The Dinosaur Feather

regretted his strategy.
    ‘I’ll need to speak to someone who knew Johannes,’ he said kindly. ‘A friend, an ex-lover or his sister.’ He gave Mrs Kampe a pleading look. ‘Right now, I’ve got nothing to go on.’
    Janna Kampe looked at him for a long time. Then she took the scrapbook and flicked to the third page. Søren had noticed the picture, but paid no attention to it. The photo showed a curvaceous woman around forty, with thick curly hair heldin place by a spotted bandana. Her smile sparkled. Søren skimmed the text. The article was about a vintage furniture shop in Nordre Frihavnsgade. The owner’s name was Susanne Winther, she was a trained psychotherapist and now a passionate furniture collector. She loved spending her weekends tracking down hidden treasures at flea markets in and around Copenhagen, with her boyfriend Johannes. His name was highlighted and the article was published two years ago.
    ‘My daughter gave me this. She said the woman was Johannes’s girlfriend. She told me to tell Dad, to tell Jørgen. So that Jørgen wouldn’t think that Johannes was . . . a shirt-lifter.’
    Søren wrote Susanne Winther’s name and the date of the article in his notepad. Johannes had had a girlfriend. Calling it a breakthrough might be an exaggeration, he thought wryly. But it was a start.
    ‘It’s helpful,’ Søren said. ‘But before I speak to her, I really want to talk to Johannes’s sister. I presume her surname’s also Trøjborg? Where does she live?’
    ‘In Heaven,’ Janna Kampe said quietly. ‘She took her own life last summer. She suffered with schizophrenia and was frequently hospitalised. In the end, she gave up.’
    Søren sat, shaken, in front of a woman who had lost both her children. He had run out of questions and got up to leave. Mrs Kampe escorted him through the fine, cold house and he promised to call her with any news.
    When he drove back to the city, he could smell his own sweat.
    Under normal circumstances, he would have dropped by Bellahøj police station and picked up Henrik, but suddenlyhe found himself at the junction with Jagtvejen, a long way from the police station, very close to Nordre Frihavn, and still angry with Henrik. He parked on Strandboulevarden and walked up Nordre Frihavnsgade where he soon found Susanne Winther’s shop, which was called The Apple. When he entered, the first thing that caught his eye was a dozen apple-shaped bowls arranged on a teak table, which could easily have come from his childhood home in Snerlevej. Faint music could be heard and there was an aroma of apples and cinnamon.
    ‘Be with you in a minute,’ a voice called out from the back room.
    Søren sat down in a high-backed armchair, which someone had updated by decorating its worn armrests with red appliqué apples. He thought about Vibe. About her open face, eyes which had trusted him since that high-school disco. He thought about Maja. The memory of the last time he saw her hadn’t faded. Her singular smell, sweet and enticing, and her foot, tiny inside her Babygro, even smaller in his hand. The lie weighed him down. Knud had urged him to live his life right, free from lies, free from secrets. He had said that lies never expired, but Søren had been arrogant and believed that his lie would dissolve and evaporate. And when that had happened, his life would once more consist of manageable fluctuations within a normal range. No more hurt. No more pain. Like all the years with Vibe. A nice, quiet life, free from drama, free from loss. Now he had ended up with the exact opposite. He was in love with Anna. It was unprofessional and risky. Anna had upset his carefully balanced applecart. What was it all about? Her yellow eyes, her volatility, herdevil-may-care attitude. He didn’t even dare to think how scared he would be, all the time, if she were his. All that drama, every day, upending every stone, stirring everything up, turning everything inside out.
    There were apples everywhere in Susanne Winther’s shop. A mirror with a plastic apple frame hung on the wall and on the floor lay a crocheted rug with a picture of a large red apple.
    ‘Hi.’
    Søren instantly recognised Susanne Winther from the picture. She was obese and very beautiful. White flawless skin, freckles down the bridge of her nose and an impressive head of cascading curls, kept away from her face with a hair slide. She was wearing an apron with a large red apple and green trimming, and she offered Søren a