The Scream of the Butterfly

by Jakob Melander

  Søren Gjerding doodled in the dust on the table with his pinky finger.

  “Well, I might as well . . . now that I’ve started . . .” He peered at the picture. Lars waited. Suddenly, Søren Gjerding straightened up with surprising agility. “She offered me a deal that would make me director of the asylum section of the Red Cross. It was a big move up. She also promised to secure an extra one hundred million kroner for refugee work in the next year’s budget. That money was badly needed, I can assure you.” Søren Gjerding put his hand on the photo and pulled it toward him.

  “In return for you forgetting all about the uncles’ accusation.” Lars reached out, took the picture, and stuck it in his inside pocket. “Then what happened?”

  “I was going to get the boy an appointment with a psychologist, but he disappeared that same evening, just like his sister.”

  “Disappeared? Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. It’s normal for both children and adults to disappear from asylum centres if their application for asylum is turned down. But neither Arbën nor his sister had been refused.”

  Lars drummed his fingers on the table and looked out through the small window behind Søren Gjerding. So that’s what Merethe Winther-Sørensen had been trying to hide. There was no doubt the story would be toxic for her party during the election, but to go as far as sabotaging the investigation into the murder of her own son?

  Outside the window, a Lufthansa aircraft taxied to the runway. Its lights reflected in the wet tarmac. It had already started to drizzle.

  Lars’s attention returned to the stuffy office.

  “And now you’re on your way to Thailand. Why now?”

  Søren Gjerding looked down at the table.

  “The minister . . .”

  “She wanted you out of the way until the election was over? Until things had settled down?”

  Søren Gjerding stared at the plane now roaring down the runway.

  “She gave us money and the address of a remote farmhouse in Sweden. We weren’t supposed to come back until after Christmas.”

  “But you preferred Thailand. Let me guess: your wife doesn’t like the cold?”

  Søren Gjerding nodded. Lars got up.

  “I’ll get an officer to drive you to police headquarters so we can get a written statement from you. I don’t think you’ll be going to Phuket this year.”

  59

  SANNE TURNED HER white Fiat 500 onto Kløvermarksvej. To her right were football pitches, wet and deserted in the autumn darkness; to her left, rows upon rows of empty community gardens. Serafine was sitting in the passenger seat, biting her nails.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to find it again?” Sanne kept her eyes on the road and reduced her speed as the car followed the bend around to the left. She accelerated again up Forlandet and along Lynetten. “We’ll be there in a sec.”

  Serafine shook her head, pressing herself back into the seat. They weren’t good memories.

  Sanne had called the duty officer to request a dog and handler to meet them once they got there. Unfortunately he was not due to arrive for another fifteen minutes. She suddenly realized how dark and quiet it was out here.

  The road turned. The hangar, which was part of Margretheholm, appeared in the darkness to her right. But the GPS told her to carry on, past a cluster of trees and bushes, before turning right onto Luftmarinegade and pulling up in front of the ruins of the old naval station. Sanne turned off the engine and got out. The wind was tearing at the reeds along the embankment, shaking the treetops above their heads. There was rain in the air. On the other side of the road was a row of newly built, dark-wood terraced houses. The light was on in a few of the houses furthest away. The old B&W shipyard loomed large and ominous behind the marina.

  She bent down and stuck her head inside the car.

  “Are you coming?”

  Serafine opened the passenger door and got out.

  “Our room was in there.” She pointed to the end of a graffiti-covered building. Bushes, weeds, even small trees had pushed through the stony ground along the wall. An iron door swung in the wind on rusty hinges. A sigh reverberated through the building.

  Sanne went over to the passenger side and put her arm around Serafine.

  “Come on. The dog handler will be here in a moment. Could you please show me where you buried her?”

  Serafine walked away from the building, toward the tree-clad mound that sloped down to the road.

  “It was around here. We didn’t walk very far.”

