Rosenfeldt, Hans - Cry Wolf by Rosenfeldt Hans

Author:Rosenfeldt, Hans [Rosenfeldt, Hans]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Published: 2021-10-28T01:29:29+00:00

For a moment, Hannah thought they were in the wrong place, that this was just a show apartment where no one lived. A single jacket hung neatly on a hanger on the hat shelf in the hall, nothing on the hooks behind it. Two pairs of well-polished shoes on the shoe rack below. The doormat perfectly flush with the threshold of the front door. A Windsor chair against one wall, next to it a small hall table with a lint brush standing in one corner, but nothing else.

While the locksmith was working on getting them in, they’d pulled on simple, white protective suits over their usual clothes, put on shoe covers, gloves, and tucked their hair beneath white shower cap-like hoods that absolutely no one could carry off with any of their dignity intact. They looked like they were on their way to a shift at a Russian nuclear power plant in the Eighties, Hannah thought as they stood inside the door of the one-bedroom apartment on Västra Esplanaden 12 and caught sight of themselves in the wall mirror, which of course had not the slightest smear or fingerprint.

“Neat and tidy,” Hannah proclaimed, and took the first step toward the rest of the sterile and so far impersonal home.

“What do you say? I’ll take the bedroom, you take the living room, and we’ll take the kitchen together?”

“Sure.”

Hannah stepped into the small room directly to the right. How was it possible to keep a place this clean, this tidy? Even when it was freshly cleaned and organized, they never achieved anything close to this at home. Not even now, when it was just her and Thomas. It was like walking into the centerfold of an interior design magazine. Or more like a furniture catalog, because the room was completely anonymous and all the furniture seemed chosen for its functionality rather than any particular personal taste. On the coffee table in front of the gray love seat there lay six coasters in a neat row along the left edge, black alternating with red, but that was all. No newspapers or magazines, no candles or knickknacks, nothing that would indicate any hobbies or interests. Perhaps home electronics. A huge flat-screen TV hung on the wall. Beneath it sat a game console with a hand control neatly laid on top. Hannah counted seven speakers in the room so she assumed that meant 7.1 surround sound. There was a stereo next to the sofa that could play vinyl, CDs, and cassettes. The only thing that spoke to anyone actually inhabiting this room, living here, was an LP lying on the black Plexiglas lid of the record player.

Hannah lifted the white record sleeve that was obscuring the cover. Whitney Houston, squatting in a dark blue turtleneck and boots. She put the record sleeve down and started to scan the bookshelf that stood along one wall, opened a few cupboards; not much inside them and what was there were exclusively utilitarian, nothing that could be called decorative

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