“What’s so funny?” Henrik wanted to know.
“Nothing,” Søren said and looked out of the window.
At half past four in the afternoon, Søren sat in his office wondering if he could write his report now, even though he was still awaiting the result of the autopsy. It would probably arrive tomorrow, but he was pretty sure he knew what it would say: Lars Helland had died from heart failure. Once he put that in his report, the case would be closed. The only thing stopping him was that he had yet to talk to Professor Helland’s allegedly close colleague, Dr. Tybjerg. After interviewing Anna and her colleagues, he had gone to the Natural History Museum to find him. The place had been like an enchanted forest. Søren had started by asking for Dr. Tybjerg at the reception and had been directed through a door and into a complicated maze of deserted corridors, where he instantly got himself lost. It wasn’t until he had been into four empty offices and knocked on six locked doors, which no one answered, that he met a living human being. It was an old man sitting behind a desk, writing. A huge poster depicting thousands of colorful butterflies of all sizes hung on the wall behind him. The old man directed Søren further down a corridor and up to the third floor where Dr. Tybjerg was supposed to be sitting by the windows overlooking the park.
Five minutes later, Søren was lost again and when he, finally and with the help of a young woman, found the desk where Dr. Tybjerg was supposed to be when he worked with bones, all he could see was an angle-poise lamp, which was switched on, a pencil, and a chair. He hung around for a while, but after ten minutes he grew impatient and decided he had had enough. He found something that appeared to be a cafeteria and informed the catering assistant, who was wringing out a cloth, that he was a police superintendent and insisted on speaking to Dr. Tybjerg this instant. The woman glanced around, said, “He’s not here,” and resumed cleaning.
Someone at a table in the cafeteria, however, told Søren Dr. Tybjerg’s office could be found in the basement, in the right-hand wing; that is, down the stairs in the central wing, then right through two swing doors, and then down to the basement. Halfway down one of the basement corridors, the one facing the University Park, was an office and through that office was another office and that belonged to Dr. Tybjerg. Søren stomped back to reception where he asked, in his most polite tone of voice, the student staffing the counter to get hold of Dr. Tybjerg. The student rang various numbers. Søren drummed his fingers on the counter.
“He’s not in his office, in the collection, the cafeteria, or the library,” she said. “All I can do is e-mail him.”
Søren left his name and number with a message for Dr. Tybjerg to contact him. Then he drove to Bellahøj police station and worked in his office. He had just made up his mind to go home when his telephone rang.
“Søren Marhauge.”
“It’s me.” It was Søren’s secretary, Linda.
“Hello, me,” Søren said.
“The Deputy Medical Examiner just called.”
Bøje Knudsen, the Deputy Medical Examiner, worked in the basement of Rigshospitalet, Copenhagen’s central hospital. Søren had never been able to decide whether or not he liked him. Bøje had a twinkle in his eye, and though Søren appreciated that a certain amount of professional detachment was required, Bøje still came across as strangely aloof. One day Bøje had read his mind and remarked, “Søren, my dear friend, if I broke down and cried every time I felt like it, the hospital would be flooded. But, trust me, my soul is grieving.” Søren had warmed a little to Bøje, but he had yet to be convinced. Søren himself was more thick-skinned now than he had been at the start of his career, that went without saying, but he told himself this made him neutral and composed rather than cold.
“Why didn’t you put him through?” Søren asked.
“He wouldn’t hear of it. He told me to give you his regards and to tell you that if he were you, he would hurry over to the hospital.”
Just before five o’clock Søren drove to the hospital and parked under two poplars stripped bare by the advancing autumn. The blacktop was slippery with fallen leaves, and the wind seemed to blow simultaneously from all four corners. He felt a profound sense of unease. He announced his arrival at reception and took the elevator down two floors to the Institute of Forensic Medicine. It was the second time in one day he had walked through a desolate grid of interconnecting passages and corridors, but this time he didn’t get lost. He greeted a few familiar faces in passing before he heard music from the radio and Bøje’s humming. He knocked on the open door and entered. Bøje was behind his desk. It looked like he was expecting him.