The Dinosaur Feather

Chapter 12

On Friday October 12, Søren rose at six o’clock and showered. Two hours later, he arrived at Bellahøj police station, in plenty of time for the morning meeting at nine. He stood in his office, staring out the window at the running track, while he reviewed the case. Two days after a murder, four days after a suspicious death, which was very likely also a murder, and what did he have? Not even the beginning of a theory. He should be rushing around, getting the investigation moving, pumping suspects for information and chasing every last piece of evidence.

He thought about Anna. He had never asked anyone for help. He had never been so unprofessional. And he had picked her—of all people. An unbalanced lioness with a threatened cub. A woman with something to hide.

He watched the sky above the city and was consumed by a deep urge to touch her; to kiss her and make love to her. He imagined it was New Year’s Eve, they had gone somewhere, Anna and he, to a party with lots of people, women in beautiful gowns, men in black tie. Anna stood by the window and Søren watched her from across the room. She was wearing a black dress, her yellow eyes were made up and looked dramatic, and Søren knew every man secretly desired her. Later that night, she danced. Drunk and vulgar, throwing propriety to the wind, her hair in a mess, her thighs bared where her dress had ridden up. He would find her in the darkness and put out her fire with gasoline. It would never go out. Never ever, as long as he lived.

He froze. Where had she been last Wednesday night when he had called her, twice? What could she have been up to that was so private she refused to tell him? It was odd that Henrik had said something similar. That he had been with someone and he had screwed up? Søren was suddenly convinced Henrik had visited Anna. That he had used the case as a pretext for seeing her and they had…. He checked his watch and stormed off to the morning meeting, itching to pick a fight with someone.

He briefed his team, distributed that day’s tasks, and answered a few questions. He didn’t look at Henrik directly, but watched, out of the corner of his eye, how Henrik doodled on a pad, paying absolutely no attention. It wasn’t until Søren announced he intended to visit Johannes Trøjborg’s mother, Janna Kampe, that Henrik reacted and wanted to know why. Had Søren come across something? After all, they had already spoken to Mrs. Kampe.

“I want to know whether Johannes was gay or—” Søren began.

“Of course he was.” Henrik interrupted. “If Johannes was straight, I’ll watch the next season of The Bachelor with you.”

Søren glared at Henrik. “What do you mean?”

“They like that kind of thing. They fuck each other up the ass and watch cheesy shows.” A few people tittered.

“Just like you’re some fascist pig who sits in his patrol car all day, stuffing his face with doughnuts?”

Søren expected his comeback to trigger howls of laughter, but it didn’t. Suddenly he became aware of how angry he had sounded.

Anna showed up at ten o’clock, exactly as they had agreed. He could clearly forget all about a truce. She stared daggers at him during the entire interview but never looked at Henrik once, not even when he addressed her directly, or when she replied to his barrage of questions. She was clearly making a point.

“Jesus, she’s hard work,” Henrik said, as he looked down the corridor where Anna was disappearing. Søren followed his eyes.

“What’s your problem?” Søren snapped, went into his office and slammed the door shut behind him. Henrik opened the door, wanting to know why the hell Søren was so uptight. At that moment the telephone rang, and Søren gestured for Henrik to come in.

It was Bøje.

“Yes?” Søren snarled.

“Someone been raining on your parade?” Bøje asked.

“Just get to the point,” Søren said.

“There wasn’t a single parasite in Johannes Trøjborg’s tissue.”

Søren didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Now he was looking for two killers.

“What else?” he demanded, impatiently.

“I’ve found several semen traces on Johannes’s body,” Bøje continued and Søren heard him flick through his report. “Crime scene officers have isolated samples on the floor and at the bottom of two table legs in a radius of about 20 inches from the spot in the living room where he was killed. I don’t need to tell you the semen didn’t come from Johannes, do I?”

Søren held his breath.

“What’s your conclusion?” He could hear the rustling of paper, then Bøje took a breath.

“Johannes Trøjborg died as a result of six injuries to the back of his head, of which four would have been severe enough to kill him on their own. Judging from the forensic report, which I have in front of me, and the injuries sustained by the victim, he was thrown up against the far right corner of the sofa, which penetrated the back of his head. Two of the injuries were inflicted prior to the victim’s death and probably rendered him unconscious but didn’t kill him, then he suffered another four which…” Bøje hesitated. “Well, it’s the equivalent of someone stabbing him with an ice pick. Johannes Trøjborg undoubtedly died from the first blow, and it begs the question, why did the killer carry on? The victim was of medium build, which suggests the killer was either very strong or very angry or both. By the way, what an extraordinary piece of furniture,” he added, and Søren assumed he was looking at a photograph of Johannes Trøjborg’s sofa.

“It looks like Count Dracula’s sofa,” he commented. “Everything indicates someone went berserk and we’re not dealing with a calculating killer, but rather some dude who went nuts. You have to be good and angry to attack an unconscious man and continue assaulting him after he’s dead, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What does the semen tell us?” Søren asked.

“Well, that’s something of a mystery. Semen traces were found on the body. On the body but not inside. So they didn’t have sex, and it wasn’t rape.” Bøje paused and waited for the penny to drop.

“And?” Søren prompted him after a long, ominous pause.

“What bothers me is that we’re talking about very little semen.”

Søren was perplexed.

“I don’t follow.”

Bøje hesitated.

“Well, it’s as if… as if the killer ejaculated while he manhandled the body. Very confusing and difficult to explain. Even for me.”

Søren groaned. A parasite freak and a necrophile. What the hell was going on?

“Are we talking about necrophilia?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Bøje replied. “Do you recall that man from Søborg who killed an armed robber by throwing him against a stove?”

“No,” Søren said.

“Well, anyway, we found traces of the man’s DNA on the intruder. In the form of semen. We were speechless, to put it mildly. The man called the police straight after the attack and nothing suggested he had time to satisfy his necrophiliac urges before calling for help, and besides, it made no sense whatsoever. He was a regular guy whose wife was holding an almost newborn baby in her arms, and I didn’t think for one moment he had ejaculated over the body. Besides, there simply wasn’t enough semen, if that was the explanation. We found traces, but nowhere near the amount we find in rape victims, for example, not even half a load. So how on earth had his semen ended up on the intruder? We were all going crazy because we couldn’t figure it out. You were on leave or something and that hopeless idiot, what was his name, Flemming Tørslev or Tønnesen?”

Søren groaned for the second time.

“Hans Tønnesen,” he said.

“Right, thanks. Well, that dimwit was convinced the husband was a pervert and had masturbated over the intruder after hurling him against his stove. What an idiot!” Bøje remarked as if it was Søren’s fault that Hans Tønnesen was a mediocre detective. In a way, it was. As a result of Søren’s sudden absence, his colleagues had to tolerate Tønnesen’s modest talent for three months in 2005. Elvira had died, and Knud was ill. And then there was the breakup with Vibe. And the business with Maja. Søren had burned out and the only way he could hide it was to take time off. Hans Tønnesen had been the only senior officer at Bellahøj police station who could replace him. When Søren returned to work, he had been made to pay for his colleague’s incompetence by buying everyone pastries for an unreasonably long time.

“Eventually the husband admits, under questioning, that he had been naked on the toilet, masturbating over a porn mag. At the very same second he ejaculates, he hears the intruder climb through a window. He runs into the living room where he attacks the intruder, leaving semen traces on him. As well as in the bathroom, in the hallway, on the door to the living room, and every other surface he touches. Minuscule amounts, obviously, but enough for us to track him from the bathroom to the living room. This case started off as an enigma, but make a note of this, my boy: sometimes the utterly improbable explanation is the right one.”

Søren felt a headache coming on.

“And now you’ve found traces,” he said, “but not enough to prove direct sexual contact?”

“Bingo.”

“And you still rule out necrophilia?”

