Jack and Kay going to the theater without him was an unforgivable act of betrayal.
This conclusion calmed him down. The human animal was fundamentally lonely, but in contrast to sentimental daydreamers, he had faced up to it. His priority now was the restoration of his professional reputation. Kay would come back sooner or later. Besides, she had no money.
Three weeks later, Clive was back at the department of Bird Evolution, Paleobiology, and Systematics. He cycled to the university and strode down the corridor. Michael emerged from his laboratory.
“Clive, my man,” he said. “Good to have you back.”
“Good morning,” Clive said, marching past the younger man to his office. The air was dusty and stuffy, so he opened the windows. His secretary entered shortly afterward with a pile of letters. Rumors of his return spread quickly, and at lunchtime Clive accepted Michael’s invitation to join him and the rest of the team in the cafeteria. They were all delighted to see him.
After lunch they started preparatory work on their poster. Clive and Michael reviewed the results from the cartilage condensation experiment, which looked very hopeful. Michael showed him microscope images of the various developmental stages. It was clear the primary cartilage formation in embryonic birds resulted in the carpal bone, the fourth metacarpal bone and the development of the fourth finger, which meant the bird hand couldn’t have evolved from the dinosaur hand, unless it was an example of mutation in both the symmetry of the fingers and in the hand’s existing central axis, and that was highly unlikely—obviously. Clive whistled softly. It was all very encouraging. The scent of cologne rose from the V-neck of Michael’s T-shirt and tickled Clive’s nose. If Michael hadn’t had a wife and two children, it would have been tempting to assume… Clive edged away from Michael a little.
“I’m buying you all dinner at the steakhouse,” he burst out. “Time to celebrate!” Besides Michael, he invited John, Angela, Piper, his secretary Ann, the two PhD students, and two new masters students. His loyal team.
None of them could make it. Michael had promised to babysit.
Clive spent the evening trawling through the program for the 27th Bird Symposium on the web. Tybjerg, that egomaniac, was giving no fewer than four lectures, which came as no surprise to Clive, but he was extremely surprised to discover that Helland’s name didn’t appear anywhere. Helland, who never attended symposia outside Europe, finally had the chance to put forward his nonsense ideas in his home country, so why not take it? Very odd. On checking his inbox, Clive realized that it had been a while since he had last heard from Helland. He started rereading their correspondence but soon stopped. He knew no one as snide and mean as Lars Helland, and it ruined his good mood.
It was mild outside and when Clive had opened the French doors, he called Michael to discuss the poster. Michael’s daughter picked up the telephone.
“I’m sorry, Professor Freeman, I’m afraid my dad’s not here,” she said.
“So who’s looking after you?” Clive asked.
The girl laughed.
“I’m fifteen and my sister is thirteen, so we can manage on our own.”
Clive was affronted.
“So where’s your father?” he asked.
“I think he had a meeting at the university,” the girl replied.
Clive thanked her and hung up.
He stared into space for a moment. Then he returned to his computer and clicked on the homepage of the Natural History Museum in Copenhagen where he discovered, to his delight, that they were putting on an exhibition about feathers. His joy, however, was short-lived. The title of the exhibition was “From Dino to Duvet.” Would it never end? He bet Tybjerg was the curator of that blasted exhibition. One day, probably when Clive was dead and buried, sadly, natural history museums the world over would hang their heads in shame at how wrong they had been.
Clive heard nothing from Jack, and Kay remained with Franz. Clive was annoyed she hadn’t bothered coming home yet, but he wouldn’t have time to do anything about it until after the symposium. His future career depended on the condensation experiment and the Copenhagen conference, and he needed space to think. At night he dreamt of Jack. Dark, freaky dreams, filled with sounds and Jack’s face lighting up in flashes, so all Clive had time to see was Jack’s snarling upper lip. He started taking half a sleeping pill and, to his relief, the nights became black and empty once more.
On October 9 Michael and Clive flew to Copenhagen. He usually loathed the journey across the Atlantic, but when Michael secured them an upgrade to business class, his irritation melted away. Clive had gone to the lavatory and when he returned, there was Michael, grinning from ear to ear, and waving the boarding passes at him. They sat in supreme comfort the whole flight, discussing the presentation, while attractive cabin crew served drinks and snacks. Clive noticed how attentive and deferential Michael was. After Michael had finished his PhD, he had gone through a phase of wanting to decide everything for himself. Clive had been most offended. When you navigated a scientific minefield, as Clive did, you needed loyal support and not childish attempts at independence. He noted with delight that Michael had been brought to heel. He made hardly any objections, and when he did, his observations were insightful and only contributed to honing Clive’s argument. Somewhere across the Atlantic, Clive was overcome by an urge to confide in Michael.
“I’ve a feeling this will be my last time,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Michael said, stretching out in his seat.
“I don’t know…” Clive hesitated. What exactly was he trying to say?
“The presentation is good,” Michael prompted him. “The experiment bears scrutiny.”
“Yes, perhaps that’s what it’s about,” Clive replied. He looked out of the window. To the west, the setting sun painted the clouds beneath them tomato red, to the east, the European night awaited them, black and alien.
“My life seems to have reached a turning point,” he said. “I’m thinking of retiring, if the presentation is a success.” He had no idea what had triggered this.
Michael looked as if he was about to say something and he shifted uneasily, but when Clive finally looked up, Michael was engrossed in a magazine.
The hotel in Copenhagen was called Ascot and was located in the side street of a large, ugly square. The rooms were tiny and claustrophobic, and the sheets felt greasy, as though the washing machine had a faulty rinse cycle. There was no minibar. Clive called reception to get the code for wireless access, and having uploaded his presentation and the latest corrections to his server back in Canada, he fell asleep.
Wednesday morning Michael and Clive had breakfast in a large hall, which was half-empty and freezing cold. They had just sat down to scrambled eggs and newspapers, when two tall men entered through the revolving doors at the far end of the room. Clive watched them while they looked around. They began strolling in the direction of Clive and Michael’s table. Michael was eating and reading his newspaper and didn’t look up until the men were right next to them.
“Professor Freeman?” one of them asked, politely.
Clive stared at him. If Kay had died, he would… he would…. He didn’t know what he would do. He closed his eyes.
“Professor Clive Freeman?” the man repeated.
Michael nudged Clive, and Clive opened his eyes.
“Yes,” he croaked.
“I’m Superintendent Søren Marhauge from the Copenhagen Police. Could we have a word with you?” His English was perfect and fluent.
“Is it about my wife?” Clive whispered. The man smiled.