Cell 8 by Anders Roslund & Börge Hellström

Author:Anders Roslund & Börge Hellström [Roslund, Anders & Hellström, Börge]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, International Mystery & Crime, Thrillers, General, Crime, Hard-Boiled, Suspense, Traditional, ebook, book
ISBN: 9781849169738
Google: qFxhBQAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1402787154
Publisher: SilverOak
Published: 2011-09-14T16:00:00+00:00

EWERT GRENS SHUT THE DOOR TO HIS OFFICE AND SAT DOWN AT HIS DESK. He closed his eyes, listened to her voice—they were alone for a while, Siw and him, the past that found its way through the investigation files. With each verse he went back a few years, to a time when he and Anni were two young police officers who had started to discover each other, his first nervous, mumbled sentences, the very first time he held her hand, so new and so long ago, a whole adult lifetime ago.

He turned to the very large cassette player, increased the volume until it couldn’t get any louder.

Tweedlee dee tweedlee dee—give it up give it up, give your love to me Tweedlee do tweedlee dot—gimme gimme gimme gimme gimme all the love you got Her voice, her version of “Tweedlee Dee,” recorded 1955, was so fresh, so young, maybe the first song she ever recorded, he wasn’t sure but nodded in rhythm, Anni’s hand in his, everything that was about to start, everything that never had the time to get started.

He listened, two minutes and forty-five seconds, he knew exactly how long it was, then turned around again and lowered the volume a touch. Back. But to only thirty minutes earlier. He thought about Schwarz, so close to falling to pieces when he looked at his wife, who had known nothing, as if they would both burst. Grens had doubted the wife’s claimed ignorance to begin with, it had seemed incredible that she didn’t know, how could someone live so intimately with another person without knowing such a dark secret? He didn’t doubt it anymore. She hadn’t known. That thin bastard, who had managed to hide an entire life from her, must have done a lot of acting and suppressed the rest; Ewert Grens, if anyone, knew that it was possible.

He snorted loudly into the room.

After over thirty years in the police force, he’d thought he’d heard it all. But even he couldn’t have made this story up, and it seemed to get better by the day. Grens knew now that it was true, every word was true; Schwarz really had done what no one else had come close to before. He had escaped from his own execution, locked up on Death Row in one of the most heavily guarded prisons in the United States. Damn, that wasn’t half bad!

The little bugger had managed to fool them all! Grens was positively amused—to stick your tongue out at a system that was building itself into the ground with all its new prisons and that was totally convinced that long sentences were the primary solution to escalating violence, that was good, that was really fucking good.

He heard the knock on the door.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“Not if you let me finish listening.”

They all sounded the same, all Grens’s lala songs. But it was quite sweet really, when he sat there with his eyes closed, his big body moving to the beat. Hermansson waited, as she had learned to do.

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