The Dinosaur Feather

father.’ Mrs Snedker leaned forward as she whispered the last sentence. Søren picked up the scent of a dusty, heavy perfume. Mrs Snedker turned resolutely on her heel and disappeared inside her flat.
    ‘Er . . .’ Søren began, but she ignored him. He followed her into a dark, rustic-style hallway and into her living room, the like of which he had never seen. The floor was covered with thick-piled rugs and there was no space left on the walls. Pictures in heavy gilded frames, plates and photographs, and on the end wall, broken only by the balcony door, therewere books from floor to ceiling. A gramophone, which had to be fifty years old at least, sat in between the books. Mrs Snedker was standing by a low drinks table, pouring a rust-coloured liquid into two glasses.
    ‘Ah, there you are.’ She sounded delighted.
    ‘I don’t drink while I’m on duty,’ Søren said, not very convincingly.
    ‘Nonsense,’ she said.
    Søren studied an old gun mounted on the wall. The metal was freshly polished and the woodwork was in good condition, but the weapon looked hundreds of years old.
    ‘It used to belong to Count Griffenfeld,’ Mrs Snedker explained. She had followed his eyes. ‘Stunning example, isn’t it? Right, down the hatch.’ She handed him a glass, knocked back her drink and frowned when Søren swallowed only half of his. She went to the window and looked out.
    ‘Oh, look, there they are,’ she said, triumphantly. Søren joined her. She was right. A figure, holding a small child by the hand, had just stepped out of a low, black wooden building which Mrs Snedker informed him was Lily’s nursery. Anna was dragging the child who was wearing a snowsuit.
    ‘Just time for a little more Dutch courage, my friend. Now what’s that about?’ She looked outraged at Søren’s half-full glass. He put it down on the drinks table.
    ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘What did you mean when you said someone had been waiting for Anna?’
    ‘Of course,’ Mrs Snedker said. ‘I wouldn’t want to force you.’ She emptied Søren’s glass. ‘Well, you see. Twice this week, a man waited for Anna on the landing. Someone shedoesn’t know. Or, at any rate, she can’t work out who it might have been.’
    ‘When exactly was he waiting for her?’
    ‘When? When?’ she snapped. ‘A couple of days ago. I no longer keep track of insignificant events. Two long days ago.’ She refilled their glasses and Søren seriously considered whether alcohol might not be good for you after all. The old lady appeared strong and fearless.
    ‘Please try to remember,’ Søren asked. ‘Was it yesterday? Was it last week?’
    ‘Sorry,’ Mrs Snedker said. ‘My memory is still on summer time.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Talking about summer time . . . would you mind terribly changing the clock on my video recorder to winter time? While we wait for Anna to drag the little piglet up four flights of stairs? Look, I’ve found the instructions, but that’s where my technical expertise ends.’
    Søren plodded obediently after Mrs Snedker. She handed him a torch and a yellowing booklet. The video was from 1981. Søren went down on all fours and started pressing various buttons until the clock was correct.
    As he got up, Mrs Snedker said, ‘How funny, my memory seems to have returned. I remember it vividly. The first time the man waited was Monday afternoon and the second time was Wednesday evening.’ She beamed.
    ‘Last night?’
    ‘No, May ten years ago,’ she teased him. ‘Of course it was last night! Yesterday, tenth of October.’
    ‘Where was Anna, since he had to wait?’
    ‘How would I know? Up to no good, I expect.’
    ‘And Anna has no idea who he might have been?’
    ‘No, she was convinced it was Johannes, a chap she shares a study with at the university. Mainly because of his hair colour. The man was wearing a cap, but I think some auburn hair stuck out from under it, and I told Anna that, which made her think it was Johannes. But I’m not so sure. I was busy closing my door. It could have been him, but how would I know?’ Mrs Snedker suddenly sounded hurt. ‘I’m not hired help here, am I?’
    ‘What’s keeping them?’ Søren said, suddenly impatient. Even with a toddler in tow they should have been home by now.
    ‘Perhaps it wasn’t them after all?’ Mrs Snedker shrugged.
    Søren gave her weary look. ‘Of course it was,’ he said. ‘They must have gone somewhere else.’
    ‘The supermarket in Falkoner Allé is