The Dinosaur Feather

Henrik continued. ‘Not me. You pretend everything’s hunky-dory, but we all know it’s just a front. Everyone knows that your sudden absence almost three years ago had fuck all to do with burning out. It wasn’t the job, no way. Something happened that Christmas. I know it. But like I said, it’s your life and if you don’t want to tell anyone, that’s your choice.’ He looked up at Søren and his eyes turned frosty. ‘But when you’re at work, it’s another matter. No one keeps secrets here, and do you know why? Because we’re a team.’
    ‘I’m your governor, Henrik,’ Søren protested.
    ‘I don’t care if you’re the prime minister,’ Henrik roared. ‘You can build walls between you and the rest of the world in your own time. When you’re at work, you’re part of a team. I’ve put up with it for years. You act like Sherlock Holmes, and I’m that clown, Watson, staring gormlessly at the great detective while he sits in his bay window, playing his violin, high as a kite, incapable of sharing his ideas and thoughts with those closest to him.’
    Søren said nothing. He wanted to defend himself, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. What was there to defend?
    ‘And it hits me twice as hard because I also happen to be your friend,’ Henrik said, very subdued all of a sudden. ‘You’ve shut me out of your private life and your work. As if youdon’t need me, but would rather do everything on your own. And I don’t believe that you can do everything alone, not for a second.’ He fell silent, just like in the car the other day, as if he had run out of steam. He started fidgeting with his key ring. Søren closed the door to Henrik’s office. It was now or never.
    ‘Henrik . . .’ he began.
    Henrik looked up.
    ‘Almost three years ago . . .’ Søren swallowed.
    It took him ten minutes to tell Henrik the story. He told it staccato. Henrik’s face changed from blotchy red to chalk white. Søren didn’t know what to do with his hands when he had finished. Henrik got up and hugged him.
    ‘Christ almighty, mate,’ he said in a thick voice. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
    And Søren had no idea why.
    Just before 5 p.m. Søren and Henrik visited Stella Marie Frederiksen in Elmegade. She opened the door wearing a rust-coloured tracksuit and slippers shaped like bear paws. Her thick black hair had neon pink extensions. She looked obligingly at the two men and didn’t seem particularly surprised at being visited by the police. She offered them coffee. It wasn’t until she realised why they had come that she went pale. She had been under the impression they were there in connection with her ex-husband, she stuttered. She had taken out an injunction against him, and a police car had been outside her house for the last three weeks because her husband was wanted by the police.
    Yes, she knew Johannes well.
    ‘Is he dead?’ she whispered, lifting a small child from the floor and hugging her. The child had burning black eyes underneath thick eyelashes and Søren instinctively wanted to reach for her.
    But before he could answer she said, ‘Hold on a moment, please, I’ll just put on a DVD, all right? This is too much for little ears.’
    When she had settled her child, they sat down in the kitchen and Søren let Henrik begin. The last time Stella Marie had seen Johannes was at the Red Mask’s September event. The great atmosphere at their parties was usually great, but that Friday really had been something special and it was mostly thanks to Johannes. He tended to wear quite restrained outfits and drink beers with his friends, but every now and then he went to town and would arrive dressed up to the nines and set the place on fire. Besides, there had been a goth concert in Horsens so the Red Mask had been relatively quiet that night. Around a hundred people had been present, Stella Marie estimated, and it resulted in an airy and pleasant feel.
    ‘Johannes stood in the corner.’ She narrowed her eyes as she retraced the events in her mind. ‘To the right of the bar, where people tend to congregate. He wore leather, skirt or trousers, and some sort of corset under a black string vest, hey, hang on . . .’ She rocked back on her chair and woke up her computer.
    ‘I’ve got loads of pictures from that night.’
    Before Søren could say they had access to photos from the Red Mask website, Stella Marie had opened a file and started a slide show. Black-clad goths of all shapes and