Life and Limb Read Online Free PDF Page B

Don’t forget: a whole packet of coffee to one litre of water and make sure the lid’s closed on the machine or it boils over.’
    Holger blushed but clearly saw no escape from going to make the coffee. Helle smirked and Bo sent her a gracious smile. He perched on the edge of Dicte’s desk:
    â€˜Has your friend Wagner phoned to say the case is done and dusted? Or is he waiting for you to solve it for him, as usual?’
    Dicte shook her head.
    â€˜You’re jealous.’
    â€˜Who, me?’
    Actually, the thought had never occurred to her. Once the words were out, however, they seemed to have a sudden logic to them, in their own illogical way. This wasn’t about sex and love but about having something in common and feeling like an outsider. She decided not to go down that route and was saved by a cautious knock at the office door.
    â€˜Dicte Svendsen?’
    Two people stood there: married, in their mid or late forties, she guessed. Both looked tired and drained, with vacant eyes and wearing clothes that seemed merely functional. The woman wore no make-up and had short, wispy, salt-and-pepper hair. His hair was like hers.
    â€˜That’s me.’
    She rose to her feet. Bo, with a friendly inclination of the head, loped off down the corridor.
    â€˜Can I help you?’
    â€˜Are you the person who writes articles about life after death?’
    The man had asked the question, but it could equally have been the woman. They stood side by side, as if holding each other up.
    She nodded. The series of articles about what happens to our bodies after death had been, in fact, Kaiser’s idea, and at first she had been against the crime section writing it. But it was summer, and you had to fill the columns with something during the holiday weeks, and she had been fascinated by the cache of amazing stories in the Aarhus area. The articles had resonated with many readers. Today was no exception.
    â€˜Let’s take the weight off your feet. Come with me.’
    She led the couple into a large meeting room and sat them down around the big, round table overflowing with the day’s newspapers. She closed the door to the constant hustle and bustle behind them.
    â€˜It’s about our son,’ the woman said.
    â€˜He died a month ago,’ the man added. ‘He dropped dead while out running. He was twenty-two.’
    â€˜I’m sorry to hear that.’
    Words were inadequate to express the big things in life. She searched for a more satisfactory response for the couple but quickly gave up.
    â€˜You write about what happens to us when we die. Where we go,’ the woman said, floundering. ‘But we can’t find out what caused our son’s death. We’ve already buried him, but we still don’t have any answers and no one can give us them.’
    â€˜I assume they carried out a post-mortem and found nothing,’ said Dicte.
    â€˜They’re raking around for something that perhaps cannot be found, and we can’t get closure,’ the woman said. ‘We need answers, and they tell us that there are long waiting times. Can that really be true?’
    â€˜By “they” you mean the forensic examiners? Dr Gormsen at the Institute?’
    Both nodded.
    â€˜Dr Gormsen is a nice man,’ the woman said, ‘but we feel we’re being fobbed off. We thought … We can’t be the only people to have experienced this.’
    Her voice was close to cracking. The man took his wife’s hand between his.
    â€˜We just want closure,’ he said. ‘We’re willing to stand up and tell Søren’s story. People should know how the system works, and that might also put some pressure on the process.’
    Dicte looked from one to the other. As she had in the past, she pondered what to say, here in a situation where two vulnerable people declared themselves willing to go public with their agenda. She understood them. But she also