A Rip in the Veil by Anna Belfrage Read Free Book Online Page B

lot older.”
    John’s skin puckered; Mercedes had always seemed so young, ten, even twenty years Magnus’ junior.
    Magnus nodded. “I know, she didn’t age much, did she? And…” He tensed and cocked his head. “Did you hear that?”
    “No.”
    “Shh, listen!” Magnus said, getting to his feet.
    John rose as well. From above came the soft but unmistakeable sounds of something moving stealthily across the floor of the room upstairs – Mercedes’ studio.
    “Didn’t you have it all wired a few months back?”
    “I don’t have the alarm on while I’m in the house, not after setting it off twice by mistake in one month.” Magnus handed John a cricket bat, armed himself with a golf club and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Come on.”
    They tiptoed up the stairs, crossed the small landing and stood for a while outside the door.
    “Why in there?” John whispered.
    “No idea,” Magnus murmured. “Maybe it’s a crazy art collector.”
    “Very crazy and very persistent.”
    Magnus had been plagued by break-ins over the last few years, always directed at the studio.
    “This time he isn’t getting away, this time I’ll bash his knee in or something. Ready?” Magnus said, one hand on the doorknob. John gripped his bat and nodded. Magnus opened the door and threw himself inside.
    John had but the vaguest impressions of the man they surprised in the darkened studio. Black clothes, a black ski mask, and in his hand a heavy torch. The window stood wide open and the room smelled of rain. Magnus said something – in Swedish, John assumed – the man wheeled, and for a moment it was like a live tableau, all three frozen into position. And then the burglar vaulted over the table, making for the window, and behind him came Magnus, golf club raised high.
    Crash! The intruder sent one, two, three filing cabinets to the floor in his wake. Impressively strong, this guy, and John hesitated in his approach, his hold on the bat sweaty. What was he supposed to do? Swipe at the head? An arm? Magnus clambered over the remains of the cabinets and charged. There, he had him! The burglar heaved, twisted loose. A scuffle, a shove, and Magnus staggered back. John rushed to help. All he could properly make out was the square of light that was the window, and silhouetted against it, Magnus and the burglar. A stool caught him mid-shin, and John fell, landing hard on knees and hands.
    From across the landing came Isaac’s voice, raised in sobbing shrieks. Magnus grabbed hold of the burglar, grunting with the effort of restraining him. In one swift movement the black clad man turned, brought the torch down on Magnus’ head and jumped through the window, for all the world as if he’d been a cat. There was a loud clatter and a muted yelp, and by the window Magnus groaned and clapped a hand to his head.
    “Magnus!” John was torn between his crying son and his hurting father-in-law.
    “I’m okay,” Magnus said, “go and check on Isaac.”
    *
    Two hours later, Magnus sank down to sit in his chair, an impressive plaster covering the left side of his forehead.
    “Three stitches, and yet another bloody book of paper work to complete for the police and the insurance company.” He shook his head when John raised the whisky bottle. “Painkillers; they don’t mix well, do they?”
    “As far as I can see nothing was taken,” John said. “But he’s made a mess up there, small canvases scattered all over the place.”
    “Just like all the other times, although I wouldn’t notice, would I, if he made off with a couple.”
    “No, probably not,” John said. “I tried to clean up.” A hasty shoving together of the paintings no more, because even if he had no intention of ever admitting it, John drowned in nausea whenever he handled any of Mercedes’ pictures. “I couldn’t get the cabinets back up, though, and one is mostly matchwood anyway.”
    “I’ll do that later.” Magnus sighed and closed his eyes. “