“I can’t rule out anything, but I’ve seen three cases of necrophilia in my time, approximately one every fifteen years and in every one of them, there was either a full amount of semen in or on the body, or no semen at all, because even the most deranged necrophile appears to know DNA makes great evidence. Here, the semen proves neither one thing nor another, just like in the Søborg case. Johannes didn’t have sex with anyone prior to his death. He had some old tears to his rectum, which suggest he may have had anal intercourse in the past, but even that’s difficult to establish. Tears can happen for all sorts of reasons, and in this case, they bear no relation to the cause of death. My opinion is we’re dealing with the same type of coincidence as in the Søborg case. The killer is masturbating, and while he’s doing that an argument starts, he ejaculates, gets angry, and attacks Johannes, and that’s how the traces end up on him.”

“Have you checked the semen?”

“Yep.” There was a scrambling noise down the other end. “Negative. He’s not on our database.”

Søren was silent for a moment, then he asked: “Any connection to Lars Helland, in your opinion?”

“The parasite-riddled guy from the other day?”

“Yes,” Søren sighed.

“Infecting someone with parasites is what I would describe as cold-blooded. You don’t do that in the heat of the moment, do you? It takes planning. I don’t think we’re talking about the same killer. I can see why you would like it to be: the victims were close colleagues and you could kill two birds with one stone, but if you ask me, we’re talking about two different ones. A ruthless bastard, who carried out a carefully planned revenge, and a hothead who gets a bit too rough with his lover during a fight, and who explodes with rage when said lover dares to spill his brains all over the floor.”

Søren pricked up his ears.

“What do you mean by lover?”

Bøje was quiet for a while.

“You’re right, I’m not sure about that,” he said, surprisingly timid all of a sudden. “The victim had a pierced penis, through the urethra and out on the underside of the head, which makes him a bit out of the ordinary, don’t you think? Ordinary men, real men, I mean men like us, don’t sport a Prince Albert, do we? The victim must have been queer.”

Søren was tempted to agree with him.

After his conversation with Bøje, Søren dealt with a few things in his office and ate his lunch behind a newspaper in the cafeteria, so no one would be tempted to join him. Just before two o’clock he drove to Charlottenlund to pay Mrs. Kampe a visit.

The Kampe family home looked like a mansion, and when Søren drove up the poplar-lined avenue he couldn’t help thinking of Johannes’s shabby apartment. Could this really be the place where little Johannes had grown up? It was a three-story house with a broad two-winged staircase that led to the main entrance.

It was as silent as the grave.

Søren rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a woman who looked at him with Johannes’s intelligent eyes. She shook his hand and invited him in. There were ornaments and furniture, rugs and stuffed animal heads, and hides from floor to ceiling in the three rooms Søren managed to see before they reached a large drawing room where a fire was burning in the fireplace. Two royal-blue sofas faced each other and Søren noticed a woolen blanket and a hastily folded newspaper on one of them. Janna Kampe gestured toward the other sofa and sat down opposite him. Søren began by telling her that the preliminary autopsy report didn’t suggest there was a link between the murder of her son and the death of Professor Helland three days earlier. Mrs. Kampe looked momentarily skeptical. Then he changed the conversation to the cause of Johannes’s death. His training had taught him to say as little as possible without being downright obstructive. Mrs. Kampe looked away when her eyes welled up.

“It’s very important for the investigation that we form as clear a picture of Johannes’s social life as possible. His circle. People he spent time with, his friends. That’s why I’m here.”

Mrs. Kampe looked at him for a long time, before she said, “I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I didn’t know Johannes very well. This Christmas, it’ll be two years since we last saw each other. I’ve no idea who his friends are. Or I should say…” She got up and returned with a scrapbook. Søren watched her face. Maintain the façade, it told him, keeping up appearances matters more than anything. She handed him the scrapbook.

“I know a little. I saved some newspaper clippings.”

Søren opened the book. The pages were covered with various items featuring Johannes. Søren studied a picture of a beaming Johannes who had just received a distinction for his dissertation. He was holding several bouquets and, as far as Søren could see, the article was from the university’s newsletter. In another piece, Johannes was part of a crowd and Søren read about a seminar in the caption; a third article was about the communication of science and had been published in the journal, Dagens Medicin. Here, Johannes had been photographed with his colleagues from the department of Cell Biology and Comparative Zoology and Søren was startled when he recognized Anna. She looked straight into the camera. Johannes was standing next to her, smiling gently, and behind them was Lars Helland, distracted and looking at something outside the photo. Søren carried on. There were roughly forty articles in the scrapbook, cut out and filed like prized stamps.

“May I ask why your relationship was so strained?” he said. Mrs. Kampe looked at him for a long time.

“I married into all of this,” she said, gesturing toward the elegant drawing room. “My late husband, Jørgen, wasn’t the children’s real father. Their father died when they were very young. My daughter wasn’t even a year old and Johannes barely four. We became financially secure for the rest of our lives,” she said, not looking happy at all.

“My children have never really appreciated their good fortune,” she continued. “Of course, my daughter could be excused, but Johannes… Johannes has always seemed…” She searched for the right word. “Uninterested. As if he were trying to prove something. Jørgen was a strict stepfather, but he also offered Johannes the chance of a very privileged life. Johannes, however, simply rejected it. Johannes could have been more…” She frowned and decided to change tack.

“With money comes responsibility,” she stated. “And the plan was that Johannes would join the firm. Jørgen had taught Johannes everything about the business. Everything. And suddenly, he wanted out.” She gave Søren a dark look. “He was adamant he wanted to be an academic, just like his biological father. It was very difficult for Jørgen to accept. It caused deep rifts between my husband and Johannes. They had huge arguments, but Johannes had made up his mind.

“When their feud was at its peak, Johannes started to deliberately provoke Jørgen. He showed up in a skirt and wearing eye makeup for dinner on St. Martin’s Eve—would you believe it—I don’t know what he was thinking. His appearance had been becoming increasingly bizarre: the black boots in the hall, which I nudged behind the coats, and his hair, of course. He dyed it red. I noticed other details. The edge of some item of jewelry. His pierced ears, which he had the decency to keep unadorned when he visited us. I regarded this as a concession because Johannes knew his stepfather would fly into a rage. Jørgen didn’t approve of people being different.” Mrs. Kampe shook her head. “But that night, he showed up in a leather skirt and wearing eye makeup. At first I thought he must be drunk, but he wasn’t. His hands were shaking, I remember, but his eyes were challenging, as if he had decided to declare war. I knew there would be trouble.” Mrs. Kampe looked at Søren, her eyes filled with the trepidation and defiance she had previously attributed to her son.

“Jørgen always saw Johannes in his study. That evening, I waited in the kitchen for an eternity. I solved a crossword. The food grew cold.” She smiled sheepishly. “Suddenly I noticed the door to my husband’s study was open. Jørgen was behind his desk, flicking through a hunting magazine. I asked him where Johannes was, and he said, ‘He’s gone and he won’t be coming back.’”

“And did he?”

“No,” Mrs. Kampe replied. “He didn’t. Not while Jørgen was alive. I called him many times. I missed him. Johannes wanted me to get a divorce. He said it as if visiting me depended on it. But, of course, I wasn’t going to. I loved Jørgen. So he started saying all sorts of vile things.” She hesitated.

“Such as?” Søren wanted to know.

“Things like I was a prisoner in my own home. That Jørgen was a tyrant, and I wore an invisible ball and chain. That if this was my idea of love, then I was blind.” She looked down.

“Jørgen left Johannes nothing when he died. Or rather, he left him one of the stag heads in the corridor. It’s still there. Johannes refused to collect it. He was furious, but what did he expect? My husband had heard nothing from him for the better part of a year, not even when he was admitted to hospital and had only weeks to live. When Johannes found out he would inherit nothing, he was furious.”

Her exasperation flared up, then her façade cracked.

“I wish Johannes was still a little boy. He was a wonderful little boy. Gentle and industrious. He did as he was told and he was never any trouble. Neither of my children was. But as adults… I don’t know. We must have done something wrong. And now it’s too late.” She straightened up.

“Why could Johannes’s sister be excused?” Søren asked.

