The Dinosaur Feather

clouds beneath them tomato red, to the east, the European night awaited them, black and alien.
    ‘My life seems to have reached a turning point,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of retiring, if the presentation is a success.’ He had no idea what had triggered this.
    Michael looked as if he was about to say something and he shifted uneasily, but when Clive finally looked up, Michael was engrossed in a magazine.
    The hotel in Copenhagen was called Ascot and was located in the side street of a large, ugly square. The rooms were tiny and claustrophobic, and the bed linen felt greasy, as though the washing machine had a faulty rinse cycle. There was nominibar. Clive called reception to get the code for wireless access, and having uploaded his presentation and the latest corrections to his server back in Canada, he fell asleep.
    Wednesday morning Michael and Clive had breakfast in a large hall which was half-empty and freezing cold. They had just sat down to scrambled eggs and English-language newspapers, when two tall men entered through the revolving doors at the far end of the room. Clive watched them while they looked around. They began strolling in the direction of Clive and Michael’s table. Michael was eating and reading his newspaper and didn’t look up until the men were right next to them.
    ‘Professor Freeman?’ one of them asked, politely.
    Clive stared at him. If Kay had died, he would . . . he would . . . He didn’t know what he would do. He closed his eyes.
    ‘Professor Clive Freeman?’ the man repeated.
    Michael nudged Clive and Clive opened his eyes.
    ‘Yes,’ he croaked.
    ‘I’m Superintendent Søren Marhauge from the Copenhagen Police. Could we have a word with you?’ His English was perfect and fluent.
    ‘Is it about my wife?’ Clive whispered. The man smiled.
    ‘It’s not about your wife or any of your family,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s about Professor Helland.’
    Clive was in shock. When the interview had finished and he left the police station, a young police officer had to help him into a taxi, as though Clive was an old man. The police officer placed his hand between Clive’s head and the car for protection, as Clive had seen the police do with criminals. They hadall his e-mails. The tall superintendent with the dark eyes had spread them out on the table in front of him. He was about to argue this was illegal, but it occurred to him that it probably wasn’t. Lars Helland was dead, and the police were investigating all options, as Marhauge diplomatically phrased it, but Clive knew perfectly well what it meant. It meant that Helland had been murdered. Marhauge had looked at him for a long time, scrutinising him, Clive thought.
    ‘We know that you’re not responsible for Professor Helland’s death. I’ve checked your travel records, and you haven’t been to Europe since 2004, am I right?’
    Clive nodded obediently.
    ‘You’re here for the Bird Symposium at the Bella Centre?’
    Clive nodded again.
    ‘You’re giving a presentation there on Saturday?’
    ‘Yes, Saturday evening.’
    ‘Where were you in June?’ the superintendent wanted to know.
    Clive thought back. June was
before
Jack had betrayed him, and Kay had moved out.
    ‘Nowhere,’ he replied eventually. ‘Nowhere at all.’
    June had been windy and all he wanted to do was work. Kay had ordered him to take a break and they had gone to their cabin, where they lasted two whole weeks together. Kay made salads and he barbecued. They had several visitors, all couples, where the wife was a friend of Kay’s and the husband was utterly dull. Jack and Molly had been busy. Finally, he had resorted to clearing out the shed and Kay had remarked that this was a strange way to spend a holiday. And that was when Clive had snapped.
    ‘I don’t want to be on holiday,’ he shouted. ‘My work is too important. Look what happened the last time. I close my eyes for two seconds, and someone finds a feathered dinosaur!’
    Kay gave Clive permission to return to work.
    ‘And what did you do in July?’ the detective asked.
    He had been alone in the house, living on tinned food, sausages and bread rolls.
    ‘I worked,’ he said. ‘Preparing the presentation I’m giving on Saturday, amongst other things.’
    The superintendent handed him a sheet of paper. Clive read:
You will pay for what you have done
.
    ‘Did you write that?’
    ‘Of course not,’ Clive replied, outraged. ‘I don’t threaten people.’
    Finally, he was