Yours Until Death Read Online Free PDF

trenchcoat. With his mournful eyes and whistling loose-denture voice, there’s no place in our world for people like Bogie except in a curio cabinet.
    Suddenly my phone rang. It was five-thirty and my phone was ringing. I picked it up. ‘You’ve got the wrong number. This is Veum,’ I said.
    ‘Veum! You’ve got to help me. Come right away. They’ve got Roar.’ Her voice was shrill.
    ‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘Relax. Who’s got him?’
    ‘Joker. The gang.’ She began to cry. ‘When I got home he wasn’t here, but I found a note in the letter box. It said they had him. That I knew where I could find him and they’d kill him if I called the police.’
    ‘Did you call them?’
    ‘No! Didn’t you hear …?’
    ‘Shouldn’t you anyway? Even though it’s … You can’t fall for it. They’re bluffing. They’re just kids. Don’t you see? They’re just trying to scare you.’
    ‘They have scared me, Veum. I won’t call the police. That’s why I … There’s nobody else who can help me. Can’t you? Of course I’ll pay – if it’s that …’
    ‘It’s not that. Of course I’ll come if you –’
    ‘Oh yes. Yes! Thank you. But get here. Come as soon as you can. Now. Will you?’
    ‘I’m already on my way. Just calm down. It’ll be okay. I promise.’
    I hung up, took a last gulp of tea, let Bogie rest in peace in his paperback grave and left the flat.
    Down in the alley the afternoon light was beginning to fade. Behind blue ruffled curtains a family was eating dinner. A blonde, red-cheeked mother set steaming dishes on the table while a man with a soup-bowl haircut, a pale moustache and a wrinkled forehead sat and stared anxiously at his two children as if they were reflections of himself in a cracked mirror.
    Through an open window on the second floor of another house a hoarse voice sang that it had lived its life by the side of the road. But the rolled ‘r’s were the only thing it had in common with good old Edvard Persson’s style of singing. It was one of your normal late afternoons in the alley, and Veum was on his way. Volunteer Veum. Comes whenever you call, except during office hours.
    The Mini coughed. Didn’t like having its siesta interrupted, and it died twice in the middle of town. When I told it I’d leave it flat and buy myself a Volkswagen the next time that happened, it hummed like a well-fed bee until we parked in front of the high-rise.
    I walked into the building. The lift was waiting. It was empty. Went all the way up. Good for it. I walked to Wenche Andresen’s door and rang the bell.
    Her face was red, her eyes swollen. She pulled me into the foyer and closed the door. Then she sagged against my chest and started crying. Her whole body shook. I didn’t know where to put my hands. Nobody’s sobbed against my chest for a long time. All too long, as a matter of fact. I put my hands gently on her shoulder blades, my fingertips against her back. I moved my palms carefully, didn’t say anything. It’s best to let them cry themselves out.
    She slowly stopped crying. Then she suddenly stiffened in my arms. I let go. She stared at the buttons on my shirt and I gave her my handkerchief. She dried her eyes, wiped her nose. Then she shifted her gaze to my face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean …’ Her mouth was swollen. It looked as if she’d spent a long sweet night making love.
    My voice – if that was my voice – scratched like an old seventy-eight record. ‘Have you got the message?’
    She nodded and handed me a crumpled piece of paper. I managed not to touch her hand.
    The writing was childish.
We’ve got Roar. You know where to find him. Call the cops and we’ll kill him
. No signature.
    ‘When did you get home?’ I said.
    ‘Four-thirty.’
    ‘But you didn’t call me until five-thirty. When did you get the message?’
    ‘He wasn’t here when I got home. So I went out and looked for him. Asked some of his playmates. But they hadn’t