The Dinosaur Feather

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 flat. 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 flat to the right. I’m renting it until next summer.’
    ‘Dr Tybjerg let it to you?’
    ‘Yes,’ the man replied, surprised.
    ‘Do you know where Dr Tybjerg lives while you rent his flat?’
    ‘Yes, I think so,’ he said without delay. ‘More or less. Los Angeles. He’s a palaeontologist or something like that, his subject is birds. He’s teaching at UCLA for two terms.’
    Søren tried his utmost to hide his astonishment. ‘How did you make contact with Dr Tybjerg?’
    ‘He put up a notice at the H. C. Ørsted Institute. I’m a biochemist. I was looking for a place to stay and I happen to see his ad on the noticeboard. What’s this about?’
    ‘We’re looking for Dr Tybjerg,’ Søren said. ‘Was it an unfurnished let?’
    ‘No, it’s partly furnished. He removed all his personal belongings, but most of his furniture is still there. Suits me fine. It’s just a pit stop for me.’
    ‘Do you have his address in California?’
    ‘No, I have his e-mail address, but it’s a Danish university address. In fact, he was causing me a fair amount of hassle a few months ago. I started getting a lot of final demands addressed to him, and the electricity and the landline were cut off. I tried to get hold of Erik for two weeks, but no luck. In the end, I was really angry with him. At long last he got back to me. He said he had been away on a dig. The whole thing was stupid. We had agreed that I would pay money into his account and he would pay the fixed outgoings, but once he had left, I didn’t hear from him. I presumed he had dealt with it. I certainly didn’t think he would just stop paying the bills. I got him to transfer the bills into my name, temporarily. It was much easier for both of us. He was free to look after his bones and excavations, and I could get the light back on in my fridge and my telephone working again. He asked me to put all the letters aside and I have done. To be honest, some of them look very serious and I’ve e-mailed him about it, but he hasn’t responded. What more can I do? I’m his tenant, not his mother. He had another letter from a debt collector recently,’ he said and immediately looked shamefaced.
    ‘I don’t really feel comfortable telling you all this. It’s his private business. But there you have it. Do you want his post or not?’
    ‘Yes, please,’ Søren said quickly. What Karsten Lindberg was offering was technically illegal, but it would save Søren a lot of paperwork.
    Søren went upstairs with him to get the letters. He carried one of Karsten Lindberg’s shopping bags.
    ‘What a nice copper you are,’ Karsten Lindberg said and smiled.
    Tybjerg’s flat was small and impersonal. Two rooms and a shower cubicle in the kitchen. The kitchen units were worn, and the windows needed cleaning. Søren picked up fifteen letters from debt-collecting agencies and said goodbye. When he came back to the car, Henrik was reading a garden catalogue.
    ‘I’m thinking I might get myself a rotavator,’ he said. ‘What do you think? Are you still a real man if you don’t have a rotavator?’
    ‘I don’t know about you,’ Søren said. ‘But I’m doing fine without one.’
    ‘Your garden looks like shit,’ Henrik sparred. They drove for a while in silence, then he added. ‘There’s