The Dinosaur Feather(24)

The weight dropped off Søren, and halfway through January he took a sick leave. Bo called every day, but Søren ignored the telephone. Once, Bo tricked him by calling from a different number. Bo screamed at him, and Søren hung up. After that, Søren stopped answering his telephone. Twice, someone banged on his front door in the night. Søren knew it was Bo. He didn’t open the door, instead he lay very still under his comforter. Eventually Bo gave up.

Søren spent his days with Knud, stroking the old man’s hair and watching him waste away.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Knud asked. Søren shook his head.

The night before Knud died, he lay in the living room in Snerlevej, hooked up to a morphine drip, dosing himself nearly all the time Søren was there. It wasn’t until nine in the evening that Knud suddenly woke up and reached out for Søren. Knud’s blue eyes were alert, but he struggled to speak.

“Vibe,” he said.

“Vibe isn’t here today. Do you want me to call her?”

Vibe had gone out to dinner. They had agreed that she would leave her cell phone on silent so that Søren could call her if Knud deteriorated. Søren reached for his cell.

Knud made a grunting noise, which stopped Søren in his tracks.

“No, don’t call,” he hissed. His eyes rolled a couple of times, then his eyelids closed heavily and just as Søren decided to get up and make some coffee, Knud’s voice could be heard again.

“You should love your woman,” he wheezed, “like I love Ella.” Knud was the only one who had ever called Elvira “Ella.”

“I look forward to dying,” he said, and now his voice sounded strangely clear, like the Knud Søren used to know.

“Because I’ll see her again.” He smiled faintly. Knud was an arch-atheist. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“And I so want to see her again.”

Søren fought hard not to cry.

“And Vibe . . .”

“We’ve agreed that I’ll call her,” Søren said again.

“Shut up,” Knud snarled, as though it was less painful to rebuke him with a quick crack of the whip than with a lengthy explanation. Søren glanced at the morphine drip.

“Vibe is like a daughter to Ella and me.” His voice was calm now. “But if you love someone, you should be willing to die for them.” He closed his eyes. Søren sat still like a statue. Knud opened his eyes again and said: “And you’re not willing to die for Vibe. This much I know.” Those were his last words.

Søren rested his head on his grandfather’s emaciated thighs, covered by the blanket, and sobbed. He thought he would never be able to stop. He could feel Knud’s hand move slightly, but Knud was now too weak to reach his head. Søren was Denmark’s youngest police superintendent, he could identify a murderer from the mere twitching of a single, out-of-place eyebrow hair, he could knit backward, and everyone he had ever loved had died and left him behind.


Søren parked his car in the basement under Bellahøj police station. He walked up the stairs, filled the coffee machine in the kitchen, switched it on, and went to his office while the water dripped through the filter. It was all a long time ago now. Elvira, Maja, Knud. Three years. Søren contemplated the sky. It looked like it might snow, even though it was only October. He was rummaging around on his desk, looking for a report he had to finish writing, when Henrik burst in without bothering to knock first.

“Hi, Søren,” Henrik said. “Fancy a lecture at the College of Natural Science?”

Søren looked perplexed, but he reached for his jacket and started putting it on.

“A very upset guy by the name of Johannes Trøjborg dialed 911 an hour ago saying his academic supervisor lay dying in his office. Sejr and Madsen followed the ambulance, and they have just called in to report that the deceased, as he is now, is a Lars Helland, age fifty-seven, a biologist and a professor at the University of Copenhagen. The preliminary findings from the paramedic who attended the scene suggest that Helland died of a heart attack.” Søren started taking off his jacket. “But,” Henrik raised his hand to preempt him and checked his notes, “Professor Helland’s severed tongue was lying on his chest, and young Mr. Trøjborg has lost his shit. The deputy medical coroner and the boys from forensics are on their way. Are you coming?”

Søren rose and zipped his jacket. They went to the garage and drove at high speed to the university. Henrik told a completely unfunny joke, and Søren watched the sky, which looked as if it were about to burst.