  A car drove past but didn’t stop. Its headlights disappeared between the trees. Sanne followed Serafine in between the bushes, turning on her flashlight. The beam danced over garbage, beer cans, used condoms, and cigarette butts. Even the remains of a packet of minced beef had found its way out here.

  Sanne’s cell phone rang in her handbag, which she had left in the car.

  “Hang on.” Sanne turned back.

  “Don’t leave me.” Serafine reached out for her, but Sanne was already by the car, opening the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, it’s Lars. Did you get my text? We’ve got a lot to do.”

  “I’m out at Margretheholm — with Serafine.” Lars didn’t sound surprised.

  “What has she told you?”

  “It’s a long story. Just come out here, will you?”

  They both hung up. Sanne stuffed her cell phone in her pocket and turned around. Serafine was standing right behind her, wide-eyed, staring out into the night.

  “There’s someone . . .”

  Sanne said nothing and listened.

  “It’s nothing. Come on.” She reached a hand into her bag. “I’ll take this. Will that make you feel better?” Sanne showed her the small pepper spray and stuffed it into her pocket.

  Serafine grabbed her arm. She was panting. The wind in the trees, the rustling of the reeds, and the hum of traffic coming from the city.

  And now she too can hear it. A faint rustling sound in the foliage that is out of sync with the wind.

  “He’s coming.” Serafine grabs a hold of her, hyperventilating.

  “Nonsense.” Sanne tries to free herself, fumbling with the flashlight. “It’s just a cat.” She turns on the light.

  In the pale cone coming from the flashlight, they both see a running shoe disappearing back into the darkness.

  60

  LARS TOSSED HIS cell phone onto the passenger seat, glanced quickly over his shoulder, and forced the steering wheel round to the left. The oncoming cars honked their horns and braked. He didn’t care, and made a big U-turn before heading back along H. C. Andersens Boulevard toward Amager. Sanne had sounded agitated, as if she had made a breakthrough with Serafine. He sped past Tivoli, the Glyptoteket museum, and the old Royal Danish Music Conservatory.

  On the radio, the debate was well under way. By now the leaders had pitched their most important themes for the election and outlined how their party intended to deal with the nation’s problems.

  “And thank you to Britta Gårdbo from the Liberal Alliance.” The host rattled his cue cards. “This concludes the first round of debate. Before we move on to the second, I’m sure viewers would like to hear Finance Minister Merethe Winther-Sørensen address the speculations that were published today about the pedophilia allegations involving her son, the late mayor of Copenhagen.” Lars crossed Langebro bridge. The lights from Fisketorvet shopping centre glittered nervously in the black surface of the harbour basin to the south.

  There was a collective gasp from the car radio; every participant in the debate held their breath — except one.

  “Mogens’s death is a terrible loss for me — his mother — and for his wife and daughter — indeed for the whole family.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen’s voice was calm, and tinged with a suitable hint of melancholy. “But also for the
party and the country. He was an unparalleled political talent. Who knows what he would have achieved if he had been allowed to continue his political work? Fortunately, his daughter, Sarah Winther-Sørensen, has decided to carry on from where he was so tragically forced to stop.” She cleared her throat and her voice rose three whole tones: tritonus, a diminished fifth — the devil’s interval. “At the same time I’m glad that you have given me the opportunity to comment on this rumour.” Lars was impressed. She actually sounded as if she meant it. “Because I can assure everyone, both here and the people at home, that it’s nothing more than that — a rumour. My son was never involved in any abuse case.”

  “Can you comment on the accusations that you used your political influence to suppress the case?”

  Merethe Winther-Sørensen snorted.

  “We live in Denmark, not some banana republic. I can —”

  Lars turned off the radio. His hands were shaking on the steering wheel. Did she really think that she could get away with it? His blood was boiling; he moved the car over to the left and into the next lane, unable to drive on.

