CHAPTER 6

Marie grieved more for Storm than she did for her mother, and for the first few days, that made her feel deeply ashamed. But then she realised what she was really mourning. Two completely different movements had come to a standstill. Joan’s confused, morose, downward spiral towards the darkness, her fading voice and her diffuse gaze versus Storm’s unstoppable leaps towards discovery and his animated hands, which drew the horizon upwards, like a swarm of butterflies.

Anton had wept when Marie told him that Granny had died, and Marie comforted him as best she could.

‘So is Granny better now?’ he sobbed and, touched, Marie nodded.

Even Anton could see it. Joan had not been well and she was better now.

Storm was another story. He had had no reason to want to leave this world.

*

Marie called Merethe Hermansen at the Department of Immunology to apologise for slamming the door in her face, but she was not at her desk. Instead, she got Thor Albert Larsen and they spoke briefly. Thor said he could understand why Marie refused to accept that Storm had killed himself. Storm didn’t seem like someone who would want to take his own life, but the accusations were a great blow to a scientist, especially if there could be some truth in them. Marie asked him what he was insinuating.

‘The results from your animal studies were remarkably good and came at a very convenient time, Marie,’ Thor said.

‘It’s called statistical significance,’ she said. ‘Besides, they were my results, not Storm’s.’

‘All I’m saying is that those numbers were very good,’ he repeated. ‘Never mind, the case is now officially closed, Marie, and the police concluded it was suicide.’

‘Is that so?’ Marie said. ‘Only I received an email from a deputy chief superintendent at Bellahøj today who asked me to let him know if I’d noticed anything unusual.’

‘If you’re talking about Deputy Chief Superintendent Søren Marhauge, then I wouldn’t worry about him. He stopped by to see me yesterday and emphasised that the police regard the matter as closed.’

Marie was about to protest, but Thor cut her off. ‘I, too, am very shocked, Marie. We all are. And I wish that Storm had asked for help rather than checking out early like this, but don’t forget that I’ve been in this business for a few more years than you have, and I know how science works. It’s hard enough for a scientist to admit that he was wrong, even though that’s completely legitimate in any scientific endeavour. It must be even harder to acknowledge that you accidentally manipulated—’

Marie hung up.

She lay down on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling.

Why had she ever veered from her first impression?

Thor Albert Larsen really was a prat.

*

Julie turned up at Ingeborgvej with books on how to handle suicide. It Affects the Whole Family was the title of one; another was called How to Cope When a Grandparent Chooses Death. She perched on the edge of the sofa and carefully stroked Marie’s arm.

‘I’ve heard,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it.’

Marie knew that Julie must be referring to Storm’s death because Jesper had pleaded with her not to tell anyone yet that they were getting a divorce and Marie had agreed.

‘Not until after Joan’s been buried,’ Jesper had said. ‘Not until we know if Frank gets a suspended sentence or whether he’ll have to serve time. We’ll just hold off for a few weeks. Also for Anton’s sake, so that not everything comes tumbling down at once. Our marriage has been on the rocks for a long time. I’m sorry that I’m no better than the statistics, but there’s a reason why eighty per cent of all couples break up when one gets cancer. It’s tough and people change. We’ve both changed. But now we have to think about Anton,’ he had babbled. Marie was sorely tempted to tell Julie everything, but instead she turned, exhausted, to the wall, away from her sister’s affection.

‘We need to concentrate on our family now,’ Julie whispered. ‘On the children. On Dad . . . and making you better, right? Get some peace and quiet.’ Julie was now stroking Marie’s neck and shoulder, and Marie was eventually forced to stand up to get away from her touch.

‘I went into Dad’s office before Mum died.’ Marie made quotation marks in the air. ‘His so-called office. No one had sat at that desk for months. Brown envelopes were piling up. What did they live on? Was he even working? I know he drinks more than he should, Julie. More than a few glasses a day, a lot more. You can deny it as much as you like. And Mum, how did she end up in that awful state? So awful that she took her own life. What have we been sleepwalking into?’

Julie’s eyes welled up. ‘What are you accusing me of?’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m asking why we’ve been in denial all these years. Losing Mads was terrible for Mum and Dad, and for you, of course. I look at Anton and try to imagine how you can ever get over the loss of a child. But it’s twenty-four years ago, and I have the impression that Mum never got back on her feet. And now she’s dead. There’s nothing more we can do. It’s over.’

Julie burst into tears. ‘We all knew that Mum had been in a bad way for a long time,’ she sobbed. ‘She had a delicate mind, just like her own mother. And we all fitted around it. But no one could possibly have foreseen that your illness would hit her quite so hard. That it would reopen so many old wounds. I tried to help as much as I could . . . but I have a family of my own, Marie, and . . . Camilla has just started her periods. She’s only twelve! I couldn’t possibly look after Mum all the time. I had to look after you as well.’

Marie pressed the palms of her hands into her eye sockets. She would never understand Julie. Their mother had overdosed on her medication, accidentally or on purpose, the result was the same, and their father would appear to have a serious alcohol problem and was now facing a possible prison sentence for drink-driving. Jesper was definitely having an affair and she herself had only one breast. And what did Julie do? She gritted her teeth, made packed lunches for everyone and labelled them with the days of the week.

‘I wish we’d talked about it sooner,’ Marie said. ‘Perhaps I could have done something for Mum. Or Lea. Perhaps we could have done something together. I’m aware that Mum was feeling rotten, but she did have her good days, and she enjoyed her grandchildren and her art books, old Danish movies . . . and she had Dad. They were going to get a new dog! I don’t understand how it could have got so far.’ Now Marie’s eyes welled up as well.

‘It’s my fault.’ Julie continued to weep. ‘I shouldn’t have gone to that thing at Camilla’s school. I should have counted out Mum’s pills as I always do every Monday.’

‘Stop it, Julie!’ Marie hadn’t intended to shout.

Julie stared at her, horrified. Then her face froze and she retreated into herself. Marie had seen that expression plenty of times when Frank criticised her or Michael bossed her about, but Marie had never triggered it. She sat down next to Julie and put an arm around her.

‘I know you’ve put yourself out to support us all,’ she said, to appease her. ‘I’m all over the place. I have cancer. Mum is dead. Storm is dead and my career is in ruins.’ And I’m also getting a divorce, she thought, and continued aloud, ‘I knew that Mum wasn’t always feeling too good, I just didn’t know she’d deteriorated so rapidly since I fell ill. And as for Dad . . . He’s always so quick to judge others. Keep your nose clean and work hard. And then he goes out and pulls a stunt like that—’

‘Marie, why don’t we visit Dad this Sunday?’ Julie interrupted her. ‘I’ve already spoken to Jesper about it. Cook lunch and perhaps play a game of Bezzerwizzer with the children, like we used to. Show them that life goes on. Show Dad that we’re there for him, even though he’s done something stupid. Besides, Dad would like us to go through Mum’s clothing and things. I think he’d like us to clear it out as quickly as we can. I don’t think he can bear to look at it. All those years in that house. Perhaps he should sell it.’

‘I’ve been trying to get them to sell that house for years,’ Marie said wearily.

‘You have?’ Julie sounded surprised.

‘But Sunday’s fine. Let’s get it over and done with.’

‘I don’t want Lea there,’ Julie added firmly. ‘I can’t cope with any more problems right now.’

‘OK,’ Marie said, and gave her sister a hug.

*

When Marie, Anton and Jesper arrived at Snerlevej 19 that Sunday evening, Julie, wearing an apron and followed by the scent of meat browning in butter, opened the door to them.

‘I’ve been here since two o’clock,’ she said, and blew up into her damp fringe. Michael and Frank were in the living room, and Marie could hear Emma and Camilla in the garden. The house had been vacuumed, the furniture rearranged, candles lit, and Joan’s armchair was gone. Frank was wearing a clean shirt and was freshly shaven. He had a strong beer in his hand. The other adults also had beer. Marie asked him how he was and he shrugged.

Then Julie brought in some snacks. ‘Dad’s lawyer says he’ll try for a suspended sentence and that, no matter what happens, Dad will get no more than three months,’ she said, as she circulated the plate. ‘He’ll argue that Dad was mentally unbalanced at the time and that our family is going through a tough time because you’re terminally ill with cancer – that’s just something we’re saying, obviously,’ she added.

Jesper asked Frank about some legal details and was of the opinion that it would work out. ‘Do you think so?’ Frank said, sounding relieved. He intended to put the house on the market, he said, and make a fresh start.

‘Dad, how long did you know that Mum was feeling so low she might take her own life?’ Marie asked. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say something to me or Jesper? We might have been able to help.’

Frank slumped on the sofa. ‘Marie, you know she’s been in a bad way for years,’ he said. ‘I’ve just learned to live with it.’ He looked tentatively at Jesper. ‘And Jesper has helped. With pills and everything.’

‘I thought Julie was in charge of Mum’s pills.’

‘I was,’ Julie said. ‘Every Monday. We put the pills in her pill organiser so all she had to do was empty one compartment every day. What Dad meant was that Jesper has helped with her prescriptions a couple of times.’

‘How was I to know,’ Frank said quietly, ‘that she would even think of . . .? We had gone out to choose a new dog. A Jack Russell puppy. I’d even paid for it!’ He buried his face in his hands.

‘It’s not your fault, Dad,’ Marie said.

‘Yes, it is,’ Frank mumbled.

Julie disappeared into the kitchen and Marie got up and followed her.

Her sister was standing by the kitchen window. A wonderful aroma was coming from the oven, of roast meat and sweet potatoes, thyme and love.

‘Julie, sweetheart,’ Marie said, and hugged her sister from behind.

‘You don’t have to comfort me . . .’ she began, but then she burst into tears and leaned miserably against Marie.

‘I can help out even though I’m ill,’ Marie said, rocking her gently. ‘Julie, I’ve been thinking about something recently. We never speak of it, but it must have been very hard for you when Mads died.’

‘Yes, but it was also hard for . . .’ Julie sobbed violently. ‘I was only ten.’

‘Weren’t you offered any help?’

Julie shook her head. ‘Not really. Tove, the woman who looked after you until you started school, she was nice. When I came to pick you up, she would sit me down on a chair in her kitchen and give me milk and biscuits, and when you wanted to have some, she would say, “Hands off! They’re for Julie, they’re just for Julie!”’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Though I really wanted to share them. I wanted to do everything for my family, especially you, Marie. You kept asking me where Mads was. You looked for him for months and pretended to play with him every day. While I ate Tove’s biscuits, she would chat to me about all sorts of things. Who was my Eurovision Song Contest favourite? Could I solve a Rubik’s Cube without cheating? She treated me as the child I still was.’

‘But what about here at home?’

‘Oh, you couldn’t rely on Mum. One minute she was fine, the next she couldn’t stand up. She was also terrified that something would happen to you or Lea or Dad, so at first she wouldn’t allow anyone to look after you. What if a saucepan fell on top of you? What if you ran out into the road and got hit by a car? But eventually she agreed that Tove could be your childminder and that really helped.’

‘But what about you?’

‘I did the shopping, the cooking, made the packed lunches. Organised PE kits, did the laundry and so on. Somebody had to do it. Dad often came home late. Mum was always in the house, but you never knew what state she’d be in. Was she having a good day or a bad one?’ Julie blew her nose.

