The Scream of the Butterfly

by Jakob Melander

  That’s where you’ll find me.

  Somewhere over the rainbow

  Blue birds fly

  Birds fly over the rainbow

  Why then, oh why can’t I?

  If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow

  Why, oh why can’t I?

  Serafine was sitting in a corner, staring at the table. Her jeans were filthy, ripped across her knees and thighs. One sleeve of her jacket was coming apart at the shoulder where the stitches had been torn. Aksel Lynge, the man who had reported his watch stolen the day before, was sitting opposite her. He was scowling; his arms were folded across his chest. He also had a nasty cut on his cheek. Two bartenders were keeping guard.

  Aksel Lynge was the first to spot them. He knocked over his chair as he got up.

  “I only wanted my watch back. Tell —”

  “Sit down, man.” One of the bartenders pushed him back into the chair.

  Serafine looked around with a panicked expression, desperate for a way out. Lars walked straight across the bar and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Serafine?”

  “Five minutes?” She looked ravaged and exhausted. “Please?” Lars looked around. Why was she so keen to wait five minutes?

  Serafine’s hands fluttered across the table. The transvestite by the piano sang the last line of the song, received her applause, and walked away. The pianist continued to play on alone.

  “Come on,” he began, but she wasn’t listening. Her eyes shifted from side to side, scanning the room every few seconds.

  “What’s the problem?” Lars was addressing the nearer of the two bartenders.

  “Something about a watch.” The bartender shrugged. “Fortunately, we managed to separate them before anyone got seriously hurt. To be honest, I don’t know who to believe.”

  Lars stuck his hand into his pocket and placed the watch on the table in front of Aksel Lynge.

  “I’ll need you to sign for this.”

  Lynge snatched the watch and raised it up to his lips.

  “Thank you. You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.”

  Aksel Lynge had barely crossed the threshold before Serafine started to murmur. She half-rose, then fell back into the chair.

  “There he is!” she exclaimed.

  Lars looked over his shoulder. An elderly man walked in, wearing a shabby suit jacket and jeans and carrying a bag. It was the same man they had interviewed earlier. The doctor had yet to notice them.

  Sanne got up and walked across the room.

  “Good evening.” She grabbed the doctor’s arm and marched him over to the table where Serafine was sitting.

  “Good eve —” The doctor’s face lost all colour. “What the . . . ? Since when is it a crime to pop in for a drink?”

  “Sit down, doctor.” Lars pointed to the chair Aksel Lynge had just vacated. The doctor sat down with a surprised thud. “We’re willing to accept that you just came in for a drink, aren’t we?” He looked at Sanne, who nodded.

  The doctor wiped his forehead.

  “But then —”

  “As long as,” Lars continued, “you give her what she needs. Now.”

  The doctor gawped at him, clutching his bag. A strand of white hair fell onto his forehead. Then he nodded, opened the bag, and put a small jar of tablets on the table in front of Serafine.

  “That’s all I’ve got.”

  Serafine grabbed the jar and took out some pills — Lars couldn’t see exactly how many, more than two and less than seven — and shoved them into her mouth.

  “Lucrative sideline you’ve got there,” Lars said before pointing to the door.

  The doctor jumped up and knocked over the chair as he fled. Lars turned to Serafine, who was washing down the pills with a gulp of her cosmopolitan. Her hands stopped flapping; the frantic expression disappeared.

  “Perhaps we can go now?”

  Sanne was already outside on the steps when Serafine stopped, balancing with her foot on the threshold. Her posture had stiffened. Lars nudged her from behind.

  “Come on. It’s no use.”

  Serafine shuddered, then she started moving and they walked out into the street. A gay couple was sitting at a table outside in the September evening, smoking and holding hands. Allan and Lisa were waiting by the corner of Frederiksberg Bredegade.

  Lisa looked at Serafine, who was struggling to stay upright between Lars and Sanne. “You won’t get anything out of her tonight. She’s completely out of it.”

