Life and Limb Read Online Free PDF Page A

felt his hand on her hip, and her anticipation left her breathless.
    They danced up close from the start. He with his hands on her buttocks; she with her hands on his. They were firm – she could feel that quite clearly. His whole body was one large block of granite or flint. He could crush her. He could squeeze the life out of her in one hug.
    â€˜Crush me,’ her brain sang. ‘Crush me into tiny bits.’
    The flat was clean and masculine in an impersonal way. Only the dog said something about the man. It was an Amstaff or American Staffordshire terrier. A breed that could be used as a fighting dog, but which, she knew from friends, could also be a good family dog.
    This one seemed friendly enough at first glance. But the dog was like its owner: there was something concealed in those brown eyes.
    â€˜Champagne?’
    He produced a bottle from the fridge before she had time to answer.
    â€˜Why not?’
    The bubbles would go to her head and make her giddy.
    The cork was released with a muffled hiss of air. He had removed his jumper. Underneath he wore a long-sleeved, tightly fitting T-shirt. She relished the sight and imagined what it would be like to touch his muscles under the material.
    He poured the champagne into flutes, and sat beside her on the sofa and toasted.
    â€˜I would like to hurt you,’ he said softly. ‘You like being hurt, don’t you?’
    The room blurred in front of her eyes. The bubbles prickled and dried her throat so that she had to drink more. He went on. ‘You like the taste of blood. You like the feeling when the whip cracks and lashes your buttocks. I can see that in you. You like to be handcuffed and have a large dick thrust into your mouth. Again and again and again.’
    Her heart was galloping. She was hot and wet. What she really wanted was to retain a measure of control and tell him he could go to hell with his sick guesswork. What she really wanted was to outmanoeuvre him and get up and go on her way. But he had already trussed her up with his words and she could only whisper a faint, gasped, desperate plea.
    â€˜Yes.’

A visen’s office in Frederiksgade had for years been far too small for the six journalists plus a couple of stray award-winning photographers, one of whom was Bo.
    Alternating peaks and troughs for the newspaper – which was a morning publication – ensured a regular turnover of staff. When times were good other journalists were taken on and new editorial offices created, like the crime section, of which Kaiser had just made Dicte the editor-in-chief. In bad times the chop was waiting for the most recently hired employees or those who were close to retirement. The former were sent redundancy notices. The latter might be lucky and receive a termination agreement which allowed them to travel the world first class.
    â€˜Ah, the chief editor. Nice of you to join us.’
    Holger Søborg watched her from his safe post behind the computer screen. Dicte swallowed her antipathy, as she had vowed long ago she would. In her opinion Holger’s cerebral capacity was in inverse proportion to his broad, muscular shoulders and his almost equally broad grin. Now, however, he had ended up in her section, so she was obliged if not to love him, then at least to tolerate him. Which she did today by ignoring his greeting.
    â€˜Can you remember the boots the hooligans wore in A Clockwork Orange ? Do they have a name?’
    She threw out the question so that Helle could also have a chance. She was an ex-trainee, now a permanent fixture at Avisen and responsible for the weekly supplement, ‘Crime Zone’, as well as taking care of the day-to-day crime material. She was also hopelessly fascinated by Bo and obviously considered him to be Aarhus’s answer to Johnny Depp.
    Dicte switched on her computer and it awoke with a sound like a rocket on the launch pad. It felt as if she had only just switched it off. On Sunday