Beyond the Truth: Hanne Wilhelmsen Book Seven (A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel) by Anne Holt Read Free Book Online Page A

man. Henrik Backe seemed suddenly unsteady, as if all his energies had been depleted by adopting a threatening pose, the reason for which he no longer quite remembered. With an expression of bewilderment, he ran his fingers over his forehead and sat down in the chair beside Hanne, to all appearances without even noticing that she was there.
    “I’d like some water.”
    “Of course you can have some water,” Erik Henriksen said, leaning confidentially across the desk. “I promise this will take as little time as possible. You probably want to return home again as quickly as you can. Here …”
    He placed an unopened bottle of Farris mineral water and a clean glass in front of the old man, before switching on his computer.
    “First of all some personal details,” he began. “Full name and date of birth.”
    “Henrik Heinz Backe, ten – seventeen – twenty-nine.”
    “Employment? Retired, perhaps?”
    “Yes, retired.”
    “From what?”
    “From – what do you mean?”
    “What were you before you retired?”
    “Oh …”
    Backe was lost in thought. His face grew passive and expressionless, his mouth half-open. His teeth were brown and a bottom front tooth was missing. His eyelids hooded his irises so heavily that only the lower part of the pupils was visible.
    “I was a consultant,” he said abruptly, producing a pack of twenty Prince cigarettes. “In an insurance firm.”
    “Insurance consultant,” Erik said, smiling, and made a note.
    Backe’s hands were shaking violently as he tried to remove a cigarette from the packet. He dropped three on the floor, but made no move to pick them up.
    “I’ll complain,” he said in a loud voice.
    “We’ll get to that,” Erik reassured him. “Let’s get these formalities over and done with, first. I know your address, of course.”
    His fingers raced over the keys and he turned again to the old man.
    “I understand that you were at home all yesterday afternoon and evening. Is that right?”
    “Yes. I was at home.”
    “What were you doing?”
    “I was reading.”
    “Reading. The whole time?”
    “I read all the time.”
    “Yes, but maybe you did something else as well, in between times. I would like to get it all absolutely precise. Let’s begin with the morning. You got up. When?”
    “I was reading a book. A trashy novel. Incredible that they pass that sort of thing. One of these newfangled crime novels where—”
    He broke off. Hanne unconsciously drew back from him. The stench of dirty clothing and unwashed body had begun to bother her.
    “Is that a toilet?” Backe asked, pointing at a coat cupboard beside the office door.
    Erik looked at him in confusion.
    “No, that’s a cupboard. Do you want to use the toilet? I can show you where it is.”
    “I’d prefer to go to my own,” Backe said, his voice reedy now.
    The shaking had increased. Hanne Wilhelmsen placed a hand on his back. His shoulder blades almost cut through the flimsy fabric of his shirt. He stared at her, disconcerted, as if she had just arrived.
    “I’ll show you.”
    Erik stood beside the door. Backe tried to stand up, but his knees would not let him.
    “They’re celebrities rather than authors,” he slurred. “In this book, in this silly scribbling … Where is the drinks cabinet?”
    His eyes were wide open now, coated with a dull film of impaired memory. The two investigators exchanged glances.
    “I think we’ll get you home to your drinks cabinet,” Hanne said softly. “I’ll find a nice young lady to drive you.”
    “I’m going to complain,” Backe wailed; now he was almost crying. “I want to submit a letter of protest.”
    “And you’ll be able to do that, if you insist. But wouldn’t you rather go home?”
    Henrik Backe tottered up from his chair and walked over to the cupboard. Hanne stopped him with a friendly suggestion.
    “Come,” she said quietly. “Come on, we’ll go together.”
    “Do you maybe have a beer somewhere?” the old man