The Scream of the Butterfly

by Jakob Melander

  The gun in Allan’s hand; Lars’s own in the mud by his feet. Not the safest position in the world. He clears his throat.

  “I learned that a fellow officer had called the hospital to ask where Sanne and Serafine had been admitted . . . And Kim A arrived at Margretheholm just after . . . And then he turned up at Mogens Winther-Sørensen’s apartment, just after the murder. I thought it was so he could explain away DNA evidence once the technicians had processed the crime scene. But you were there too. Why?” Lars spits into the mud.

  “Well, I guess you have a right to know — before we say goodbye.” Allan’s finger on the trigger is tense and white. He is shaking, blood mixing with the rain that washes over his face.

  Neither of them says anything. The sirens are still too far away. Then Allan coughs and spits.

  “One tiny mistake, one ridiculous mishap.” His voice slips into a sob. “And I’ve been paying for it ever since. My girlfriend, the kids . . . Oh, you don’t care.” He breaks off. Lars can’t work out whether they are tears or raindrops running down his cheeks. Allan sobs again before he continues. “Ukë and Meriton were busy pimping, even while they were still at Margretheholm. I found out by accident when I went there to follow up about some stolen bicycles. I let them carry on in return for me . . . well, I’m sure you can guess.”

  “But she was just a kid.”

  “She certainly didn’t look like a kid. Anyway, one day it went wrong. A moment of madness — isn’t that how all the perps explain themselves?” He laughs, wiping his mouth. “When I came to my senses, I had stabbed her with a pair of scissors. There was blood everywhere. And her brother was standing in the doorway.”

  Allan closes his eyes, then opens them immediately.

  “Ukë and Meriton said they would help me fix it, and we buried her outside. But the next day they turned up at the police station.” The hand with the pistol quivers and starts to fall. But he straightens up and continues.

  “They had sent the boy out of the country and said there was no use trying to find him. They wanted information, or —”

  “Or what?”

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “So you’ve been feeding Ukë and Meriton information about our work ever since?”

  “They won’t bother you again.” The bitter expression turns into a small smile.

  Lars wipes water from his forehead. That explains who killed the brothers.

  “And the mayor?”

  “I found Serafine in Hamburg through an Interpol contact and followed her back here. She was going to tell Mogens about her sister, about me. What else could I do?”

  “I . . .” Lars leans against a tree. The sirens are closer now. Perhaps there is enough time after all? “I just don’t understand why you leaked the pedophile story to Sandra Kørner. Surely you had no interest in that going public?”

  “She already had the story from another source; she was just looking for confirmation. Seeing as Ukë and Meriton were dead and Serafine was the only witness, I thought —”

  “You thought you could get rid of her too. But that wasn’t how it worked out. It’s over, Allan.” Lars takes a deep breath and steps forward. This is it. “Give me your gun.”

  “Do you take me for an idiot? Goodbye, Lars.” Allan raises the hand holding the weapon; his finger is on the trigger.

  Lars stops two steps in front of him and flings out his arms.

  “And then what? Where will you go? They’ll never stop looking for you if you kill a fellow officer; you know that just as well as I do.”

  “Lars.” The gun is shaking. The back of Allan’s head lolls back and forth against the tree trunk. The first patrol car pulls up by Tegner’s sculpture on the corner of Tagensvej and Blegdamsvej.

  “Over here,” Lars calls out, waving.

  “Screw you. Goodbye.” Allan’s finger curls around the trigger.

  “Lars!” The cry cuts through the rain. It comes from behind him and to the right, not from the patrol car, which is behind him to the left.

  “Here!” Lars holds his hands where Allan can see them.

  Allan aims the gun at the sound, and peers into the darkness and the rain. A shadow passes on the left. Allan turns toward the movement, trying to follow it.

  Then a shot is fired, and Allan’s jaw explodes. Blood and teeth spill over his shirt. The hand holding the pistol drops into the mud. The ruined face gurgles, and his eyes roll into the back of his head.

  “Lars.” Kim A has reached him; he takes a look at Allan. The PET officer runs both hands across his wet scalp.

  “You didn’t have to shoot.” Lars is kneeling beside Allan. “It was already over.” He moves the pistol. Allan still has a pulse, but he is losing blood — fast.

  “It wasn’t me.” Kim A peers in between the tree trunks, shaking his head. “It came from over there.” He points in the direction of the Panum Institute.

  “But then who . . . ?” Lars looks up. The park is deserted and there is no one around, except two uniformed officers, who come running from the patrol car. Lars stands up. “Copenhagen Police. My colleague is a PET officer. And this guy here needs a doctor.” He points to Allan. “And make sure he doesn’t escape.”

  The police officers pick Allan up and carry him toward Rigshospitalet.

  “If you didn’t do it, then who shot him?”

  Kim A looks around.

  “Whoever it was is gone now. We’ll get the dogs out here. Now let’s take a look at you. I think you’re in need of some dry clothes and a hot drink. You’ll catch your death of cold.”