  “I’ll drive her up to Sandholm.” Sanne unlocked her car. “We’ll interview her tomorrow when the morphine has worn off. Everyone else can go home. We’re done here.”

  “She’s bound to run away again,” Allan said. “She needs to go to Ellebæk, the secure unit right next to the Sandholm Centre. Why don’t I take her.” Allan started walking toward his car.

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

  “Are you sure? Do you want me to come with you?”

  “There’s no need. We won’t have any problems, will we?”

  Serafine shook her head, but kept her eyes on the sidewalk.

  OCTOBER 1999

  THE TRAFFIC ON the Helsingør motorway is at a complete standstill. The wipers sweep across the windshield; the rain batters against the roof. Mogens drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He turns on the radio, then turns it off again. Now that he has made up his mind, he just wants it over and done with immediately. But instead he is sitting here, stuck in a traffic jam by Gammel Holte.

  When they had finished eating their pizza, he drove Arbën back to the centre and walked the boy to his room. It was very quiet, the corridors were dark and deserted. He put the boy to bed and went up to the office to say hello to the night watchman, pretending he was looking for a missing wallet. Then he drove to Hornbæk, but found it impossible to think in the dark cottage. Instead, he went down to the beach and let the salty wind shake him up. His clothes still bear the scent of seaweed and sand.

  The question was simple: Should he keep quiet or speak up? Would he be able to live with himself if he didn’t?

  He had spent most of the night going over the arguments for and against, and hadn’t fallen asleep until three o’clock in the morning, on the sofa.

  The backlog in front of him finally stirs, and the long snake of traffic edges forward at last. The clock on his dashboard shows 8:11 a.m.

  It’s 9:10 a.m. by the time he parks outside the centre. The rain has eased off now, and is down to a quiet trickle. He half-runs through the puddles, ignoring the splashes that stain his pants.

  Mogens takes the stairs two at a time. His side hurts as he runs down the yellow corridor to Søren’s office. He bursts in without looking left or right.

  But Søren isn’t alone.

  The director is standing by the window with his hands in his pockets. He’s staring into the distance, his attention far away. Three people sit in front of his desk. Arbën looks down when Mogens enters. Merton and Ukë are sitting on either side of him, smiling.

  Mogens wheezes and leans against the door frame for support.

  “Søren — I have . . . I know what happened. I —”

  “Sit down, Mogens.”

  “But . . .” He points at the brothers. “It’s them. They rent out Afërdita — they sell their own niece. That’s why she’s run away. Call the police.”

  Søren leans across his desk and rests on his palms.

  “Sit down, Mogens.”

  Mogens wipes his hand across his face, which is wet from the rain. He understands nothing. Why is the boy so scared? He pulls out the chair at the end of the desk and sits down.

  “Is it correct that you took Arbën to your home yesterday?” Søren’s diction is clear.

  Oh, is that it? Mogens laughs.

  �
�You told me to find out what was wrong with him yourself. He refused to say anything, so I thought . . .”

  Søren suddenly looks very tired.

  “We have one inviolable rule here at the centre, at all Red Cross centres — a rule with absolutely no exceptions. I made it clear to you when you started working here that you must never enter into a dependent relationship with a resident. Do not borrow or accept anything from them and do not meet with them outside the centre. And never, ever take them to your home.”

  Meriton and Ukë say nothing. They just sit there, either side of the boy, with inscrutable smiles.

  Søren straightens up and resumes staring out of the window. Everything is wet outside. Mogens follows his gaze. The water splashes over the rim of the gutter on the low barrack. A couple of children are jumping in puddles.

  “Arbën says that you touched him.” Søren’s voice is devoid of expression.

  The boy jolts. So he understands what is being said?

  “What?!”

  Søren turns around. His voice is louder now.

  “He says that you took off his clothes and took off your own clothes, and touched his genitals and made him touch you.”

