Read Online Hornet Flight by Ken Follett - Free Book Online

Peter’s father had tried to persuade him to put Inge into a private nursing home. Peter could not afford the fees, but Axel was willing to pay. He said he wanted Peter to be free, though thetruth was he was desperate for a grandson to bear his name. However, Peter felt it was his duty to take care of his wife. For him, duty was the most important of a man’s obligations. If he shirked it, he would lose his self-respect.
    He took Inge to the living room and sat her by the window. He left the radio playing music at low volume, then returned to the bathroom.
    The face in his shaving mirror was regular and well proportioned. Inge had used to say he looked like a film star. Since the accident he had noticed a few gray hairs in his red morning stubble, and there were lines of weariness around the orange-brown eyes. But there was a proud look in the set of his head, and an immovable rectitude in the straight line of his lips.
    When he had shaved, he tied his tie and strapped on his shoulder holster with the standard issue Walther 7.65mm pistol, the smaller seven-round “PPK” version designed as a concealed weapon for detectives. Then he stood in the kitchen and ate three slices of dry bread, saving the scarce butter for Inge.
    The nurse was supposed to come at eight o’clock.
    Between eight and five past Peter’s mood changed. He began to pace up and down the little hallway of the apartment. He lit a cigarette then crushed it out impatiently. He looked at his wristwatch every few seconds.
    Between five and ten past he became angry. Did he not have enough to cope with? He combined caring for his helpless wife with a taxing and highly responsible job as a police detective. The nurse had no right to let him down.
    When she rang the doorbell at eight-fifteen, he threw open the door and shouted, “How dare you be late?”
    She was a plump girl of nineteen, wearing a carefully pressed uniform, her hair neatly arranged under her nurse’s cap, her round face lightly made up. She was shocked by his anger. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    He stood aside to let her in. He felt a strong temptation to strike her, and she obviously sensed this, for she hurried past him nervously.
    He followed her into the living room. “You had time to do your hair and makeup,” he said angrily.
    â€œI said I’m sorry.”
    â€œDon’t you realize that I have a very demanding job? You’ve got nothing on your mind more important than walking with boys in the Tivoli Garden—yet you can’t even get to work on time!”
    She looked nervously at his gun in the shoulder holster, as if she was afraid he was going to shoot her. “The bus was late,” she said in a shaky voice.
    â€œGet an earlier bus, you lazy cow!”
    â€œOh!” She looked about to cry.
    Peter turned away, fighting an urge to slap her fat face. If she walked out, he would be in worse trouble. He put on his jacket and went to the door. “Don’t you ever be late again!” he shouted. Then he left the apartment.
    Outside the building he jumped onto a tram heading for the city center. He lit a cigarette and smoked in rapid puffs, trying to calm himself. He was still angry when he got off outside the Politigaarden, the daringly modern police headquarters, but the sight of the building soothed him: its squat shape gave a reassuring impression of strength, its blindingly white stone spoke of purity, and its rows of identical windows symbolized order and the predictability of justice. He passed through the dark vestibule. Hidden in the center of the building was a large open courtyard, circular, with a ring of double pillars marking a sheltered walkway like the cloisters of a monastery. Peter crossed the courtyard and entered his section.
    He was greeted by Detective Constable Tilde Jespersen, one of a handful of women in the Copenhagen force. The young widow of a policeman, she was as tough and smart as any