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

muttered, permitting himself to be led hesitantly from the office. “Something to drink would do me good. It certainly would.”
    He shuffled after the Chief Inspector, along the corridor toward the elevator. Erik stood watching them. Only now did he notice that Backe was wearing one boot and one shoe, below the legs of his baggy trousers.
    Hermine Stahlberg dropped her glass on the floor and the fragile crystal smashed. The dregs of whisky made the glass shards sparkle and acquire an amber-yellow hue. Apathetically she tried to pick up the largest fragments. One of them cut her palm beside the thumb. When she put the gaping wound to her mouth, it brought with it the sweet taste of iron. Iron, alcohol, and hand cream. She retched and threw up.
    “My God, Hermine.”
    Carl-Christian Stahlberg was partly irritated, partly solicitous, as he led his sister out to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and applied a clumsy bandage. The blood was still flowing freely. He muttered a fierce oath as he made a fresh attempt. In the end he tore off a wad of toilet paper, folded it to form a thick cushion, and used dental floss to attach it firmly. Hermine stood, impassive, staring at her hand. It reminded her of cotton candy with specks of strawberry and made her giggle.
    “You’re drunk,” her brother said aggressively. “Very smart. What if the police turn up again? Have you thought of that? Have you thought that it’s actually likely the police will come back?”
    “How did you get in?” Hermine slurred.
    “The door was open. Come on.”
    He grabbed her healthy left hand and escorted her into the living room. She accompanied him with reluctance.
    “I’ve spoken to the police,” she said. “For hours on end. They were ever so nice. Sympathetic. Really very sympathetic.”
    Carl-Christian installed her in an Italian designer chair, coffee-brown and uncomfortable. She made an effort to stand up, but her brother held her down, bending over her as he leaned on the brushed-metal armrests. Their faces were only a few centimeters apart. Her breath was rank from vomit and strong liquor, but he did not flinch.
    “Hermine,” he said, his voice quavering slightly. “We’re in deep shit . Do you understand that? We’re in terrible, terrible trouble.”
    Once again she tried to extricate herself. He grabbed her bandaged hand and squeezed tight.
    “Ouch,” she yelled. “Let go!”
    “Then you have to listen to me. Do you promise? Promise to sit still?”
    She nodded almost imperceptibly. He let her go and sank to his knees.
    “Were you interviewed?” he asked.
    Hermine pulled expressive grimaces of pain.
    “ Were you interviewed? ”
    “What do you mean?” she whined. “I’ve talked to them. They came here. Last night. With a clergyman – the whole caboodle. Journalists. Outside, though. Crowds of journalists. In the end, I had to disconnect the doorbell. And the phone. But why are you so het up about that? Mother and Father are dead, and I think you should … I …”
    Now she was genuinely sobbing. Fat tears mixed with make-up and bloodstains to form pale-pink streaks on her face.
    “I don’t understand anything,” she slurred as she wiped snot with her sleeve. “I understand absolutely none of it. Mother and Father and … Preben! ”
    Her sobs got the better of her. She was shaking. Blood soaked though the paper bandage, and she held her hand out helplessly. Her brother put his arms around her and hugged her hard. For some considerable time.
    “Hermine,” he finally said, into her ear. “This is really hellish. Dreadful. But we must …”
    His voice broke into a falsetto, and he swallowed loudly to regain control. Stiffly, he rose to his feet and sat down opposite her on the settee, resting his arms on his knees and struggling to maintain eye contact, despite her inebriated state.
    “We must discuss this,” he said, battling to keep calm. “Were you interviewed by the police? Or did they just come