Death Sentence by Mikkel Birkegaard Read Free Book Online

title By the Skin of My Teeth as a joke and it had stuck. The plot was an offshoot of my research for In the Red Zone , where I had become intrigued by how easily people relate to a fear of dentists. I thought there was enough material for a separate novel and so far I had been proved right, even though I had only written about a third.
    Before I reached Copenhagen, I pulled into a petrol station and bought a packet of cigarettes. I had quit smoking the first time Line was pregnant, but for some reason I always started again when I was going to Copenhagen, as if the fumes from the city traffic weren’t bad enough or perhaps I believed the cigarettes would cancel out the smog. It was therefore a year since I had last smoked and it resulted in a couple of violent coughing fits and a feeling of dizziness as I inhaled my way through the first couple of cigarettes. But by God, they tasted good.
    After one and a half hours’ drive, I reached the hotel. Driving through inner-city Copenhagen for well over thirty minutes had been tough. I was far from used to that volume of traffic. My T-shirt was damp with sweat and I could feel a headache coming on. Once in Copenhagen I preferred to get around by taxi, or on foot if the weather and the distance permitted, and I was relieved when I finally parked the car in front of the hotel.
    Marieborg is a five-storey white building with large windows overlooking the street. Behind those windows the interior of the restaurant was classic with dark wooden panels, wooden chairs, white tablecloths and dark pink carpets. Mirrors and brass lamps were mounted on the walls. The entrance to the lobby was situated on the right-hand side of the building, from where a lift and a staircase with the same pink carpet as the restaurant led to the rooms on the floors above.
    The owner of the hotel, Ferdinan Jensen, was standing behind the reception counter when I walked into the lobby holding my weekend bag and the envelope in one hand and my blazer draped over my shoulder with my other hand.
    ‘Welcome back, Mr Føns,’ he said, flashing me a wide smile.
    Ferdinan Jensen was Spanish by birth, but had married a Danish woman more than twenty-five years ago. He had Mediterranean skin, pitch-black hair and bushy eyebrows, which suggested he wasn’t born in Denmark, but his Danish was impeccable and he was incredibly well informed about what was happening in the city. He was in great shape, probably as a result of his boundless commitment to the hotel where no job was beneath his dignity. I have seen him carry suitcases, change light bulbs and wait in the restaurant, always with the same wide smile on his lips.
    ‘So it’s the book fair again, is it?’
    I set down my bag in front of the counter and heaved a sigh. ‘Yes, it’s that time of the year again, I’m afraid. The leaves are falling and it’s raining books.’
    Ferdinan Jensen laughed. ‘Yes, and some of them are yours, am I right?’
    I dug out a signed copy of In the Red Zone from the front pocket of my weekend bag and placed it on the counter.
    ‘And now one of them is yours,’ I replied and pushed it towards him.
    His eyes shone. ‘You shouldn’t have, Mr Føns,’ he said, and grabbed the book with both hands. ‘Thank you so much. I’m starting this one tonight.’ He studied the cover before carefully placing the book on the table behind the counter.
    When he turned around again, he had a doleful expression on his face.
    ‘I’m really very sorry about the mix-up with your room,’ he said, throwing up his hands. ‘It’s my fault. I could kick myself.’
    ‘That’s quite all right,’ I replied. ‘A change will do me good.’
    He shook his head. ‘That new computer is too clever for me,’ he said, pointing to a screen on his left. ‘It was my darling wife’s idea, but I can’t get it to work properly. That’s why I couldn’t reserve your usual room when you booked. I’m so embarrassed.’
    ‘It really doesn’t matter,’