  No. Everything drains of colour. He feels leaden inside and tries to straighten up in the chair.

  “But that’s . . .” He can barely speak. The uncles are grinning from ear to ear. “But they’re making him say that. Can’t you see? So you won’t believe that they’re running a brothel.”

  Søren sits down, defeated and resigned.

  “I need you to hand over your ID card and your keys. You’re banned from the centre until we’ve investigated the matter thoroughly.”

  Everything happens in slow motion. Mogens reaches down for the leather briefcase he has put on the floor containing his ID card and keys. It’s so heavy he can’t even lift it.

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 30

  48

  LARS MADE COFFEE and took a long shower. He was still mulling over yesterday’s meeting with Niels Püchert. The Red Cross continued to deny that Mogens Winther-Sørensen had ever worked for them, but then why would Niels Püchert waste so much time editing the Wikipedia entry again and again?

  Lars turned off the shower, dried himself, and got dressed. Then he went outside onto the balcony with a cup of coffee and the day’s first cigarette, and watched the Metro workers who had started work below. They were not fumbling around blindly; they had their fixed routines, their tried-and-tested procedures.

  Lars took a last drag on the cigarette and squashed it on the balcony. No way he was going to let them get away with this.

  He closed the balcony door behind him to reduce the noise and looked up the telephone number online. To his enormous surprise, he was put straight through.

  “Lars Winkler?” Merethe Winther-Sørensen’s voice was cool. “I thought I had made my position perfectly clear.”

  “Don’t worry. I had no trouble understanding Kim A yesterday.” Lars took a sip from his coffee cup and made a point of slurping. “I just have one question. Did Mogens work for the Danish Red Cross when he went on leave in 1999?”

  The slight hesitation before her answer was barely noticeable, but it was there.

  “You would have to speak to the Red Cross about that. I have more important things to do.”

  “Surely nothing is more important than finding Mogens’s killer?”

  But he received no reply. Merethe Winther-Sørensen had already hung up.

  Lars returned to the kitchen to refill his coffee cup. So Mogens Winther-Sørensen did have some sort of connection to the Red Cross. But what exactly? It was time he spoke to the mayor’s father, the eccentric Arne Winther-Sørensen.

  Lars made another call.

  “Lisa? You’re the one who interviewed Arne Winther-Sørensen, weren’t you?”

  “Hang on . . .” Lisa’s voice grew faint. She was speaking to someone at the office. “Toke, there you go. Please take . . .” Then she was back. “We’re a bit busy right now. Ukë and Meriton Bukoshi were found murdered a couple of hours ago. Shotgun wounds.”

  “What?” Everything was starting to happen a little too quickly.

  “Out in Sydhavnen, in front of the Metro superstore. Toke says it looks like a professional hit.” Lisa broke off to answer a question. “Okay then . . . Now, Lars, what did you want . . . ? Arne, yes, I spoke to him — to the extent that was possible.”

  “What do you mean?” Lars was sitting down on the sofa with his coffee, pen and notepad ready.

  “Arne Winther-Sørensen is one of those absentminded-professor types. You know, super intelligent within their subject, but has the social skills of a five-year-old. And it wasn’t just his social skills that were an issue; practically every other form of human interaction seemed stunted. I could barely get a word out of him. He just sat there in front of one of those giant jigsaw puzzles. It was a German castle, I believe.”

  “He was working on it when we told him and his wife about their son’s death.” Lars made notes. To be fair, there were many different ways to deal with such news.

  “So you got nothing out of him?”

  Lisa shuffled some papers.

  “I don’t think that he and his son were close. It seemed almost as if Arne Winther-Sørensen had repudiated him.”

  Lars put his notepad down on the sofa.

  “Did he mention the Danish Red Cross?”

  49

  THE ROYAL LIBRARY’S black glass facade sparkled in competition with the harbour basin every time the autumn sun peeked out from behind the grey clouds. Down on the water, two kayakers were battling their way through the waves to Knippel Bridge.

