Invisible Murder by Kaaberbøl Lene & Friis Agnete

Author:Kaaberbøl, Lene & Friis, Agnete [Kaaberbøl, Lene & Friis, Agnete]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Crime, thriller, Suspense
ISBN: 9781616951719
Goodreads: 13584160
Publisher: Soho Crime
Published: 2010-02-17T08:00:00+00:00

IS HEAD HURT like crazy. Sándor cautiously fingered his eyebrow, tracing the edges of the wound under the bandage, but that wasn’t where most of the pain was coming from. When the blow hit, his head had slammed back and something in his neck had dislocated, or at least that was how it felt. And the ribs on his left side ached with a steady, dull pain with every breath he took.

Traffic churned past on both sides of a narrow central strip of trees. It wasn’t very dark yet even though it was past ten, and though he felt like sitting down on the sidewalk and leaning against a wall, there were limits to how weird he could act out here in the open where everyone could see him.

It was no longer hot. There was a sharpness in the air, and a shiver ran through him when he breathed, partly because of the cold, partly because of the shock. Someone had hit him. Someone had kicked him while he was down. Someone had thrown rocks at him. There was a tumultuous, injured humiliation inside him. He felt picked on. The entire Hungarian part of his upbringing was in offended uproar—“You can’t just hit people, you know!”—while at the same time he could hear his stepfather Elvis’s sarcastic scorn when he had been stupid enough to complain that someone had pushed him at school. Crybaby. Push back!

He hadn’t found Tamás.

Even though the place was at the address Tamás had given him, Tamás wasn’t there. No one would admit having seen him. No one would say where he was. And when Sándor had kept asking, insisted … it had happened in a flash. There hadn’t been any introductory pushing or bumping chests, they had just … let him have it. Three or four quick blows and, when he fell down, a kick to the kidneys and one in the side. He wasn’t even sure which of them had hit him, after the first man, that little square guy with the mustache, the one who sounded like he came from Szeged. He was the one who had busted Sándor’s eyebrow.

As he lay doubled over on the filthy, gritty concrete floor of the repair shop, he heard the sound of breaking glass. Then they hauled him up onto his feet and pushed him up against the wall, and the Szeged man stuck something right up in his face, so close that Sándor had to squint to see that it was a broken bottle.

They’re going to slit my throat.

He had time to think that thought, disjointed and panicky and yet strangely matter-of-fact. A noise came out of his throat, a squeak that was both pain and fear. And that very instant there was a pling! from his mobile phone, an absurdly everyday sound in the midst of impending death. That didn’t stop the man with the broken bottle.

“Get lost,” he said coldly. “If we see you here again.…”

He didn’t need to say any more. The

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