Lars looked after him, mystified. What was wrong with this family?
He took in the magnifying glass and the scraps of paper on the desk. The bookshelves behind the desk sagged with papers and looked close to collapsing under the weight. The desk itself was also covered with piles of paper and leather-bound books. A tall jar with rolled-up posters stood by the door. And then there was the noticeboard. Lars got up, and skimmed the invitations to openings and the internal memos. There was a menu from a pizzeria on Strøget, and photos of people he presumed to be Arne Winther-Sørensen’s colleagues.
He reviewed the papers on the noticeboard, then his gaze moved across the piles on the desk. So many papers, holding memories from a whole life. He went behind the desk and sat down, leafing through trays and stacks, carefully avoiding the sheet with the torn pieces of D. G. Monrad’s draft letter. The desk contained nothing but work-related documents, but he wondered about the drawer unit that had been pushed under the desk. Lars wheeled it out and opened the top drawer: nothing but pens, paper clips, Post-it notes, erasers, and a hole punch. The bottom was stained dark from ink.
The door opened behind him. He had just enough time to catch a glimpse of Arne Winther-Sørensen’s face before it closed again. Apparently he was checking up on him. Lars took a step toward the door, then changed his mind. Arne Winther-Sørensen had clearly indicated that he didn’t want to contribute to the investigation.
He returned to the desk and examined the other drawers one by one. The second and third drawer contained papers, printouts of emails, and handwritten letters from the 1970s. Should he call in the technicians? Lars tried the bottom drawer, but it was locked. He swore, yanking the drawer, but it refused to budge. He had no search warrant, but surely he couldn’t give up now? A drop of sweat trickled from his hairline down across his forehead to his nose, and dripped onto his thigh. The boiler room had to be close by. He opened the top drawer, pulled out a paper clip, straightened it, and bent down.
It took him only a few seconds to pick the lock.
The bottom drawer contained a number of suspension files, each one labelled with the year. They contained handwritten minutes from meetings, organized chronologically. The meticulous order in the drawer was in stark contrast to the rest of Arne Winther-Sørensen’s office, but there was nothing of interest to the investigation. Lars swore again, slamming shut the drawer. The metal framework rattled. Something skated back and forth inside, across the bottom. Lars opened the drawer again, flicking through the files. Everything looked the same. Then he tilted the drawer upward, pulling it out of its tracks and placing it on his lap. He could see the bottom of the drawer when he pressed the files together. Something was glittering in the darkness at the front. Lars stuck his hand inside. His fingertips fumbled across a knobbly surface that had once been smooth. It was a photograph. Lars pulled it out and held it up. A younger version of Mogens Winther-Sørensen was throwing a tennis ball to a dark-skinned boy who looked about eight years old, on a lawn. They were both laughing and looked happy. A table with bread rolls and jugs of fruit juice was in the background. The Red Cross flag was flying from a flagpole. Lars put the drawer on the floor and held the photograph under the magnifying glass. There was something familiar about the boy’s face. Lars moved the picture back and forth under the lens to achieve the maximum enlargement.
The grinning boy, who was gazing up at Mogens Winther-Sørensen, could only be a younger version of Serafine.
50
THE GRAVEL CRUNCHED under the winter tires.
“We’ve arrived.” Kim drove the car up the driveway and parked along the row of yew trees behind the red Toyota. The light inside the bungalow was on. “Don’t forget you’re due to visit a factory in less than an hour. News will be there, and —”
“But that factory is here in Nærum, isn’t it? We have plenty of time.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen produced a fat envelope from her bag. “I would appreciate it if you dealt with this, Kim.”
“You won’t be joining me?” He placed his left arm on the steering wheel and the right on the back of his seat as he turned around.
“You’ll manage fine on your own.” She handed him the envelope. “Now, this is what I want you to do.”