  It is only now that he realizes he is shivering. His jacket, jeans — everything is sticking to his body. Lars picks up his own gun as well as Allan’s. Then he follows Kim A through Amor Park. The officers have already taken Allan inside the hospital. There is frantic activity behind the automatic glass doors.

  “Have you seen Ekstra Bladet’s homepage?” Kim A lights a cigarette and passes it to Lars. “They’ve found a picture of Mogens Winther-Sørensen at a refugee centre, with Serafine as a child.”

  Lars says nothing and inhales.

  Kim A looks up at the sky. Lars follows his gaze. The underside of the clouds is lilac, reflecting the neon advertisements, the traffic lights. The pulse of the city.

  “I don’t mind looking after the minister, keeping her name out of the press in the run-up to the election, if necessary; maybe even bending a rule or two as long as she assures me that no one gets hurts. But this . . . ?” He shakes his head and sticks his hand in his pocket. “By the way, I think this is yours.”

  Lars opens his hand to accept the object from Kim A. It is not until his fingers close around the knobbly, soft texture that he realizes what it is: the red, crocheted bookmark from The Tempest.

  Kim A heads for the entrance to Rigshospitalet.

  “If I were you, I’d quit that crap.”

  FRIDAY,

  OCTOBER 4–

  TUESDAY,

  OCTOBER 8

  71

  THE TIME AT the hospital passes in a slow haze. Nothing matters anymore. She has given up. Police officers have been to interview her, both the woman and the male officer she ran away from at Sandholm. She has told them everything she already told the female officer. What made him hunt her down. They assure her that he is gone and that he won’t be coming after her ever again, but something inside her has broken.

  “You must eat.” The nurses are kind and helpful. No one looks down at her or calls her names. But the quiet flutter of butterfly wings has vanished. She can’t hear them anymore.

  She is lying in bed, staring out of the window at the faded colours and clouds, when the female doctor enters. It is not until they have spoken for some time that she remembers the red glasses.

  The doctor has talked to her colleagues at the hospital and the police. She is
trying to help. They are looking into whether she might get the operation after all. And the flutter returns, only very faintly, but it is there.

  It is the only reason she can summon the energy to get up when the nurse tells her she has a visitor. With a little help, she gets out of bed and puts on a bathrobe. The pain in her shoulder is manageable at last, but she doesn’t know whether it is because of the morphine or whether the injury is healing.

  A cooking show is playing on the TV out in the visitors’ room. A small child plays with building blocks in a corner. The boy’s mother sits beside him with a magazine. An old man sits at the table furthest away. His hair is white; his skin heavily lined. There is something familiar about his features. His whole face lights up when he sees her. He gets up, goes to meet her, and clasps both of her hands.

  “Serafine.”

  The nurse helps her to the table and then leaves. Now she can see the family resemblance.

  “You’re Moo-genz’s father. You took a picture of us.”

  He looks away. Something glints in the corner of his eye.

  “You have a good memory. My name is Arne.” He points to her shoulder. “Is it . . . ?”

  Serafine shrugs her healthy shoulder and scratches her forearm. Neither of them says anything. Arne looks down at his hands.

  “For fourteen years I hated my son. I was convinced that I had created a monster.” Then he doesn’t say anything for a long time. Serafine waits. But when he doesn’t continue, she has to ask:

  “Why?”

  “Because of what he did to you — or what I thought he had done to you.” Arne turns to her. He has tears in his eyes.

  “Moo-genz was my friend. He didn’t do what I said back then. My uncles forced me to say it.”

  “I know that now,” Arne whispers.

  They sit together for a long time. They talk a little, until finally Arne gets up.

  “I have to get back to work. But I’ll visit you again.”

  Arne grabs her arm once they’re out by the elevator.

  “I can’t tell my son . . .” He breaks off. “I know that Mogens wanted to help you. If there is anything I can do . . . If you need money . . . Promise that you’ll come to me?”

  What was keeping her? The press was waiting at Ny Hollænderskolen, keen to see the two of them arrive together to cast their vote. It was all arranged. Merethe Winther-Sørensen wiped her forehead and continued to channel hop. TV 2, DR, every broadcaster was covering the election — the feast day of democracy. Talking heads tried to predict the outcome. And even she had to admit that it didn’t look good. The media was tearing down the edifice she had devoted a lifetime to building, aided only too willingly by her fellow party members.

  They wanted to throw her out of the party. They seriously believed it would be enough to save the sinking ship. And that spineless nobody they wanted as their party leader? At the time when it was imperative they stand firm?

  But a captain never abandons his ship. A Winther-Sørensen goes down with it. She intended to vote for the abolition of immunity for members of parliament herself, so the police could charge her with corruption, God help them all. What a farce. Her life’s work in ruins — mocked, and reduced to entertainment for the rabble.

  But youth was waiting in the wings. With Sarah the goal was still within reach. She was young and untainted; she would go on to achieve greatness. Merethe got up, poured herself a glass of Moët, and went out into the hallway. She raised her glass to the portraits of her father and grandfather.

  And perhaps it would look more symmetrical with two of each sex?

  The telephone rang in the drawing room. Merethe clattered through the hall and turned down the volume on the television.

