1222 by Anne Holt

Author:Anne Holt
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Crime, Mystery & Detective, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9781848876071
Publisher: Atlantic Books, Limited
Published: 2011-01-01T19:12:40.314316+00:00

i

Rarely has it been so good to feel water on my body. Over and over again I dipped the flannel into the big hand basin without wringing it out, then simply held it over my shoulder and let the red hot water flow freely.

Berit Tverre was starting to get to know me. I didn’t like it. But I had still said yes.

She had produced a plastic chair with metal legs, three towels, a soft flannel and some soap. All without asking. She had put the whole lot in the ladies’ toilet that I had already used a couple of times with considerable difficulty to empty my bags. When she asked me to go with her half an hour after our meeting, when everyone was having breakfast, I hesitated. Then I realized she would be furious if I didn’t do as she said. By the stairs she held open the door of the Ladies and explained:

‘I’ve put out some clean clothes for you. They’re too big, but they’ll have to do. I’ll stand here and watch the door until you’ve finished. Take as much time as you need.’

In front of the two cubicles was an area containing a hand basin and a mirror, big enough to allow me to get undressed, move across to the plastic chair and get clean again. Without any help from anyone else.

It was difficult to refrain from groaning with pleasure.

I couldn’t remember when I last stank like this. It felt as if I had acquired an extra layer of skin, smelly, thick flakes of sweat and stress. Stripes of grey soap and dirty water ran slowly down my body, down the legs of the chair and across the floor. I couldn’t understand how I had got so dirty, so filthy. In spite of everything, I hadn’t been in contact with anything except my own clothes. Gradually the water began to run clear. The soap began to lather up, but I just couldn’t stop. The bandage around my thigh was soaking wet and pink. It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered any more, and I fell asleep where I sat.

Presumably I was only out for a fraction of a second; I woke because the flannel fell on the floor, and I was wide awake.

We were down to 117 residents at Finse 1222.

In other words, 116 suspects, although of course it was out of the question that any of the children had been involved. Nor did I believe that Geir, Berit or Magnus were mixed up in the murder in any way, but my years in the police service had at least taught me that unpleasant surprises await those who draw over-hasty conclusions.

I still had hopes of Kari Thue.

I wasn’t going to draw over-hasty conclusions.

If Magnus Streng’s theory that the murder weapon was an icicle turned out to be correct, against all expectation, then this would significantly reduce the number of suspects. I wanted as few suspects as possible. A weapon like that ...

‘It can’t be an icicle,’ I mumbled to my reflection.

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