‘Julie, I don’t know what I would have done without you. I only know that everything would have been much worse if Lea and I hadn’t had you. But you also have to take care of yourself. Michael—’

‘You’ve always needed me,’ Julie said. ‘You would jump for joy when I let you sleep in my bed, but Lea was completely different. Marie, I did a terrible thing.’ Julie started to cry again. ‘Lea grew much too fond of Tove. She used to cling to Tove and refuse to come home with me. And when we did get home, she wouldn’t say hi to Mum. She started calling Mum and Dad, Joan and Frank, even though she was only three. Mum would cry and say that she had lost Lea too. So even though I really liked Tove, I told Dad I thought she had hit Lea and that she shouldn’t look after her any more. I had shaken Lea the day before because she had knocked over a bowl of fruit compôte I’d just made. I showed Dad the bruises. Dad freaked out. He marched straight to Tove’s house, screaming and shouting. So Lea started going to nursery instead and Dad told Lea not to visit Tove any more. Lea used to make a huge scene every time we passed Tove’s house. That’s why Lea hates me. I’m sure of it. She can’t remember, but deep down she knows that I took Tove from her. You were always easier.’

‘Julie, Lea doesn’t hate you. Besides, you were just a child!’

Julie stared at her with wide eyes. ‘Yes, but I did it on purpose. I wanted us to be normal, like we used to be. With a mum and a dad. Two lovely twins, a cute baby and their big girl of whom they were so proud. But then it all fell apart. And now everything is in pieces again. You only have one breast, Mum is dead, Dad is a criminal and I’ve grown so fat that people stare at me. I’ve become someone other people stare at! Can’t you see it? I just want us to be a normal family.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t have married Michael,’ Marie said drily. Julie looked startled. Then they both burst out laughing.

‘How could you even think of sending Michael to Lea’s?’ Marie grinned.

‘God knows! Perhaps I was scared that Lea would freak out and that I wouldn’t be able to console her. Lea didn’t want Mum when she was little, but in recent years she and Mum were close . . . But you already know that. Or maybe not close, only as close as it was possible to get to Mum. Still they shared . . . something. I do realise sending Michael was a mistake. I must apologise to Lea. Michael isn’t very tactful. But he is my husband . . . And I love him.’

‘Why?’ Marie asked.

‘Oh, Marie. It is what it is. I’m fat. I should be grateful that anyone wants me.’

‘Number one, you’re not fat – besides, you could do something about that. Number two, Michael isn’t exactly skinny.’

‘He’s the children’s father, Marie,’ Julie said. ‘And not all women are as lucky as you when it comes to men.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ Marie burst out.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Marie was about to tell Julie that Jesper wanted a divorce when the children came running in from the garden. Anton’s cheeks were fiery red as he asked for a glass of water. Then the timer pinged and the roast was ready.

*

There was a strange atmosphere while they ate. Joan had never said very much, yet her absence was remarkably noisy. After dinner Emma asked if they could play Bezzerwizzer and a sigh of relief rippled through the room. Joan had never joined in their games: she had preferred to lie on the sofa. Frank had drunk most of a bottle of red wine over dinner and warned the children, ‘I’m going to thrash you lot, I am!’

While Marie and Julie cleared the table, Marie remembered the wall-hanging she had found upstairs. ‘By the way,’ she said to Julie, while they were loading the dishwasher, ‘a few weeks ago I found one of Mum’s wall-hangings in the loft. It’s gloomy, but I like it. I want to take it home, if that’s OK with you and Lea, and Dad, of course. I don’t want any of Mum’s things, just that wall-hanging.’

Julie looked quizzically at her sister. ‘A wall-hanging? I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m fairly sure that the few major works Mum did manage to make were sold years ago. After that she only wove those pieces for the children. Do you still have Anton’s?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Marie said. ‘Don’t you have Camilla’s and Emma’s?’

Julie shook her head. ‘They didn’t really match our style. It was nice of Mum to make them, but it’s not our thing at all.’

‘The wall-hanging I found was incredible. It’s huge: two metres square and a really impressive piece of craftsmanship. It depicts a screaming woman. She has snakes in her hair.’

‘That doesn’t sound very attractive.’

‘No, it isn’t, but it is fascinating. Mostly because it says something about Mum that I . . . didn’t know. That she was once a real artist.’

‘What were you even doing in the loft?’ Julie wanted to know. ‘You know very well we’re not allowed up there.’

Marie had to laugh. ‘Julie, we’re adults now. You don’t think that Dad’s rules apply after all these years, do you? Besides, there’s some seriously cool stuff up there. Furniture and lamps. I was going to ask Dad if I can have some of it now that I’m going to be living on my own.’

‘Live on your own? What are you talking about?’ Julie sounded horrified.

‘Jesper wants a divorce,’ Marie said. ‘He thinks my illness has wrecked our relationship.’

Julie dropped a serving dish on top of the plates she had already stacked in the dishwasher.

‘The strange thing is that I’m not even particularly upset. Do you think I’m in shock?’

‘But you can’t live on your own,’ Julie whispered.

‘It looks like I might have to, Julie.’

Julie leaned over the kitchen table. ‘Everything is falling apart,’ was all she said.

*

When Marie had finished in the kitchen, she went into the living room where Frank and the children had laid out the board game. A big bowl of colourful sweets stood on the table.

‘Ten pieces only, Anton,’ Marie said, and fetched a small plate from the sideboard on which Anton carefully placed ten sweets.

‘I want to be on Dad’s team,’ Camilla called.

‘Good, then you’re with your mum, Emma, and Marie and Anton can be together, and then . . . Where did Julie and Jesper go?’ Frank looked at Marie.

‘I think Julie popped to the loo and I don’t know where Jesper is. But I guess they’ll be back soon,’ she said. ‘Hey, Dad. Did you notice that I left one of Mum’s old wall-hangings on the floor in your office? I found it in the loft a few weeks ago and I think it had been there for years. Would you mind if I take it home with me today, seeing as we’ve got the car?’

Frank looked blankly at her. ‘A wall-hanging? No, I didn’t see it. But take whatever you like. There’s nothing but junk in the loft.’ Frank refilled his glass to the brim. ‘Right, kids, how about a trial game?’ he said to the children. ‘While we wait for those slowcoaches, also known as your parents.’

The children would like that.

*

Marie went up to the first floor and into Frank’s office. The box with the wall-hanging was nowhere to be seen and the loft ladder was also missing. When Marie stood underneath the hatch, she could see that the padlock was back in place. She wondered if Frank’s memory was going. Who else could have moved that wall-hanging? Suddenly she spotted Jesper and Julie through the window overlooking the street and quickly she retreated to the side. They were some distance down the road, outside the carport, and Marie could see that Julie was both upset and freezing cold. Marie carefully opened the window so that she could hear what they were saying.

‘Yes, but you promised to wait, Jesper,’ Julie said in a thick voice. ‘You promised. For Anton’s sake.’

‘So you keep reminding me.’ Jesper sounded irritated.

‘And that was before this business with Mum and Dad! How could you even think of telling her now?’

‘How many times do I have to say that waiting doesn’t make it any easier, Julie? And has it crossed your mind that Marie might not die?’ she heard Jesper reply. ‘Have you thought about that? This has been going on since last autumn. I can’t wait for ever. I need to think about Emily as well.’

‘Do you know something?’ Julie hissed. ‘If there’s one thing you can’t expect me to do, it’s worry about how your mistress is feeling. I couldn’t give a damn if that bitch falls under a bus. This is about protecting Marie and Anton. And that was part of our deal. I keep my mouth shut and let Dad think you’re the perfect son-in-law, and you don’t move in with your whore until Marie is dead.’

Marie was in shock. She had never heard her sister use language like that before.

Jesper said something Marie couldn’t hear and Julie blew her nose.

‘Let’s go back inside,’ Julie said. ‘We promised the children we’d play a board game with them.’ Marie heard their footsteps come closer and then the front door was opened. Her heart was pounding.

*

When Marie came down to the living room, Jesper was already sitting at the table and flashed her a smile. Shortly afterwards, Julie emerged from the bathroom and Marie could see that she had tidied herself up.

‘Can I start, Grandad?’ Camilla asked.

‘Anton starts. He’s the youngest.’

Anton picked up the dice.

Jesper had another woman and Julie had known for a long time. And yet she had chided Marie for even thinking such a thing.

Julie had also known that they were getting a divorce.

For how long?

And why had she kept quiet?

Did she think she was protecting Anton? Julie could not be serious. Marie had sought advice from cancer charities and they recommended openness and honesty. Of course Anton was affected by his mother’s illness. But, all things considered, he was doing fine.

Then the penny dropped: neither Julie nor Jesper had expected Marie to survive. Jesper might be telling himself that Marie was getting better so that he could justify his divorce rather than wait until she kicked the bucket. But Julie clearly believed that Marie was going to die. Marie felt like she had been punched in the stomach. Julie had always been her loyal helper: she had picked her up and carried her across burning hot sand when they were children and Marie was trapped on her beach towel wanting to go into the water; she had covered for her when Marie had overslept on the first day of a paper round, which Frank had told her she was too young to take on – she had only pulled it off because Julie had done half her deliveries. Julie had always believed in Marie. Until now. Marie could barely breathe, and when it was her turn to throw the dice, one fell on the carpet.

‘Did you find that wall-hanging?’ Frank asked and, for a moment, everyone’s eyes were on Marie.

‘No,’ she said, and tightened her headscarf. ‘It wasn’t there.’

*

When they got home later that night, Jesper sought out Marie in the kitchen after he had carried Anton up to bed. He asked her if she would like a bottle of elderflower cordial and took one for himself from the fridge when she declined.

‘Thank you for not saying anything today, Marie. I know it might sound feeble, but your family are important to me and I think it’s better this way. Also for Anton’s sake. Waiting, I mean.’ Marie turned her back on him and replied through gritted teeth.

‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ Jesper asked.

‘I said I wish you wouldn’t use Anton as an excuse to promote your own agenda. You’re a grown man. Make your choices and stand by them. I heard you and Julie talking in the street earlier tonight. Several weeks ago, I told her that I thought you’d met someone. Your late-night phone calls, your sudden brotherly understanding for why we don’t have sex. And do you know something? Julie managed to convince me that I must be mistaken. Imagine how guilty I felt for even suspecting you, the best husband and father in the world, of cheating on me. Who is she?’ Marie turned to face him.

‘Someone from work,’ he said, flustered. ‘Her name is Emily.’

‘A nurse? Oh, no, I forgot – you prefer well-educated women. Women without breast cancer so they’re not too weak and feeble to wash your socks.’

Jesper flinched. ‘Emily is an anaesthetist, and I don’t think you’re being fair,’ he said. ‘You have to admit that you’ve changed a lot recently. This past year. Since you started your master’s. Believe me, I have tried. Only it didn’t make any difference. And then I met Emily, and you can’t control feelings like that and—’

‘And then you tell Julie that you have met someone, but you give me some cock-and-bull story about how my cancer’s worn us both down and blah blah blah.’

