The Dinosaur Feather(120)

“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.