7 Days Read Online Free PDF Page A

How did the building’s security work?
    He paged through Section A, looking for statements, found a white A4 envelope, loosely inserted behind the photograph album. Someone had written a single word on it in blue pen:
Sloet
.
    He opened it, removed the contents.
    Three large colour prints. Of a living Hanneke Sloet.
    They excited him immediately, making him forget what he was looking for.
    All three photos had been taken in a studio, under professional lighting. In the first, only her head, right shoulder and part of her arm were visible. She wore a thin white dress, etched against the smooth, tanned skin of her shoulder and arm. Her head was angled to the right, she was looking down, her eyes veiled, the right side of her face in dark shadow that accentuated the full lips and strong cheekbone. A single strand of hair draped across her face, down to her chin. The shoulderand arm were feminine, muscular. The grey background was an interesting texture, out of focus.
    It was quite a sensual photo.
    Lovely woman. And she knew it. She liked it, she was displaying it a little.
    The second photo was of her upper body, her head slightly dipped so that her dark eyes looked up at the camera. She had an easy smile, showing a narrow gap between her front teeth. Her hair was tied back now. A thin, tight-fitting and collarless blouse with a low neckline displayed the full, prominent breasts, with a certain innocence.
    The third was a nude study, dark and artistic. Tasteful. The background was pitch black, the lighting from the right and behind, her body turned, so that only a cheekbone, the tip of her nose, a large, round earring, the slim line of her neck, a shoulder, a single perfect breast and nipple, a hip and the outline of her leg were visible.
    He suspected the photos had been taken recently, she seemed mature, close to her age of thirty-three, according to the file.
    He arranged the photographs in a row. Looked over them again. What personality, what reason had motivated her to go to all this trouble? How many hours, to make the appointment with the photographer, choose the right clothes, complete the photo sessions? This woman, the corporate lawyer.
    And the breasts. Unnaturally large and perfect, like someone who had had them surgically enhanced.
    For whose benefit? he wondered. For whom had she had the photos taken?
    He sat there staring, fascinated by this smouldering woman.
    His cellphone rang, sudden and shrill.
    He returned to the present with a vague feeling of guilt, had to look around for the phone first. He found it in the pocket of his jacket, hanging over the chair. He took it out: ALEXA, the screen read.
    Fuck. He ought to have called her. He looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven.
    He answered: ‘Alexa, I’m so sorry …’
    ‘No, this is not Alexa,’ said a man’s voice. Hostile. ‘She asked me to call you to come and collect her.’
    ‘Where is she?’
    ‘She’s drunk, sir. Falling down drunk.’

5
    He jogged to the car with the files in his arms and the knowledge that it was
his
fault. He had embarrassed her, left her alone, kept her in the dark. She had been sober for a hundred and fifteen days and now he had driven her back to drink.
    He opened the rear door of the BMW 130i, put the files on the back seat, slammed the door shut in frustration, got in the front and drove away.
    He should have known that Alexa used to drink because she suffered from stage fright, and tonight was a sort of stage, her first interaction with the music people in years, her timid return to the limelight. He should have thought, should have controlled his language and his reactions. He should have told the brigadier he couldn’t come right away, he should have taken Alexa home first. But no, all he could think of was his own humiliation. He was a dolt, a fucking idiot policeman.
    What was wrong with him?
    Doc Barkhuizen’s warning flashed through his head: ‘Careful, Benny, you haven’t been dry a year yet. Two