‘Julie came to speak to me some time ago. She pretended she’d seen me with another woman. So I admitted everything. That Emily and I are in love and want a life together.’ Marie looked blankly at him. ‘And Julie made me promise I wouldn’t say anything until you—’

‘Until I was dead? You agreed not to say anything until I was dead. To protect Anton? To protect me?’

‘Yes,’ Jesper said.

‘Are you both out of your minds?’ she said.

‘Marie, we all thought you were going to die.’ Jesper was suddenly gazing tenderly at her. ‘Frank, your mother, Julie, all of us. We prepared for it. We thought about what would be best for Anton.’

‘You all thought about what was best for you,’ Marie said in a deadpan voice.

‘That’s not true,’ Jesper said angrily.

‘Did you also consider what was best for Anton the first time you went to bed with Emily?’

‘We fell in love, Marie. We didn’t mean to – it just happened.’

Marie nodded. ‘I’m starting to understand why Anton has nightmares,’ she said, mostly to herself.

‘And why is that?’ Jesper said.

‘Because it’s more than enough for a six-year-old to deal with his mother being seriously ill. Your hypocrisy turned out to be the final straw.’

‘I don’t think you’re being fair,’ Jesper said.

‘I no longer care what you think,’ Marie said in a low voice.

*

The next morning Jesper and Anton were already at the kitchen table when Marie got up.

‘Good morning,’ she said, in a loud, clear voice, as she moved the sugar bowl out of Anton’s reach.

‘Will Granny get sad if people are happy, even though she’s dead?’ Anton wanted to know.

‘No,’ Marie said firmly. ‘Granny will be happy if we’re happy. I’m sure of it. Besides, you can be happy and sad at the same time. I’m sad because Granny has died and I might be a bit sad about it for the rest of my life. But I’m also happy to be here because I’m not dead at all,’ she threw a glance at Jesper, ‘and here’s my beautiful son eating sugar with cornflakes on top.’ Marie kissed Anton’s hair and started making a pot of tea.

Jesper glanced furtively at her and flicked through yesterday’s paper.

‘Have you made your packed lunches?’ Marie asked, and when Jesper said no, she started looking for rye bread and cold cuts. Suddenly she became aware that Jesper was watching her and she turned to look at him. The newspaper was open on the table, but he wasn’t reading it. Marie smiled briefly at him. Then he turned the page and Marie buttered some bread, but when she turned again to ask Anton where his lunchbox was, Jesper was still watching her.

‘What?’

‘You’ve put on weight,’ Jesper said.

‘Since yesterday?’ Marie asked.

‘No, Mum, that’s not possible.’ Anton grinned.

‘I think it depends on how many sweets you eat when you visit Granny and Grandad’s,’ Marie said, and winked at him.

‘I miss Granny,’ Anton said, and started crying.

‘So do I,’ Marie said.

‘Are they not going to get a new dog now?’ Anton asked.

‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’

Jesper didn’t say anything. Marie grabbed the property section and settled down at the table with her tea. Twenty minutes later, when Anton and Jesper were ready to go, Marie had circled several rental flats in red. Jesper looked at the paper and then at Marie, but she ignored him.

*

Three days later, Marie and Anton moved into a flat at Randersgade 76 in Østerbro. The owner had got a job in Greenland and was thrilled when Marie rang to say she would like to rent the flat immediately. There was only one bedroom: for Anton to have a room of his own, Marie would have to sleep in the living room, and they had to remember to rescue the lavatory paper before they took a shower because the bathroom was the size of a broom cupboard. Anton chose lime-coloured wallpaper with a car pattern for his room and Marie bought a new bed, but apart from that . . . ‘We have to get really good at saving money,’ she explained to Anton.

‘Won’t I be living with Dad any more?’ Anton asked, and Marie reassured him that of course he would. Sometimes.

‘But Dad is no longer my boyfriend,’ she added. ‘Dad has a new girlfriend called Emily. Grown-ups can stop being boyfriend and girlfriend or get new girlfriends, but you can never stop being someone’s mum or dad, so Dad and I will continue to be your parents.’

Anton mulled it over for a little while. ‘Aren’t you angry that Dad has another girlfriend?’

‘Yes,’ Marie said. ‘But I don’t want to be his girlfriend if he doesn’t like me best of all.’

‘But he has to like you best of all!’ Anton said anxiously.

Marie thought about it for a moment and then she lifted Anton onto her lap. ‘Dad says that I’ve changed because I’ve been ill. He liked the old me better. But do you know something?’ Anton shook his head. ‘I like the new me much better.’

‘I like you better always,’ Anton said, and gave his mother a hug.

*

Jesper had protested when Marie announced that she and Anton were moving out, but Marie could tell from his face that he was also relieved. Now he was a free man. Free to work, to explore his relationship with Emily and to see Anton whenever he could fit him in. He could even use Marie’s illness as a valid reason as to why a marriage that everyone had thought was perfect had foundered after all.

‘Voilà,’ Marie said drily.

‘I’m sorry, what?’ Jesper said.

‘Nothing,’ Marie replied.

In addition to Anton’s things, she took a bookcase, her desk, her books and her clothes, then called Frank and asked him to move their stuff to Østerbro.

‘To Østerbro?’ he said.

‘Jesper has met someone,’ Marie said, ‘and Anton and I have rented a flat in Randersgade.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything last Sunday?’ Frank asked.

‘Because I didn’t know at the time,’ Marie said.

When Frank arrived in his van, he stormed inside the house looking for Jesper. ‘Where is he? I’m going to bloody kill him.’

Marie set about making coffee while Frank searched every room in the big house. ‘He’s at work. Anton is at nursery. And there’s no need for you to kill him, Dad. It’s all right. He’s the very least of our problems right now.’

Frank flopped into an armchair. ‘Got any beer?’ he asked.

*

The funerals of Joan and Storm were each the culmination of a very different life. Joan’s service was held in Vangede Church, exactly one week after her death, and only close family attended. The vicar spoke about Joan, her love of dogs, her creativity and the trials God sent to test us. Mads was mentioned, and Marie thought the vicar was referring to her when he said that God’s trials took many shapes. All Marie could think about while he spoke was that Joan was almost as invisible in death as she had been in life. Marie mourned that. When the service had ended and the hearse had left, Marie squeezed Anton’s hand. When it was her time to die, she thought, be it in four months or fifty-four years, she hoped that Anton would feel, just for a brief moment, that something huge had been taken from him.

Frank stood with his hands stuffed into his pockets and Marie saw Lea put her arm around his shoulders. Julie clung to Michael’s arm and cried her heart out. They ate sandwiches at Snerlevej 19. Frank drank heavily and refused to speak to Jesper, who looked relieved when he got a call at just after three o’clock and announced that he had to go to the hospital as he was on duty. When Jesper had left, Michael and Frank retreated to the garden shed with a couple of beers. Once Lea had gone, Marie and Julie stayed in the living room to talk. Julie had had a few glasses of wine and was becoming maudlin.

‘Have you really forgiven me for not telling you about Jesper?’ she asked, and hugged Marie tightly.

‘Of course,’ Marie said, and meant it, but pulled back a little because Julie’s breath smelt strongly of alcohol.

Marie had rung her sister to confront her the day after she had overheard Jesper and Julie talk outside the house on Snerlevej. Julie had broken down completely and claimed that she was just looking after Marie. Trying to make it a bit easier for everyone and protect Anton. Not exposing Marie to stress, if she was going to . . . pass on soon. Marie had said that Julie should start taking care of herself instead. That she would manage and might not be dying in the immediate future anyway.

It had only made Julie sob even louder.

‘But how will you manage for money?’ Julie wanted to know. ‘How will you survive? In a one-bedroom flat?’

‘When my post-chemo treatment is finished, I’ll return to the university, Julie. I have a PhD grant waiting for me at the Department of Immunology and it pays me an excellent salary. Enough for Anton and me to manage. Jesper will also help me financially. He promised me that when I threatened to write a letter to every single one of his colleagues at Rigshospitalet and tell them he had been unfaithful to his cancer-stricken wife and had now abandoned her in favour of a woman with two breasts.’

Julie stared at Marie in disbelief. ‘Did you actually say that to him?’

‘No, of course not!’

‘Oh, I thought you might have,’ Julie mumbled. ‘It’s like you’ve become . . . I don’t know. I miss the old Marie . . . I miss Mum. I miss the days when everything was . . . normal.’

Yeah, right, Marie thought.

*

Storm was cremated on Friday, 26 March, the day after Joan’s funeral, with a service at St Stefan’s Church on Nørrebro, and more than a hundred mourners attended. Marie recognised the pano in earth colours that covered the coffin. Storm had had two panos on his office wall and Marie knew that the finely woven rugs were a part of birth, wedding and funeral ceremonies in most of West Africa. She looked for the second pano, a scarlet one she had often admired in his office, but it was not there. Seven people spoke, one played the saxophone and suddenly the church doors were opened and a group of West African men came dancing all the way up to Storm’s coffin while they played their mbiras.

When Thor Albert Larsen announced that there was a reception in Lecture Hall A at the Department of Immunology, Marie wondered whether she should go. She had a feeling that people were staring at her. She had considered wearing her wig, but feared that people who knew her might not recognise her if she did. She decided she would rather look ill; it wasn’t as if people didn’t already know. In the end she had tied the yellow scarf around her head.

*

Marie had a lump in her throat when she entered Lecture Hall A. It had been Storm’s favourite auditorium and candles had been lit on every desk. People had been asked to send in their favourite photographs of Storm, and while the mourners chatted, grinned and shared anecdotes, photographs from Storm’s life were projected on the wall behind the lectern. Thor tapped his glass and gave a brilliant eulogy about the proud, indefatigable scientist. At no point did he bring up the allegation of scientific dishonesty. Marie appreciated that and afterwards she complimented him on his speech, then congratulated him: she had heard that he had been made acting head of the department and she was convinced it was only a formality before the appointment became permanent. Halfway through their small talk, Thor suddenly said, ‘Marie, I’m aware you still find it hard to accept Storm’s exit, but don’t you think that somehow we owe it to the old chap to respect his choice?’

‘Yes, but . . .’ Marie said.

‘I honestly believe that he was totally ground down, Marie,’ Thor ploughed on. ‘He couldn’t cope with any more challenges to his integrity. He wanted peace at last.’

‘Peace?’ Marie looked sceptically at Thor.

Thor nodded.

During Thor’s speech about the proud scientist who had dedicated his life to his subject and never given up, Marie had started to have doubts. Perhaps she hadn’t known Storm as well as she’d thought. Perhaps he had succumbed to the temptation to extrapolate his empirical data to fit his theory. Perhaps he had ultimately ended up carrying out strategic – far too strategic – research, despite his stated contempt for it. When she heard Thor’s words, she regretted her doubts.

‘But Storm loved challenges,’ she said. ‘The greater the scientific controversy, the happier he was. Had you forgotten?’

‘Sometimes it’s hard to believe that you’re real scientists,’ Thor snapped back.

‘You?’

‘You and Tim. I know that you both cared about Storm and that’s all well and good. I was incredibly fond of him myself. But I’m starting to lose patience. You have a master’s and a PhD respectively, and you ought to back the conclusion that is best supported by the evidence.’

‘Tim who? Tim Salomon?’

