The Dinosaur Feather(75)

Clive thanked her and hung up.

He stared into space for a moment. Then he returned to his computer and clicked on the homepage of the Natural History Museum in Copenhagen where he discovered, to his delight, that they were putting on an exhibition about feathers. His joy, however, was short-lived. The title of the exhibition was “From Dino to Duvet.” Would it never end? He bet Tybjerg was the curator of that blasted exhibition. One day, probably when Clive was dead and buried, sadly, natural history museums the world over would hang their heads in shame at how wrong they had been.


Clive heard nothing from Jack, and Kay remained with Franz. Clive was annoyed she hadn’t bothered coming home yet, but he wouldn’t have time to do anything about it until after the symposium. His future career depended on the condensation experiment and the Copenhagen conference, and he needed space to think. At night he dreamt of Jack. Dark, freaky dreams, filled with sounds and Jack’s face lighting up in flashes, so all Clive had time to see was Jack’s snarling upper lip. He started taking half a sleeping pill and, to his relief, the nights became black and empty once more.

On October 9 Michael and Clive flew to Copenhagen. He usually loathed the journey across the Atlantic, but when Michael secured them an upgrade to business class, his irritation melted away. Clive had gone to the lavatory and when he returned, there was Michael, grinning from ear to ear, and waving the boarding passes at him. They sat in supreme comfort the whole flight, discussing the presentation, while attractive cabin crew served drinks and snacks. Clive noticed how attentive and deferential Michael was. After Michael had finished his PhD, he had gone through a phase of wanting to decide everything for himself. Clive had been most offended. When you navigated a scientific minefield, as Clive did, you needed loyal support and not childish attempts at independence. He noted with delight that Michael had been brought to heel. He made hardly any objections, and when he did, his observations were insightful and only contributed to honing Clive’s argument. Somewhere across the Atlantic, Clive was overcome by an urge to confide in Michael.

“I’ve a feeling this will be my last time,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Michael said, stretching out in his seat.

“I don’t know . . .” Clive hesitated. What exactly was he trying to say?

“The presentation is good,” Michael prompted him. “The experiment bears scrutiny.”

“Yes, perhaps that’s what it’s about,” Clive replied. He looked out of the window. To the west, the setting sun painted the clouds beneath them tomato red, to the east, the European night awaited them, black and alien.

“My life seems to have reached a turning point,” he said. “I’m thinking of retiring, if the presentation is a success.” He had no idea what had triggered this.

Michael looked as if he was about to say something and he shifted uneasily, but when Clive finally looked up, Michael was engrossed in a magazine.


The hotel in Copenhagen was called Ascot and was located in the side street of a large, ugly square. The rooms were tiny and claustrophobic, and the sheets felt greasy, as though the washing machine had a faulty rinse cycle. There was no minibar. Clive called reception to get the code for wireless access, and having uploaded his presentation and the latest corrections to his server back in Canada, he fell asleep.

Wednesday morning Michael and Clive had breakfast in a large hall, which was half-empty and freezing cold. They had just sat down to scrambled eggs and newspapers, when two tall men entered through the revolving doors at the far end of the room. Clive watched them while they looked around. They began strolling in the direction of Clive and Michael’s table. Michael was eating and reading his newspaper and didn’t look up until the men were right next to them.

“Professor Freeman?” one of them asked, politely.

Clive stared at him. If Kay had died, he would . . . he would. . . . He didn’t know what he would do. He closed his eyes.

“Professor Clive Freeman?” the man repeated.

Michael nudged Clive, and Clive opened his eyes.

“Yes,” he croaked.

“I’m Superintendent Søren Marhauge from the Copenhagen Police. Could we have a word with you?” His English was perfect and fluent.

“Is it about my wife?” Clive whispered. The man smiled.

“It’s not about your wife or any of your family,” he said calmly. “It’s about Professor Helland.”


Clive was in shock. When the interview had finished and he left the police station, a young police officer had to help him into a taxi, as though Clive were an old man. The police officer placed his hand between Clive’s head and the car for protection, as Clive had seen the police do with criminals. They had all his e-mails. The tall superintendent with the dark eyes had spread them out on the table in front of him. He was about to argue this was illegal, but it occurred to him that it probably wasn’t. Lars Helland was dead, and the police were investigating all options, as Marhauge diplomatically phrased it, but Clive knew perfectly well what it meant. It meant Helland had been murdered. Marhauge had looked at him for a long time, scrutinizing him, Clive thought.