Life and Limb by Elsebeth Egholm Page A

doesn’t sound very nice. Is it true?’
    She looked at him , and he nodded. She hadn’t been keeping up with the news at all over the last few days.
    â€˜They found her by the stadium. Twenty-two years old.’
    â€˜And with her eyes poked out?’
    She wanted this story off the dinner table, but now Oliver stuck his oar in.
    â€˜It was after the last match of the season. AGF was hammered.’
    It was typical of Oliver that he was more interested in the football result. She had to smile to herself as she passed around the salad.
    â€˜Do they know who did it?’ she said.
    In fact, she wasn’t particularly interested; she asked just to keep the conversation going and the children at the table. They had eaten their pizzas, though, and were about to take themselves off to their rooms. She was losing them – she knew that. Amid this chaotic family life, that was what worried her most – and then the thought that she was not sure how much she loved them. She was not sure how much room there really was for love in her life. Or, for that matter, what love was.
    She got up and started clearing the table. She rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher. Tiredness, pain and wellbeing vied for supremacy inside her.
    â€˜Did it hurt?’ he asked, after the children had gone.
    She shrugged, keeping her back to him.
    â€˜Did you scream?’
    Had she screamed? She had groaned inside the sea of pain, but she didn’t remember anything else. She had been numb. Her arms and legs had stopped obeying her. It was just pleasure and pain gathered in one burning spot where she tasted the whip.
    â€˜Maybe,’ was all she said.
    She didn’t turn until she had finished the kitchen. She observed him. He still looked good, but however much he trained his leg muscles would never be the same as before. How long had they actually known each other? How long had they had been yoked together? Nineteen, twenty years? Something like that. He was the millstone around her neck, and she his.
    He turned his wheelchair away from her and trundled into the living room. After wiping the table and worktop she followed.
    â€˜Come on,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
    She began at the beginning. Omitting no details. As she spoke he looked at her and undressed her with his eyes. She could almost see the images forming in his mind.
    After she had finished, he placed his head against the neck rest and closed his eyes. She went to stand behind him, massaging his scalp until his breathing calmed down again.
    â€˜You did ask.’
    He nodded slowly.
    â€˜But it’s different this time, isn’t it.’
    She hesitated.
    â€˜Maybe. I don’t know.’
    â€˜Could you bring him here?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Then it’s different this time,’ he confirmed.
    He motioned towards the card table, where the newspapers were.
    â€˜Read the article about the woman’s body they found by the stadium. They’re looking for a guy who could be your friend.’
    This was said without any nastiness, but it stung more than the whip had. Stiff-legged, she made her way to the paper and turned to the article. She read, then looked at him.
    â€˜Lots of people wear those boots.’
    She sounded neutral, and all the while a prickling sensation of excitement spread through her.
    â€˜Of course,’ he said. ‘It could be anyone.’

T he victim’s parents lived in Sjællandsgade, the old red-light district of the town centre which had long been gentrified and where working girls had been replaced by members of the Danish Association of Masters and PhDs and the Danish Association of Lawyers and Economists. Hence, Ulrik Storck and Marianne Mortensen. She taught Danish and English at the Cathedral School. He was a solicitor and partner in Lind, Balle & Storck, known locally as ‘the red solicitors’.
    Wagner parked his car outside a bakery. Jan Hansen sent lingering