  Lars walked past the basin in front of the library entrance and entered through the swinging door.

  “Arne Winther-Sørensen?”

  “Down to the basement and turn left.” The woman behind the counter pointed to an elevator on her right. “Go down as far as you can. Hey, wait.” She stepped out from behind the counter, hurrying after him with short, stiff strides. “You’re not allowed to go down there unaccompanied.”

  The elevator opened with a small ping and they stepped inside. Lars let the woman press the button marked Basement.

  “Do you know if he’s in yet?”

  The lift started moving with a lengthy sigh.

  “Arne? I can’t remember the last time he was ill.” She lowered her voice as the elevator came to a halt. “Is this about his son?” The doors opened, and they stepped out and turned left. “It’s a terrible business. Right, here we are.” She knocked.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

  A grunt came from behind the door. Lars pushed down the handle. “Thanks for your help.”

  Arne Winther-Sørensen sat hunched over his desk in the low-ceilinged office. He was peering through an illuminated magnifying glass at a confusion of ageing paper. Behind him, several yards of shelving was filled with stacks of paper, magazine holders, and ring binders. In the far corner at the top, boxes of old jigsaws were squeezed in between the shelf and the ceiling. There was a noticeboard above the desk. A jumble of notes, scraps of paper, and letters covered the cork surface.

  “Arne?” Lars shut the door behind him. “Lars Winkler, Copenhagen Police. I would like —” Arne Winther-Sørensen looked up. An expression of disgust crossed his face. “Have you got a few minutes?” Lars took a step forward. The heat was suffocating.

  Arne Winther-Sørensen muttered something that could be either yes or no.

  “We’ve been told that Mogens worked for the Danish Red Cross back in —”

  Arne got up and shuffled to the far corner of a bookshelf. He found a folder, removed it from the shelf, and carried it with him back to his desk. He opened it and started studying the densely written notes as if no one else were present.

  “Perh
aps we could go upstairs to the café? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  Arne Winther-Sørensen merely hunched even further over his work.

  Lars changed tack.

  “What are you working on?”

  Arne Winther-Sørensen looked up. His face gained colour and his eyes lit up.

  “This is a draft of a letter from Council President D. G. Monrad to the king of Sweden suggesting a Nordic union by way of a royal marriage.” Lars must have looked at him with a blank expression, because Arne Winther-Sørensen continued with mild irritation. “Monrad, the one from the Battle of Dybbøl. The letter to the king of Sweden was written after the armistice and before Denmark’s war with the Germans had flared up again. I guess he was seeking support from the Swedes for the ongoing war effort. According to the Swedes, their king couldn’t make up his mind if Monrad’s letter was a joke,or should be taken seriously.”

  Lars knew absolutely nothing about it, and yet he nodded.

  “The draft has been torn up. It’ll be interesting to see if there are shifts in meaning between that and the final letter. I already think —”

  “That sounds fascinating.But I’m here to talk about your son.”

  The spark in Arne Winther-Sørensen’s eyes extinguished, and he turned his attention back to the magnifying glass and the papers underneath.

  Lars continued: “We’ve been told that Mogens worked for the Danish Red Cross back in 1999. Is that correct?”

  If possible, Arne Winther-Sørensen immersed himself even further into his work, trying to shut Lars out with his hunched back.

  “This is about your son’s murder.” Lars leaned across the desk. The archivist pushed him away with a sudden and violent movement.

  “Go away. You’ll only ruin . . .” At last he looked up. A shadow of the revulsion returned. “Ask Merethe.”

  “We can either do this here, or I can bring you in. It’s your choice.”

  Arne Winther-Sørensen pushed back his chair and got up.

  “Mogens has been dead to me for more than ten years. I . . .” He stared at Lars with wild eyes before he stormed out of the office. The door slammed shut.