Sanne shuddered. The traffic enclosed them and she was forced to reduce her speed.
“They raped you,” she repeated. “At the centre. And nobody did anything?”
56
“THE PARTY LEADER debate?” The receptionist looked briefly at his badge before letting him in. “You want Studio 6. It’s through the gate at the end, then go left.”
Lars half-ran through DR’s headquarters. The debate would be going live in ten minutes. Hopefully he’d made it in time.
He dashed through the gate and down a high-ceilinged corridor with concrete walls and floors. It resembled a factory more than anything else. Staff, politicians, and press officers were standing or wandering around in small groups, moving toward the studio. A host from a TV show whose name he couldn’t remember started walking in his direction with a cup of coffee in his hand. Lars narrowly avoided bumping into him, but knocked over the paper cup. Half the contents splashed over the man’s shirt.
“Look where you’re going, moron.”
Lars ignored him and carried on toward Studio 6. Kim A was standing outside the entrance wearing a black suit and an earpiece. Lars’s ex-colleague took a step forward and held up his hand when he spotted him.
“And that’s as far as you go.”
“Kim A.” Lars stopped. “So, tell me, does your jurisdiction extend to lying in a murder investigation?” The words came out louder than strictly necessary. It fell silent around them. Makeup artists and press officers from various parties stared at them. A young Social Democrat — a tall, blonde girl — gave Lars a terrified look before slipping behind Kim A and through the black door to the studio.
“You watch your mouth,” Kim A hissed before coming right up to him, but he was intercepted by the minister who was walking toward them.
“Kim. Let me talk to him.”
Kim A blinked twice, then stepped aside.
Merethe Winther-Sørensen took Lars by the arm and dragged him down toward the washrooms by the glass wall at the end of the corridor.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” She kept her voice low and neutral. “Are you aware that you’re only one phone call away from being fired?”
Lars said nothing, and slipped his hand inside his jacket to produce the picture of Mogens Winther-Sørensen and Serafine as a child.
“Does this ring any bells?”
Merethe Winther-Sørensen glanced at the photograph.
“My son playing with a ball?” She didn’t move a muscle.
“I have repeatedly asked you about your son’s past, and every time you’ve either denied knowing anything or prevented me from finding the information I need. This photograph was taken at a Danish Red Cross centre called Margretheholm back in 1999. Do you deny that Mogens worked there for a month before he became mayor? That he met Serafine there? Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me? About him being accused of pedophilia, perhaps?”
The minister was more than a head shorter than him, but that didn’t appear to bother her. She lowered her voice.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t be quite so loud. Something about a red bookmark containing a small wrap? Its contents aren’t standard equipment for a police officer, I believe. It could very easily find its way into the wrong hands.”
A producer came toward them holding up two fingers.
“Two minutes. You’re on now.”
“Please excuse me.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen turned and walked away. “I’m going to be on TV.”
Lars was still shaking when he returned to his car. He sat on the hood and lit a King’s as he looked out across West Amager. He had read somewhere that nicotine affects the same pleasure centres in the brain as cocaine — and music. Right now, he was prepared to believe it. His heart rate settled, and the hand holding the cigarette stopped shaking. It was growing dark; projectors lit up the blue canvas that surrounded the cube-shaped Concert Hall. Inside, the minister — along with the leaders from the other parties represented in parliament — were about to hold a debate that would make absolutely no difference to the election.
He took out his phone. Lisa had called him twice within the last ten minutes.
“Lisa, what’s happening?” He took a drag of his cigarette. The wind snatched away the smoke the moment he exhaled it through his nose.
“Serafine tried to kill herself.”
“What?” He nearly choked.
“Are you sick?”
“It’s just smoke.” Lars finished coughing. “When?”
“A couple of hours ago. I think she’s all right. Sanne went up there to bring her back so we could interview her. I think Sanne felt that Serafine shouldn’t be left alone. And another thing: we got a call from the airport. You told them to be on the lookout for a Søren Gjerding?”
“A-ha?” Lars took one last drag, and then squashed the cigarette on the tarmac with the sole of his shoe.
“Airport police are holding him right now. He was on his way to Thailand with his wife.”
57
SANNE UNLOCKED THE door. The apartment was dark and empty. Thank God Martin was working late at the office again.
“So this is where I live. Make yourself at home.” She put her handbag on the chest of drawers. Serafine said nothing, but looked around. She stayed close to Sanne, following her into the kitchen.
It was early evening now and growing dark outside. Sanne opened the freezer and pulled out a couple of ready meals.
“You can choose between lasagna and lasagna.” Sanne flashed Serafine a cautious smile as she put the trays in the microwave. They stood for some minutes in silence while the food heated up. Then Sanne plated their dinners and carried them into the living room. She lit a candle and opened a bottle of red wine. Serafine still had not said anything, but she was smiling — or it looked that way, at least.
There was a beep from her handbag. Sanne returned to the hallway, Serafine following at her heels. Not a surprise that she didn’t want to be alone.
