Read Online A Twist of the Knife by Peter James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter James
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said, ‘
Danke
.’ Then, as she went back outside to get her second suitcase, she tore it open, with eager fingers and nails she had varnished to perfection for him. For Hans.
The note read: ‘Meet me at the crematorium. xx’
She smiled.
You wicked, wicked man!
The cadaver helped her up two flights of stairs to a room that was as tired and drab as the rest of the place. But at least she could see down into the street and keep an eye on her car, and she was pleased about that. She popped open the lid of one case, changed her clothes and freshened herself up, spraying perfume in all the places – except one – that she remembered Hans had liked to press his face into most of all last time.
Twenty minutes later, in the falling dark, after getting lost twice, she finally pulled into the almost deserted crematorium car park. There was just one other car there – an elderly brown Mercedes that tilted to one side, as if it had broken suspension.
As she climbed out, carefully locking the car, she looked around. It was one of the most beautiful car parks she had seen in her life, surrounded by all kinds of carefully tended trees, shrubs and flowers as if it were a botanical garden. It barely felt like December here; it seemed more like spring. No doubt the intention – a perpetual spring for mourners.
She walked up a tarmac footpath that was wide enough for a vehicle, and lined with manicured trees and tall black streetlamps. Anticipation drove her forwards, her pace quickening with every step, her breathing becoming deeper and faster. God, her nerves were jangling now. A million butterflies were going berserk in her stomach. Her boots crunched on grit; her teeth crunched, grinding from the cold, but more from nerves.
She walked through open wrought-iron gates, and continued on, passing a cloistered single-storey building, clad in ivy, its walls covered in memorial plaques.
And then, ahead of her, she saw the building.
And she stopped in her tracks.
And her heart skipped a beat.
Oh, fuck! Oh, wow!
This was a crematorium?
It was one of the most beautiful buildings she had ever seen in her life. Rectangular, art deco in style, in stark white, with a portico of square black marble columns and windows, high up, like portholes on a ship, inset with black rectangles. It was topped by an elegant pitched red-tiled roof.
She was stunned.
There were steps leading up to the portico, with a stone balustrade to the right, giving a view down across terraces of elegant tombstones set in what looked like glades in a forest.
When I die, this is where I would like to lie. Please, God. Please, Hans.
Please!
She climbed the steps and pushed the door, which was unlocked and opened almost silently. She stepped inside and simply stopped in her tracks. Now she could understand why the crematorium featured so prominently as one of Hagen’s major attractions.
It was like stepping inside a Mondrian painting. Vertical stripes of black and white, with geometrical squares in the centre, varying in depth, width and height, at one end. At the other end was a semi-domed ceiling, with quasi-religious figures painted on a gold backdrop, above more black-and-white geometrics.
Beneath was a curious-looking altar, a white cross rising above what looked like a white two-metre-long beer barrel.
As she stared at it, there was a noise that made her jump. A sudden, terrifying sound. A mechanical grinding, roaring, vibrating bellow of heavy machinery. The barrel began to rise, the white cross with it, the floor trembling beneath her. As it rose higher, behind it a bolt of grey silk slowly unfurled. Then a coffin rose into view. Janet stood, mesmerized. The grinding, roaring sound filled the galleried room.
Then the sound stopped as abruptly as it had started.
There was a moment of total silence.
The coffin lid began to rise.
Janet screamed.
Then she saw Hans’s smiling face.
He pushed the lid aside and it fell to the floor with an echoing
Danke
.’ Then, as she went back outside to get her second suitcase, she tore it open, with eager fingers and nails she had varnished to perfection for him. For Hans.
The note read: ‘Meet me at the crematorium. xx’
She smiled.
You wicked, wicked man!
The cadaver helped her up two flights of stairs to a room that was as tired and drab as the rest of the place. But at least she could see down into the street and keep an eye on her car, and she was pleased about that. She popped open the lid of one case, changed her clothes and freshened herself up, spraying perfume in all the places – except one – that she remembered Hans had liked to press his face into most of all last time.
Twenty minutes later, in the falling dark, after getting lost twice, she finally pulled into the almost deserted crematorium car park. There was just one other car there – an elderly brown Mercedes that tilted to one side, as if it had broken suspension.
As she climbed out, carefully locking the car, she looked around. It was one of the most beautiful car parks she had seen in her life, surrounded by all kinds of carefully tended trees, shrubs and flowers as if it were a botanical garden. It barely felt like December here; it seemed more like spring. No doubt the intention – a perpetual spring for mourners.
She walked up a tarmac footpath that was wide enough for a vehicle, and lined with manicured trees and tall black streetlamps. Anticipation drove her forwards, her pace quickening with every step, her breathing becoming deeper and faster. God, her nerves were jangling now. A million butterflies were going berserk in her stomach. Her boots crunched on grit; her teeth crunched, grinding from the cold, but more from nerves.
She walked through open wrought-iron gates, and continued on, passing a cloistered single-storey building, clad in ivy, its walls covered in memorial plaques.
And then, ahead of her, she saw the building.
And she stopped in her tracks.
And her heart skipped a beat.
Oh, fuck! Oh, wow!
This was a crematorium?
It was one of the most beautiful buildings she had ever seen in her life. Rectangular, art deco in style, in stark white, with a portico of square black marble columns and windows, high up, like portholes on a ship, inset with black rectangles. It was topped by an elegant pitched red-tiled roof.
She was stunned.
There were steps leading up to the portico, with a stone balustrade to the right, giving a view down across terraces of elegant tombstones set in what looked like glades in a forest.
When I die, this is where I would like to lie. Please, God. Please, Hans.
Please!
She climbed the steps and pushed the door, which was unlocked and opened almost silently. She stepped inside and simply stopped in her tracks. Now she could understand why the crematorium featured so prominently as one of Hagen’s major attractions.
It was like stepping inside a Mondrian painting. Vertical stripes of black and white, with geometrical squares in the centre, varying in depth, width and height, at one end. At the other end was a semi-domed ceiling, with quasi-religious figures painted on a gold backdrop, above more black-and-white geometrics.
Beneath was a curious-looking altar, a white cross rising above what looked like a white two-metre-long beer barrel.
As she stared at it, there was a noise that made her jump. A sudden, terrifying sound. A mechanical grinding, roaring, vibrating bellow of heavy machinery. The barrel began to rise, the white cross with it, the floor trembling beneath her. As it rose higher, behind it a bolt of grey silk slowly unfurled. Then a coffin rose into view. Janet stood, mesmerized. The grinding, roaring sound filled the galleried room.
Then the sound stopped as abruptly as it had started.
There was a moment of total silence.
The coffin lid began to rise.
Janet screamed.
Then she saw Hans’s smiling face.
He pushed the lid aside and it fell to the floor with an echoing
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