“The deceased lived in excruciating pain and died as a result of this infection. The idea that he was infected accidentally is unpleasant enough in itself. The suggestion that someone infected him deliberately, well, that’s not a thought I would like to pursue. Besides, to my ears it sounds highly implausible. It requires biological competence to extract a proglottid from infected feces, and it would be difficult for a layperson to clean that kind of organic material without destroying it. And even if you were successful, the rest of the plan seems rather far-fetched. It’s regrettable and horrifying that the deceased died under such dramatic circumstances, but I find it hard to see how a crime could have been committed. Very hard.” Bjerregaard’s face made it clear their meeting was over.
“How do you store your material?” Søren persisted. Dr. Bjerregaard flashed an irritated look at Søren before she relented.
“It’s impossible to gain access to material here at the Serum Institute, if that’s what you’re insinuating. That’s self-evident. We store far more dangerous material than tapeworms. HIV, hepatitis C, Ebola, avian flu. And it’s obviously impossible,” she shot Søren a sharp look, “to force entry and steal such material. And if anyone were to succeed, only an expert would know how to treat the material to keep it alive. If someone broke into our basement and nicked a test tube, the contents would die and, consequently, cease to be infectious before the thief was halfway down the street.”
“Are you the only facility that stores live organic material?” Søren wanted to know.
“We store the majority. But, as you may know, there’s the parasitologist, Hanne Moritzen, at the University of Copenhagen. And Professor Moritzen has a substantial supply, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to do her work. But she’s Denmark’s biggest expert, and I can promise you she treats her material with the utmost care. She’ll be awarded a Nobel Prize for her brilliant work in the Third World one day. She would never take safety lightly. Never.”
This declaration concluded the meeting, and Søren and Henrik left the Serum Institute in silence. When they were back in the car, Henrik was about to say something, but Søren stopped him.
“No,” he said. “Just no.”
They drove through the city without speaking. Søren leaned back in his seat and looked out of the window, where trees and houses rushed past. He felt he was on very thin ice.
Back at the station, Søren went to his office and drank three cups of tea. Professor Helland had died from 2,600 parasites in his nerve and muscular tissue, and he had sustained multiple fractures and other injuries. What the hell did it all mean? Before he had time to think it through, he called Mrs. Helland to ask if she was at home. Ten minutes later he was on his way to Herlev. If Professor Helland had been murdered, and this was now a possibility, Søren could no longer ignore the fact that there was a 98 percent probability the killer would be found among family or close friends. Birgit Helland had just gone straight to the top of his list of suspects.
Mrs. Helland offered him a seat in a large, airy room and called down her daughter from the first floor. Both women were red-eyed. Without revealing any details, Søren explained that Helland appeared to have suffered from a tropical infection, and the police were looking for a possible link between the infection and his death. Mrs. Helland’s reaction was a cross between denial and shock. A tropical infection? That’s impossible, she said, over and over. Her husband had never visited the tropics. He had a fear of flying. It had been a source of endless frustration, as the vast majority of bird symposia and conferences were held abroad, and every time he had had to send his young colleague, Erik Tybjerg. He only traveled to places he could reach by train or by car. Nanna sat beside her mother, crying. Mrs. Helland obviously wanted to know more about the tropical infection, but Søren said that at this stage in the investigation, he was unable to provide her with further details. Investigation? Mrs. Helland’s jaw dropped, and Søren explained that while a heart attack was regarded as “natural causes,” they had now learned something that meant yesterday’s conclusion no longer applied. Helland’s death was now being treated as “suspicious,” and this forced him to withhold certain information due to the ongoing investigation.
Mrs. Helland was outraged. “Are you suspecting me? Because if you are, just go on and say so.”
“I’ll do everything I can to find out how and why your husband died,” he said, avoiding her question. “Until then I’m asking you to trust me. Will you do that, please?”
She looked skeptical, but Nanna nodded. Eventually Birgit Helland agreed.
Nanna left to go to the lavatory, and Søren started asking about Professor Helland’s health.
“Lars was in great shape,” his widow protested.
“So, in your view, he was well?”
“Of course, I’ve just said so. Nearly nine years ago Lars had surgery for a brain tumor. It was discovered early, the tumor was removed, and there’s been nothing since. He went for regular checkups. He was in great shape,” she repeated.
“So no signs of illness?”
“No!”
Søren thanked her, got up and left, unable to decide whether Mrs. Helland simply knew nothing about parasites or fractures, or whether she was devious enough to hide it.
When Søren got back to the police station, he called the Natural History Museum and asked to be put through to Erik Tybjerg. The telephone rang for a long time before the switchboard operator informed him Dr. Tybjerg wasn’t in his office, but she would send him an e-mail asking him to call back. Søren sighed.
There was a knock on the door and Sten appeared. Sten was the crime squad’s computer analyst, and since yesterday he had been busy examining Helland’s computer. Søren had barely given the computer a second thought; he had been convinced he wouldn’t have to devote much time to this case. Overcome by sudden guilt, he asked Sten for his verdict.
“Professor Helland’s e-mail account was opened in February 2001,” Sten began. “Approximately 1,500 e-mails are stored on the server, and I’ve been through them all.” He looked drained.
“The vast majority are work-related, apart from those he sent to his wife, Birgit Helland, who works at the Humanities College of the University of Copenhagen, and to his daughter, Nanna. The only interesting thing I discovered was that for the last four years Lars Helland exchanged twenty-two e-mails with a professor of ornithology at the University of British Columbia—a guy named Clive Freeman. Mean anything to you?”
Søren shook his head.
“They disagree about something,” Sten went on, “and they refer repeatedly to each other’s papers in various scientific journals, such as Scientific Today, which I’ve heard of, but also a range of other journals that I haven’t. To begin with, their correspondence is relatively balanced, but it changes in early summer. The tone of their e-mails shows they’re trying to maintain the illusion that they’re fine, honorable scientists engaged in a duel, but it becomes obvious on numerous occasions that Freeman is increasingly cornered and Helland is enjoying it big time. Twice, Freeman actually threatens Helland.” Sten handed Søren a printout with highlighted sentences.
“At the end of June, there is unexplained silence. Nothing in their correspondence up until then indicates why, and even though I did some searching on the Internet, I haven’t been able to find a plausible cause for their sudden ceasefire. However, shortly afterward, on the ninth of July, to be exact, Helland starts receiving anonymous e-mails.” Sten pulled out a new file and extracted a small pile of printouts. “And now the tone is brutal and blunt. Someone is threatening Helland.”