Read Online The Scream of the Butterfly by Jakob Melander - Free Book Online

lawyer. He wanted me to sign an agreement to sell the house.” The arches of Central Station were visible behind the trees of Tivoli. The Liberty Memorial was hidden, but Lars knew it was there. Somewhere. “I thought all that had been sorted out ages ago?”
    â€œI don’t know very much about it, Lars. I try not to interfere in your . . . in it. But, as far as I understand, the sale can’t be completed unless you both sign it.”
    â€œOkay.” There were more important things than selling houses right now.
    â€œListen,” Ulrik hesitated. “Elena has found a holiday cottage in Dronningmølle, a place she’s really quite keen on. You would be doing her — I mean me — a huge favour if you would sign and return that sales agreement as quickly as possible, preferably today. There are other potential buyers, and Elena’s share of the money would cover the down payment.” A bead of sweat trickled down Ulrik’s upper lip and dangled from the corner of his mouth.
    Lars got up. Suddenly he wasn’t sure that he wanted to sell the house after all.

13
    MERETHE WINTHER-SØRENSEN WAS on the terrace, bent over her flowerpots, when he opened the garden gate. The terrace looked sheltered from the wind, and it caught the sun. Kim turned around, clutching the envelope in his hand. He glanced quickly up and down Amicisvej. Everything was quiet. There were no reporters in sight. The election had been called two weeks ago and the campaign was in full swing. After the murder of the minister’s son, everything had spiralled. And yet here she was, tending to her flowers. Impressive.
    Her private secretary came out with his cell phone pressed to his ear. Kim couldn’t hear what was being said, but the secretary turned around and disappeared back inside the house soon afterward.
    Gravel and soil crunched under the soles of his shoes as he climbed the few steps leading up to the terrace.
    â€œAre you a keen gardener?” She was standing with her back to him, still bent over the flowerpots, panting and out of breath.
    He stopped at the second step from the top and leaned against the railing.
    â€œNot really.”
    The minister straightened up, secateurs in hand. Her stripey apron was speckled with soil and patches of old mould.
    â€œIt feels good to get your hands dirty. Politics is mentally exhausting. Would you like some coffee?” An Alfi thermos flask and a pair of Royal Copenhagen china cups had been set out on the garden table. The minister sat down on a stool and pulled one of the flowerpots toward her before starting to prune the new shoots.
    Kim walked across to the table and poured coffee for them both.
    â€œBut one thing I do know about gardening . . .” He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. The coffee was lukewarm at best. “Is that you usually prune in the spring.”
    The minister put down the secateurs for a moment. Her fingers caressed the plant.
    â€œThese are British pelargoniums — Bushfires, to be more specific. They must be pruned in the autumn or you risk removing the new shoots and they won’t flower. I tend to put them in the greenhouse in the winter. And when it rains . . . They don’t like rain very much. Anyway, that’s not why I asked you to come here.” She picked up the secateurs again and continued to snip away. The tender shoots rained down around her. “Your former colleague, Lars Winkler —”
    The private secretary reappeared. He handed her the phone across the table.
    â€œIt’s the prime minister’s office, they —”
    â€œNot now.” Merethe Winther-Sørensen cut him off. “Is it quite impossible to have five minutes of peace?”
    The private secretary sent Kim a vitriolic stare and disappeared back inside the house. Merethe Winther-Sørensen put down the secateurs and pulled off her gardening