Søren Gjerding opened the door before Kim had even pressed his finger to the bell. The man, whom he had escorted away from Mogens’s funeral, was in his late fifties and had once been stocky and broad across the shoulders, but the years had shrunk him. He slumped as he leaned against the door, waiting passively.
“You?”
Kim nodded. The man cast stolen glances over Kim’s shoulder toward the ministerial car in the driveway. Kim followed his gaze. The minister was staring at them from the back seat. He turned back again just in time to see the small tic by Søren Gjerding’s right eyelid. The man was terrified.
Kim took a step forward and entered. Søren Gjerding wavered, shifting his weight from foot to foot, still staring at the car. Then he closed the door and followed Kim inside.
Søren Gjerding’s wife served coffee and biscuits in the living room. Kim had to force himself to eat the stale shortbread, but the coffee was good.
Kim finished chewing. “The minister sends her regards. She thinks you’re doing well.’”
“I’ve been lucky.” Søren Gjerding looked glum.
“Yes, that job at Blegdamsvej came in very handy.”
Søren Gjerding stared into his cup. “I don’t believe it was solely to my advantage.”
Kim set his coffee down on the smoked-glass table.
“There are certain . . . unforeseen events we’ve been forced to deal with.”
51
SANNE OPENED THE door to her office a crack. Sarah Winther-Sørensen was sitting by the desk, picking at the seam of her pale green cigarette pants. She had swapped out the dark top for a white shirt.
“Poor girl.” Lisa looked over Sanne’s shoulder. “First she loses her father, and now this.”
Sanne leaned against the door frame: the shit had really hit the fan.
OLD PEDO CHARGE MOTIVE FOR MAYOR MURDER?
SOURCE AT POLICE HQ CONFIRMS EXISTENCE OF OLD CASE
The article — written by Sandra Kørner again — had sent shock waves through the whole establishment from the justice minister down. Everyone in the department was under huge pressure, and Sanne felt they had no choice but to bring Sarah in for an interview.
“If I ever get hold of the idiot who leaked this,” Lisa hissed.
“Calm down.” Sanne pushed open the door and entered. “We’ll deal with it later. Hi Sarah.” She closed the door behind Lisa. “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”
Sarah shook her head and continued to pick at her pants.
“I want Peter here.”
“We’ve called him and he’s on his way, but he’ll be a while, okay?” Sanne opened a bottle of mineral water and pushed it toward Sarah.
“You know why we want to talk to you, don’t you?” Lisa put her pen and notepad on the desk and sat down.
“Someone in my year showed me the article on her phone,” Sarah whispered.
Sanne chewed her lip. She had to get something out of the girl before the lawyer arrived. Once he was in the room, she would get nothing.
“You’re almost an adult, so you understand why we have to ask.” She hesitated. “Did your father ever, well . . . you know?”
Sarah closed her eyes; her face was white. Her hand shook as she reached out for the bottle of mineral water. There was a knock on the door and Allan’s head popped around.
“Lars is on the phone in my office. I thought you would want to hear what he has to say.”
“We’ll be back shortly.” Sanne got up and left. Lisa followed.
“I’m going to the washroom. You two go ahead.” Allan pointed to his office and disappeared.
Allan’s desk was overfl
owing with papers and reports. Lisa moved a small pile, which had Allan’s cell phone on top of it, and sat down. Sanne picked up the landline.
“Lars? I’m going to put you on speaker. Lisa is here as well.” She pressed the speaker button.
“Hey Lars.” Lisa flexed her foot up and down. “What’s happening?”
He sounded agitated; his voice was well above his normal pitch.
“I’ve figured out how Mogens Winther-Sørensen and Serafine knew each other.” Pause. The sound of traffic in the background was perfectly audible. He was probably driving. “I’ve just left Arne Winther-Sørensen’s office.”
“We’ve brought in his granddaughter. Remember that anonymous call we got about the pedophile story yesterday? It’s breaking news on Ekstra Bladet now.”