  He signalled, pulled up on the sidewalk outside the SAS Royal Hotel, and grabbed a newly purchased packet of King’s Blue from his inside pocket. He tore off the cellophane and lit a cigarette. The smoke unfurled in his lungs, rushing with the blood flow to his brain, where the nicotine built a bridge between his synapses. His heartbeat returned to a normal pulse. Think, he had to think.

  They had nearly all the evidence they needed. And if Sanne really had convinced Serafine to open up, the last few links might soon be in place.

  However, there was no way they could put together a prosecution file before the election. Merethe Winther-Sørensen and her party would undeniably reap many sympathy votes because of the death of her son; votes she would very likely not receive if they were able to prove the allegations she had just denied in public. He inhaled, letting the glow eat its way through the paper.

  If other people could do it, surely so could he? He picked up his cell phone from the passenger seat and dialled the number he’d found online.

  “Sandra Kørner? This is Lars Winkler, Copenhagen Police. Are you watching the leader debate?”

  “Lars?” Sandra Kørner chuckled. “Well, there’s a surprise; I hadn’t expected to hear from you. I’m busy writing, but yes, the debate is on a widescreen TV here at the editorial office. Why?”

  “Did you hear what Merethe Winther-Sørensen just said about your story?”

  “Well, what else would she say? I’m used to it by now.”

  Lars rolled down the window, took one last drag, and tossed the butt out on the street.

  “I have something that I think you might be interested in seeing.”

  61

  “HE’S COMING.” SERAFINE is close to panicking and is clinging to Sanne’s jacket.

  Sanne looks around. Light from the street lamps on Forlandet filters through trees and bushes. The flashlight beam leaps across the shrubs. There is no one else here; the night is empty. Was it all in her mind?

  Sanne takes a step forward. Then they both hear the foliage rustle: the sound of a body pushing its way through the shrubs toward them.

  Sanne shoves Serafine to force her to move, then runs after her toward the rusty door at the end of the old refugee centre. Serafine gasps as she runs up the three concrete steps. Sanne is right behind her.

  They’re hit with an acrid stench of rot and damp, urine and excrement. Water is dripping somewhere in the darkness. There are urgent footsteps on the gravel. Sanne pushes Serafine inside and slams the door shut behind them. The bang echoes through the empty building.

  She tries to get her bearings in the darkness. The echo, which answers even the tiniest sound, makes it impossible to determine direction or distance. Where should they go? The flashlight shines down a long corridor, illuminating graffiti across the walls and on the floor, and puddles of water and garbage. Dark doorways lead into small rooms on both sides. There is a stack of cardboard boxes about halfway to their left. She shakes; her mind has gone blank. Her fear pumps paralyzing apathy around her body.

  Serafine presses herself against the wall by the door. The metal frame rattles, the handle moves. He is outside, trying to get in.

  Finally, Serafine reacts and jumps into action. She lunges forward, grabbing Sanne’s hand, and bangs her head against the wall, stumbling as she gets to her feet while pulling Sanne down the corridor. The door opens behind them, and a beam of light from the night outside catches them.

  “Come with me,” Serafine whispers. She’s panting. “There’s an exit further . . .” She doesn’t finish the sentence and starts to run. Sanne stays right behind her. Her heart is pumping an insane, syncopated dance in her chest. The door is now fully open behind them. She glances over her shoulder. A shadow fills the doorway and slips inside.

  They reach a large room. Corridors open out in different directions, with broad glass doors to the right. The moonlight enters, drawing slanted squares on the filthy linoleum floor. Serafine stands backlit and pulls at the doors, swearing.

  “It’s locked, come on.” She drags Sanne with her, up some stone steps, onward to the next set of stairs. A dense figure moves in the moonlight below, looking up. He is wearing a balaclava. The light reflects in his black pupils. Then he follows them up the stairs.

  At the top Serafine drags her to the left, ducking into yet another corridor.

