The Dinosaur Feather

on purpose and was the last to enter the church. A funeral could be pompous, or almost euphoric, or indifferent, but when the coffin was the size of a box of dates, it was a nightmare. Søren’s nightmare. No one knew who he was and he didn’t think that Bo had seen him. During the service, Søren had wanted to stand up and scream: ‘My daughter’s in that coffin.
My
daughter.’ But he had said nothing. It had been the worst day of his life. Or so he had thought.
    Søren attended the wake after Professor Helland’s funeral. It was held in hired function rooms, not far from the church. He stood in a corner, watching everyone, speaking to no one and reeking of police. Mrs Helland was distant. She was steadily drinking wine, speaking to people, but never for very long, and Søren noticed her gaze flutter like a butterfly. Just before five o’clock she made her excuses and left. Her daughter, Nanna, stayed behind. People began to trickle home. Søren could hear Nanna apologise. Her eyes were red, but she seemed more self-composed than her mother. She tidied up a little, and around six an older man offered her a lift home. She said goodbye to the remaining mourners, shook hands and was hugged. Søren went to his car. He had only attended the wake because he was desperate. He had even brought handcuffs, ready to slam them on the wrists of anyone who looked suspicious. How ridiculous.
    Søren had reached Bellahøj police station and had just switched to his own car when his mobile rang.
    ‘It’s Stella Marie,’ a voice said.
    ‘Hi.’ Søren was surprised.
    ‘I know where I’ve seen that guy before.’
    Søren was about to drive out of the basement garage, but pulled in and waved a colleague past.
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘He’s on the outside of Magasin. I drove past this morning. There’s a huge poster on the front of the building.’ Yes, she was sure. Søren thanked her and drove into the city centre rather than home. He parked at Saint Annæ Plads and walked a few hundred metres down Bredgade, past Charlottenborg and up to Magasin. The giant poster faced the square. It depicted a man and a woman. The woman smiled flirtatiously, baring her bright white teeth. She was wearing a soft pink sweater and tight jeans, and she held out her hand behind her to the man who was about slip an ostentatious gold ring on her finger. The man was handsome, even Søren could see that. Auburn hair, brown eyes, scattered freckles. He smiled, mischievously, but sure of his success. Behind his back, he held a Swiss army knife with multiple functions, and the message of the poster was that once the Magasin sale started, the man would be able to afford the ring for her and the knife for himself. Søren stared at the man’s face. He was around thirty, a little less perhaps, and he didn’t look like someone who frequented the Red Mask. Søren quickly came up with a plan: contact Magasin’s marketing department and identify the model. But that couldn’t be done until Monday morning. Crap! He looked at his watch. He was offduty now, but he had no urge to go home to his silent empty house. He called Henrik.
    ‘No problem,’ Henrik said. ‘Come over.’
    Henrik lived with his family on the outskirts of Østerbro, and Søren spent the rest of the evening there. They ate together and Søren was fascinated by Henrik’s teenage daughters who were simultaneously distant and omnipresent. One man had a daughter who would never grow bigger, a tiny daughter with tiny feet in tiny socks, another man had two daughters, with curves, who picked at their food, answered back and had bright eyes. Søren liked Henrik’s wife and couldn’t imagine why he was having an affair. Jeanette was five years younger than her husband and worked as the deputy leader in a nursery. After dinner, the men cleared the table, the girls disappeared to their bedrooms and Henrik’s wife went to the gym. For a moment, Henrik looked nervous.
    He and Søren got two beers and discussed the cases. As far as Helland was concerned, Henrik, too, was of the opinion that they had to check out Hanne Moritzen. Professor Moritzen was the only person who really knew how to handle parasites, and even though they could attribute no motive to her, there had to be one. They agreed that Henrik would investigate her on Monday to see if he could establish a link between her and Professor Helland.
    But Henrik frowned when Søren went on to suggest that Helland might have been murdered by his