‘Yes. He came to Denmark last Thursday. He keeps pestering me because he thinks Storm’s suicide makes no sense. And, as far as I could gather from the police, he also visited Bellahøj to express his doubts. I understand that you’re upset, Marie; we all are. But stop being so naïve. It doesn’t suit either of you. Tim, by the way, is sitting just over there.’

Thor pointed to the far end of the bottom row of the raked seating and Marie spotted a hunched figure in a suit, with a head of short, curly hair. Tim Salomon was sitting alone and staring at the pictures that continued to flash up on the wall above the lectern.

Marie went to join him, but it was some time before he turned to her, as if he had been completely lost in his own thoughts. He was tall, Marie could see, although he was sitting down, and his upper lip had a sharp edge that was also fragile. It culminated in an easy smile at the corners of his mouth. Only his eyes were black.

‘Hello,’ Marie said in English. ‘My name is Marie. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Tim looked at her with delight and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Tudo bém, Marie! I have heard a lot about you too. How are you?’ Tim looked at her closely, first at her face, then at her scarf. ‘Storm said that you were seriously ill. He was very sad about it.’ Tears started trickling down Tim’s cheeks and he made no attempt to hide them.

They talked for a long time. Anton was with Jesper and Marie had no plans so they ended up having dinner together. They walked the short distance to a Thai restaurant on Tagensvej that Marie knew. They were silent, but it wasn’t an awkward silence. Tim was emotional all through dinner and Marie was fascinated by and in awe of his openness. He asked if she would like a glass of wine, but she declined and added that he was welcome to have one himself, of course.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t drink alcohol.’

So they drank sparkling mineral water with lemon and continued to talk.

*

Tim had grown up in the capital, Bissau, the third of four children. Their father was a Kenyan missionary who had come to Bissau to convert the Guineans. A strict man who beat his eldest son, he would undoubtedly have gone on to beat Tim, had he not died unexpectedly. It was hard for Tim’s mother to make ends meet after the death of her husband and one by one the children had to leave school to work in the cashew plantations. When it was Tim’s turn, his teacher came to their house. ‘Tim is too clever for the cashew plantations,’ the teacher said to his mother.

‘All my children are clever,’ she replied, ‘but we still have to eat.’

Shortly afterwards, Tim was awarded a full scholarship to Kingston University in London. The scholarship had been set up several years before and the teacher had recommended Tim, who was the first Guinean ever to receive it.

‘Ébano, my big brother, was angry that our teacher had submitted my school papers rather than his,’ Tim said, with a wry smile. ‘Normally, you know, it’s the duty of the eldest son to provide for the family and there’s certainly nothing wrong with Ébano’s head. Only he was never academically gifted. When we went to school, Ébano couldn’t sit still for two minutes before he had to go out and chase the chickens.’

Five years later Tim returned to Guinea-Bissau with a master’s in biology and fell into a void. ‘An education is like a sack of grain that never runs out,’ his teacher had said, but now his teacher was dead and Tim could not find a job.

Ébano, however, had taken it all in his stride. ‘“Ka bali mom di branco. Useless white hands. You’re home! That’s what matters. Now you’re nothing but a proud black man in Bissau who has to work in the cashew plantations alongside his brothers,” he said. But I couldn’t share Ébano’s joy. Of course I was glad to see my family again, but the thought of a life in the cashew plantations sent me into a deep depression.’

When Tim had hit rock bottom, he had met Storm. He was on his way to the plantation one morning when a girl he barely knew came running to him: she needed help with a royal python. It had moved into the wall in a house she was cleaning and she had been told that the house must be ready today because a Danish scientist was arriving. Tim agreed to help her and that afternoon he had just cemented up the hole in the wall when Storm dumped his suitcase on the floor behind him and said hello. Storm asked if Tim wanted a bottle of Maaza juice because Storm fancied one himself and wasn’t it hot today? Tim and Storm started talking and Storm noticed his impeccable English.

‘What a stroke of luck,’ Storm had exclaimed joyfully, when Tim told him about his degree. ‘I need an interpreter for the next eight weeks and it’s a bonus that you also know scientific terminology. I will pay you twenty thousand CFA francs per week because you’re an educated man. What do you say?’

‘I said yes, of course,’ Tim said, and his eyes welled again. ‘When the eight weeks were up, Storm asked me if I would consider writing a PhD thesis. He was setting up the Belem Health Project and he needed local people. He helped me with my grant application and the day the funding came through was the most important of my life. At that point, Silas had come to Bissau to assist Storm, who wanted the rural areas between the Dulombi-Boe parks surveyed again, and Silas, Storm and I celebrated my grant in a restaurant by the seafront.’ The tears rolled down Tim’s cheeks and Marie put her hand on top of his. She jumped when he immediately grabbed her wrist and held it tight.

‘My brain still refuses to accept that he took his own life,’ he said quietly. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘No, it makes no sense,’ Marie echoed.

‘I came to Copenhagen last Thursday,’ Tim continued, ‘and I went straight to the police. They were courteous and professional, but they insisted it was suicide. Afterwards, I visited Thor Albert Larsen at the Department of Immunology. I have met him before and I usually like him, but not that day. He kept saying that Storm’s behaviour in the days leading up to his death was unstable and paranoid. I asked him what else he had expected. Storm had just discovered an error in his dataset, which had prevented him saving thousands of children’s lives in Guinea-Bissau for two years. Storm was also trying to figure out who could be so callous as to put a spanner in the works by sabotaging his data. Of course he was unstable! He was standing before a major scientific breakthrough and he was all nerves. I’d never seen him in such a state. One moment he was overcome by grief at Silas’s death and was raging at the mangrove and the useless fisherman who had sailed the boat, and the next he was going out of his mind with fresh worry about you. He read the email where you told him about your illness fifteen times, turning over every word and wanting my opinion. Were you really OK or were you just pretending? The day he learned of the allegation of scientific dishonesty made against your master’s was the final straw. I had been out on an errand and when I returned to the research station Inés, who helps out, was cowering in a corner while Storm paced up and down his office without realising he was stomping on books and papers that he, according to Inés, had knocked off the shelves in his rage. He didn’t give a damn about the flimsy, trumped-up accusations the DCSD was prepared to waste its time on, he thundered, as he marched up and down, but he was outraged at how easy it was to cast aspersions on a promising young scientist. Didn’t they know the harm it did? I helped him tidy up the books and he began to calm down. But from what I heard it only got worse when I went to America in January. According to Nuno, one of our regular drivers, Storm was bordering on paranoia when he drove him to the airport to fly to Denmark after the last survey. Storm refused to let go of the box with the medical records and had a heated argument with the cabin crew before he was finally allowed to take it with him inside the plane. Storm, who is usually so calm. There’s no doubt that he wasn’t himself. But from there to suicide? He was so full of . . . life. I told all of this to Thor, but he refused to budge. The next day Thor called me at my hotel. I apologised for getting angry and explained that I was distraught at Storm’s death. He told me that the police had found Storm’s medical records from Guinea-Bissau. At first I didn’t believe him, but he told me to phone—’

‘They have?’ Marie was perplexed. ‘So where were they?’

Tim looked nervously at her. ‘Storm shredded them, Marie. I thought you knew.’

Marie clasped her hand over her mouth. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ Tim said. ‘And he also wiped the hard disk on both his computers.’

‘No,’ Marie repeated in despair.

‘I don’t know what to believe any more. Common sense tells me that Storm must have killed himself. But my heart tells me that something is wrong.’

‘And a hunch is enough,’ Marie whispered.

Tim nodded. As if to put the matter out of his mind for a while, Tim ordered Thai coconut pancakes with lime and honey, and Marie watched him eat. ‘So now what?’ she asked.

‘Yes, now what?’ Tim pushed his plate aside.

‘You have honey on your lip,’ Marie said, and he licked it without success.

‘I’m going to Bissau tomorrow. I need to sort out the Belem Health Project. Storm put so much work into it, and whether or not his criticism of the DTP vaccine was an aberration, he created the foundation for a fantastic demographic monitoring system. It’s a unique structure for the country and, besides, it provides jobs for a hundred and fifty local people. I’ll do whatever it takes to continue the project. I need to gain an overview of our finances, of any articles we need to finish writing, and decide who will take charge after Storm. It was Storm’s ambition to train locals and strengthen Guinea-Bissau from the inside. If I can help realise that dream in any way, I will.’

‘What about the figures from Dulombi-Boe?’

Tim suddenly looked desperate. ‘Why did he shred the medical records, Marie, if they were an accurate and complete set of data? Why?’

‘What if Storm didn’t shred them?’ Marie said. ‘Someone else could have done it. Someone who wanted to destroy Storm.’

‘That was my first thought too,’ Tim said, ‘and I asked Thor if the police were sure that Storm did it himself. But they have a witness who heard Storm shred a lot of material the same evening he died. One of Thor’s master’s students called Niels Sonne.’

‘Heard?’

‘Yes, the door to the printer room was closed, but Niels Sonne had just said hello to Storm and there was no one else in the department. The next morning, before Trine Rønn found Storm, the cleaners took the waste paper down to the basement under the institute. That was where the police found it. Reduced to spaghetti.’ Tim threw up his hands in despair.

‘I always knew I would end up with Thor as my supervisor.’ Marie heaved a sigh.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Tim said. ‘Thor has yet to defend his PhD and, following Storm’s untimely departure, he could easily be overtaken on the inside by stronger candidates. Stig Heller from the Karolinska Institute, for example. He has a list of publications as long as your arm and he defended his PhD last year.’

‘Stig Heller?’ Marie exclaimed. ‘When Storm called to tell me that we had been accused of dishonesty, he mentioned Stig Heller’s name. He said he wouldn’t be surprised if he had reported us to the DCSD. He called him a sourpuss.’

Tim smiled. ‘I’ve heard him refer to Heller like that. But I think he was more upset that the two of them had fallen out. He was very fond of him. And Heller is a good man. He does research into vitamins and public health, and is just as committed to helping developing countries as Storm was, but in his own, more conservative, fashion. By the way, do you know what Storm called you?’ Tim added. Marie smiled and shook her head. ‘Andurinha. It means “little swallow” in Creole.’

‘Is that true?’

‘He said you looked like a ruffled baby bird the first time you stepped inside his office. Still wet from the yolk sac, helpless and confused. But he knew that you would turn into an indefatigable swallow and one day fly very far away without a murmur, just like the swallows that migrate to Africa.’

Marie wanted to cry. ‘Did he really say that?’ she whispered. Tim nodded. ‘That reminds me, I have something for you,’ Tim said, and rummaged in his pockets. ‘Here.’

Tim placed a small, flat package on the table in front of her.

Marie unwrapped it. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful.’

It was a swallow, carved from ebony. The bird had spread its wings and held its head proudly.

‘Storm bought it in a market last autumn when you wrote to him that you were ill. But he forgot it on his desk in Bissau and emailed to ask if I could look after it until he came back. So that’s what I did.’

Marie’s eyes welled up and she closed her hands around the swallow.

Tim smiled. ‘Incidentally, he called me Kinder Egg,’ Tim continued. ‘Brown, white, sweet and full of surprises.’ They burst out laughing.

‘What a flattering nickname.’ Marie grinned.