“They don’t waste any time, do they? Hang on . . .” Lars swore. “Okay, I’m back. Arne Winther-Sørensen wouldn’t tell me anything, but I found an old photo in his office of Mogens with a boy who looked roughly eight years old. That boy can only be Serafine. You can see a Red Cross flag in the background.”
“So Mogens did work for the Danish Red Cross? But then why did they insist they had never heard of him when I contacted them yesterday?” asked Lisa.
“I’m on my way to their main office on Blegdamsvej now. I’ll give you a call when I’m done.”
Sanne hung up. Allan’s phone pinged to signal the arrival of a text message. Sanne tilted her head to read it.
The text consisted of one word: Thanks! The sender was Sandra Kørner.
She turned the phone so Lisa could read it as well.
“That . . .” Lisa stared at the phone and jumped up, her small body like a coiled spring.
“How long do you think he’s been feeding her information?” Sanne picked up the phone and tried to unlock it, but it had a passcode. “We have to wait until we . . . Hi Allan.” Allan was standing just outside the office.
“Yes?” He looked from one of them to the other.
“Can you explain this?” Sanne held up his cell phone.
He narrowed his eyes and stepped closer.
“That’s . . .” Then he spotted the text, and opened and closed his mouth. “Listen, I haven’t . . .” But the time for denial had passed. He sat down on the windowsill and buried his face in his hands. He rocked back and forth for a long time before he started to speak.
“I didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know — she just wanted confirmation on the pedophile story.” He looked up. “She kept pushing me . . . Do you know how much they’re willing to pay? I’ve got the mortgage on the apartment, and . . .”
Lisa closed the door of the office and looked at Sanne for a long time. What should they do?
“I think . . .” Sanne tried to buy time. “First, I want you to unlock your phone right now. We want to be quite sure that you didn’t give her any other information. Here . . .” She tossed Allan the cell phone.
He caught it and entered his passcode.
“There’s nothing else — see for yourself.”
Lisa snatched it from his hand.
“Hmm. There’s just the one text message.” She scrolled to outgoing calls. “Although you spoke to her a couple of times this morning. Apart from that there are no other calls to or from her number, but that doesn’t prove —”
Someone started to scream. They could hear the sound of fighting, and chairs and tables being knocked over.
“What’s going on?” Sanne rushed outside. The reception area was a battlefield: chairs and tables were lying helter-skelter. Someone had knocked over the table with the coffee maker, and brown liquid was splashed high up the wallpaper. Three of her colleagues were on the floor, pinning down Sarah Winther-Sørensen. She was no longer screaming, but sobbing. Her hair and makeup were a mess and the collar of her white shirt was half torn.
At that very moment, Peter Egethorn stepped through the green door to the Violent Crime Unit. It took him less than one second to take in the scene. Three long strides later, he had reached the tangled knot of police officers, freed Sarah, and helped her to her feet. Then he looked furiously at Sanne.
“What the hell is going on here?”
52
THE LOW, MUSTARD-COLOURED main office of the Danish Red Cross was located at Blegdamsvej 27, squeezed in between the imposing temple of the Freemasons and a 1970s, seven-storey college built of concrete and glass. Lars signalled and turned into the parking lot. A Jay-Z song was playing on the radio; he hadn’t caught the title and hoped never to hear it again. The music faded the moment Lars found an empty parking spot, and the announcer took over.
“The Danish Meteorological Institute has issued a weather alert for torrential rain in eastern parts of the country. And tonight, DR will show the first live televised debate leading up to the general election. Every party leader will be in the studio to debate the three major themes for this election: the financial crisis . . .”
Lars sighed, paid for parking, and entered the building. It had already started to drizzle.
“Mogens Winther-Sørensen, you say? The mayor?” Agnete Thomsen took off her tortoiseshell glasses and looked at him. The head of the asylum section was a slim woman in her late fifties. “No, he never worked for us.”
Lars shifted in the Børge Mogensen chair. The pale wicker seat cut into one of his buttocks.