“Mental health problems,” Mrs. Kampe replied. “It started when she reached puberty. She lived with us for many years, but eventually the burden grew too heavy. So she moved into a residential home.”

“Was Johannes gay?” Søren asked suddenly.

“His sister said he wasn’t,” Mrs. Kampe replied. “I obviously suspected he might be. I mean, leather skirts and makeup? I’ve never met any of his boyfriends, but what do I know about gay men? I don’t approve of them and yes, for a time I believed he was gay. My daughter said he was merely a member of some club where men wore skirts and corsets. That he definitely wasn’t gay. She knew that because she had met his girlfriend. An older woman.”

“I’ll need to speak to your daughter,” Søren said.

“No,” Mrs. Kampe replied.

Søren regretted his strategy.

“I’ll need to speak to someone who knew Johannes,” he said kindly. “A friend, an ex-lover, or his sister.” He gave Mrs. Kampe a pleading look. “Right now, I’ve got nothing to go on.”

Janna Kampe looked at him for a long time. Then she took the scrapbook and flicked to the third page. Søren had noticed the picture, but paid no attention to it. The photo showed a curvaceous woman around forty, with thick curly hair held in place by a spotted bandana. Her smile sparkled. Søren skimmed the text. The article was about a vintage furniture store in Nordre Frihavnsgade. The owner’s name was Susanne Winther; she was a trained psychotherapist and now a passionate furniture collector. She loved spending her weekends tracking down hidden treasures at flea markets in and around Copenhagen, with her boyfriend Johannes. His name was highlighted, and the article was published two years ago.

“My daughter gave me this. She said the woman was Johannes’s girlfriend. She told me to tell Dad, to tell Jørgen. So Jørgen wouldn’t think Johannes was… a shirt-lifter.”

Søren wrote Susanne Winther’s name and the date of the article in his notepad. Johannes had had a girlfriend. Calling it a breakthrough might be an exaggeration, he thought wryly. But it was a start.

“It’s helpful,” Søren said. “But before I speak to her, I really want to talk to Johannes’s sister. I presume her surname’s also Trøjborg? Where does she live?”

“In heaven,” Janna Kampe said quietly. “She took her own life last summer. She suffered from schizophrenia and was frequently hospitalized. In the end, she gave up.”

Søren sat, shaken, in front of a woman who had lost both her children. He had run out of questions and got up to leave. Mrs. Kampe escorted him through the fine, cold house, and he promised to call her with any news.

When he drove back to the city, he could smell his own sweat.

Under normal circumstances, he would have dropped by Bellahøj police station and picked up Henrik, but suddenly he found himself at the junction with Jagtvejen, a long way from the police station, very close to Nordre Frihavn, and still angry with Henrik. He parked on Strandboulevarden and walked up Nordre Frihavnsgade where he soon found Susanne Winther’s store, which was called The Apple. When he entered, the first thing that caught his eye was a dozen apple-shaped bowls arranged on a teak table, which could easily have come from his childhood home in Snerlevej. Faint music could be heard and there was an aroma of apples and cinnamon.

“Be with you in a minute,” a voice called out from the back room.

Søren sat down in a high-backed armchair, which someone had updated by decorating its worn armrests with red appliqué apples. He thought about Vibe. About her open face, eyes that had trusted him since that high-school disco. He thought about Maja. The memory of the last time he saw her hadn’t faded. Her singular smell, sweet and enticing, and her foot, tiny inside her booties, even smaller in his hand. The lie weighed him down. Knud had urged him to live his life right, free from lies, free from secrets. He had said lies never expired, but Søren had been arrogant and believed his lie would dissolve and evaporate. And when that had happened, his life would once more consist of manageable fluctuations within a normal range. No more hurt. No more pain. Like all the years with Vibe. A nice, quiet life, free from drama, free from loss. Now he had ended up with the exact opposite. He was attracted to Anna. It was unprofessional and risky. Anna had upset his careful balancing act. What was it all about? Her yellow eyes, her volatility, her devil-may-care attitude. He didn’t even dare to think how scared he would be, all the time, if she were his. All that drama, every day, upending every stone, stirring everything up, turning everything inside out.

There were apples everywhere in Susanne Winther’s store. A mirror with a plastic apple frame hung on the wall, and on the floor lay a crocheted rug with a picture of a large red apple.

“Hi.”

Søren instantly recognized Susanne Winther from the picture. She was obese and very beautiful. White flawless skin, freckles down the bridge of her nose, and an impressive head of cascading curls, kept away from her face with a headband. She was wearing an apron with a large red apple and green trimming, and she offered Søren a plate.

“I’ve been baking,” she said cheerfully. “And made a fresh pot of tea. You looking for anything in particular?”

Søren suddenly realized how hungry he was and took a slice of cake.

“Someone’s got an apple obsession,” he remarked.

Susanne Winther laughed.

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You were looking for a dining table? I happen to have one in the back. Do you want to have a look? You did want a solid wood one, didn’t you? That was you?”

Søren stood up abruptly.

“I’m with the police,” he said, feeling guilty as he wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth. Susanne Winther chuckled and winked at him. Then she froze.

“Please tell me you’re joking?” she said. For the second time that day, he pulled out his badge. Susanne Winther buried her face in her hands.

“Is Magnus all right?”

Somewhere, at the back of Søren’s mind, an alarm went off.

“I’m here because Johannes Trøjborg’s dead, and I have reason to believe you knew him.” Søren waited for her reaction. She seemed relieved.

“Sorry,” she said and slumped down on a sofa. “But that’s dreadful. What happened? Christ Almighty. I’ve a little boy. Magnus. He’s seven months old, and he’s at home with his daddy. For a moment, I thought something terrible had happened to them. That they had been killed.” She gave Søren a dazed look. “So Johannes is dead? How? Did he have a crash? Why are you here?”

“Were you Johannes Trøjborg’s girlfriend two or three years ago?” Søren asked.

“Yes, we were together. For a year. But we haven’t seen each other for a long time.” Again she buried her face in her hands. “But, Jesus Christ, I spoke to him recently,” she said, “less than two weeks ago. We were really good friends, or whatever you call it when you don’t see each other very often. He wanted to see Magnus. He promised to call soon and arrange a time when he was less busy. That’s why I didn’t worry when I hadn’t heard from him. So he’s dead?” She stared at Søren.

“Did he have a crash?” she asked again.

Søren shook his head.

Susanne Winther closed the store and called her husband. Søren could hear her speak in a low voice in the back room. It sounded as if she were crying. Søren helped her carry two chests on the pavement back inside the store. Together, they walked to his car and Søren opened the door for her. The sun was shining, and he put on his sunglasses. He slid his cell into its holder and inserted his earpiece. Two messages. The first one was unimportant, and the other was from Henrik, wondering where the hell he was. There was still no sign of Dr. Tybjerg, and Henrik wanted to know if they should issue a wanted by police notice or what? They needed a breakthrough, no matter how small. Søren hated it when Henrik lectured him and was about to get annoyed when he spotted a newspaper headline outside a newsagent.

PSYCHO PROF KILLS AGAIN it said in large letters, and below that Cops clueless. At the same time he heard Henrik’s recorded voice:

“I don’t know if you’ve seen the tabloids today, but the Police Commissioner just charged past the office with steam coming out of his ears. He’s looking for you as well. I think the time is ripe for a press conference, and you need to find something we can feed the sharks with. So, see ya! Honestly, dude, what do you think you’re doing?” And he hung up.

Søren and Susanne Winther drove in silence. Suddenly, Søren’s cell rang. It was Henrik again.

“Where the hell are you?” he shouted.

“I’ll be at the station in three minutes. Can you find an interview room for me? I’m with Susanne Winther, Johannes Trøjborg’s ex-girlfriend.”

“I get the impression you suspect me of something,” Susanne began, when Søren had hung up. “An interview. That sounds very serious.” She looked at Søren. “Johannes and I were together for just under a year, a couple of years ago. It seems a little over the top to be picked up by the police and brought in for questioning without warning.”

