Beyond the Truth: Hanne Wilhelmsen Book Seven (A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Anne Holt
he muttered under his breath; she must have been mistaken. The distance was too great. The weather made contours indistinct and sounds unclear.
Grabbing her bag, she fumbled for the keys and let herself in.
“Fuck!” she said through gritted teeth.
She ignored the elevator and slowly took the stairs.
FRIDAY DECEMBER 20
A s usual, the silence woke her at the crack of dawn. She had always slept lightly in the mornings, and without the familiar friendly clamor of the east end and the soothing sound of heavy traffic through Tøyen, she no longer felt the need for an alarm clock. Not even to be on the safe side. Even though only two hours had elapsed since she had dropped off, she knew how futile it was to turn over and try to prolong the night. An open window would have helped, of course. Fresh air and noise would have kept Hanne asleep for another hour or two. Clammy with perspiration, she pulled the quilt aside and got up. Nefis muttered in her sleep, with half her body visible under her thin blanket. The dark-blue oriental pattern made her skin appear paler than it was. She looked childlike as she lay there, mouth open and arms above her head. A sliver of saliva had left the outline of a stain on the pillow. The room temperature was more than twenty degrees Celsius. Hanne felt terribly thirsty.
The copy of Aftenposten had already been delivered. The aroma of fresh coffee hit her as she entered the kitchen and closed the door quietly behind her. As usual, Mary had programmed the machine for half past five. The entire kitchen was filled with absurd aids, all with timers and precision controls for every conceivable and inconceivable requirement. Nefis wanted it like that, and Nefis could afford it. Nefis had money for anything and everything. Nefis was building her first real home at the age of thirty-eight and delighted in filling it with unnecessary gadgets that Mary used with enthusiasm and surprising proficiency, despite the old woman being hardly able to spell her way through an instruction leaflet.
Hanne filled a mug with coffee and poured in some milk, before drinking half a liter of juice straight from the carton. She did not feel hungry. To her amazement, her cigarette craving was always acute in the mornings. When she had finally managed to quit about a year ago, she had been most afraid of the evenings. Of alcohol. Of socializing with other people. The stress of her job, perhaps. All the same, it was the mornings that had proved to be the test. She felt the gravitation toward the cabinet above the cooker, where Mary’s stash of rolling tobacco was kept, bought by Nefis on a monthly basis and painstakingly sealed in plastic containers by their housekeeper, who adhered scrupulously to Nefis’s instruction to restrict her smoking to her own small section of the apartment.
The coverage in Aftenposten was extravagant. Virtually the entire first page was dedicated to the murders in Eckersbergs gate. A composite image was splashed over six columns: the façade of the apartment block formed the backdrop to three personal photographs of the mother, father, and eldest son in the Stahlberg family. The photo of Hermann Stahlberg had obviously been snapped on board a boat; he stood smartly at the rail, dressed in a blazer with gold buttons and the shipping-company emblem on its breast pocket. He gave a faint smile, with his chin thrust forward as he stared past the photographer. His wife’s smile was broader, in a photo taken indoors. She was cutting into a cream cake decorated with more candles than Hanne could be bothered to count; the flash was reflected in her glasses, making the woman look hysterical. The image of Preben was indistinct, though he seemed far younger than his forty-plus years. His hair was mid-length and he wore an open-necked shirt. It must have been taken years ago.
Where did the journalists get them? Hanne wondered, struggling to drown her cigarette craving with coffee. Only two or three hours
Grabbing her bag, she fumbled for the keys and let herself in.
“Fuck!” she said through gritted teeth.
She ignored the elevator and slowly took the stairs.
FRIDAY DECEMBER 20
A s usual, the silence woke her at the crack of dawn. She had always slept lightly in the mornings, and without the familiar friendly clamor of the east end and the soothing sound of heavy traffic through Tøyen, she no longer felt the need for an alarm clock. Not even to be on the safe side. Even though only two hours had elapsed since she had dropped off, she knew how futile it was to turn over and try to prolong the night. An open window would have helped, of course. Fresh air and noise would have kept Hanne asleep for another hour or two. Clammy with perspiration, she pulled the quilt aside and got up. Nefis muttered in her sleep, with half her body visible under her thin blanket. The dark-blue oriental pattern made her skin appear paler than it was. She looked childlike as she lay there, mouth open and arms above her head. A sliver of saliva had left the outline of a stain on the pillow. The room temperature was more than twenty degrees Celsius. Hanne felt terribly thirsty.
The copy of Aftenposten had already been delivered. The aroma of fresh coffee hit her as she entered the kitchen and closed the door quietly behind her. As usual, Mary had programmed the machine for half past five. The entire kitchen was filled with absurd aids, all with timers and precision controls for every conceivable and inconceivable requirement. Nefis wanted it like that, and Nefis could afford it. Nefis had money for anything and everything. Nefis was building her first real home at the age of thirty-eight and delighted in filling it with unnecessary gadgets that Mary used with enthusiasm and surprising proficiency, despite the old woman being hardly able to spell her way through an instruction leaflet.
Hanne filled a mug with coffee and poured in some milk, before drinking half a liter of juice straight from the carton. She did not feel hungry. To her amazement, her cigarette craving was always acute in the mornings. When she had finally managed to quit about a year ago, she had been most afraid of the evenings. Of alcohol. Of socializing with other people. The stress of her job, perhaps. All the same, it was the mornings that had proved to be the test. She felt the gravitation toward the cabinet above the cooker, where Mary’s stash of rolling tobacco was kept, bought by Nefis on a monthly basis and painstakingly sealed in plastic containers by their housekeeper, who adhered scrupulously to Nefis’s instruction to restrict her smoking to her own small section of the apartment.
The coverage in Aftenposten was extravagant. Virtually the entire first page was dedicated to the murders in Eckersbergs gate. A composite image was splashed over six columns: the façade of the apartment block formed the backdrop to three personal photographs of the mother, father, and eldest son in the Stahlberg family. The photo of Hermann Stahlberg had obviously been snapped on board a boat; he stood smartly at the rail, dressed in a blazer with gold buttons and the shipping-company emblem on its breast pocket. He gave a faint smile, with his chin thrust forward as he stared past the photographer. His wife’s smile was broader, in a photo taken indoors. She was cutting into a cream cake decorated with more candles than Hanne could be bothered to count; the flash was reflected in her glasses, making the woman look hysterical. The image of Preben was indistinct, though he seemed far younger than his forty-plus years. His hair was mid-length and he wore an open-necked shirt. It must have been taken years ago.
Where did the journalists get them? Hanne wondered, struggling to drown her cigarette craving with coffee. Only two or three hours
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