“My colleague who phoned you yesterday was told the same thing.” He took out the photograph of Mogens Winther-Sørensen and eight-year-old Serafine from his inside pocket. “But then I found this.”
Agnete Thomsen studied the picture.
“Yes, that’s the mayor — and that looks like a centre for asylum seekers. Hang on . . . It must be the Margretheholm Centre.” She gave him back the photograph.
“Where is that?”
“The Margretheholm Centre? It’s here in Copenhagen, on one of the Holmen Islands. The navy used the buildings for educational purposes. From 1999 and for some years after that, we took over the facilities to house asylum seekers, primarily Kosovo Albanians, but later refugees from Iran and Nigeria.”
Lars drummed his pen on his notepad. Kosovo Albanians would certainly fit with the Bukoshi family.
“So what would Mogens Winther-Sørensen have been doing out there if he wasn’t an employee?”
“He could have been visiting? It’s the most likely explanation. In those days, visitors were free to come and go practically as they pleased.”
“But to be so friendly with a refugee child . . . Is that possible from a single visit? I would think those children would be fairly shy. Just look at it — the two of them obviously hit it off.”
“It’s difficult to tell, it’s just a snapshot.” Agnete Thomsen put her glasses back on. “The old director of Margretheholm would surely know, don’t you think?”
Agnete Thomsen found a contact list in a desk drawer, flicked through a couple of pages, and entered a number on her phone.
Thirty seconds later she hung up.
“Right, we’ll try his cell.” She entered a new number and raised her phone to her ear. “His name is Søren Gjerding. He was my predecessor here, incidentally. He retired five years ago.”
But she had no luck with his cell number either.
“How odd. He almost always picks up. Just a moment.” She got up and walked briskly across the office. She opened a door and stuck out her head to speak to a secretary.
“Would you please check if anyone knows how to track down my predecessor? Thank you.”
She turned around in the doorway.
“This could take some time. Would you like some coffee? We’ve got one of these latte makers.” Lars got up and followed her.
A machine was flashing and hissing in a niche in the wall beside the elevator. Lars stared at it.
Agnete Thomsen laughed. “They claim it makes
regular coffee as well.”
“Am I being that obvious?” Lars took an IKEA mug from the stack, put it into the machine, and pressed the button marked Black Coffee.
“Why are you so keen to know if Mogens Winther-Sørensen ever worked for the Red Cross?”
“I’m afraid I’m not allowed to discuss the investigation.”
“Of course. I understand.” Agnete Thomsen furrowed her brow, which was almost concealed by clouds of steam rising from the chrome coffee machine. “Only it’s just — your case . . . It won’t be good for the Red Cross to be dragged into a murder investigation, especially one involving the mayor, of all people. The last thing this organization needs is something that could damage our fundraising. Our financial assistance means the difference between life and death for a lot of people across the world —”
“Nobody wants to put the Red Cross in a bad light.” Lars took the mug, which was now full of coffee. “Why don’t we ask your secretary if she’s found him?”
He followed her back down the corridor to her office. The coffee tasted acidic and chemical. They passed a shelf with information about the work of the Red Cross. Lars left his mug behind a stand of leaflets about fundraising for Congolese refugees.
Agnete Thomsen stopped. “Signe.” They had reached her secretary, who was sitting with the telephone pressed to her ear.
A few seconds passed before Signe finished the call.
“Søren Gjerding was supposed to give a presentation at a conference in this building half an hour ago — only he never arrived.”
53
“HOW AM I supposed to remember one argument I might have had with my husband, what . . . fourteen years ago?” Kirsten Winther-Sørensen had arrived less than ten minutes after Peter Egethorn. And if he had been furious, she was incandescent. But once Kirsten had been given the opportunity to speak with Sarah and Peter in private, Sanne had managed to talk her down somewhat. Now she and Sanne were sitting alone in Sanne’s office. But although Kirsten seemed calmer now, she was by no means in a forgiving mood.
The Scream of the Butterfly Page 21