The Dinosaur Feather

allowed to leave.
    When Clive returned to his hotel, he collapsed on his bed and dreamt about his own funeral. Kay wore a black veil and was in deep distress; the boys, looking suitably cowed, flanked her. The sobbing widow was about to throw herself on his coffin . . . when the dream suddenly restarted. This time the church was empty. His coffin rested, white and lonely, in front of the altar; the vicar rushed in and went through the motions. Clive tried to call out from his coffin, tell him to make more of an effort, but the vicar didn’t hear him. Then the door at the back of the church was opened, a solitary mourner entered and took a seat at the farthest pew. The vicar beckoned him to the front – after all, there was plenty of room.
    ‘The deceased had very few friends,’ the vicar whispered.‘Not even his widow is here. I’m delighted to see you.’
    The mourner approached. Suddenly Clive recognised Tybjerg. He sat in the first row, in Kay’s place.
    At first, Clive thought that Tybjerg had started clapping, but then he realised that someone was knocking on the door to his room. Dazed, he let Michael in. Together they went down to the hotel bar for a drink where they discussed Helland’s death at length before going to the Bella Centre. It was Wednesday evening and they had time for a quick look around the science fair.
    Michael nudged him.
    ‘Over here,’ he whispered. Clive followed his finger which was pointing at an electronic screen listing the programme for the symposium. Clive squinted.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Tybjerg’s name has been removed. Look.’ He tapped the screen lightly. ‘It says “Cancelled. Please note replacement speaker” next to the four lectures Tybjerg was due to give.’
    Clive stared at the screen.
    ‘He must be upset,’ he mused. ‘After all, Helland was his mentor. Imagine how you would feel, if I had been murdered.’
    Michael smiled. ‘Yes, can you imagine that!’
    Thursday morning Clive ventured out into the streets. A cold wind was blowing. He had consulted a map and located the university where he had an appointment with Johan Fjeldberg. He had walked for thirty minutes when the Faculty of Natural Science appeared to his left. The complex was unappealing: three tall sixties blocks and several lower, yellow-brickbuildings, each one more devoid of charm than the next. He walked through a park. At the museum reception he asked for Professor Fjeldberg, who appeared shortly afterwards. Fjeldberg talked nineteen to the dozen and led Clive through a maze of restricted access doors and corridors. This business with Helland was dreadful. Such a good colleague. A brilliant man. Clive smiled and nodded. Fjeldberg said rumour had it that Helland had been murdered. Fjeldberg simply refused to believe it.
    ‘People are paranoid,’ he scoffed. ‘One rumour even claims he was killed by parasites.’
    Clive gave Fjeldberg a horrified look.
    ‘Parasites?’
    ‘Yes, his body’s supposed to have been riddled with them,’ Fjeldberg snorted.
    They had reached the lift, and while they waited for it Fjeldberg looked at Clive.
    ‘How well did you really know him?’
    ‘Well,’ Clive began. The two men entered the lift. ‘I knew him quite well. Professionally, we were polar opposites.’
    Fjeldberg nodded.
    ‘But privately we were really quite good friends,’ he lied. ‘I’ll be there on Saturday, at his funeral, I mean.’
    ‘I’ve never really understood people who can’t make the distinction between work and friendship,’ Fjeldberg mused. ‘Can you? Helland excelled at keeping things separate. He picked fights with practically everyone, but he never allowed an argument to influence his personal opinion of them. In fact, there were times I thought he was fondest of those he had the biggest rows with. He loved confrontation. There’llbe a huge turnout on Saturday, I imagine. He was a highly respected man. Even by his academic opponents.’
    Clive smiled, and he kept on smiling.
    ‘Is Erik Tybjerg here?’ Clive asked, feigning innocence. ‘I would like to express my condolences. He’s an old friend. Tybjerg and I fight like cat and dog, of course, but purely professionally. I think it would be appropriate for me to shake his hand.’
    Fjeldberg glanced at Clive as they stepped out of the lift.
    ‘Funny you should mention him,’ he began, tentatively. ‘Because Tybjerg appears to be missing.’
    ‘Missing?’
    ‘Yes, several people are looking for him.