The Dinosaur Feather

many high-quality candidates out there.’ Fjeldberg looked straight at Søren. ‘What does puzzle me is how Tybjerg manages to work here as though he had tenure. He must have found a way, I can see that, but where does he find the money to fund his research? Of course, he has worked with Helland on several of his projects, but that . . . that’ll come to an end now. I imagine he will be forced to apply for jobs abroad, and I think that would be a good thing. This is a very small pond, if you catch my drift. Dr Tybjerg is hugely over-qualified, scientifically speaking, but his social skills are poor. The University of Copenhagen is completely the wrong place for someone like him. Too many sharp elbows, too much professional jealousy and meagre prospects for an oddball like Tybjerg, who can’t teach, nor should he; he should be allowed to get on with his specialised research. That would be the ideal solution: Enoughmoney to invest in scientists with social and educational skills and also in experts who research exclusively within a narrow field. But we don’t have the money, it’s as simple as that. So we only hire people with sound subject knowledge and teaching qualifications, i.e. people who can get on with others and teach them something.’
    ‘And Dr Tybjerg isn’t one of those?’
    ‘No,’ Fjeldberg asserted with a forceful smile. ‘He isn’t.’
    ‘Do you know Anna Bella Nor from Helland’s department?’
    ‘Yes. Well, that’s to say, I know she’s his postgraduate student.’
    Søren nodded. ‘And Tybjerg’s. According to Anna Bella, he’s her external supervisor, so he must have some teaching skills?’
    Fjeldberg looked genuinely surprised. ‘Tybjerg? That sounds like a rather suspect arrangement between Helland and Tybjerg. According to university rules you cannot supervise a postgraduate student unless you have tenure. But you know . . .’ he suddenly looked reflective. ‘There has been a lot of belt-tightening here these last few years. The government has cut our grants to the point where it’s beyond a joke. At times we are forced to bend the rules to keep the wheels turning. Don’t quote me on that,’ he added quickly.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘You don’t know how things are done here,’ Fjeldberg sighed. ‘And I don’t want to make waves. In three years I’ll become an emeritus professor and I’ve got my retirement all planned. A cottage, some grandchildren, a happy old age.’
    ‘Okay,’ Søren said. ‘Off the record. You have my word.’
    Fjeldberg looked relieved. ‘I think Helland helped Tybjerg on the quiet. He probably had his reasons, but that’s noneof my business. Personally, I would never have picked someone like Tybjerg for my successor; I would have chosen a candidate likely to have a future with the university. Dr Tybjerg will never get tenure here,’ Fjeldberg said again, and then he laughed. ‘He might be an expert, but he’s also a nerd and since our system barely tolerates experts, it certainly won’t accommodate experts who are nerds. Impossible.’
    He looked at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to end our meeting. Is there anything else I can do for you?’
    Søren shook his head.
    ‘I’ll call you if there is. Thanks for your help so far.’
    ‘Don’t mention it.’ Professor Fjeldberg rose and unlocked the door to the museum with a key attached to a snap hook in his trousers. Søren remembered something.
    ‘Excuse me, Professor Fjeldberg!’
    The old man turned around.
    ‘What did you think he said to you, back then?’ Søren asked.
    Fjeldberg looked momentarily thrown.
    ‘Dr Tybjerg,’ Søren explained. ‘What was it you thought you heard him say when you bumped into him that Christmas?’
    Fjeldberg’s face lit up. ‘Ah . . . well, I’m almost certain that he said, “This is my home.”’ Fjeldberg looked wistful and shrugged. Then he was gone.
    When Søren parked his car under Bellahøj police station twenty minutes later than his usual arrival time, the sun had risen fully and the sky retained only a faint hint of pink. Linda was already there and he could smell coffee.
    ‘There are pastries, if you want some,’ she said, pointing to a plate on her desk.
    ‘Any news regarding Johannes Trøjborg?’ Søren asked, prodding one of the pastries.
    ‘No,’ Linda replied. ‘I called him several times, yesterday and this morning.’ She showed him a list. ‘But it goes straight to voicemail.’
    Søren pursed his lips and