Søren and Henrik had been buddies since the police academy. During the short drive from Bellahøj to Mågevej, it struck Søren that they might have drifted apart. Henrik usually sat in the passenger seat, ranting about his family. He would tell anecdotes about his motorbike and trips he had taken on it. Or he would moan about women or football, or how he was thinking of taking English lessons because his kids were so good at English now they took the piss out of his pronunciation. When Søren turned into Mågevej and found an empty parking space in front of number twenty-six, he was acutely aware of how long it was since Henrik’s tirades had stopped.
Søren let the key dangle in the ignition. He had never told Henrik about Maja. What if Henrik wanted to know more? Søren couldn’t bear to talk about it, so he hadn’t said anything. He had not told a living soul. He was alone with his grief, and now it had become encapsulated like a glass splinter.
“Fuck, my head hurts,” Henrik exclaimed. He flexed one foot impatiently.
“Did you go out last night?” Søren asked.
“Yes, I met someone . . .” he began, but then he stopped, as if he had already said too much. “We had a few beers, you know.”
“What, you and Lau?” Søren asked. Lau Madsen was a mutual friend and colleague.
Henrik grinned sheepishly.
“No, it . . . oh, fuck it. I’ve screwed up. I’ll tell you about it some other time.”
Søren stayed put, his hands on the steering wheel.
“So how about it?” Henrik snapped. “I thought we were looking for that Tybjerg guy, or what?”
Søren wasn’t listening. “I know why you’ve become so secretive,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”
“What are you talking about?” Henrik asked.
Søren’s voice thickened and he stared at his hands. “I’m apologizing to you. I know you can’t be friends with someone who never gives you anything back.” He didn’t know what else to say.
Henrik watched him. Søren could feel his eyes boring into him.
“Why don’t we do this some other time?” Henrik said. “I’ve had enough. And that’s putting it mildly. Let’s go.”
Henrik got out of the car and went to the front door to read the names of the residents. Søren observed him through the windscreen. An uncomfortable feeling of anxiety fluttered inside his chest.
“His name’s not here,” Henrik stated when Søren joined him. “There’s no Erik Tybjerg on the list. Are you sure it’s number twenty-six?”
Søren stood next to Henrik and they noticed it at the same time. Someone had stuck a white label on top of the original name for the second floor apartment. It read K. Lindberg. Søren peeled away a corner and, as expected, the name underneath read: Tybjerg.
Before Søren had time to think, Henrik had rung the doorbell. They both straightened up and waited for someone to answer.
“He’s bound to be at work,” Henrik said, checking his watch. At that moment, a man came walking down the street with two heavy shopping bags. Henrik and Søren were both thinking the same thing—that this must be the tenant—when the man stopped and faced them.
“You looking for me? Are you debt collectors?”
“Is your name Lindberg?”
“It is. Karsten Lindberg. Something wrong?”
“We’re police officers,” Henrik said, showing him his badge.
“What’s happened?” the man asked. He put down his shopping and looked frightened.
“Nothing,” Søren replied gently. “It’s got nothing to do with you or any members of your family.”
Karsten Lindberg let out a sigh of relief. “Right, so what can I do for you?”
“You live here?”
“Yes, second floor apartment to the right. I’m renting it until next summer.”
“Dr. Tybjerg sublet it to you?”
“Yes,” the man replied, surprised.
“Do you know where Dr. Tybjerg lives while you rent his apartment?”
“Yes, I think so,” he said without delay. “More or less. Los Angeles. He’s a paleontologist or something like that, his subject is birds. He’s teaching at UCLA for two semesters.”
Søren tried his utmost to hide his astonishment. “How did you make contact with Dr. Tybjerg?”
“He put up an ad at the H. C. Ørsted Institute. I’m a biochemist. I was looking for a place to stay, and I happened to see his ad on the bulletin board. What’s this about?”
“We’re looking for Dr. Tybjerg,” Søren said. “Was it an unfurnished sublet?”