Søren was tempted to exploit her uncertainty and let her roast in the silence. He was good at that.

“We don’t suspect you of anything,” he said, kindly. “Of course we don’t. But I need to understand what kind of person Johannes was in order to find out who killed him. I need your help. I really need your help.”

Susanne Winther sighed.

“All right,” she said.

Susanne Winther met Johannes on the goth scene. They got talking at the bar in the Red Mask, a candlelit semicircle in a crowded room, somewhere in Østerbro. Relatively soon afterward, they began a sexual relationship wherein Susanne dominated Johannes. Later, Susanne introduced Johannes to the fetish scene and Inkognito.

Johannes was ten years Susanne’s junior and, to begin with, when their relationship was purely sexual, this had been irrelevant. However, when they grew closer and Susanne told Johannes she would like to have a child, Johannes had cooled. Not in a hurtful way, not at all. They talked about it at length and their subsequent split came with considerable sadness. Johannes didn’t want to have children, and she did. They were equally insistent. That was the bottom line. Now she was married to Ulf, whom she had met at a fetish event.

“Johannes and I really liked each other, but we had incompatible views on children. Our breakup was final and clean. Soon after, I met Ulf, I got pregnant, and we stopped being part of the scene.”

“Why?” Søren wanted to know.

“Because we were in love, pregnant, and needed no one else.” Susanne smiled. Søren studied her face. Her expression was open and trusting.

“Just now you described Johannes as ‘gentle,’” Søren said, flicking through his notes even though he hadn’t made any. “Earlier today I spoke to Johannes’s mother and she paints a different picture of her son. She describes him as both ‘ungrateful’ and ‘provocative.’”

Susanne’s eyes darkened.

“Don’t listen to a word she says,” she scoffed. “She destroyed her own daughter, and she tried to destroy Johannes, too.”

Søren looked up in surprise.

“When I spoke to her today, she seemed deeply affected by the loss of her son,” he objected, baiting her.

“I don’t buy that for a moment,” Susanne sneered. “All right, she might worry about what to say to the ladies from the bridge club. It’s fashionable to have successful children in those circles. My son the CEO, my son the lawyer, and so on. I can imagine how inconvenient it must be for her to have to explain why she has no children left. Johannes’s sister killed herself, but you probably know that,” she added, when Søren failed to react. He nodded slowly.

“I thought the tension came mainly from the stepfather, Jørgen… ?” Søren continued flicking through his notes.

“Kampe,” Susanne prompted him. “As in Kampe Furniture. Yes, of course, a lot of it came from him, but at some level it suited Janna just fine to have a tyrant for a husband. It meant she never had to take responsibility for anything. And that was precisely how she wanted it. She behaved as the defenseless little wifey who couldn’t help having married a domineering brute who, in my opinion, abused his stepchildren. Not sexually,” she added quickly when Søren’s eyebrows shot up. “Metaphorically. His sister escaped, to some extent, by disappearing into her illness and by becoming just as passive and long-suffering as her mother. Johannes took the brunt of it. He was four years old and his sister was a baby when Jørgen entered their lives. And Jørgen cracked the whip from morning till night. Again, metaphorically speaking,” she repeated. “It was about elitism and winning. The kid should learn to ride thoroughbreds, play golf, sail, dive, stand at attention. He even criticized Johannes’s build; a real man didn’t weigh one hundred and forty pounds, a real man was over six feet tall, real men didn’t have slender, piano-playing fingers. Certainly not in Jørgen’s eyes.” She stopped talking and studied her own hands. They were large and her fingers thick, but the backs of her hands were freckled and soft, and her nails gleamed. Søren looked at the beautiful woman in the far too heavy body.

“I spent my teenage years thinking I should be different.” She glanced shyly at Søren. “My twenties were hard. In those days I truly believed visible ribs equaled happiness. If only I could lose weight, I would find a boyfriend with designer stubble, healthy interests, and a car. If only. When I turned thirty, I hit rock bottom. For nearly two years I languished in a prison of my own making…” She smiled at her choice of words and winked at Søren. “But then things changed. I went to therapy, I traveled, and I trained as a therapist myself. I worked as a therapist for nearly five years, then I had had my fill of navel gazing and bought The Apple. I know it might sound absurd, but suddenly I just knew I wanted to do something with apples and furniture. It was fun,” she said, sounding genuinely happy. “Building up the business from scratch. I was thirty-eight, and I was finally having fun. One of my customers, Stella, asked me if I wanted to check out the Red Mask. I knew of their parties, obviously, I had been active on the fetish scene for years, and many of the fetishists belong to both scenes, but until then the goth scene had never really appealed to me. I had joined the fetish scene purely for sex and, quite honestly, I couldn’t see the point of goth culture. But when Stella invited me, I gave it a try. Stella organizes goth and fetish events, and she often pops into the store,” she interposed and continued, “The goth scene changed my life. Here you’re accepted, respected, and valued right away and it continues like that, if you live and let live. Openness and tolerance toward anything outside the norm. I took to it like a fish to water. The third time I attended, I met Johannes. And do you know something?”

Søren shook his head.

“It was like meeting myself. Only as a ten years younger man. To begin with, I wasn’t sure if he was worth the effort. His lack of self-esteem. It reminded me of everything I had worked so hard to leave behind…”

Søren was mesmerized by her.

“But then I realized how complex he actually was. Of course, he was affected by the humiliation he had suffered as a child and, in some respects, his self-worth was like a sieve.” She looked pensively into space. “However, the interesting thing about Johannes was that he had decided to break the pattern, so in some areas he was strong and determined. He had made up his mind not to go through life like a whipped dog, even though he had been treated like one most of his childhood. That’s why I fell in love with him. He offered me a challenge outside the bedroom, but at the same time, he could handle that I dominated him sexually. It was a very harmonious relationship.

“We had been together for six months and were blissfully happy,” she continued. “Then I started talking about having children. I was shocked when I realized he didn’t want any, but we remained friends. I have always known I wanted children. We were both very sad, but the split was inevitable.” Susanne fell silent.

“Do you have any idea what was happening within the family at that point?” Henrik asked. Søren and Susanne turned to Henrik in unison, as though they had simultaneously remembered his presence.

“You mean Johannes’s family?”

“Yes.”

“I think we had only been together for around five weeks when Johannes had a falling out with Jørgen and, consequently, Janna. Johannes tried to reach out to his mother several times, but Jørgen always got in the way. It upset him, obviously. He never found the strength to stand up to his stepfather and, as an adult, his survival strategy had been to ignore Jørgen’s shit. We talked about his options. Johannes hoped Jørgen’s death might create an opening. Shortly after the funeral, he visited his mother and learned Jørgen had disinherited him. Johannes didn’t care, but it killed him when Janna insisted he was only there for the money. That night, he closed the door to his childhood home forever. Johannes told me everything when he came home…” for a moment she looked hesitantly at Søren. “I never met them myself, but…”

“And yet you sound so certain when you describe them,” Henrik objected. Søren shuffled his feet, annoyed at the interruption.

“I trusted Johannes. You could do that. At some level, he was damaged by his childhood,” she grimaced, “but he was a very fine human being. He made a real effort with people, and he would never have invented the scene with his mother. No one could have made up that story, and certainly not Johannes. He was far too… introspective.” She looked firmly at Henrik and turned to Søren again.

“I would like to pursue my question,” Henrik insisted. Susanne looked at him as though it was highly inappropriate for him to intervene and Søren couldn’t help enjoying himself.

“What if you were wrong? What if Mr. and Mrs. Kampe were well-meaning, decent people, and Johannes was the one who had gone off the rails?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Susanne stated. “I would know. And so would you.” Again she looked at Søren as though Henrik was of no consequence. “You know when you’re being played. You might choose to ignore certain signals at the time, but deep inside, you know. I believe that.”

She swallowed and continued. “Johannes may have been carrying some heavy baggage, but he had changed himself into a capable and very loving human being. Someone who had dealt with his past, who faced the future with optimism.”