Sanne found the cell phone in her bag. Hi, Sanne. Lisa says you’ve picked up Serafine? Am on my way to the airport. Call me when you can. It’s starting to make sense. Lars
Typical Lars. No information but an order. What use was that? She dropped the phone back into her bag. On the other hand, it was good to hear from him. That soft tingle in the pit of her stomach returned.
They went back to the living room. Sanne pulled out a chair and hung her handbag over it. She signalled to Serafine to sit down.
“Dig in.” She poured some wine and pushed a plate toward Serafine, then cut a corner off her own lasagna and tipped it onto her fork.
“Are you sure you don’t want to report them? We can drive to Rigshospitalet immediately if . . .”
Serafine cut into her lasagna. Minced beef, béchamel sauce, and diced tomatoes oozed out over the plate. Steam rose up. She shook her head and smiled that wistful smile again.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I mean, I believe you.” Sanne put down her fork.
“You’re sweet.” There it was again — that smile. It was so sad, it trickled down the walls.
Serafine placed a small piece of lasagna on her fork and put it in her mouth.
“What was it about? The text message? You didn’t look happy. But at the same time, you kind of did.”
Sanne placed her hand on her chest and took a deep breath in.
“Oh, it was just a colleague. We had . . . a thing once. It’s over now.”
“Men are bastards.” Serafine chewed with her front teeth and stared into the candlelight, losing herself in the flame that was dancing in the breeze from the window. Then she straightened up and looked directly at Sanne. “I was only eight years old. We lived here in Copenhagen at the Margretheholm Centre: my sister Afërdita, me, and our two uncles. One night . . .” Serafine fell silent a
nd gulped. Then she pushed her plate away. She took the glass of red wine, drained it in one go, and held it out for more. Sanne took the bottle and filled up the glass, too scared to say anything for fear of breaking the spell. “Our uncles forced Afërdita to be with men. You know . . .” She waved her hand in the air as she emptied her glass a second time. “For money. Men from the centre and local Danes. They had usually finished by the time I came back. But one day . . .” Serafine broke off. This time she filled the glass herself. “When I opened the door, there was blood all over the floor. He had stabbed her to death with a pair of scissors.”
“Oh, Serafine . . .” Sanne clasped a hand over her mouth. Serafine stared into space. Her wistful expression had not changed.
“He was lying naked on top of her. I watched him open his eyes and look straight at me.” Serafine paused again, scratching her scarred forearm. Sanne tried to stop her, but Serafine wiggled free and held up her arms.
“No, I want . . .” She rubbed her eyes. “Do you have any cigarettes?”
Sanne reached for her bag and found a packet of Princes. Serafine took one and lit it from the candle. Sanne picked up the pack. Her hand shook as she took out a cigarette for herself. She had so many questions, so many things she wanted to know, but first she had to let Serafine tell the story in her own time.
“I got to know Moo-genz at Margretheholm. He was nice — gave me a photograph of his daughter. He tried to help.” She sucked hard on the cigarette. “But it went . . . wrong. After my sister . . . My uncles sent me to Hamburg. Last Sunday I saw his picture in a newspaper and heard that he had become . . . What do you call it? Bürgermeister?”
“Mayor.”
“Exactly. I thought he might be able to help me with my . . . condition. So I came here, tracked him down, and went with him to his apartment.” The smoke seeped out of the corner of her mouth and her face disappeared in the grey fog.
Sanne tried to make sense of it all.
“Who . . .” She cleared her throat. “Are you telling me that the same man killed Mogens and your sister? Can you describe him? Would you be able to recognize him?”
“I’ve seen him here — with you.” Serafine’s face was frozen in an expressionless mask.
There was a tiny sound from the stairwell; Serafine jumped and curled up on the chair.
“There’s someone there,” she whispered. “By the door.”
Sanne turned her head and listened. A sudden draft blew out the candle flame, the wick hissing in the melted wax. They heard shouting in the street, a child crying. Music was playing. Was someone really there?
Sanne got up.
“Don’t.” Serafine reached out her hand, tried to stop her, but Sanne was already in the hallway opening the door.
Darkness there and nothing more. Sanne shut the door and returned to her chair.
“There’s nobody here. You can relax.” She sat down and poured more wine for both of them. “You were telling me about the killer?”
Serafine stared at her. Her fear slowly ebbed away, only to be replaced with resignation. Her black pupils looked straight through Sanne. She shrugged and stubbed out the cigarette in the remains of the lasagna on her plate.
“After I found my sister . . .” She reached out for the cigarettes, which Sanne had left on the table between them, then took Sanne’s cigarette from her hand and lit her own before handing it back. “The next thing I remember is my uncles coming into our room, talking to him and helping him get dressed. Then they forced both of us to bury her outside the centre. They ordered me to hold the flashlight so they could see. While they . . .”
Sanne was quiet for a long time, breathing through the cigarette.
“They forced you to bury your own sister?”
Serafine nodded, fixing her gaze on her. Sanne extinguished her cigarette next to Serafine’s.