‘At first I didn’t have a clue what he meant. You see, we don’t have Kinder Eggs in Guinea-Bissau. But now I can see that it’s vaguely amusing. But only vaguely. My brother always teases me by saying that I travelled to London as black as ink and came home as white as snow. Ébano doesn’t think that a black man can be well educated without becoming white in the process.’ He asked Marie what she was going to do now.

‘I don’t really know,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m still recovering and I start my post-chemo treatment in a couple of weeks. Perhaps I’ll die,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I won’t. I try not to think too much about it because lots of people are in the same boat as me. I’ve become so grateful for all sorts of things I never used to appreciate.’ Marie gulped. ‘My son and I have left his father. My mother died recently. So, to begin with, I guess I want to learn to stand on my own two feet. When I stop being so tired, I want to return to the university. I can’t imagine what else I would do. Research is the one thing I’m good at.’ Marie shook her head. ‘But right now I don’t even know if my master’s is valid, given that I’ve been accused of scientific dishonesty.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that your mother has died,’ Tim said. ‘You must be very upset.’

Marie took a deep breath. ‘I don’t really know what I am,’ she said softly. ‘In one way, it’s a relief that she’s dead. I’m ashamed to admit it and I haven’t been able to say it out loud until now. She had been very unhappy for many years and I think she didn’t want to go on living.’

‘My mother died recently too,’ Tim said. ‘I bought her a house in Bissau with the money I earned working for Storm and she loved it. But she was worn out.’

They sat for a while looking at each other. Suddenly Tim said, ‘We should write that article together, Marie.’

‘Storm’s article?’

‘Yes. Terrence Wilson from Science promised Storm he would print his article in the May issue, and if I go straight to Xitole and Dulombi-Boe to survey the area again and you write the introduction, describe our method and present the conclusion, based on the numbers we already have, we might just make it. I’ll come back to Denmark as soon as I have the new figures and then we’ll finish the article.’

‘But—’

‘I promise you I’ll work night and day. I’ll take my brother Ébano with me and three other assistants who know the drill. And if we really pull our socks up, then, with a favourable wind, I think we can do it in three weeks, maybe only two. I’ll come back as soon as I can. Please, Marie.’ Tim reached across the table and took her hand again.

‘OK,’ Marie said. ‘Let’s do it.’

A smile spread across Tim’s face. ‘Storm always said I could count on you,’ he said.

‘That’s funny – he said the same thing about you,’ Marie replied. ‘And . . .’ She hesitated, and Tim looked at her expectantly. ‘I have a favour to ask you,’ she said.

*

On Saturday, 27 March, Marie rose with the sun. She stood by the window and looked across Copenhagen. Tim’s room was on the top floor at First Hotel on Vesterbrogade and the rooftops glistened after the overnight rain. She was wearing only knickers and stood for a moment savouring the morning light on her smooth, warm skin. Tim was still asleep on his stomach with one arm dangling over the edge of the bed and the pillow over his head. His ticket to Bissau lay on the bedside table and his blue rucksack was on the floor. Marie tiptoed to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. At first she was afraid to look at herself in the mirror, but when she did, she was surprised. The right breast was perfectly round and the nipple stood proud. The perfect breast. But the scar on the left side suddenly looked raw, she thought. She was still horribly skinny, but at the centre of her stomach where once Anton’s bottom had stretched her skin, she spotted a tiny bulge of wonderful belly. She ran her hand across her stomach, up to her healthy breast, onwards across the scar, which Tim had kissed with his honey mouth, and to the top of her head where a dark shadow revealed that new hair was growing. She had been terrified that she might be unable to have sex with him. That she would be dry. Fearful. Shy. But it had been fine. For a moment she allowed herself to be filled by a magical feeling that she was no longer ill. Then she got dressed and carefully slipped out of the door without waking Tim.

*

On her way down in the lift, she fished out her mobile and looked at the display. Eight unanswered calls from Jesper. Shit! Her heart was pounding when she called him.

‘Marie, Goddammit, why didn’t you pick up? What’s the point of having a mobile when you never answer it? You don’t even have voicemail!’ Marie could hear from his uncensored irritation that nothing too serious had happened.

‘We had a break-in last night while Anton and I were asleep,’ Jesper continued. ‘The side windows of the Range Rover were smashed and someone tried to start a fire in the garage. It’s really most unpleasant. The police have just left. I’ve been calling you a million times because Anton is refusing to go on his playdate today and has been screaming and crying all morning, but I’m due at work at eight so you have to take him. I can drop him off on the way. Thirty minutes?’

‘No,’ Marie said, shocked. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh, we’re fine, but it’s obviously not very pleasant, is it? And the burglar appears to have made himself at home because a lot of the food in the fridge has been eaten. I’m just glad I finally managed to get hold of you. We’ll be there shortly.’

‘I have to get home first,’ Marie said. ‘I’ll catch the next bus and I don’t think there will be a problem, but— Did they take anything? What did the police say?’

‘They dusted for fingerprints and took a look around, but because nothing was stolen, they’re of the opinion that it was simple vandalism. They asked me if I had any enemies and I said, “Why don’t we all just calm down?” The only thing I don’t understand is that I didn’t hear anything, not even when the car windows were smashed in. So I’ve no idea when it happened . . . Where are you, then?’

‘On Vesterbrogade on my way to Rådhuspladsen,’ Marie said. ‘But what did the police say? Will they take any precautions? What if the vandals return?’

‘What are you doing on Rådhuspladsen?’

‘Jesper, I didn’t sleep at home last night. I’m happy to give you the details, but I think you’d prefer it if I didn’t. I asked you what the police are going to do.’

There was a deathly silence at the other end.

‘Nothing really,’ he said eventually. ‘They’ve been driving around the neighbourhood and they gave me a number . . . So who do you know on Vesterbrogade?’

‘Oh, look, there’s my bus! I’ll get on it now and I’ll be home in twenty minutes. You can drop Anton off any time after that.’ Marie hit the off button and couldn’t help smiling. Jesper was stunned, she knew.

*

They had originally agreed that Jesper would collect Anton again that evening, but he called to ask Marie if Anton could stay with her until Tuesday. Jesper wanted to tidy up the house after the break-in, and had also been given extra shifts at work.

Anton and Marie spent Saturday and Sunday chilling out.

They lazed around.

They sucked sour sweets.

Anton lost a tooth.

They put it on his bedside table.

They played Stratego.

And they cheated.

They also spent a lot of time talking about Granny. Anton asked many questions and Marie answered them to the best of her ability. He wanted to know if maybe they could take on the dog Grandad had bought for Granny. After all, Grandad had paid for it. Marie said that they couldn’t have a dog in their small flat, but perhaps they should consider getting a dragon. Anton thought that was a good idea and they discussed at length whether to buy a fire-breathing one or a more common type. Then Anton wanted to know if he could have a Nutella sandwich. No. How about liver pâté? All right, then. Are you going to die, Mum? Marie keeled over theatrically with her tongue lolling and Anton couldn’t help laughing.

‘I told you I’ll live to a hundred and four,’ she said.

‘OK,’ Anton said happily, and watched a bit of a movie, played with his Star Wars figures, drew a picture and asked when his sandwich would be ready. Marie watched him, and when he was immersed in playing or his film, she sneaked out her laptop and dealt with her mental to-do list.

She had an appointment with Mr Guldborg at Rigshospitalet on Monday morning and she had to prepare for it. Her recovery period would be over in two weeks and Mr Guldborg would then want to perform the surgery to remove her ovaries so she could start her post-chemo treatment with Aromasin.

However, Marie’s doubts about losing her ovaries were growing. She had found several articles about Aromasin on PubMed and she carefully reread the more relevant ones while her throat tightened. She had to concede that there was some medical evidence to suggest that Aromasin was more effective than other post-chemo treatments, but the difference was vanishingly small. And she thought that the loss of her ovaries was a high price to pay.

She found herself gazing at Anton. He was far away in his fictitious universe and his lips were moving. She had only to cough and he would look up and ask what was happening to his sandwich, but if Marie stayed quiet, another hour could easily pass before he remembered it. She would like to have more children.

‘We can freeze your eggs,’ Guldborg had said, when she had raised this objection. ‘And you can have hormone treatment, if the urge to have more children should occur.’ Guldborg sounded as if he was talking about a verruca rather than her ovaries. Was she ready for that? Losing her ovaries before she was even thirty?

When she had finished on PubMed, she used her access key to log on to Biosis, the scientific article database, and did a general search of articles on the non-specific effects of vaccines, only to have it confirmed that, apart from Storm’s, there was hardly any research within that field. At one point she came across a reference to the Nobel Committee and, out of sheer curiosity, she clicked on www.nobelprize.org and read a press release about Stig Heller’s recent admission to the committee. The chairman of the Nobel Committee, Göran Sandö, was quoted as saying what a joy it was to welcome such young and promising new blood to the committee. In the photograph, Heller was grinning from ear to ear and didn’t look in the least like a sourpuss.

On Sunday morning Marie and Anton made popcorn in a saucepan without a lid and played Monopoly on the floor below the bay window. Marie thought about Tim when she bought Grønningen with the last of her money. He must be back in Bissau now and might already have travelled on to Dulombi-Boe where Internet coverage was limited. Her groin tingled when she thought about him.

‘Why are you laughing, Mum?’ Anton said.

Marie placed a finger on her lips. ‘Sssh.’

Anton and Marie climbed inside the broom cupboard in the hall and closed the door, so it was completely dark. There was a smell of old coats even though the cupboard was almost empty. Marie chortled like a troll, ho-ho-ho, so deeply that her throat tickled. Anton pretended to be a small miser, hih-hih-hih. This made Marie laugh because she had no idea how Anton would know how a miser might laugh, but he said he had read it in a Donald Duck comic. And when would his sandwich be ready?

In the afternoon they caught a bus to Østerbrogade and went for a walk on Kastellet. Marie was soon out of breath so they slowed down. There was a wonderful scent in the air of the strange overlap between two seasons, the birds swooped on the tips of their wings and the city traffic sounded like grains of sand pouring into a bottle far away. Afterwards they lugged home several shopping bags filled with their favourite food. They had bought spring rolls, feta cheese, tuna, blood orange juice and a giant box of fondant chocolate turtles on special offer.

When Marie had unpacked their shopping, she checked her mobile and saw five unanswered calls from Julie. She called her sister and could hear immediately that something was wrong. Julie spoke three words and burst into tears.

Frank’s lawyer had called to let them know that the trial had been set for 2 July and added that they should prepare themselves for a custodial sentence, a fine and the loss of Frank’s licence for a minimum of three years. It turned out that he already had a suspended custodial sentence for drink-driving.

‘A suspended sentence?’ Marie said. ‘Since when?’

‘That was my reaction,’ Julie wept. ‘I called Dad afterwards and he couldn’t even be bothered to lie. It was in February, he said. He was stopped on Lyngbyvejen on his way home and his blood-alcohol level was ninety milligrams per hundred mills, so he got a suspended sentence and a fine.’ Julie was now sobbing uncontrollably and Marie struggled to understand what she was saying.