“Was he bisexual?” Henrik asked bluntly. Susanne held Søren’s gaze for a moment longer, then she slowly turned to Henrik.

“No,” she declared.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. We began our relationship with complete sexual openness. No code, no core, no truth. And this applied to our sex life, too. Everything was allowed, nothing was taboo, and no, Johannes wasn’t bisexual.”

“But he wore a freaking dress,” Henrik snapped, pointing furiously to the case file lying on the table in front of him. “I’ve seen several photos of him in a dress.”

“Yes, he did. But wearing a dress doesn’t make you gay. Nor does wearing pants make you straight.” Susanne looked long and hard at Henrik’s ’80s jeans.

“Johannes got off on being dominated, and he was a transvestite. He liked going to the Red Mask wearing a skirt and full makeup. And a slightly more adult outfit at Inkognito.” Søren was aware of Henrik’s growing frustration.

“But transvestites are gay,” he snarled. Søren scratched the back of his head.

“And bikers are thugs and all pedophiles have mustaches,” Susanne Winther remarked calmly. Her gaze lingered on Henrik’s mustache, which was in dire need of a trim. “I don’t think you’ve done your homework,” she said. “Transvestites get a kick out of cross-dressing, wearing clothes traditionally associated with the opposite sex. Transsexuals are men and women who feel they have been born into the wrong body and want to switch to the right gender through a sex change operation. However, transsexuals aren’t homosexual, even though they are sexually attracted to their own sex, because… well, it’s obvious. If you’re 90 percent female and love a man, but you happen to have a dick because hospital waiting lists in this country are so frigging long, then that doesn’t make you male. Being a man isn’t just about having a dick, is it?” Again, she looked at Henrik’s jeans.

Søren was aware that the situation was about to ignite.

“We’re digressing,” he piped up. Susanne Winther looked straight at him.

“Johannes wasn’t bisexual,” she declared. “Anyway, why is it even an issue?”

“We have reason to believe Johannes was killed by a man. Certain evidence from the crime scene, which I can’t discuss with you, reveals—”

“That’s quite all right,” Susanne said.

“Er, thanks,” Søren spluttered. A pause followed.

“And to be honest,” he said, driven by a sudden urge to confide. “I started off thinking he was gay. Because of his clothes and his way of life. We’ve seen photos on the home page of the Red Mask. It’s clearly unfortunate that we…” Søren cleared his throat. “Well, that we… that I didn’t know the precise meaning of the terms. And our assumption… er… our very slender assumption… which… okay, here goes: traces of semen were found at the crime scene, and they didn’t come from Johannes.”

Henrik’s jaw dropped.

“And it looks like Johannes was subjected to a violent attack which caused his death.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Henrik shot up and jabbed his finger at Søren. “Are you out of your mind?” Henrik’s hand was an inch away from Søren’s face, and Søren grabbed his wrist.

“Sit down,” Søren said, guiding Henrik back to his chair. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re leaking information to a witness, which she might abuse,” Henrik hissed. “I’ve had it up to here with your ego trip, do you hear? You’ve lost your judgment, Søren. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I trust her!” Søren roared. Henrik and Susanne Winther were both startled. “I trust her, for Christ’s sake! I trust what I see.” Incandescent, he pointed at his own two eyes. “Don’t you get it? We’ve got nothing to go on in this case, because we only see what we saw yesterday, the same old shit. We’ve been blinded.” The pitch of his voice started to drop. “I’ve been blinded. Everyone’s lying and I can’t see a bloody thing. I’m changing tack, don’t you get it? I’m starting where there’s some clarity. And I know when someone’s lying.” He fixed his gaze on Henrik’s face and narrowed his eyes slightly. “I promise you, that I—of all people—I know when someone’s lying. And she isn’t. You’re not lying.” This was addressed to Susanne Winther.

“No,” she said.

Henrik didn’t say another word. When they took a break, he stormed out, and when they resumed the interview, he sent Lau Madsen in his place. Not a problem. Søren couldn’t care less if Henrik made a complaint about him. Sometimes you just had to trust people. This also applied to the police. And Søren.

Søren escorted Susanne Winther outside.

“Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand. It was firm and cold, just like a ripe, washed apple. Her eyes were shining.

“Good-bye,” Søren said. “I’ll call if there’s anything else.”

“Please do.” She turned around. Søren looked at her coat. A reflective disk, shaped like an apple, dangled at the knee-length hem. She waddled across the parking lot.

Susanne had given him a name. Stella Marie Frederiksen. Stella Marie was the woman who had invited Susanne to the Red Mask. Søren had noted her name, and now he was sitting in his office staring at it, distracted by his clash with Henrik. He couldn’t work out what had prompted it. Henrik had a short fuse and had been grouchy, he thought, both yesterday and today—as though he felt guilty about something. About Anna? Or was Søren becoming paranoid? He clutched his head. Henrik was spot on. Søren preferred going it alone, or, as Henrik had put it, ego tripping. He couldn’t think of a more appropriate description of his life.

He looked up Stella Marie Frederiksen’s address and discovered she lived in the Nørrebro area, in Elmegade. He found a landline as well as a cell number. He called her landline.

“Stella here.” The telephone rang only once before she answered it. She sounded out of breath. Søren hung up. Then he got up and walked down the corridor. The door to Henrik’s office was open. Henrik sat behind his desk, hammering away at his keyboard. A red patch had spread from his cheek and all the way down his neck. Søren slipped inside and managed to observe him for a while before he suddenly looked up and glared at Søren.

“No,” he snapped.

“No what?” Søren asked.

“Don’t you dare come in here telling me you promise to share all your little secrets with me from now on. I’ve had enough.” Henrik banged his fist on the desk. “You and I are supposed to interview a suspect together, but do you know what I am? Window-dressing. You just do whatever the hell you like. You tackle one of your own team and dribble the ball across the pitch like a maniac, that’s what you’re doing.” Henrik stabbed his finger at Søren. He was livid.

“Your private life is one thing,” Henrik went on. “And perhaps we’re not as close as I thought we were. When push comes to shove, it doesn’t seem to mean anything that we’ve known each other since we were twenty. Perhaps you’re right only to let me in on major developments. Perhaps that’s just the way you are. Hermetically sealed, though we all can see that you’re up shit’s creek.”

“You’ve got secrets, too,” Søren said with clenched teeth. Henrik looked surprised.

“I’ve no secrets from you, Søren. But you’re right, it’s been a long time since I told you anything, and do you want to know why? To test you, to see if you would even notice, and do you know something? You’ve acted like it suited you just fine that I clammed up as well. And I’m cool with that. If you want us to work together like two fucking oysters, then we will. We were on the job yesterday. There was no way I could tell you that…”

“What?” Søren could feel his throat tighten.

“I’m having an affair, all right?” he hissed. “It’s been going on for five weeks. It’s a shit thing. I don’t want to leave Jeanette, but I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?” Henrik threw a glance in the direction of the open door.

“For five weeks?”

“Yes. It’s a girl from my gym,” he continued. “Her name’s Line. It just happened.” Henrik looked out of the window. Søren closed his eyes for a moment.

“Anyway, we were talking about you,” Henrik continued. “Not me. You pretend everything’s hunky-dory, but we all know it’s just a front. Everyone knows that your sudden absence almost three years ago had fuck all to do with burning out. It wasn’t the job, no way. Something happened that Christmas. I know it. But like I said, it’s your life and if you don’t want to tell anyone, that’s your choice.” He looked up at Søren and his eyes turned frosty. “But when you’re at work, it’s another matter. No one keeps secrets here, and do you know why? Because we’re a team.”

“I’m your governor, Henrik,” Søren protested.

“I don’t care if you’re the prime minister,” Henrik roared. “You can build walls between you and the rest of the world on your own time. When you’re at work, you’re part of a team. I’ve put up with it for years. You act like Sherlock Holmes, and I’m that clown, Watson, staring gormlessly at the great detective while he sits in his bay window, playing his violin, high as a kite, incapable of sharing his ideas and thoughts with those closest to him.”

