Burned by Thomas Enger Read Free Book Online

in uniform are sexy. It’s a well-known fact. Brogeland, however, thinks that’s nothing compared to the other way round: women in clothes that radiate authority.
    Damn, that’s hot!
    Ella Sandland is 1.75 meters tall. She is extremely fit, her stomach is flatter than a pancake, her bottom stretches her trousers perfectly when she walks; she is a little underendowed in the breast department, a touch rough and masculine in an “are you bi or straight” way, but it turns him on. He looks at her hair. Her fringe just brushes her eyebrows. Her skin fits snugly under her chin, over her cheekbones; it is smooth, with no blemishes or marks and not a hint of facial hair—thank God! She moves gracefully, she has one of the straightest backs Brogeland has ever seen, and she pushes her chest slightly forward, even when she is sitting, like women tend to do to create the illusion that their breasts are bigger than they really are. But when Sandland does it, it’s just so sexy.
    Damn, that’s so sexy!
    And she is from West Norway! Ulsteinvik, he thinks, though she has lost some of her accent over the years.
    He tries to suppress the images which increasingly clutter his head these days. They are outside the home of Mahmoud Marhoni, Henriette Hagerup’s boyfriend.
    It is a standard home visit. In 2007, thirty out of thirty-two murders were committed by someone the victim knew or was in a relationship with. Statistically, the killer is likely to be someone close. A rejected spouse, a relative. Or a boyfriend. This makes the visit Brogeland and Sandland are about to make of the utmost importance.
    “Ready?” he says. Sandland nods. They open their car doors simultaneously and get out.
    Christ, just look at the way she gets out!
    Brogeland has been to Oslogate before. Mahmoud Marhoni even appeared on his radar earlier, in connection with a case Brogeland worked on when he was a plainclothes detective. As far as they could establish at the time, Marhoni wasn’t mixed up in anything illegal.
    Brogeland has been a cop long enough to know that means nothing. That’s why he experiences a heightened sense of excitement as they walk toward number 37, locate the doorbells, and find the name of Henriette Hagerup’s boyfriend to the left.
    There is no sound when Sandland presses the button. At that moment, a teenage girl in a hijab opens the door to the backyard. She looks at them; she isn’t startled as Brogeland had expected, but holds the door open for them. Sandland thanks her and smiles at the girl. Brogeland nods briefly by way of a thank-you. He makes sure he enters last, so he can gorge himself on the sight of his female colleague’s backside.
    I bet she knows, Brogeland thinks. She knows that men love to stare at her. And the uniform doubles her power. She appears unobtainable because she is a policewoman, and because she is so desirable, she can take her pick of anyone she wants—from both sides of the fence, probably. She is in control. And that’s irresistible, a huge turn-on.
    They find themselves in a backyard which shows every sign of neglect. There are weeds between the paving slabs, bushes have been left to grow wild and tangled. The flower beds, if they can still be called that, are a jungle of compacted soil and dusty roots. The black paint on the bicycle stand is peeling and the few bicycles parked there have rusty chains and flat tires.
    There are three stairwells to choose from. Brogeland knows that Marhoni lives in stairwell B. Sandland gets there first, finds the button in the square box on the wall, and presses it. No sound.
    Brogeland forces himself to take his eyes off Sandland’s rear and looks up at the sky. Clouds are gathering over Gamlebyen. There will be rain soon. A swallow shrieks as it flies from one rooftop to another. He hears a jet plane pass, but he can’t see it through the clouds.
    Marhoni lives in the first-floor flat, but the window is too high for Brogeland to be able to look in. Sandland