Read Online Dead Men (Marie and Lotte Book 1) by Mette Glargaard - Free Book Online
Authors: Mette Glargaard
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scent.
Of course, Verner not my first, but his death was different because I had spent so much time on planning. Perhaps also because he was a little famous and the risk was greater because of the attention his death would get. But it was satisfying to know that I was in top form; and I should continue to be from now on, and remember the joy of careful planning. Still, I was very aware that I now had to go abroad for a while; it could arouse police suspicion, if there were too many dead men in my wake at home.
I had only just had that thought when I realized that Peter Hansen was standing beside me. He was red in the face and looking very annoyed, but it took only a split second before I forgot all about him. For right in his wake followed another man and as soon as I saw him, the church, the coffin, the organ and other mourners faded into the background; there was only room for this man. He moved with an elegant glide; almost dancing toward me. Each part of his body seemed to work as one and there was not the usual jerky or erratic movements that are normally in a human walk. This guy seemed to be pushed by an invisible energy. Like a cat he had that soft, almost lazy and very purposeful grace as he moved over to me.
“Philippe Alandra. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
He gave me his hand, big and golden brown which I thought would crush my hand, but instead it was soft, the grip gentle yet firm. In the same movement he bowed easily, and brought my hand up to his mouth and kissed the air just before his lips hit my skin. I felt the heat and it was like getting a shock throughout my body. He smelled of sun and gun oil and, mixed in with these scents, there was a slight but distinct aroma of a man. He was not a predator and it came as a surprise to me. My body responded as if I had been in shock, and I pulled my hand away; he looked up with puzzled expression. His face was very masculine, with a jaw with the hint of a dark beard, a large nose with a slightly skewed arc which testified that it had been broken and had not been put properly back in place. His wide-awake eyes, with a clear gaze, searched for details and contexts.
“Sorry. I did not mean to scare you! I understand it’s a very sensitive time for you.”
His voice had a dark syrup edge, slightly hoarse with an accent that suggested the endless olive groves in Andalusia.
I just nodded; I was too shocked to say anything.
“I was a big fan of Mr. Damgaard. If there’s anything I can help with do please let me know.”
With his brown eyes that peered intensely through long, black lashes he stared at my sunglasses as if to discern my eyes behind them. Beside him Peter Hansen gave a little snorting sound that left none of us in any doubt that he did not care for the situation. He finally spoke:
“I think we should let Miss Tofte Nielsen alone with her grief,” he said sharply as he looked straight at me, as if I had no sunglasses on at all.
“I’m sorry, we should not have come,” he said in an attempt to smooth things out. I felt momentarily puzzled by this generosity that I would not have expected from him.
I just nodded almost imperceptibly, and in the same moment the minister came up to me and took my hand. I turned to him, but as the two police officers disappeared out of the church door it felt as if Philippe Alandra was buried deep inside me.
7
Marie held hands over her ears and winced as his furious tirade just went on and on like a never-ending hailstorm.
“Why do I say it again and again and again?” cried her father, although the target of his anger was less than a few feet away. “Why the hell do you always have to ruin any pleasure for me?”
A cloud of froth flew from his mouth into the air, his face frozen in a mask of fury. It was almost as if an alien creature had taken over his body, something so outrageous and dangerous that no one could stop or control it. Marie had seen her father angry many times before, but never
Of course, Verner not my first, but his death was different because I had spent so much time on planning. Perhaps also because he was a little famous and the risk was greater because of the attention his death would get. But it was satisfying to know that I was in top form; and I should continue to be from now on, and remember the joy of careful planning. Still, I was very aware that I now had to go abroad for a while; it could arouse police suspicion, if there were too many dead men in my wake at home.
I had only just had that thought when I realized that Peter Hansen was standing beside me. He was red in the face and looking very annoyed, but it took only a split second before I forgot all about him. For right in his wake followed another man and as soon as I saw him, the church, the coffin, the organ and other mourners faded into the background; there was only room for this man. He moved with an elegant glide; almost dancing toward me. Each part of his body seemed to work as one and there was not the usual jerky or erratic movements that are normally in a human walk. This guy seemed to be pushed by an invisible energy. Like a cat he had that soft, almost lazy and very purposeful grace as he moved over to me.
“Philippe Alandra. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
He gave me his hand, big and golden brown which I thought would crush my hand, but instead it was soft, the grip gentle yet firm. In the same movement he bowed easily, and brought my hand up to his mouth and kissed the air just before his lips hit my skin. I felt the heat and it was like getting a shock throughout my body. He smelled of sun and gun oil and, mixed in with these scents, there was a slight but distinct aroma of a man. He was not a predator and it came as a surprise to me. My body responded as if I had been in shock, and I pulled my hand away; he looked up with puzzled expression. His face was very masculine, with a jaw with the hint of a dark beard, a large nose with a slightly skewed arc which testified that it had been broken and had not been put properly back in place. His wide-awake eyes, with a clear gaze, searched for details and contexts.
“Sorry. I did not mean to scare you! I understand it’s a very sensitive time for you.”
His voice had a dark syrup edge, slightly hoarse with an accent that suggested the endless olive groves in Andalusia.
I just nodded; I was too shocked to say anything.
“I was a big fan of Mr. Damgaard. If there’s anything I can help with do please let me know.”
With his brown eyes that peered intensely through long, black lashes he stared at my sunglasses as if to discern my eyes behind them. Beside him Peter Hansen gave a little snorting sound that left none of us in any doubt that he did not care for the situation. He finally spoke:
“I think we should let Miss Tofte Nielsen alone with her grief,” he said sharply as he looked straight at me, as if I had no sunglasses on at all.
“I’m sorry, we should not have come,” he said in an attempt to smooth things out. I felt momentarily puzzled by this generosity that I would not have expected from him.
I just nodded almost imperceptibly, and in the same moment the minister came up to me and took my hand. I turned to him, but as the two police officers disappeared out of the church door it felt as if Philippe Alandra was buried deep inside me.
7
Marie held hands over her ears and winced as his furious tirade just went on and on like a never-ending hailstorm.
“Why do I say it again and again and again?” cried her father, although the target of his anger was less than a few feet away. “Why the hell do you always have to ruin any pleasure for me?”
A cloud of froth flew from his mouth into the air, his face frozen in a mask of fury. It was almost as if an alien creature had taken over his body, something so outrageous and dangerous that no one could stop or control it. Marie had seen her father angry many times before, but never
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