Søren said nothing. He wanted to defend himself, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. What was there to defend?

“And it hits me twice as hard because I also happen to be your friend,” Henrik said, very subdued all of a sudden. “You’ve shut me out of your private life and your work. As if you don’t need me but would rather do everything on your own. And I don’t believe you can do everything alone, not for a second.” He fell silent, just like in the car the other day, as if he had run out of steam. He started fidgeting with his key ring. Søren closed the door to Henrik’s office. It was now or never.

“Henrik…” he began.

Henrik looked up.

“Almost three years ago…” Søren swallowed.

It took him ten minutes to tell Henrik the story. He told it staccato. Henrik’s face changed from blotchy red to chalk white. Søren didn’t know what to do with his hands when he had finished. Henrik got up and hugged him.

“Christ almighty, dude,” he said in a thick voice. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

And Søren had no idea why.

Just before 5 p.m. Søren and Henrik visited Stella Marie Frederiksen in Elmegade. She opened the door wearing a rust-colored sweatsuit and slippers shaped like bear paws. Her thick black hair had neon pink extensions. She looked obligingly at the two men and didn’t seem particularly surprised at being visited by the police. She offered them coffee. It wasn’t until she realized why they had come that she went pale. She had been under the impression they were there in connection with her ex-husband, she stuttered. She had gotten a restraining order against him, and a police car had been outside her house for the last three weeks because her husband was wanted by the police.

Yes, she knew Johannes well.

“Is he dead?” she whispered, lifting a small child from the floor and hugging her. The child had burning black eyes underneath thick eyelashes, and Søren instinctively wanted to reach for her.

But before he could answer she said, “Hold on a moment, please, I’ll just put on a DVD, all right? This is too much for little ears.”

When she had settled her child, they sat down in the kitchen and Søren let Henrik begin. The last time Stella Marie had seen Johannes was at the Red Mask’s September event. The atmosphere at their parties was usually great, but that Friday really had been something special and it was mostly thanks to Johannes. He tended to wear quite restrained outfits and drink beers with his friends, but every now and then he went to town and would arrive dressed up to the nines and set the place on fire. Besides, there had been a goth concert in Horsens so the Red Mask had been relatively quiet that night. Around a hundred people had been present, Stella Marie estimated, and it resulted in an airy and pleasant feel.

“Johannes stood in the corner.” She narrowed her eyes as she retraced the events in her mind. “To the right of the bar, where people tend to congregate. He wore leather, skirt or pants, and some sort of corset under a black string vest, hey, hang on…” She rocked back on her chair and woke up her computer.

“I’ve got lots of pictures from that night.”

Before Søren could say they had access to photos from the Red Mask website, Stella Marie had opened a file and started a slide show. Black-clad goths of all shapes and sizes emerged. Some pulled faces and showed their pierced tongues, others had been captured just enjoying themselves, beers half-raised toward lips painted black or in a fit of laughter that caused heavily made-up eyes to squint. Søren instantly recognized Johannes.

“There he is,” Stella Marie said.

“Do you know the person standing next to him?” Søren asked. Stella Marie and Henrik peered at the screen.

“Is anyone standing next to him?” Henrik asked.

Søren pointed to something black flanking Johannes. What he was pointing to wasn’t necessarily a person, but it might be. A part of someone’s back, or thigh, something dark, certainly, brushing against Johannes’s leg. The fabric seemed to be ribbed, and Søren had to concede it might be part of the background.

“We have different seating areas in the bar, crates and old chairs we cover with black cloth to create an impression of total darkness. It might be a table next to him.” Stella Marie shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly who he spoke to,” she added. “I think he spoke to everyone. Like I said, he was on a roll.”

“Does the name YourGuy mean anything to you?” Søren asked.

“No,” Stella Marie shook her head. “But it’s standard to use alibis on our scene. It’s part of the game.”

“What’s yours?” Henrik wanted to know.

“Surprise,” Stella Marie replied.

“I would like a copy of your mailing list,” he said. For a moment, Stella Marie looked doubtful.

“All right, I don’t suppose that’s a problem,” she muttered eventually, returned to her computer, opened a file and pressed print. They sat in silence and Søren studied a shocking pink hair extension that stopped halfway down Stella Marie’s back. When she turned around, she hesitated before she said: “Actually, there was one thing about that night that puzzled me.” She looked tentatively at Søren. “There was a guy I had never seen before…. And he really stood out. It’s probably not important, but I’ll tell you anyway.”

“Can we flip through the photos again,” Henrik interrupted her, “and you can point him out to us?”

“I was just coming to that.” She suddenly looked shy. “This guy was absolutely stunning, he had auburn hair, but not dyed like Johannes’s or a lot of other goths, it was genuine. And he was tall. When I saw him, I got the feeling I had seen him somewhere before. I noticed him when he arrived. He was alone, and I’ve no idea if he knew anyone. Later, I saw him by the bar. He was by himself, but it was obvious that people were staring at him. The women circled him like sharks. I started taking pictures for the Red Mask homepage, and I thought it was a good excuse to chat with him. At that point, he was on the right-hand side of the bar where later I saw Johannes entertain the masses.” She smiled. “But when I tried taking his photo, he wouldn’t allow it…”

“Wouldn’t allow you to photograph him?”

“No, he put his hand on my camera and pushed it down. He wasn’t aggressive or anything, he just didn’t want his picture taken, and I respected that, of course. When I had uploaded the pictures to the computer, I went through them to see if I had accidentally caught him in one of the other photos. I was curious. But he wasn’t there. Like I said, I took around two hundred and fifty pictures, we were around one hundred guests, so in theory each guest should appear two and a half times, but not this guy. It was as if he hadn’t even been there. But several of my friends had noticed him. He was gorgeous,” Stella Marie emphasized.

“Can you describe him, please? What was he wearing?” Søren asked, his pulse quickening. A man with auburn hair had been waiting for Anna.

“He wasn’t in costume. But that’s normal. There’s always a crowd that shows up in regular clothes, people wear what they feel like. So I can’t really remember. Black clothes, I think.” She shrugged. “And like I said, I had a funny feeling of having seen him before. I thought about it the next day, but since then… well, I’ve got a lot on my plate.” She nodded in the direction of the little girl who was watching cartoons. “But he might come next time, who knows? Why don’t you join us, you’re both more than welcome.” Stella Marie’s eyes moved teasingly from Søren to Henrik.

“By the way, do you know when the funeral is?” she added. “I’d like to attend. I know plenty of others who would want to go too. It’s tragic that Johannes has died.” A vertical furrow appeared on her forehead. “We’re really going to miss him.”

“Check with the family,” Søren said abruptly. “Johannes’s mother is still alive, so you should contact her.”

“Ah, Johannes’s mother,” Stella Marie exclaimed. “I heard Johannes came from a rich family, but he had turned his back on it. Susanne Winther told me when she was going out with him. And one day, while I was cleaning up after a Red Mask party, a delivery guy came in with two sofas, would you believe it? I was convinced it had to be a mistake, but the guy insisted. Two sofas from Kampe Furniture to be delivered to Stella Marie Frederiksen. Sponsorship. At that point I didn’t know Johannes’s family owned Kampe Furniture, but Susanne told me. I didn’t get a chance to tell Johannes until our next party, and he nearly had a heart attack when he heard it. We never found out how his mother knew about the Red Mask, and I don’t think Johannes ever asked her. But that night he kept saying, ‘My mom loves me!’ He was ecstatic! He made us all laugh because it was so touching.”

“What happened to those sofas?” Henrik asked.

“They’re in our van with the rest of our gear. The bar, the lights, and so on. They’re ultra cool. Black leather, obviously. We don’t really do chintz.” She laughed.

Once again Søren had the feeling that a minute twist to the kaleidoscope had resulted in a completely different picture.

When they were back in the car, Henrik said: “Are you absolutely sure you can trust Susanne Winther?”

“Yes,” Søren said.

