The Dinosaur Feather

enjoy two minutes of home life where he wasn’t thinking about the case. At 7.20 a.m. it began to get light. Søren put on thick socks as he contemplated how cold it was for October. Perhaps it was a sign of a hard winter to come?
    Søren remembered the ice winter of 1987 when Denmark had been landlocked with Sweden for over two months. Søren had been seventeen years old and Knud had taken him ice-fishing. They had put snow tyres on Knud’s Citroën, set off in severe frost and brilliant sunshine, and driven across the ice to Sweden. A state of enjoyable mayhem had reigned on the ice with cars weaving gingerly in and out between each other, people on foot chatting as they pulled children on sledges, and skaters with scarves flapping in the wind. When they reached Sweden, they headed north. Knud had borrowed a friend’s cabin on an island.
    ‘How can we fish when the lake is frozen solid?’ a baffled Søren had asked as they walked across the ice to the island. Knud winked conspiratorially at him.
    They had lazed about all weekend. They played cards or Mastermind and ate chocolate in the cabin. They threw logs on the fire and went for a walk around the island. Knud had brought a dartboard and they played outside until the light faded, wearing gloves so they could hold bottles of beer without getting frostbite on their hands. Knud asked Søren what was on his mind these days. Søren’s initial reaction was that it was a weird question, but then he got the urge to confide in his grandfather. Tell him the things he thought about, the people he thought about, who his real friends were and who weren’t, why he had been bored on a school visit to the Royal Theatre for a stage version of
Hosekræmmeren
, though he loved the original short story, why he didn’t have time for a girlfriend right now, but that there were some girls he liked the look of, there was this girl in his class, her name was Vibe, she had completely green eyes.
    It was evening now, there were millions of stars over Sweden, and they sat outside gazing at them, even though it was at least minus ten degrees. Knud made toddies and warmed their sleeping bags by the fire and there they sat, like two fat caterpillars, in the darkness, in Sweden. Suddenly Søren turned to his grandfather and raised a subject they rarely discussed.
    ‘There’s a boy in my year called Gert. He lost his parents when he was ten years old. Car crash. He’s gone completely off the rails. He skives off school, he drinks and never does his homework. I think he might be expelled. They say he used to live with his aunt. I don’t know him all that well. I think she got fed up with him. So he went into care. Two different homes. Finally, he was sent to boarding school. He’sback with his aunt now, but only till he finishes school.
If
he finishes, that is.’
    Knud stared into the darkness. The constellations were clear and the darkness between them endless.
    ‘But I’m not unhappy, Knud,’ Søren said. ‘I know that Peter and Kristine are dead, that they were my parents, and that they loved me. But I’m not sad. Not about that.’ He fell silent.
    They sat next to each other without speaking for almost five minutes. Then, in a thick voice, Knud said, ‘Sometimes, when I look at you, I miss them so much I think my heart will break.’
    Søren said nothing, but he took Knud’s hand.
    Søren decided to go to work early rather than try to relax at home. The rising sun made the sky glow flaming red. The heater was on. Søren switched on his radio, but turned it off again. He needed silence to review the last few days. The Faculty of Natural Science simultaneously fascinated him and drove him insane. Practically all its staff were friendly and helpful, and they had answered his questions willingly, yet he still felt like he had made no progress. As if they weren’t telling him everything.
    The forensic evidence turned out to be equally inconclusive. There were prints everywhere in Helland’s office. Anna Bella Nor’s, Johannes Trøjborg’s, Professor Ewald’s and Professor Jørgensen’s along with a million others. It made no sense. Nothing significant had been found on Helland, only a micro layer of soap with a hint of lavender which merely confirmed that Helland had showered before going to work on the day he died. There were no prints, no skincells, no sweat, and no saliva that wasn’t Helland’s. Everything confirmed that if Helland had been murdered, it had