Death Sentence by Mikkel Birkegaard Read Free Book Online Page A

I assured him. ‘As long as I’ve got a bed to sleep in.’
    His face lit up. ‘That you will have. I’ve got you a very nice room indeed.’
    I got the key to room 501 and booked a table for two in the restaurant for the same evening.
    ‘By the way,’ Ferdinan exclaimed, bending down behind the counter. ‘There’s some post for you.’ He reappeared holding a thick yellow envelope.
    The size, the thickness and the sound it made when he placed it on the counter suggested it was a book. I picked it up and studied it. There was no indication of who the sender was, and my name was printed on an anonymous address label.
    ‘Who delivered it?’ I asked.
    ‘No idea,’ Ferdinan replied. ‘It was left on the counter some time yesterday afternoon.’
    I shrugged. ‘My publishers, probably.’ I stuck the envelope into the front pocket of my weekend bag.
    Ferdinan offered to carry my bag upstairs but I declined and took the lift up to the fifth floor alone.
    He was right. It was a great room, more like a suite, in my opinion. In addition to a large bedroom with a king-size bed and a bathroom with a Jacuzzi, there was a spacious living room and an extra lavatory. The living room was equipped with a well-stocked minibar and the biggest flat-screen television I had ever seen. Two French balconies, one from the bedroom and one from the living room, overlooked the street and I discovered to my delight that noise from the traffic was perfectly tolerable on the fifth floor.
    It was far too big for me. There was much more room here than in my cottage and I felt lost in the uncluttered surroundings. I’m used to a bit of mess – chaos some would probably call it – and the large living room with all that floor space and upholstered furniture not piled high with books, printouts or notepads was intimidating.
    Having unpacked my clothes, which took up only a couple of hangers and one shelf in the five-door built-in wardrobe in the bedroom, I poured myself a whisky from the minibar and took the envelope from the front pocket of my bag. I carried it over to the living room and sat down in one of the armchairs.
    My address in Rågeleje was secret so readers usually sent their letters to my publishers. From time to time fellow writers would send me signed copies of their books, as I would to them. It was an unspoken agreement and a way of announcing that yes, you had just had another book published. At times it felt like pressure, at other times gloating, especially if the book in question had been well received. I was rarely pleased to receive these trophies, and they were positively unwelcome if I was suffering from writer’s block.
    Please don’t let it be from Tom Winter.
    Tom Winter was a crime writer who had proclaimed himself to be my rival on several occasions. I wasn’t terribly worried about his challenge, but it annoyed me that reviewers were always comparing us, as it was mostly to Tom Winter’s advantage. We had never met and yet he insisted on sending me a copy of every book he wrote. So far, that amounted to five. I had never returned the compliment, but that didn’t seem to worry him.
    I ripped open the envelope and stuck my hand inside. As I expected, it was a book. I pulled it out and turned it face up.
    It was a copy of In the Red Zone , my latest but not yet published crime novel. The cover was dominated by a close-up of a traffic light and, if you looked carefully, you could make out different figures and a single skull in the lamps.
    I frowned. Who would send me a copy of my own book?
    There was no signature on the title page that might reveal the sender. I checked the envelope for further information, but there was nothing.
    I thumbed through the pages. Words and letters flickered before my eyes. A few sentences jumped out long enough to be decoded, but were soon overtaken by more words. The note had been inserted approximately halfway through. I went back a couple of pages to remove it. Perhaps that was the