“Would a repressed and downtrodden housewife send two sofas?”

“Perhaps it’s not that straightforward, Henrik. There might be a positive side to Johannes’s mother. Things aren’t always black and white.”

Henrik was driving. Søren buried his face in his hands.

“Hey, are you okay?” Henrik said. His anger seemed to have evaporated.

“Do you know what my life has been like?”

“Er, no.”

“Things were just as they looked. A led to B, B led to C, D, and E.”

“Right, and that’s not how it is?”

“No,” Søren said. “Sometimes you’ve got no idea how your life ended up the way it did, there’s only the end product, E, and the starting point, A, and the rest is unknown. The path between the two points is lost.”

“Søren,” Henrik said gently. “I don’t follow.”

“That’s how I operate,” Søren carried on regardless. “I need to be able to retrace my steps and understand what happened. I want life to be like that!” He slammed his hand on the glove compartment. “But sometimes it isn’t, is it? And do you know what that means?” Søren didn’t wait for Henrik’s reply. “It means not everything is what it seems. Many things are. But not all.”

“I still don’t follow,” Henrik said, amicably.

“It’s okay,” Søren said. “I just need to change my life.”

“You need to talk to someone about… about Maja,” Henrik said out of the blue. “You really do.”

Søren nodded. They drove on in silence.

“My parents died when I was five years old,” Søren said suddenly.

“I know. You grew up with Knud and Elvira. I knew that.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Søren clutched his forehead. “I’m all over the place right now. I really am.”

“You need to talk to someone about Maja,” Henrik repeated. “If it had happened to my daughters, Christ, I couldn’t have sat here today, no way—”

“Do you think it was enough?” Søren interrupted him.

“What do you mean?”

“My parents dying. When I was five. Unexpectedly. Do you think that’s enough to traumatize a child?”

“It depends on the circumstances.” Henrik sounded confused.

“And that’s precisely what I don’t understand,” Søren said in a hoarse voice. “Of course, losing your parents is tragic. But for God’s sake, I can’t even remember them. And Knud and Elvira loved me. I couldn’t have had better parents or a better upbringing and I’m not just saying that.” He looked out of the side window. “And yet it’s as if something inside me is all crumpled up. Completely tangled. I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

“I’m scared of… Vibe is like a sister to me, for fuck’s sake!” Søren threw up his hands in despair. “She has been, ever since I met her at that disco. My sister was my girlfriend for seventeen years! I was scared to have children with her. All the things it takes guts to do…. When I see Vibe with her big pregnant stomach, I thank God she left me. I would never have been able to forgive myself if she hadn’t had children because of me. She deserves so much better.” An embarrassed silence followed.

“I don’t have real friends, either,” Søren continued. “I’ve got you and Allan. And Vibe and her husband, obviously.”

“What’s wrong with me? I’m a decent enough guy,” Henrik said, looking like he was simultaneously offended and amused.

“Nothing. I can’t complain. But you said it yourself this morning. I don’t trust anyone. I don’t give anything back. You don’t really know me, do you?” Again he threw up his hands. “Plenty of children are orphaned, and some of them go into foster care or are adopted and they turn out fine. I was playing in my grandparents’ garden when the crash happened, and it was the best garden in the world. That I do remember. But I don’t remember them dying, I don’t recall shedding a single tear. Nor have I ever been angry that they died, and I haven’t missed them. Not really. Knud and Elvira were my parents. They were. I can’t see any reason why I’m such a fucking coward.” He paused. Henrik cleared his throat.

“You’ve just done it,” he said eventually.

“Done what?”

“Opened up. Taken a chance.”

“I see my daughter’s face before me all the time,” Søren said. “Suddenly, she’s everywhere. I thought I could get away with it. Can you imagine what it was like lying next to Vibe and not be able to tell her what was really going on? She thought I was upset because we were splitting up. She comforted me and assured me that we would always be friends. She came over with dinner for me, and I kept lying to her.” Søren pressed his fist into his mouth.

“You need to talk to someone,” Henrik said for the third time. Søren looked out of the window. How could he ever have doubted Henrik?

“Yes, I do,” he said.

At 7:50 p.m. Søren rang the bell of an apartment in a residential block on the outskirts of Nørrebro. The name on the door read Beck Vestergaard. Søren hadn’t looked Bo in the eye since the day before Katrine, Maja, and he had gone to Thailand.

“Make sure you take good care of them,” Søren had ordered him, fixing Bo with his eyes. Bo had bristled with irritation. Since then, he had seen Bo once. In the church and only from the back.

Søren had called earlier to say he was coming, but he barely recognized the man who opened the door. Bo was unshaven, and he was wearing jeans and a vest. His stomach bulged like a ship’s fender. He stared at Søren, turned around, and disappeared into the apartment. Søren followed him into a small living room that opened into a laminate kitchen. To the right of the kitchen, an open door led to a room where Søren could see an unmade bed. The curtains were drawn and the television was on in the background.

“What do you want?” Bo scowled. He had sat down on the sofa and lit a cigarette. Before Søren had time to reply, he went on: “I don’t know why you’re here after all this time. But if you’re hoping to be forgiven, you can leave right now. You lost any chance of that when you stopped answering your phone; when I couldn’t get hold of you. Not even at the station. Bastards threatened to get a restraining order against me. A fucking restraining order! If I didn’t stop calling. Like I was the criminal. Ha, if only they knew!”

“I couldn’t bear to hear what had happened. They were dead. I couldn’t bear the details.”

Bo sent him a brief, lost look.

“I wasn’t trying to hassle you, but that was how I was treated. Like a stalker. I just wanted to talk to you. I had just lost my wife and my child. Our child. For fuck’s sake, I just wanted to talk to you!” Bo buried his face in his hands.

“I was a coward,” Søren admitted. “I was wrong.”

A pause followed, then Søren said, “I want to hear it now, please. The details. I want to know why you’re here and they’re not.”

Bo went deathly pale, and started panting.

“Are you saying it’s my fault? You total shit…” He made to get up, but his excess weight dragged him back down on the sofa. He accepted his fate and started talking.

“Our hotel room was some distance from the beach, and I woke up that morning when water started coming in under the door. It was total chaos outside. A roof had been ripped off, people were screaming and running away from the beach. I called out for Katrine and headed for the beach. I still didn’t know what had happened, but suddenly I realized I wouldn’t have a chance unless I started running. So that’s what I did. In the opposite direction, away from the coast and up a slope, where I ended up on a hill along with fifty other people. I didn’t want to look down at the bay. I didn’t want to. I lay curled up under a bush, praying they were alive. But my prayers weren’t answered.” He laughed a hollow laugh. “I drank too much wine the night before; we had held an improvised Christmas lunch and I had had too much to drink. My guess is Katrine went down to have breakfast with Maja on the beach when she woke up, so as not to disturb me. They were helpless when the tsunami came. So they died. They were found farther along the beach. That’s what happened, Søren. Happy now? I failed to save them because I was asleep. Because I had a hangover.” Bo retreated into himself.

“I went to the funeral,” Søren said. “I sat in the back.”

“I know, I saw you.”

“Thank you for arranging such a beautiful service. The flowers on their coffins, the silk ribbons and all that.”

Bo said nothing. He looked like he had given up. He eased himself out of the sofa and got another beer. He didn’t offer Søren one. That was all right. Søren’s daughter had died, and he had hidden, like a coward, at the back of the church, convinced that Bo hadn’t seen him. He didn’t deserve a beer. He didn’t deserve anything. A long silence ensued. Bo was staring dully at the television, drinking from the bottle. Søren was numb. When he got up to leave, Bo said: “Guys like you, in their late thirties, going for the big confession, hoping for the grand, all-embracing forgiveness for all their sins, you’re all pathetic.” He hurled the empty bottle into a corner.

“I’ll call you,” Søren said. “I’ll visit.”

“No, you fucking won’t.”

Bo didn’t look up when Søren left. Søren opened the front door. Just as he crossed the threshold, he heard Bo say: “But Maja smiled at me. At me! She never knew who that asshole was.”

