The Final Murder by Anne Holt Read Free Book Online Page A

out when Adam tried to check the Ex Libris label.
    Jens Bj0rneboe and Hamsun, P. O. Enquist, Gtinter Grass and
    Don DeLillo, Lu Xun and Hanna Arendt. New and old side by
    side, in something that vaguely resembled a system. In order of love, Adam suddenly realized.
    ‘Look,’ he said to Sigmund Berli, who had just come back in
    from the bedroom. ‘She’s got all her favourite books between hip and head level! The books down towards the floor or above are almost untouched.’
    He stretched up and pointed to an anthology of Chinese
    authors he had never even heard of. Then he hunkered down,
    took out a book from the bottom shelf and blew the dust off
    before he read out loud:
    ‘Mircea Eliade.’ He shook his head and put the book back.
    ‘That’s the sort of thing Johanne’s sister reads. But I would never have guessed that Miss Heinerback did.’
    ‘There’s a lot of crime here too.’
    Sigmund Berli ran his fingers over the shelves closest to the kitchen door. Adam squinted at the titles. They were all there.
    The Grand Old Dames of British literature and the arrogant
    Americans from the eighties. And here and there a French-sounding name popped up. Judging by the covers, with big cars and
    lethal weapons in grey stylized strokes, they had to be from the fifties. She had classics such as Chandler and Hammett in
    American presentation copies, alongside an almost complete catalogue of Norwegian crime novels published in the last ten years.
    ‘Do you think they’re her boyfriend’s books?’ Sigmund asked.
    ‘He just moved in recently. These have been here for a while.
    I wonder why she … Why she never mentioned this.’
    ‘What? That she read?’
    ‘Yes. I mean, I’ve gone through a pile of interviews today that all gave the impression of a rather uninteresting person. A political animal, true enough, but someone who is more interested in
    banal individual issues than in putting things into context. Even in the…’ Adam drew a square in the air before continuing: ‘. .. Boxes, is that what they’re called? The frames with standard questions, she never said anything about… this. When they
    asked if she read, she said newspapers. Five newspapers a day and not much time for anything else.’
    ‘Maybe she read more before. Before she became a politician, I mean. Just didn’t have enough time any more.’
    Sigmund had moved out into the kitchen.
    ‘Wow! Take a look at this.’
    The kitchen was a bizarre mix of old and new. The front
    angled wall cupboards looked like they were made just after the war. But when Adam opened a door, it glided silently and easily on modern plastic and metal fittings. The sink was enormous, with taps straight out of a 1930s film. The porcelain buttons that showed warm and cold in red and blue calligraphy were unreadable with age. The worktops were dark and matt.
    ‘Slate,’ Adam said and rapped the stone with his knuckles.
    ‘She’s obviously restored a lot of the old features and mixed in some new.’
    ‘Classy,’ Sigmund hesitated. ‘It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes, and expensive.’
    ‘How much do they earn in the Storting, d’you reckon?’
    ‘Not enough,’ Adam said and pinched his nose. ‘When were
    the police here?’
    ‘About seven o’clock this morning. Her boyfriend, he’s called Trond Arnesen, had destroyed any evidence at the scene of the crime. Had thrown up everywhere and moved things around. He
     
    pulled her out of the bed and stuff like that. Have you seen the bedroom?’
    ‘Mmra.’
    Adam moved over to the kitchen window. Dusk was settling in
    the east, heavy clouds hung over Lillestr0m in the distance, with the promise of snow during the night. He shifted a curved kitchen table with great care and put his face right up to the window, without touching the glass. He stood like that for a while, lost in his own thoughts, without responding to Sigmund’s comments, which sounded more distant and muffled as his colleague moved around