‘Everything is in ruins,’ Julie stuttered at length. ‘Everything we stood for, it’s all ruined. You can’t help it . . . And Mum couldn’t help it . . . But Dad, what was he thinking? I’m so ashamed of him! Dad is always the first to pick on Michael. And do you know something?’ she exclaimed. ‘Lea has known all along! Dad admitted that he called her and asked her to pick him up from the police station. Lea? Since when did Dad ever ask her for help? And why didn’t she say anything? Maybe we could have helped him. You must call her. I want her to tell us right now why she kept quiet. She owes us an explanation.’

Marie tried as best she could to console her while her brain continued to spin. Eventually she brought the conversation to an end because Julie kept repeating herself. Marie ran a hand across her sprouting hair. What was going on? She had never heard Julie lose her temper before and now she had witnessed it twice in less than a month. She had been planning to ask Julie to come with her to her hospital appointment the following day, but that didn’t seem such a good idea now. She wondered if she could ask Lea instead. For years Lea had been distant and closed off to Marie, but her carapace had started to crack in the last few weeks. Lea had spontaneously put her arms around her at Joan’s funeral and Marie couldn’t remember the last time that had happened, and when it became official that Marie and Jesper were divorcing, she had caught Lea watching her with interest. She found Lea’s number in her phone, but when she rang it the call went straight to voicemail. She left a message.

*

On Monday morning Anton was in a terrible mood despite their lovely weekend.

‘I don’t want to go to nursery,’ he sobbed. ‘I want to be with you all the time.’ He clung to her and refused to let go.

Marie did not need much persuading and Anton dried his eyes. ‘But it’s on one condition,’ she said. ‘You have to wait in the corridor while I’m with the doctor. And you must be as quiet as a mouse. Afterwards we’ll go into town and get an ice cream.’

He promised.

Anton and Marie walked to Rigshospitalet via Trianglen and Blegdamsvej. Anton had brought along his scooter and would slip in front of her or lag behind as he liked. They had plenty of time.

For once Marie answered her mobile when it rang.

‘Marie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Success at last! It’s Merethe from the Department of Immunology. Am I disturbing you?’

‘Hi!’ Marie said. ‘No, it’s fine. I’ve been trying to get hold of you too. I wanted to apologise for the way I behaved when you came to tell me that Storm had died.’

Merethe said that was all right. Then they spoke a little about Storm’s funeral and Merethe said that she was sorry to have missed it because of her grandmother’s hundredth birthday. ‘But Thor told me it was a very fine service.’

‘It was,’ Marie said. ‘Thor gave a beautiful eulogy and there was a good turnout.’

‘The real reason I’m calling is because I have various messages for you,’ Merethe said. ‘I’ve just got them from Ane Berg, the secretary from Population Ecology, who was temping for me last week.’

‘Messages for me? Who from?’ Marie wondered. She had been on sick leave since shortly after Christmas and there were messages for her?

‘There are four from Göran Sandö,’ Merethe said. ‘He asks you to call him back on a Swedish phone number. Do you have a pen?’

‘Four messages from Göran Sandö?’ Marie exclaimed, astonished. ‘Please could you email me his number? I don’t have a pen.’

‘Will do,’ Merethe said and added, ‘You can say a lot about Sandö, but he’s one persistent gentleman.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ Merethe said, ‘that it’s only a few weeks ago since he was calling Storm morning, noon and night, but Storm refused to speak to such a “self-promoting, self-glorifying arsehole who thought that research was all about polishing your own trophies”. Or words to that effect. Sandö would appear to have taken an interest in Storm’s Guinea-Bissau research recently, but Storm was convinced that Sandö had somehow found out that Terrence Wilson from Science had promised him an article in the May issue, and wanted to see if he was in time to put himself down for a little of the glory.’

‘I’ll call him,’ Marie said. ‘And the other messages?’

‘I believe there are several from Stig Heller in Stockholm. Probably wants to express his condolences.’

‘Is that right?’ Marie said drily. ‘But if he calls again, tell him I’m on sick leave. I have nothing to say to him.’

‘What has he done?’

‘Storm and he fell out some years ago, and Storm suspected Heller of reporting my figures as dishonest.’

‘OK,’ Merethe said, and went on, ‘The last message is from Tim Salomon. He came here last Wednesday to ask after you. Ane Berg told him you were on sick leave and he asked for your address because he wanted to send you something. I hope it was all right that she gave him your home address and mobile number.’

‘Yes, of course. I met him at the funeral reception,’ Marie said. ‘He gave me a present from Storm. A wooden swallow. But . . .’ Marie hesitated. ‘Are you sure he didn’t call in last Thursday?’

‘Ane Berg wrote Wednesday on the note. Why?’

‘Because he didn’t arrive in Denmark until Thursday.’

‘Oh, well, Ane probably just made a mistake. I think she was quite flustered over just how hot he was.’

Marie smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and she’s right.’

*

As Marie and Anton walked through the hospital swing doors, Marie’s thoughts jumped around like fleas. She couldn’t imagine what such an important man as Sandö wanted with her. As far as Stig Heller was concerned, he could jump off a cliff. It was just too late to start playing nicely.

They took the lift up to Oncology on the seventh floor where Marie settled Anton in the corridor outside Guldborg’s office and went in for her appointment. The consultant shook her hand and at that moment an angry shower of rain started pelting the window. Distracted, Marie turned her head in the direction of the sound. Tim had been closer than sound.

Guldborg said, ‘It looks good, Marie.’ He glanced up from her medical record. ‘You look good. Your figures are fine and the scanning shows no solid tumours.’

‘So I’m well?’

‘You’re currently not ill,’ Guldborg corrected her. ‘Just be happy that you’re currently not ill.’ Guldborg started going through the procedure for her oophorectomy. He spoke the word without stumbling. Marie tried saying it to herself a couple of times, but it proved difficult. The surgery itself would take one to two hours, Guldborg explained, but Marie should expect to be in hospital for three to five days. He would perform a Caesarean section. Following surgery she would experience vaginal bleeding for up to four weeks. Marie watched him without moving. He was telling her something about his experience with suture versus metal clamps.

‘Do you know what I spent most of my weekend doing?’ she interrupted him.

‘Eh, no,’ Guldborg said.

‘Looking for statistical evidence which proves that removing my ovaries and treating me with Aromasin afterwards will increase my chances of survival, compared to other treatments where I get to keep my ovaries.’

‘Please may I continue and we can take your questions at the end?’ Guldborg said.

‘On Friday, I formulated my H⁰-hypothesis while Anton watched Disney cartoons,’ Marie lied. ‘I choose a simple H⁰-hypothesis: “The survival rate among female breast cancer patients treated with Aromasin is significantly higher.”’

‘Marie, this is all well and good, but please may I—’

‘On Saturday I collected raw data from twenty-four primary articles about post-chemo treatment with Aromasin from PubMed, ran them through an X²-test and ended up rejecting my H⁰-hypothesis. On Sunday I made up my mind to keep my ovaries for a little longer.’

Guldborg watched her for a while. ‘That’s a very bad idea, Marie.’

‘When I look purely at the figures, I can see that there is a slight difference in survival rates among women who choose to have their ovaries removed so they can be treated with Aromasin and those who are treated with, for example, Tamoxifen, but the difference isn’t statistically significant.’ Guldborg screwed up his face, and Marie quickly continued, ‘I would like you to note down the following in my record. “The patient has considered the question of whether her ovaries should be removed and there is no need to discuss this further with her. She will keep her ovaries for a little longer.”’ Marie looked straight at Guldborg and she was sweating under her jumper.

At length Guldborg nodded. ‘I’m bound to accept your decision,’ he said. ‘But you’re taking a chance.’

‘Yes,’ was all Marie said.

Silence ensued. Marie looked cordially at Guldborg until he cleared his throat. Then they started planning her Tamoxifen treatment.

‘That’s great,’ Marie said, when they had finished.

She took the paperwork he handed her and had bent down to pick up her bag when Guldborg said, ‘I think you should reconsider the ovaries one more time and I really would like—’

Marie straightened up. ‘I don’t believe you’ve read my medical record recently, Mr Guldborg,’ she said.

Guldborg looked momentarily at a loss.

‘At this point, it should say,’ she continued, ‘that “The patient has considered the question of whether her ovaries should be removed, and there is no need to discuss this further with her. She will keep her ovaries for a little longer.”’

The silence was now deafening. Marie got up and held out her hand to Guldborg.

‘I’ll see you in a fortnight when I’m ready for the next stage of my treatment,’ she said.

Then she took her bag and left.

*

At first Marie could not find Anton, but when she finally tracked him down, she had to laugh. He had discovered a water cooler and had managed to fill about thirty-five cups with water and had lined them up in a long row.

‘People here are really busy, you know,’ he said contentedly, ‘so I make sure they get a glass of water on their way.’ Marie gave her son a big hug.

‘What a thoughtful boy you are,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s go into town and visit Aunt Lea. Maybe she’ll fancy having ice cream with us.’

‘Yippee,’ Anton said, and as they skipped hand in hand down the hospital corridor, an ampoule of happiness exploded behind Marie’s forehead and spread like a chemical throughout her entire organism. She was well. The most undervalued word in the world by everyone in good health. She didn’t care that Guldborg was too much of a pessimist to use the word. She was going to.

*

They drifted lazily through Magasin du Nord and spent at least half an hour in the toy department where they paid special attention to remote-control cars and Slinkys that could walk downstairs. Then Anton needed a pee, and when that had been taken care of, they took the lift to the Du Nord Spa on the fifth floor where Lea worked as a nail technician. The entrance was glazed with frosted glass and a young woman smiled obligingly when Marie and Anton stepped out of the lift.

‘May I help you?’ she asked. It said Adèle on a badge on her chest. Marie explained that she was Lea Skov’s sister, Marie, and that she had come on the spur of the moment, but wondered if she could possibly disturb Lea briefly.

Adèle looked blankly at Marie. ‘Lea? We have a Majken and a Malene, but no Lea,’ she said.

Marie frowned.

At that moment the telephone rang and Adèle asked if there was anything else she could help Marie with. Marie was just about to leave when another woman appeared from inside the spa.

‘Hi,’ she said, looking at Marie with curiosity. ‘My name is Sandra. I’m the manager of Du Nord Spa and Lea is a friend of mine. You’re Lea’s sister, aren’t you? She’s told me about you. Lea no longer works here, but she did once. Adèle is new – that’s why she hasn’t heard of her.’ Sandra smiled.

‘Oh,’ Marie said. ‘I’m confused. She told me just before Christmas that she had a job here.’

‘There must be some mistake,’ Sandra said. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you. I don’t know where she works now. She has been very busy recently and, eh . . . We haven’t seen much of each other. But if you see her, tell her Sandra says hi, won’t you?’

‘I will,’ Marie said slowly. ‘I’ll say hi to Lea when I see her. From Sandra, her friend. Who doesn’t know where she works now. Thanks for your help.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Sandra said, still smiling.

Marie and Anton walked back to the lift and Anton pressed the button. Just as they stepped inside, Marie glanced over her shoulder. Adèle had the telephone wedged under her chin and was making a note in a big diary; Sandra was standing next to her, busy writing a text message. Her thumbs flew across the screen. When she looked up, Marie fixed her with her gaze.

Marie’s brain was working overdrive as they travelled down in the lift.

Sandra was lying. But why?

