The last weekend of August was unseasonably mild and warm, and Marie and Anton paid a visit to Julie and her daughters on Hvidsværmervej. Camilla and Emma were reading teenage magazines under a parasol in the back garden, while Julie and her mother-in-law were busy planting colourful flowers in terracotta pots. At the start of July, Julie had been acquitted of manslaughter at Lyngby Court. She had not been present when the verdict was read out because she was a patient in the psychiatric unit at Frederiksberg Hospital, where she had been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. She had started seeing a therapist and since the middle of July she had lived at home on Hvidsværmervej with Camilla and Emma, who had been looked after by Michael’s mother. Michael was serving a three-month custodial sentence for the theft and illegal handling of prescription drugs.
Marie embraced her sister when she and Anton came out into the garden. Julie had gained weight from the medication she was taking, but despite that she seemed unusually relaxed, with a trowel in her hand and her hair in a mess. She started fussing about Marie the moment they sat down under the parasol with elderflower cordial and sandwiches, but then she stopped herself. Instead, she presented Marie with some pearl-encrusted slides for her new hair.
‘Isn’t it a little too short for these?’ Marie laughed.
‘It’ll grow,’ Julie said.
‘So how are you doing, sis?’ Marie said, when the children had said thank you for their meal and disappeared inside the house.
‘I’m doing well,’ Julie said. ‘Being in therapy is hard, but I have a feeling that . . . the fog is lifting.’
Marie nodded.
‘Michael and I are getting a divorce,’ Julie added.
‘OK,’ Marie said, glancing furtively at Michael’s mother, who was still pottering around at the bottom of the garden.
‘There’s no need for you to whisper,’ Julie said. ‘My mother-in-law already knows. The most important thing for her is that the children are all right. Michael will probably move here when he comes out of prison. The girls can visit him. It’ll be fine. My mother-in-law loves waiting on him and, well, you know Michael.’
Marie smiled. ‘How are you and Lea getting on?’ she then asked.
‘It’ll happen, Marie,’ Julie said. ‘When I’m ready. I promise you. We’ve spoken on the phone and we’ll meet soon. Soon. Tell me, how are you doing?’
‘Really well,’ Marie said, and found it hard to conceal her smile.
‘And when do we get to meet your chap?’ Julie asked, and winked.
‘It won’t be long,’ Marie said.
‘I’m very excited,’ Julie said. ‘Dad said that he was nice, even though . . .’
‘. . . he has a lot of tattoos?’ Marie asked, with a grin.
‘Yes,’ Julie said. ‘Really nice, even though he has a lot of tattoos. Sorry, Marie. I just don’t like them. I don’t understand it . . . what it’s about. It’s so . . .’ She fell silent.
‘It’s OK,’ Marie said. ‘You don’t have to like Mattis’s tattoos to like him, and I’m sure you’ll like him.’
‘And how about your PhD?’ Julie asked.
‘When I’ve had my next appointment with Mr Guldborg on the twenty-eighth of September, I’ll officially enrol as a PhD student at the Department of Immunology.’
‘Have you found out who’ll be your supervisor?’
Marie shook her head. ‘Thor Albert Larsen has resigned,’ she said, ‘so both Storm’s and Thor’s jobs are vacant. The deadline for applications is the first of September.’
‘You never liked Thor Albert Larsen, did you?’
‘No, and I had good reason not to. It turned out it was he who reported Storm and me to the DCSD. We found that out when the police got a court order that overrode the DCSD anonymity guarantee. He resigned soon afterwards. I almost feel sorry for him because the whole institute gave him the cold shoulder. Then again, you have to be a complete idiot to accuse your closest colleagues of scientific dishonesty, especially if you do it anonymously.
‘I visited Dad yesterday,’ Marie added.
‘Did he show you the apple tree?’ Julie asked. ‘He planted it right where Mads died. Ingrid Marie apples.’
Marie nodded. ‘It’s nice,’ she said. ‘He also gave me Mum’s tapestry wall-hanging. The Medusa one.’
‘Oh, Marie,’ Julie exclaimed. ‘You’re not going to put that up? After everything that’s happened?’
‘No,’ Marie said. ‘I won’t. Not yet, anyway. But I wanted to have it. Mum was a brilliant artist, Julie. The tapestry is fantastic.’
They sat for a while, admiring the flowers in their pots.
‘Dad still drinks far too much,’ Marie said at length. ‘But I didn’t say anything. And even though he pretends it doesn’t matter, I think he’s very nervous about going to prison. I had to promise him yesterday that we’d look after the dog. It’s really not terribly convenient now that we live in a flat, but I said yes all the same. We can probably manage it for those two months.’
‘What dog?’ Julie frowned.
‘Didn’t you know? He bought a Labrador puppy. Anton is over the moon about it. Dad’s picking it up on Monday.’
‘Well, we can only pray that it doesn’t turn out to be a Great Dane,’ Julie said, and they burst out laughing.