“We know you’re not responsible for Professor Helland’s death. I’ve checked your travel records, and you haven’t been to Europe since 2004, am I right?”
Clive nodded obediently.
“You’re here for the Bird Symposium at the Bella Centre?”
Clive nodded again.
“You’re giving a presentation there on Saturday?”
“Yes, Saturday evening.”
“Where were you in June?” the superintendent wanted to know.
Clive thought back. June was before Jack had betrayed him, and Kay had moved out.
“Nowhere,” he replied eventually. “Nowhere at all.”
June had been windy, and all he wanted to do was work. Kay had ordered him to take a break and they had gone to their cabin, where they lasted two whole weeks together. Kay made salads and he barbecued. They had several visitors, all couples, where the wife was a friend of Kay’s and the husband was utterly dull. Jack and Molly had been busy. Finally, he had resorted to clearing out the shed, and Kay had remarked that this was a strange way to spend a vacation. And that was when Clive had snapped.
“I don’t want to be on vacation,” he shouted. “My work is too important. Look what happened the last time. I close my eyes for two seconds, and someone finds a feathered dinosaur!”
Kay gave Clive permission to return to work.
“And what did you do in July?” the detective asked.
He had been alone in the house, living on canned food, sausages, and bread.
“I worked,” he said. “Preparing the presentation I’m giving on Saturday, among other things.”
The superintendent handed him a sheet of paper. Clive read: You will pay for what you have done.
“Did you write that?”
“Of course not,” Clive replied, outraged. “I don’t threaten people.”
Finally, he was allowed to leave.
When Clive returned to his hotel, he collapsed on his bed and dreamt about his own funeral. Kay wore a black veil and was in deep distress; the boys, looking suitably cowed, flanked her. The sobbing widow was about to throw herself on his coffin . . . when the dream suddenly restarted. This time the church was empty. His coffin rested, white and lonely, in front of the altar; the priest rushed in and went through the motions. Clive tried to call out from his coffin, tell him to make more of an effort, but the priest didn’t hear him. Then the door at the back of the church was opened, a solitary mourner entered and took a seat at the farthest pew. The priest beckoned him to the front—after all, there was plenty of room.
“The deceased had very few friends,” the priest whispered. “Not even his widow is here. I’m delighted to see you.”
The mourner approached. Suddenly Clive recognized Tybjerg. He sat in the first row, in Kay’s place.
At first, Clive thought Tybjerg had started clapping, but then he realized someone was knocking on the door to his room. Dazed, he let Michael in. Together they went down to the hotel bar for a drink, where they discussed Helland’s death at length before going to the Bella Centre. It was Wednesday evening and they had time for a quick look around the science fair.
Michael nudged him.
“Over here,” he whispered. Clive followed his finger, which was pointing at an electronic screen listing the program for the symposium. Clive squinted.
“What?”
“Tybjerg’s name has been removed. Look.” He tapped the screen lightly. “It says ‘Canceled. Please note replacement speaker’ next to the four lectures Tybjerg was due to give.”
Clive stared at the screen.
“He must be upset,” he mused. “After all, Helland was his mentor. Imagine how you would feel, if I had been murdered.”
Michael smiled. “Yes, can you imagine that!”
Thursday morning Clive ventured into the streets. A cold wind was blowing. He had consulted a map and located the university, where he had an appointment with Johan Fjeldberg. He had walked for thirty minutes when the College of Natural Science appeared to his left. The complex was unappealing: three tall 1960s blocks and several lower, yellow-brick buildings, each one more devoid of charm than the next. He walked through a park. At the museum reception he asked for Professor Fjeldberg, who appeared shortly afterward. Fjeldberg chattered away while he led Clive through a maze of restricted access doors and corridors. This business with Helland was dreadful. Such a good colleague. A brilliant man. Clive smiled and nodded. Fjeldberg said rumor had it Helland had been murdered. Fjeldberg simply refused to believe it.
“People are paranoid,” he scoffed. “One rumor even claims he was killed by parasites.”
Clive gave Fjeldberg a horrified look.