  “Step down,” Serafine whispers, pulling Sanne into the darkness. She would have stumbled into nothing, breaking her neck, if Serafine hadn’t warned her. Sanne counts ten to twelve steps, then they turn and race down yet another staircase. It is a total maze. Above them, their pursuer has started his descent. The sound of his footsteps roars in her ears.

  She is sweating. Terror courses through her body, making it impossible to think. All she can do is follow. As they reach the foot of the stairs, Serafine makes a sharp right, slamming a door shut behind them. Sanne points the flashlight at her, and in its pale light sees the chain hanging limply down by the door frame. Sanne reaches up and grabs it. She tries to secure the chain across the door, but can’t get it into the track. The metal rattles. He must be able to hear what she is doing out there on the other side. They both wedge their shoulders against the door. The handle moves, then the chain slides into place and tightens as he presses open the door. The chain is stretched to its maximum extension, marking the space between them. They get a brief glimpse of narrow, grey eyes under the balaclava.

  “Come.” Serafine tries to pull her along, back down the same corridor they first entered. But Sanne stays put. She presses her feet against the floor, pushing her back against the door. One single thought is going through her mind: if she moves, he will get through. The taut chain quivers. A strong hand reaches through the gap, fumbling to get in. Nails scratch the skin of her chest. The blood starts trickling in long lines. He grabs hold of her shirt collar and yanks her violently against the door. His acrid and powerful smell, which wafts through the gap, is paralyzing. Pheromones engulf her. This is communication on a primal level. All resistance is useless, they scream. You’re already dead.

  She retaliates out of pure instinct, sinks her teeth into the soft flesh below his thumb, biting until the skin breaks. Warm blood pours out and the taste of iron sticks to the roof of her mouth. He screams, jerking back his hand. Serafine grabs her and drags her along, back toward the night and freedom.

  He hurls himself furiously against the door behind them. They hear a crash as the wood starts to crack.

  Sanne has no time to think before her hand reaches into her pocket and takes out the black container of pepper spray. The door gives, flies open, and smashes into the wall.

  Her knees buckle. She wriggles free from Serafine’s hold and turns.

  He stands in the doorway then begins to stomp down the corridor toward them. Serafi
ne stops behind her and again tries to make her follow, but Sanne shakes her off as she fumbles with the pepper spray. She manages to aim, but does not have time to press down before a powerful blow flings her against the wall.

  He is standing over her when she finally comes around. The pain in her shoulder is indescribable. The flashlight lies on the floor some distance from her, the cone of light rolling back and forth, lighting up sections of the corridor that are covered in graffiti, feces, and empty bottles. She has dropped the pepper spray. She quickly rolls away from the boot that kicks out at her and gets to her feet.

  Serafine is crouched down, back against the wall, and paralyzed. She is incapable of action. Now it is Sanne’s turn to drag her along. She pushes Serafine past some boxes before turning around to see the knife in his hand. The long blade glistens in the beam of the flashlight, which continues to roll around the floor behind them. The knife’s blood groove is thick and shiny.

  For the first time, she realizes that they might die here tonight. And all she wants to do is say goodbye to Lars. Their pursuer lunges forward, brandishing the knife. She cries out, pushing the stack of cardboard boxes. He tries to ward them off, tripping over clothing, books, sewing machines, broken CD players, and blankets. The stack sways, before finally collapsing, forcing him to his knees and onto the floor.

  “Quickly, Serafine,” she shouts as she kicks broken electrical equipment, books, and saucepans aside, dragging Serafine with her. They run toward the end of the building, and get to the door that they first entered. She is sobbing with joy when her hands close around the handle — until she realizes that their escape route is blocked. He has wrapped a chain around the handle and attached it to a hook in the wall. They can hear the boxes crashing behind them as they are tossed aside. He is coming.

  She pushes Serafine into the last room on the left, opposite the bathroom.

  “Hide,” she hisses. But where can she go? Sanne positions herself in the doorway, waiting for the knife.