*

On Tuesday morning Anton was willing to go to nursery, and when Marie had dropped him off, she lingered on the pavement, not knowing what to do with herself. Jesper would pick Anton up from nursery and Marie would not see him again until after the weekend. For a moment the emptiness was echoing, but then she made up her mind and walked briskly towards Hellerup station. She took the S-train to Vesterport and headed down Istedgade. At a bakery she bought fresh cinnamon whirls with sticky cinnamon filling oozing over the tall sides and two extra-large takeaway lattes. The front door to Lea’s stairwell in Saxogade 88 was open, so she went straight in and slowly made her way up the stairs. She was out of breath by the time she reached the fourth floor and had to ring the doorbell with her knee because her hands were full of pastries and cups. Marie could hear someone in the flat, yet no one came to the door. She rang the bell again and ended up putting the coffee on the floor before she rang the bell a third time. Still no reply, even though it was now obvious that Lea was at home. Marie could hear her cough and a radio playing at low volume. She called through the letterbox.

Shortly afterwards the door was opened.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Lea said. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I’m not at home to anyone.’

‘Hello, Lea,’ Marie said. ‘I’m sorry for turning up unannounced, but I did try to call you. Why aren’t you at home to anyone?’

Lea wandered back inside the flat and Marie took that as a sign that she was welcome to follow. She put the coffee cups and the pastry bag on the table in the small kitchen-diner. They sat down and, without a word, Lea grabbed one of the coffees, flicked off the lid and added three teaspoons of sugar from a bowl on the table. She tore open the paper bag with the pastries and devoured one in large bites. The silver tongue bar clicked against her teeth as she chewed. ‘How are you doing in your new flat without Jesper, the boy wonder?’ she asked, as she picked up her coffee and rocked back in her chair. As always, Lea looked beautiful, but Marie detected a hint of black circles under her eyes and her hair was casually piled on top of her head.

‘All things considered, I’m doing fine,’ she replied slowly, ignoring Lea’s provocation. ‘Every minute is a whirlpool of emotion, but you probably know what that’s like. Anton has spent the last couple of days with me and that was wonderful. He likes his new room.’

Lea rolled her eyes.

Marie studied her briefly. ‘Or maybe you think it’s silly to be six years old and like your new room,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, why are you rolling your eyes at me? I didn’t come here to argue with you, Lea. I’m here because you don’t answer your phone when I call. Mum is dead and Dad is on the verge of a breakdown. We have to stick together.’

‘I’m not sticking together with you lot,’ Lea said calmly. ‘I can manage on my own. I have done since I lost my first tooth. Yuk, this coffee’s cold,’ she said, and got up without warning. First she spat in the sink, then she put her coffee into the microwave to reheat it.

Marie had yet to touch hers.

‘You don’t work in the spa in Magasin, like you told me at Mum’s birthday party,’ Marie continued, aware that she was close to tears. ‘I went there yesterday and one of the girls who work there had never heard of you and the other, Sandra, acted strange, but asked me to say hi. You’re lying.’

Lea gave Marie an icy stare. ‘I’m lying?’ she said. ‘Perhaps. And you are and always will be Julie’s sister.’

‘I’m not like Julie,’ Marie said, offended. ‘Julie gave up on you long ago because being with you is always such incredibly hard work. But I haven’t given up on you.’ Marie was tempted to add yet, but swallowed it. Lea looked at her diffidently, then drained her coffee in two large gulps and ran her pierced tongue around the rim to suck up the foam. When she had finished, she helped herself to Marie’s pastry from the open bag and gobbled it with the same appetite with which she had wolfed down the first.

Julie would have said something very shrill.

And Lea would have laughed, and either given her the finger or stuck her tongue out at her, displaying both the masticated food and the bar.

Whereupon Julie would have burst into tears and Marie would have comforted her and said, ‘Honestly, Lea.’

And they would have gone round in circles as they always did. And it would have foundered as it always did.

Marie took a deep breath. Then she removed the lid from her coffee cup, added three teaspoons of sugar, got up and heated it for thirty seconds in the microwave, put the coffee in front of Lea and kissed her cheek. Then she sat down again on her own chair.

Lea had averted her gaze. She didn’t touch the coffee; she didn’t say one word.

Just under a minute passed. Lea was still staring at the table top.

Then the tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘Do you know how much I loved you when we were children?’ she said quietly. ‘I loved you so, so much. Every night I prayed to God to be allowed to keep you. All the years I was growing up, you were the only one I trusted. You never bullied me, you never hated me, you never belittled me.’

‘Lea, no one hates you . . .’

‘Believe me, they hate me,’ Lea said angrily, wiping away her tears. ‘But they don’t hate you. And that’s why you can’t see it. But trust me. One hundred and fifty hours of therapy later, I know I was always the scapegoat in the Skov family. My whole fucking life I’ve borne the burden of Julie’s frustration, Frank’s megalomania and Joan’s wasted artistic talent. Frank and Joan should obviously never have had me. You don’t need to study psychology to see that. Two immature idiots with four young kids. Julie and the twins would have been more than enough. Julie, Marie and the dead twin far exceeded their capabilities. Little Lea was the last straw. Mum and Dad were each other’s tragic destiny. They married far too young, far too blinded by the last thing in this world on which you should base a marriage. Joan was Frank’s talented, pretty trophy girl, whose tiny waist he could span with his manly hands: his ticket to a higher social sphere. Frank, for his part, was Joan’s tower of strength, her guardian, her symbol of greatness and might. But then Mads died and the fantasy couldn’t be sustained any longer. Joan was no longer beautiful – she was ugly and grieving and whimpering and demanding – and it became obvious to everyone that Frank was and always would be a loser who turned into a bully so that no one would ever know that he was a fraud. Julie was ten years old when she started pouring oil on troubled waters. She looked after all of us. Our mentally ill mother, our disappointed father, their immature agendas, you and me – I was only a baby. I should have been given up for adoption, Marie. It would have been better for me. Mum and Dad weren’t able to take proper care of me and Julie broke her neck trying. Of course she did. She was only a child herself.’

Marie was knocked for six. ‘But I loved you,’ she objected.

‘Yes,’ Lea said, ‘you did, and I never doubted you – not then. You were also cool, in your own unremarkable way. As if everything that happened just bounced off you. You were with us, yet you lived in a world of your own: in your books, in your homework, in the ridiculous brain-teaser puzzles you spent all your pocket money on. You didn’t pander to Frank or suck up to him, like Julie did; you never told tales, you formed no alliances. You just got on with your life. You were very well behaved, but not because you were trying to get something from Frank, rather because you sought to avoid something, I think, and I loved you for that. You were the real deal.’ Lea’s voice started to quiver.

‘But then you met Jesper. Being introduced to him was my worst nightmare. A polished, well-educated mini Frank. An updated version of Michael, with a university degree. Everyone in the family gazed at him in admiration, but I threw up, literally, in the bog, while you sat beaming like the sun in the dining room, happy that you’d finally honoured Frank’s twisted fantasies. I brought up peas and gravy, three times the amount I’d actually eaten of Frank and Joan’s crappy food. Suddenly bullying was legitimised. Because Jesper had such a way with words. He ignored anything Julie said, more so even than Michael. He told you what to say – he was even better at it than Dad. And you never told your husband to shut his fucking mouth. Not once did you speak up for yourself. You sold out totally and nothing has ever hurt me more than to witness that. I gave up on you, Marie.’

Marie was shocked.

‘You’ve no idea how much it suits you to be rid of Jesper,’ Lea added. ‘Fuck, even having cancer suits you. Finally there’s some fight in your eyes. And you look cool with that chemo haircut.’

‘Thanks,’ Marie said. ‘By the way, I still love you.’

‘Oh, just shut up,’ Lea said, as she wiped away a treacherous tear with the back of her sleeve.

‘But it’s hard to show it,’ Marie continued cautiously. ‘Because you’re permanently angry. All three of us grew up at nineteen Snerlevej, but we deal with it in three different ways. Being Frank’s favourite wasn’t always easy.’

They sat for a while until they suddenly looked tenderly at each other. Then Lea said, ‘In case you’re interested, I’m studying psychology at the University of Copenhagen. I submitted my final-year project in January, but I have to do a resit due to illness before I get my degree. My viva is at nine o’clock on Wednesday. Saying I was going to be a beauty therapist was just a joke. To wind Frank up. But, Jesus Christ, you all fell for it. Even you, which, by the way, I regard as the ultimate proof that Jesper brainwashed you. Did you seriously think I was going to spend the rest of my life massaging people’s faces? Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

Marie was speechless.

‘Sandra in Magasin is a friend of mine,’ Lea continued. ‘She’s super-cool. I met her at a tattoo fair at the Bella Center some years ago. In the beginning, pulling the wool over your eyes was fun. Here was I, getting to grips with late post-modernist family relationships and clinical psychology, and you thought I was dyeing eyelashes and eyebrows. Ha-ha, it was hilarious. It wasn’t until I started my own therapy, which, incidentally, is something you have to do, that I realised it wasn’t hilarious at all. In fact, it was tragic.’ Lea gave a light shrug.

‘Does Dad know?’ Marie asked.

Lea nodded.

‘He found out the night Mum died. He turned up here out of the blue and I was on study leave so all my books and papers were lying around. That’s another reason I don’t open the door to anyone or answer the phone. Frank was furious. Typical Frank. He managed to spin it, of course. How could I do this to him, lying to him like that? He was ranting and raving. Finally he passed out on my bed. When he woke up the next morning, he was still drunk, but now he was as meek as a lamb. “I’m so proud of you, Loopy-Lou. My clever little Loopy-Lou,”’ Lea mimicked. ‘He hasn’t called me Loopy-Lou since I was five. I told him that he was the most pathetic, worst-educated, academic-arse-licking snob I had ever met. He got seriously pissed off, of course, and tried to stand up to leave because there was no way in hell he was going to visit an ungrateful bitch like me. “Ungrateful, yes, but to everyone’s surprise a super-well-educated bitch, if you please,” I said to him. He never got further than the edge of the bed. He slumped backwards and fell asleep again. In the middle of it all, Michael rocked up to tell me that Joan had died, about as casually as when he told me he’d quit smoking. And, to add insult to injury, he put on his chirpy hospital-porter voice. “Oh, yes, I can see you’ve just had your leg torn off at the hip, but I’ll roll you down to Ward Fourteen.” Very compassionate face, very understanding eyes, firm hands, which he kept resting heavily on my shoulders. Christ on a bike. Well, that’s another story. I’m trying hard to forgive you for making him the messenger.’

‘I didn’t send him, Lea.’

‘Ah, well, Julie did. Same difference.’

‘No,’ Marie said firmly. ‘It isn’t.’

‘Convince me,’ Lea said.

‘Let me in,’ Marie said.

‘First show me your breast,’ Lea said.

Without hesitation Marie pulled her T-shirt over her head and Lea studied her upper body for a long time before she exclaimed in awe, ‘Fucking wow.’

*

They talked all afternoon. When they got to Frank’s drink-driving, Marie asked if Lea had known about Frank’s suspended sentence from February all along. Julie was angry about it, she said.

