prays they don’t hear her.

  They start to shout, slamming doors in the hallway. Serafine opens the kitchen door, sneaks out onto the back stairs, and pulls the door closed behind her.

  She flees down the dark stairs and out into the courtyard, sticking close to the wall. It’s the same route she walked with the surgeon and the doctor yesterday.

  Twilight. She creeps along the wall until she reaches the entrance to a stairwell, gasping for air. The street is swimming before her eyes, with flashes of neon light. Car headlights sweep past. She can’t go on. She is broken by hunger, exhaustion, and the morphine circulating in her body.

  And the flutter has fallen silent.

  She has no idea where she is. People rush past the spot where she is curled up, giving her a wide berth.

  She ran out into the street to hail a cab as soon as she escaped from the operating room. But the tension, the disappointment, and the last few days was all too much for her — she threw up thin, green bile across the dashboard. She didn’t understand what the driver was shouting, but the meaning was clear when he pulled up to the curb and pushed her out.

  She doesn’t feel hungry anymore, only a pleasant, spinning lightness in her body. The glow from the street lamps and the cars come together in an all-embracing radiance. Afërdita is waiting for her in the bright room. Her sister smiles.

  My Seraph. Afërdita strokes her cheek. My angel. The scissors in her throat quiver. You’ve grown so beautiful, Serafine.

  Serafine reaches out and tries to catch her, but her sister’s figure flickers and disappears. The white room dissolves into darkness. A single candle burns in the distance, the flame swaying in an invisible draft. And suddenly the fluttering returns.

  The sound continues to rise and a moth flies past her. It dances in spirals, approaching the candle in ever-decreasing circles. Mesmerized, Serafine follows its course, closer and closer to the fire. She reaches out to swat the insect away. But it is too late. A final circle leads it directly into the flame. Tongues of fire lick the wings, the body contorting in agony. The moth perishes with a horrible splutter. Serafine closes her eyes and holds her breath while its screams reverberate in her ears.

  She sits up with a jolt. She is back on the whirling street. There’s only one place left — one place she can go.

  46

  A SOLITARY STREET lamp glowed in the car park behind the Metro superstore in Sydhavnen, casting a yellow oval across the cracked sidewalk. A red Taurus was parked near the wire mesh fence in a corner of the lot.

  The cone of light had sharp edges and bounced off the bronze paint on the brothers’ Suzuki Grand Vitara. The new apartment blocks by the harbour glowed in the distance. The steep, glass walls of the telecommunications companies flared up in the dying sun.

  “When is he coming?” Ukë chewed on his gum and scratched his neck. He had gotten a rash under his chins while he was in custody. Meriton rolled an unlit cigarette back and forth between his fingers, peering out into the darkness.

  “Oh, relax, vëlla.”

  He pressed the cigarette lighter in. Ukë muttered something Meriton didn’t catch. The sound of his brother’s scratching drowned out his voice.

  “Eh?”

  “He had better get a move on. I’m starting to get fed up with him.”

  “Easy now. He got us out, didn’t he? And he knows he’s a dead man if he tries to pull any tricks.”

  A shadow dashed across the rear-view mirror. Was that movement behind the Taurus over by the distant fence? Meriton straightened up in his seat, and moved his head in order to get a better look. “What the . . . ?”

  The scratching next to him had ceased. Ukë had seen it too.

  “Is that him? I swear . . .”

  A dark figure crossed the car park and headed toward their car. A long jacket flapped in the wind. They both followed it in the rear-view mirror.

  “Do you think Valmir has fixed it yet?” Ukë whispered.

  “Don’t know. We’ll call him later. Right, there he is.”

  The dark figure was now standing alongside their car. It knocked on the passenger-side window. Meriton stuck the cigarette in his mouth and pressed a button. The electric windows rolled down with a low hum.

  “About time.” He took the lighter, held it up to his cigarette, and inhaled. The tobacco started to glow. Ukë snorted next to him. Something shiny and black was sticking through the window.

  “Goodbye, assholes.”

  Meriton didn’t have time to hear the gunshot — he only caught a glimpse of the flash before his face was ripped to pieces, torn off his skull by hundreds of small pellets.