“Can you show me where?”
58
LARS PUSHED HIS way up the escalator to airport security, past the business people, regular tourists, and families with children on their last holiday before the melancholy of winter set in.
An officer from Copenhagen Airport Police met him just before passport control, then guided him around the line and through the shopping area’s glittering mix of high street, luxury brands, and empty calories, to the airport police office by Gate C.
“They had already gone through security, but we managed to stop them at passport control.” The big airport officer was sweating in his uniform as he pushed his glasses back in place with his forefinger.
“Has he said anything?” Lars peered through the small window in the door at the couple sitting at a white, laminated square table. They looked pale and weren’t talking. He had seen the man before — it was the same man Kim A had led away from the cathedral during Mogens Winther-Sørensen’s funeral.
His colleague shrugged.
“The usual. He says that it must be some kind of mix-up. His wife is mostly worried that they’ll miss their flight.”
“I think they can forget about that. Can I go in?”
Lars left the door open behind him. “Søren Gjerding?” The elderly man did not look up. His face was hidden in his hands and his elbows were resting on the table. The retired director of the Margretheholm Refugee Centre and former head of the Danish Red Cross’s asylum section had once been an imposing man, but age and the usual physical decay had caused him to slump, as fat replaced muscle. He was wearing a short-sleeved, checked shirt and had a Skagen watch on his left wrist. A small, brown-leather bag was lying on the table in front of him. Lars guessed it contained a Canon camera more sophisticated than Søren Gjerding knew how to operate and a wallet that was probably full. The wife fiddled with her fingers and looked up hastily as Lars entered the room.
“What’s the point of keeping us here? We’ll miss our flight.” She got up and stood with her hand on the back of the chair, ready to leave.
“Would you please follow my colleague?” Lars gestured behind him to the airport officer filling the doorway. “I would like to speak to your husband alone.”
“Out of the question, we demand —”
“Just do as he says.” Søren Gjerding didn’t look up. His wife fell silent and looked from the officer by the door to her husband. Then she pushed the chair back under the table with a slam and left.
Lars pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the former Red Cross director.
“Lars Winkler, Copenhagen Police. You look like you know why we’re here.”
Søren Gjerding shook his head, but he still didn’t look up.
“It’s about the murder of Mogens Winther-Sørensen.”
The other man started scratching his hair in short, manic jerks. Lars took off his jacket.
“He used to work for you, at the Margretheholm Centre.”
Søren Gjerding’s large and wrinkled hands fell to the table.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” For the first time, he raised his head and looked straight at Lars. His eyes were grey and watery, the bags below dragging his whole face toward his chin.
“I think you do.” Lars fiddled with the cigarette packet in his pocket. “Mogens Winther-Sørensen took leave from the city council in October 1999, just before he returned as mayor. The original plan was that he would work for the Red Cross for at least six months, but it turned out to be just one month. Why?”
Søren Gjerding shook his head, then hid his face in his hands again.
Lars produced a photograph from his inside pocket.
“I want you to look at this picture.” He raised his voice when the other man did not react. “It was taken at the Margretheholm Centre.”
Søren Gjerding removed his hands from his face and studied the photograph with a resigned expression.
“That’s Mogens Winther-Sørensen and Serafine — our main witness �
�� as a child.”
Søren Gjerding stared at the image for a long time. Then he picked it up with trembling fingers.
“It . . . I think . . .” His shoulders slumped and he dropped the photo. “It’s no use. It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late.” Lars pushed the picture to the middle of the table and turned it toward the former centre director. “To tell the truth.”
Søren Gjerding fixed his eyes on the yellowing colour photograph and made a few false starts before he found his words.
“Mogens Winther-Sørensen started working with us as a volunteer — 1999 sounds about right.” He pulled at his cheeks. “The boy, whom you call Serafine, was known as Arbën back then. He came up here with his older sister and two uncles, Meriton and —”
“Ukë. Thanks, we know. They won’t bother anyone anymore.”
Søren Gjerding gulped.
“The boy grew very fond of Mogens, and Mogens of him. Arbën’s sister disappeared after Mogens had been with us about a month. Obviously we were all upset, but I think Mogens might have taken it the worst. The following day Mogens broke an inviolable rule and invited Arbën back to his apartment. Arbën told him that his uncles forced his sister to prostitute herself. After the boy returned, his uncles must have made him repeat what he told Mogens, because the next morning they were in my office, accusing Mogens of sexually abusing him.”
“And had he?”
Søren Gjerding shook his head.
“I really don’t think so. It was an attempt by the uncles to protect their business. And it worked.” He closed his eyes. “You must understand the whole thing was incredibly sensitive. One word to the media, and the entire Danish Red Cross would have been dragged through the mud. Our work with refugees would have suffered. I had no choice. I suspended Mogens, and I was going to report him to the police — to you.”
“But you never did?”
“No.” His hands began to shake. “The finance minister called.”
“Ah?” Now this was getting interesting.
The Scream of the Butterfly Page 23