With a heavy heart, Søren walked past the trash cans and old bicycles that lined the concrete walkway.

Vibe’s stomach greeted him first when she opened the door. Her head was bullet shaped and her swollen feet were stuffed into Birkenstock sandals. She was grinning from ear to ear.

“I’m the happiest hippo on the planet,” she said, hugging Søren. “How lovely to see you! I thought you were working around the clock and would visit once the police were no longer ‘clueless,’ as the papers say.” She scrutinized him. “Hey, what’s wrong? You look completely shattered.”

Søren hung up his jacket.

“Vibe, I need to talk to you. My timing’s crap,” he nodded toward her stomach, “but it’s urgent. I can’t wring a single constructive thought out of my head until I have spoken to you.”

“That sounds serious,” Vibe said, lightly.

Her husband, John, was sitting on the sofa and the television was on. A bottle of massage oil stood on the coffee table, and John had a towel in his hands. There were also two glasses of red wine. Hers still full, while his contained just a drop. They were watching a cop show. John got up and shook Søren’s hand.

“Hiya. Sorry about today’s papers, eh?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Søren mumbled.

“Can I get you anything? A glass of wine? Are you hungry?” Vibe asked. Søren hesitated. He was starving. Vibe read his mind.

“Darling,” she said to her husband. “Please would you heat the leftovers for Søren and pour him a glass of wine? He wants to talk to me. It’s important.”

John’s eyebrows shot up.

“Is it okay if we go into the dining room? Then we won’t disturb you.”

John checked his watch. “I’ll heat some food for you,” he said, glancing at Søren. “And then I’ll take Cash for his walk, so you can talk.”

“I’m really sorry,” Søren apologized. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“That’s all right,” John replied, putting his hand on Søren’s shoulder for a moment.

Twenty minutes later Søren was eating goulash with mashed potatoes. He tried to remember when he had last eaten. Vibe poured him a glass of wine, and they made small talk while the food disappeared. When he had cleared his plate, he carried it into the kitchen so Vibe wouldn’t have to get up. In the kitchen, he drank some ice-cold water from the faucet and splashed some on his face. Then he went to the living room. Vibe was sitting in the corner of the sofa, looking expectantly and anxiously at him.

“I’ve been dreading this moment for twenty years,” she said.

Søren stopped in his tracks. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Ah,” she said quickly. “I’m getting ahead of myself.” She looked away. “Sit down, get it off your chest, you look so tormented.”

It was Friday October 12, and it was pitch-black, cold, and nasty outside. Søren leaned back and stared at his hands. Then he told Vibe the reason for his visit.

Could she remember going on that course in Barcelona in December 2003? Yes, of course she could. Did she remember Søren going out with Henrik? Søren had told her about their night out when she came back, about the restaurant, about the girls at the neighboring table they got talking to, who had come with them to a club where they had danced. Vibe remembered it well. The night he had gone home with a woman named Katrine. Vibe’s eyes hardened to begin with, but then she started to smile, wanting to know if Søren was here to confess to an old infidelity. “Bad boy,” she said, wagging her finger at him, “but honestly,” she went on, “we were together for seventeen years and I was perfectly aware that it might happen, that it might already have happened, there’s no need to look so guilty,” she said. Søren shook his head. No, there was more.

“I couldn’t say it,” Søren said eventually. “I couldn’t make myself tell you. I didn’t want a child with you, but I had gotten another woman pregnant. I just couldn’t. It was also because of our relationship, Vibe,” he said, as though she had protested. “We were like brother and sister, for God’s sake! We weren’t lovers. There was no spark. Not really. I mean, take John. Even John treats me as if I were his brother-in-law, not a hint of jealousy even though I’ve slept with his wife more times than he has.” Vibe couldn’t help smiling. “Apart from the fact that I truly didn’t want to be a dad, then our relationship was enough of a reason for us not have a child together. And then Elvira and later Knud died… I just couldn’t tell you Katrine was pregnant. At least, not then.” Søren swallowed. “So I decided to wait a little. Until the storm had passed. Just like we decided not to tell Knud and Elvira we had broken up.”

“Did they know about the baby?” Vibe whispered.

“No, Vibe, they knew nothing. I would never have done that to you. No one knew anything. Not Henrik, not anyone. I kept everything to myself. But I couldn’t keep the secret for ever, that was obvious… but…”

“You have a daughter…” Vibe whispered. She shook her head in wonder as if her entire world had just been smashed.

“I had a daughter,” Søren said brutally. Vibe blinked.

“On the eighteenth of December Bo, Katrine, and Maja went to Thailand for Christmas. To Phuket. They died in the tsunami. Not Bo, but Maja and Katrine.”

Vibe put her hands in front of her face, her eyes darting from side to side as if she was rereading old documents and everything finally made sense.

“But you didn’t have your breakdown until January,” she said, baffled. “After we had split up. Quite a while after Elvira’s death, and while Knud was still alive—though no one knew how long he would last. And that was after the tsunami, wasn’t it? In early January.”

“We were in Sweden, remember? We had no idea what had happened until we came back and saw the papers. I wanted to tell you about Maja in Sweden, but I couldn’t. You were so relaxed. When we came home and heard what had happened in Asia, I looked for their names and I couldn’t find them. I thought they had survived, that they hadn’t called me because everything was chaos. After all, I was just a sperm donor. All I could do was wait for Katrine to get in touch. On January fifth, in the evening, Bo called. He was crying and screaming. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. I calmed him down. In a situation like that you think all sorts of crazy things. I imagined that Katrine had been hurt and was in hospital. Bo was so upset and emotional. Deep down, I couldn’t believe that they were really dead. After all, they weren’t on the dead or missing persons’ registers. But they had died. Bo had identified them.”

“Oh, no.” Vibe was sobbing, the tears ran in two straight lines down her cheeks.

“That was it. I had a breakdown. I took time off. Forgive me, Vibe. I know you blamed yourself for my suffering. I couldn’t talk about it. I suppressed everything about Maja. When Knud died soon afterward, I added my grief for Knud to my grief for Maja. So no one would know.”

Vibe stared silently into space.

“I can understand if you hate me,” he said.

“I don’t hate you, Søren,” she said. She leaned forward as best she could and took his hand.

“It must have been terrible for you,” she said. Søren could feel his toes curl and he looked away.

“So why now?” Vibe wanted to know, as she stroked his hand. “Why tell me now? Is it because I’m pregnant? Has something happened?”

Søren closed his eyes so he wouldn’t cry. Having succeeded, he turned to look at her.

“It’s this case I’m investigating,” he said, softly. “It’s not especially tragic—all things being equal—and it shouldn’t be so harrowing, either. Not for a detective. No children have been hurt, and both the victims… well, of course they have friends and families, but even so. No suddenly orphaned children staring at me with lost eyes. Do you know what I mean?”

Vibe nodded.

“And yet it’s the worst case I’ve ever been involved with. It touches every raw nerve. Everybody’s lying to me! Or, most of them are. They’re lying to protect something that isn’t worth protecting. Something they believe must remain hidden at any cost. Just like I did with Maja. The investigation only started five days ago. The papers call us clueless, but that’s a load of rubbish. It took us four weeks to solve the Malene case and we were praised for our swift work. They just write that because I’m not coming across very well.” He looked embarrassed. “And I always used to. I spoke to two reporters the other day. The headlines could have been worse. They should have said Top cop gets personal or something like it.” He swallowed.

“And I’ve fallen for with one of the suspects,” he said. Vibe didn’t reply. When he looked at her, she had turned to one side and didn’t appear to have heard his last confession.

“Are you okay?” Søren asked, scared. He thought about John, who had taken the dog for a walk and Vibe’s massive stomach, which looked as if it might burst at any moment.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not about to go into labor.” She smiled. “But…”

“But what?”

“I’ve got something to tell you, too.”

And then Vibe told Søren something that changed his life.

Afterward Søren thought long and hard.

Henrik had been right. Things weren’t always black and white.