  Ukë swore; a bubbling sound came from the open wound to his neck where part of the load, which had missed Meriton’s face, had hit him. He fumbled with the door lock, blood pouring down his grey sweatshirt. The shotgun turned, pointing straight at him.

  “Sorry.” The voice behind the weapon rasped in the wind. “But it’s time to clean up. They’re getting too close.”

  Ukë held up his free hand, trying to shield himself. His gaze darted to the side. A plastic bag tumbled across the empty parking lot, carried along by the wind. The other barrel fired. Pain. Then — nothing.

  47

  “SO WE’RE BACK to square one.” Lars flopped down into his chair. Right now, all he wanted to do was put his feet up on the desk and close his eyes. Sanne shut the door behind them, and leaned against the filing cabinet. Lisa had been sitting on the windowsill when they came in. She had already heard.

  They had closed off the whole area between the Royal Theatre, Nyhavn, the Port of Copenhagen, and the National Bank, and searched every stairwell and courtyard. Ulrik had even deployed a helicopter, all to no avail. Serafine seemed to have vanished into thin air. Dogs had followed her trail through the apartment, down the back stairs, across the courtyard, and out onto Holbergsgade, where the scent disappeared in the middle of the street. They hadn’t been able to pick it up again.

  However, they had learned something new in the last two days. Serafine was related to Ukë and Meriton. She had seen Mogens’s photograph in a newspaper in Hamburg and decided to travel to Denmark to get him to help her with her surgery. The two of them must have known each other, so why would Serafine want to kill the very man she was hoping would come to her rescue? And, more importantly, there was still the question of the third, unidentified set of fingerprints on the murder weapon.

  The process of elimination was continuing. The fingerprints didn’t belong to the victim’s family or acquaintances, or anyone else who had been in the apartment by Sankt Thomas Plads in the week leading up to the murder. The investigation now needed to focus on this third person.

  It had started to rain outside, which was exactly what they needed right now.

  The surgeon, who was supposed to have carried out the operation, didn’t know anything, having only met Serafine the day before. He claimed it had been a completely innocent appointment regarding a urinary tract infection. Now, it was remarkable that a surgeon like him who specialized in obstetrics would offer urinary tract treatment to a man, but he had taken his Hippocratic oath and so forth . . .

  They had confiscated the Jaeger-LeCoultre watch that Serafine had used as payment. At least it could now be return
ed to its rightful owner.

  Sanne sat down opposite Lars.

  “I know it’s my fault, and —”

  “Don’t.” Lars opened his eyes. “She also got away from me up at Sandholm. We all thought she would be so high on morphine she wouldn’t be able to think, let alone avoid capture.” He scratched his stubble. “We just have to move on.”

  These were just platitudes, stock phrases you used in situations like this. There was nothing to do but to move on.

  His cell phone rang. It was the duty officer.

  “Hey Lars. Listen, we’ve just received a tip — anonymously, of course — but I thought I had better tell you just in case.”

  “Fire away.’”

  “Caller was an elderly man. He claims someone made a complaint that Mogens Winther-Sørensen was a pedophile.”

  “And?”

  “Well, that was pretty much all he said.”

  Sanne raised her eyebrows. Lars held up two fingers.

  “No year or location? Nothing?”

  “Sadly no. I’ve checked the records without success. But I thought you ought to know.”

  Once Lars had repeated the conversation to her, Sanne started flicking through a file. “It sounds a bit feeble.”

  Lisa nodded at Lars, who was still holding his phone. “Do we do anything with it?”

  Lars stuffed the cell phone in his pocket.

  “Right now I think —”

  There was a knock at the half-open door. Toke popped his head in.

  “You may want to sit down. We’ve just had a call from Café Intime.”

  Lars opened the door for Sanne. The café was quiet; it was still too early for the Sunday crowds. A transvestite in high heels and a tight blue dress was standing next to the piano, singing:

  Someday I’ll wish upon a star

  And wake up where the clouds are far behind me.

  Where troubles melt like lemon drops,

  High above the chimney tops,