  “Merethe?” The voice on the other end was hard and shiny, an impenetrable glass barrier. You could see through it, but not reach the other side.

  “Can I please talk to Arne?”

  It was Kirsten calling. She could tell something was wrong from the sound of her voice. Was she drunk?

  “Kirsten? What’s keeping you?” Merethe put down her glass. “You were supposed to be here ages ago.” She could hear a girl’s silvery laughter in the background. Was that Sarah? “Where are you?”

  “Don’t bother waiting. Sarah isn’t coming. But she would like to talk to Arne.”

  Something inside her tensed up, contracted, and threatened to explode. So they wanted to take this from her as well — her right. She tried to control herself and get the air into her lungs.

  “Kirsten. I don’t know what you think you’re doing. Now just come over here, and we’ll forget —”

  “Don’t you understand?” The voice was shrill. “We’re not even in Europe anymore. You can’t reach her here. You won’t get her ever, don’t you understand?” She was screaming now. Then she stopped and took a deep breath. Her voice was calm when she continued. “So could we please speak to Arne?”

  Her throat burned. The room began to spin, and her pulse throbbed in her temples. Merethe heard herself snarl into the phone.

  “Who do you think told the press about the pedophile charge? It was your darling Arne. I’ve thrown him out. He no longer lives here.”

  Merethe Winther-Sørensen hurled the phone against the wall, and lashed out at the fragments as they bounced back without hitting them. Then she sat down on the sofa in front of the muted television and closed her eyes. The talking heads continued their pointless chatter on the screen.

  “Allan followed Serafine all the way from Hamburg to Copenhagen on the train without getting a chance to kill her.” Lars was sitting in Sanne’s office. He had just reviewed the security footage Allan had gathered after the murder. He featured in it prominently, which explained why their former colleague had been so keen to examine the footage by himself. “He came running out from Burger King, just after Serafine and Mogens Winther-Sørensen had caught a taxi, and followed them in the next one.”

  Lars had spoken to the taxi driver, who confirmed that a passenger matching Allan’s description had asked him to follow a taxi from Rådhuspladsen to Sankt Thomas Plads.

  After examining Allan’s computer, they discovered he had leaked information about the investigation to Sandra Kørner as early as the day after the murder. She hadn’t exactly admitted as much, but nor had she denied it.

  After Lars had been driven home from Margretheholm, the sniffer dog had reacted to something in the shrubs between the buildings and the road. Frelsén and Bint had found the skeletal remains of a young girl, whom they assessed to be around fourteen years old. A pair of rusty scissors was found between her neck vertebrae and collarbone.

  The third set of fingerprints on the chef’s knife, which had been used for the murder of Mogens Winther-Sørensen, belonged to Allan. And he had provided them with the motive himself — a motive he had confirmed during subsequent questioning. The injuries to his jaw and tongue were still too extensive for him to speak, so Allan had written down his replies to all of Lars’s questions during the interview.

  According to the doctors, he was facing several complicated and painful operations. But he would be able to chew again — which he would be able to cherish throughout his long prison sentence.

  But the identity of the person who had shot Allan remained a mystery. Bint had recovered the bullet the following day in a mixture of mud, blood, and leaves near the tree, and had matched it to a bullet used in a killing that was traced back to Meriton and Ukë’s gang. This was as close as they were likely to get. But they did know that Valmir had coincidentally vanished into thin air. There could be little doubt that he had likely avenged the killing of Ukë and Meriton.

  It was Sanne’s first day back at work. She yawned and doodled on a memo from Ulrik with her uninjured hand. Her other arm was strapped into a sling. The effect of the pepper spray had eased off after a few hours, but her broken shoulder would
need more time to recover.

  “Did you remember to vote today?” She stopped doodling, tossing the pen aside. “They’re going to get wiped out, according to opinion polls.”

  “You know, me and politics . . .” Lars fiddled with a paper clip, straightening it out. “How about you?”

  “I voted this morning . . . with Martin.” She avoided looking at him. “So we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Silence.

  Lars stuck his hand into his jacket and stroked the envelope in his pocket. Perhaps Christine was right? Maybe it really was time to let go? He got up, tossing the paper clip on the table.

  “Fancy coming with me to visit Serafine?”

  Sanne pushed back her chair, got up, and grabbed her jacket.

  “By the way, this arrived for you earlier today.” She took a brown envelope from a pile on the table. “I didn’t know anyone still used the old police ranks . . .” She pointed to the yellow Post-it note stuck to the front of the envelope.

  “KA stands for Kim A — not the old ranking system.” Lars tore it open. It contained a batch of photocopied newspaper articles from the last quarter of 1999. He whistled. “So this was the information we absolutely could not see!”

  There is a knock on the door to the side ward. The nurse is tall and blonde. She smiles and comes over to her bed.

  “Serafine, how are you today?” The nurse takes her hand without waiting for a reply. “I have some good news that I’ve really been looking forward to telling you. We’ve had a reply from the GU clinic. They would like to offer you an initial appointment.”

  Serafine blinks, hardly daring to believe it.