‘Oh, I tremble,’ Lea said laconically. ‘Is Julie angry with me? She’s one to talk. No one trumps her when it comes to keeping things hidden. Besides, Frank asked me not to say anything.’

‘Only drink-driving is what . . . losers do,’ Marie mumbled.

‘Marie, our dad is the very essence of a loser! All his moral bullshit about right and wrong. Based on what? Cirrhosis of the liver and an impressive lack of education? He’s lived rent-free in his wife’s house for thirty years and falls out with his children the moment they fail to agree with every word he says or don’t stand to attention when he tells them to. He’s not even particularly intelligent, if you ask me – he just talks about himself long enough to make people believe he’s a shining light. Trust me, if Mads hadn’t died and bound Frank and Joan together in their shared destiny, they would have got divorced long ago. Frank would have been nursing a can of strong lager somewhere, boasting about his achievements, and Joan would have been an artist permanently in receipt of state support.’

‘But Frank despises drink-drivers . . .’ Marie said, but even she could hear how stupid that sounded.

‘It was a few months after you’d dropped your breast-cancer bombshell. Frank and Joan were both heading up Shit Creek, to put it mildly. A total Freudian regression. It was so obvious that your illness ripped open all their old wounds. Frank started drinking during the day, and I know this because I saw him several times around Nørre Farimagsgade when he clearly wasn’t sober. One day we literally bumped into each other when he came stumbling out of Funchs Vinstue and I was on my way to uni to meet my supervisor. It was the most awkward moment of my life. Fuck, my own dad shook my hand, he was that out of it. He was so flustered that he asked me if I wanted a beer. I had half an hour, so we went back inside Funchs Vinstue where we had a beer – or, rather, Frank had three. For the first time ever we had something that resembled a conversation. Frank told me that Joan was going out of her mind because of your illness. That she had stopped sleeping and barely ate. That she got up at night, howling like a sick animal, and that when he hushed her and tried to get her back to bed, she would lash out at him. Frank asked me for help. Julie came a couple of times a week to organise Joan’s pills, but Frank thought the medication only made things worse. At any rate, Joan had practically stopped eating and hardly ever left the house.

‘I went to Snerlevej a few days later. When I arrived, Joan was watching television in the living room, still in her dressing gown, obviously sedated and rather unwashed. I made some coffee and managed to rouse her a bit. She even ate something. I started by explaining to her that a breast-cancer diagnosis doesn’t equate to a death sentence. That more than eighty per cent of people diagnosed with breast cancer were still alive five years later. That they had lost Mads in the most brutal manner, unexpected and sudden, but it was by no means certain that they would lose you as well. Then I gently suggested that she should seek professional help to process Mads’ death so that she could start to feel better and relate realistically to your disease rather than bury you prematurely. “The sick person here is really you, Mum,” I said to her. She fell silent. “But I feel the way I always feel,” she said then. I offered to make an appointment with her GP, if she wanted me to. Her GP could refer her to a psychiatrist who could help. At this point she gave me a horrified look. She couldn’t tell Dr Henrik something like that. She’d die of shame, she said. Because then everyone would know. Everyone in the waiting room, everyone in Vangede and on Snerlevej. “Why are you sticking your nose into my business?” she cried. “You’re wicked; it’s all your fault.” The next moment she collapsed in my arms and pleaded with me to help her and I stroked her spine for a long time. Marie, she was skeletal. I reiterated that I would very much like to help, but that I didn’t think pills were the answer and certainly not on their own. I said I would get the address of the nearest psychiatric emergency clinic where she could seek help without worrying about Dr Henrik.

‘“Frank can drive you there as early as tonight. Or as soon as you want,” I said, and Joan nodded. Yes, she’d like that.

‘That evening Julie called me and blew her top, and I mean completely blew her top. It’s not the first time she’s lectured me – Christ, I’m practically immune to it now, but she went berserk. She asked me who the hell I thought I was, thinking I knew anything about what was good for Mum. I tried telling her that pills are nothing but a short-term treatment of symptoms and that Joan was addicted to medication and needed acute help. Julie was totally out of control. I’ve never heard so many foul words come out of such a prim mouth. At last I said, “OK, Julie, I’ll hand over the responsibility to you, but I’m telling you, if it carries on like this, Mum will be dead before the year is out.” At this point she screamed for me to stay away from Mum and Dad, that I’d caused more than enough pain for everyone. I was blown from here into the fucking living room, let me tell you.’

Marie gulped.

‘Even so, I found the number of a psychiatric emergency clinic, familiarised myself with the admission procedure and left a leaflet at Snerlevej. Frank even rang to thank me, but said that Joan was feeling much better now. She had started new medication, which she tolerated better, and Julie had managed to persuade her to join an occupational-therapy group twice a week to do some sewing. The time was coming up when I needed to revise for my orals and, to be honest, I was relieved that there was nothing more I could do. I needed to knuckle down.

‘About two weeks later, just before three o’clock in the morning, Frank called me from Bellahøj Police Station. He had run the car off the road, he said, and was prepared to admit that he hadn’t been entirely sober. He wanted me to come and get him.’

‘But surely you don’t have a driving licence?’ Marie said stupidly.

‘Of course I have a driving licence. I’ve had one since I was nineteen. Paid for with my own money because I was a bad girl who’d started smoking so Frank refused to pay for it. Even though he smoked like a chimney himself, in those days. But anyway. I took a taxi to Bellahøj at some shitty hour so I could drive Frank home. His blood alcohol level was ninety milligrams, so he wasn’t binge-drinking drunk, just mild midweek intoxicated. He had had a few drinks in town, he said, and had been on his way home when he came off the road. When the police arrived, they produced a breathalyser and the trap shut. When we turned into Snerlevej, Frank asked if I could pull over further down the road, and when I had stopped the car, he gave me five hundred kroner for a taxi home. He clearly didn’t want me to come inside the house in case Joan was asleep in front of the television and woke up. She wouldn’t have been able to understand what I was doing there in the middle of the night. Dad asked me not to say anything to anyone.

‘He had never asked me to keep schtum about anything before and it felt good to be his ally. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone. And what would Julie have done differently, had she known? Frank is a grown man and he chose to drive while drunk. In February it was a minor offence and now it’s a lot more serious. Frank knows how the Danish legal system works, so if he’d wanted to avoid a custodial sentence and losing his licence, he should have stayed at home that night. That’s a fact even Julie can’t change.’

‘What do you think happened on the day Mum died?’ Marie whispered. ‘Did they have an argument? Did Dad say something to her that made her kill herself? Why did he even get drunk in the first place? I lie awake at night and I can’t help thinking about it.’

‘Worrying is futile,’ Lea said, ‘because it won’t change a thing. I’m not convinced that Joan killed herself. She hadn’t eaten properly for weeks and she took far, far too many pills. I think her system gave up that Wednesday evening rather than the week before or the week after when it might just as easily have happened. I know that Julie is outraged that Joan would do something so selfish but, quite honestly, I don’t believe for one moment that she made a conscious decision to end her life. She was incapable of making decisions. She felt like shit and that evening she took some extra pills – who was counting? – and Frank drank whisky rather than red wine and got it into his head to drive into town for a pub crawl rather than sit at home next to his dried-up twig of a wife. Seven fateful hours later he had crashed into a sign on Vesterbro and Joan had slipped into a chemical coma from which she never woke up. I’m sorry if I sound cynical, but that’s my view of what happened.’

‘How did you become like this?’ Marie asked. ‘So insightful and composed, so sure of yourself and your way of seeing our family?’

‘How do we become the people we are?’ Lea shrugged her shoulders. ‘Genes, the environment, obstacles, who knows? I’m intelligent – it’s my strongest life skill. And yours, incidentally. It also helps that I’m not exactly ugly and that my entire life I’ve had a firm conviction that what was going on at home was plain wrong. Frank and Joan made me what I am, for better or worse. They hurt me badly because they couldn’t cope with me, but at the same time they did me a favour because without all their baggage I would never have turned into the person I am now. I’m rather proud of myself, Marie.’

‘Do you think it made a difference that Tove Madsen looked after you?’

Lea was temporarily baffled. ‘Tove Madsen? Who’s she?’

‘Tove looked after you when we were little. She looked after me too, but when I started school, she carried on looking after just you. Do you remember her?’

Lea did not.

‘She lived on Snerlevej too,’ Marie said. ‘Further down the road. I can vaguely remember her. She had a husband and older children and a beautiful doll’s house, which I was jealous that you got to play with. Julie says that you once asked Frank if you could go and live with Tove and her husband. He didn’t like that at all.’

Lea’s gaze was completely blank. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells. It might be that Tove made a difference. They do say that a kind neighbour or a caring teacher can have a huge impact on a neglected child.’

Marie fell quiet. ‘Is that really what we were?’ she said eventually. ‘Neglected children?’

‘It depends who you ask,’ Lea replied. ‘Julie can’t even handle it if I say that we had the same meal over and over again, but we did sometimes. All right, perhaps I exaggerate occasionally and focus too much on the negatives, but only to balance out Julie’s massive denial. I need to call a spade a spade and a difficult upbringing a difficult upbringing. Otherwise I can’t deal with it. It’s the same with my tattoos. They’re pictures of the reality I have to face or my fear will grow stronger.’

‘I admire your integrity,’ Marie said.

Lea roared with laughter. ‘You had plenty of integrity while you were growing up. I don’t know exactly what happened when you married Jesper but look at you now! You’ve dumped him, thank God. You have a wonderful son, a master’s in biology and a PhD grant waiting for you. At the age of twenty-eight you’ve earned the admiration of one of the wisest and most highly respected scientists in the world; you have one breast and almost no hair, but in my eyes you’re more beautiful than ever.’

‘Do you know who Kristian Storm is?’ Marie asked, surprised, pleased to be able to ask a question while she recovered from her embarrassment.

‘Yes, of course. Science theory is a mandatory subject on the psychology course and Kristian Storm had some much debated and interesting attitudes to both paradigm shift and the acknowledgement of subjectivity in science. I’ve read several of his articles on science theory.’

Lea and Marie talked at length about Marie’s master’s, her research, Storm’s discovery in Guinea-Bissau, other scientists’ rejection of Storm’s ideas about non-specific side-effects of vaccines, the police theory about his suicide, the break-in on Ingeborgvej, Marie’s nagging doubts, and the article Tim wanted to write with her. Lea listened attentively.

‘Storm always said that a hunch is enough,’ Marie said. ‘And my intuition tells me that something is wrong.’

‘Hmm,’ Lea said. ‘That does depend on whether your intuitive radar is properly calibrated. Do you think Julie can trust her intuition? I think it misleads her, big time. I think Julie’s intuition tells her that if she lets anything bad happen to anyone, she’ll die, and that’s why she tries desperately to make sure that everything in the garden is rosy.’

Marie thought about it. ‘I don’t indulge in make-believe any more, Lea,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m much too disillusioned for that.’

Lea placed her hands on the table and made to get up. ‘Start writing your article, Marie. My experience is that the missing pieces turn up when you work on the empty spaces.

‘And now I’m afraid I’m going to have to throw you out, sis,’ she said. ‘I need to revise. Or I won’t pull it off on Wednesday.’

‘I’m glad we had a talk,’ Marie said.

‘So am I,’ Lea said. ‘Incredibly glad.’