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Authors: Håkan Nesser
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you,’ she said.
But she didn’t want to go to bed with him tonight. Another time, perhaps, if he would be staying on in London?
But it just wasn’t on right now. Could he understand that?
He said that he could. Moved her hand away and sat there for a while as they drank what was left of the wine. Then he heaved himself up and stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. Brushed her red hair to one side and began stroking his fingers over her soft, naked skin and the sharp edges of her collarbones.
Asked if he could give her a bit of a massage.
She nodded hesitantly, and straightened her back.
He massaged her gently for a few minutes, until her shoulders relaxed and began to sink. She said she liked it. He said that he did as well. He could feel that she was a sensuous and warm-blooded woman.
Then he felt his own blood reaching boiling point, and strangled her.
It was probably all over within about ninety seconds. He removed her red knickers and laid her down on the floor, on her back. Opened her legs wide and placed her in a position with her pussy exposed and naively inviting. Her dead pussy.
He masturbated, and wiped himself dry with her knickers.
He was back in his hotel room an hour later. Went to bed and slept until noon the following day.
His flight left Heathrow on time that same evening, and as he watched the multi-million city shrinking away into insignificance through his cabin window, he was convinced that they would never find Beth Lindley’s murderer.
Never ever.
He also thought that he had better be careful when it came to women in future. Maybe he should give them a wide berth, that would be the safest bet, of course – but if he found himself in similar circumstances at some point in the future even so, he would be well advised to think ahead.
Very well advised. He ordered a whisky from the stewardess, and noted that he was sitting there smiling.
MAARDAM
SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 2000
8
She didn’t go out for three days.
Three nights and three days. She spent exactly seventy-two-and-a-half hours in her room with ridiculously short breaks in order to go to the lavatory. Or to the kitchen to have a drink of water and something to eat. A sandwich. A cup of yoghurt. Or just a lump of bread, there wasn’t much food in the flat – and it was a mystery how all that time, all those endless hours and those absurdly long-drawn-out minutes passed through her consciousness without driving her mad.
Or perhaps she was mad. Afterwards – the moment she emerged into the rain-drenched street at a quarter to twelve on Sunday evening – it felt as if those locked-in days had already passed.
As if they had been and gone without touching her.
She was in her room, her mother in hers. Three small rooms and a kitchen. Moerckstraat. Rain, more rain, and no food in the fridge. A manic-depressive woman and her mad daughter, who had just murdered their shared lover.
No wonder they were not exactly memorable days.
‘I’m ill,’ her mother had said when they bumped into each other on Friday afternoon. Coughed a little, perhaps to prove it.
As if Monica hadn’t known. As if she was an easily fooled idiot on top of everything else.
‘Me too,’ she had answered.
And frightened, she could have added if her mother had looked as if she were interested in listening. Or if she had been a different sort of mother.
And mad. And desperate. And scared to death.
No, perhaps she wouldn’t have been able to say that. Might not even have been able to say it if she had been a member of the best of families.
‘I’m going for a lie-down,’ her mother had said. ‘You should do the same. It’ll pass.’
So, in bed, on her back. Staring at the ceiling or with her eyes closed, it didn’t make any difference. The images came. The same images, the same film. Over and over again in a never-ending stream, until she had the urge to dig her fingers deep down into her eye sockets and dig out those disgusting
But she didn’t want to go to bed with him tonight. Another time, perhaps, if he would be staying on in London?
But it just wasn’t on right now. Could he understand that?
He said that he could. Moved her hand away and sat there for a while as they drank what was left of the wine. Then he heaved himself up and stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. Brushed her red hair to one side and began stroking his fingers over her soft, naked skin and the sharp edges of her collarbones.
Asked if he could give her a bit of a massage.
She nodded hesitantly, and straightened her back.
He massaged her gently for a few minutes, until her shoulders relaxed and began to sink. She said she liked it. He said that he did as well. He could feel that she was a sensuous and warm-blooded woman.
Then he felt his own blood reaching boiling point, and strangled her.
It was probably all over within about ninety seconds. He removed her red knickers and laid her down on the floor, on her back. Opened her legs wide and placed her in a position with her pussy exposed and naively inviting. Her dead pussy.
He masturbated, and wiped himself dry with her knickers.
He was back in his hotel room an hour later. Went to bed and slept until noon the following day.
His flight left Heathrow on time that same evening, and as he watched the multi-million city shrinking away into insignificance through his cabin window, he was convinced that they would never find Beth Lindley’s murderer.
Never ever.
He also thought that he had better be careful when it came to women in future. Maybe he should give them a wide berth, that would be the safest bet, of course – but if he found himself in similar circumstances at some point in the future even so, he would be well advised to think ahead.
Very well advised. He ordered a whisky from the stewardess, and noted that he was sitting there smiling.
MAARDAM
SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 2000
8
She didn’t go out for three days.
Three nights and three days. She spent exactly seventy-two-and-a-half hours in her room with ridiculously short breaks in order to go to the lavatory. Or to the kitchen to have a drink of water and something to eat. A sandwich. A cup of yoghurt. Or just a lump of bread, there wasn’t much food in the flat – and it was a mystery how all that time, all those endless hours and those absurdly long-drawn-out minutes passed through her consciousness without driving her mad.
Or perhaps she was mad. Afterwards – the moment she emerged into the rain-drenched street at a quarter to twelve on Sunday evening – it felt as if those locked-in days had already passed.
As if they had been and gone without touching her.
She was in her room, her mother in hers. Three small rooms and a kitchen. Moerckstraat. Rain, more rain, and no food in the fridge. A manic-depressive woman and her mad daughter, who had just murdered their shared lover.
No wonder they were not exactly memorable days.
‘I’m ill,’ her mother had said when they bumped into each other on Friday afternoon. Coughed a little, perhaps to prove it.
As if Monica hadn’t known. As if she was an easily fooled idiot on top of everything else.
‘Me too,’ she had answered.
And frightened, she could have added if her mother had looked as if she were interested in listening. Or if she had been a different sort of mother.
And mad. And desperate. And scared to death.
No, perhaps she wouldn’t have been able to say that. Might not even have been able to say it if she had been a member of the best of families.
‘I’m going for a lie-down,’ her mother had said. ‘You should do the same. It’ll pass.’
So, in bed, on her back. Staring at the ceiling or with her eyes closed, it didn’t make any difference. The images came. The same images, the same film. Over and over again in a never-ending stream, until she had the urge to dig her fingers deep down into her eye sockets and dig out those disgusting
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