Free The Final Murder by Anne Holt

anyway.
    That was ten years ago now.
    Vibeke Heinerback had always irritated her.
    Vibeke Heinerback was a racist.
    Though naturally she wasn’t open about it and wouldn’t
    acknowledge it. The woman was after all politically savvy and had an almost impressive understanding of how the media worked.
    Her fellow party members, however, were constantly dropping
    stupid and completely unintellectual clangers about immigrants.
    For them, Somalians and Chinese were cut from the same cloth.
    Well-integrated Chinese people were lumped together with lazy Somalians. Vibeke Heinerback’s party believed that a conscientious Pakistani who ran his own corner shop was the same burden
    on society as a gold-digger from Morocco who had come to
    Norway thinking he could just help himself to the women and
    government money.
    Vibeke Heinerback was responsible for this.
    The woman who was spending winter alone on the Riviera got
    to her feet suddenly and stood up. She was a bit unsteady, a wave of dizziness forced her to hold on to something.
    It was all so perfect, everything. Everything was working.
    She laughed quietly to herself, astonished by the force of her mood swings.
    Inspecting someone’s house can tell you more than a thousand interviews, she thought as the nausea ebbed away.
    Evening was falling and she wanted to pour herself another
    glass of the good wine from the Old Town. The beam from the
    lighthouse at Cap Ferrat sw7ept over her in a pulsing stroke when she turned to stare out over the bay. To the north, street lamps lit the roads that cut through the steep terrain.
    She was a master of her art, and from now on she would not be judged by anyone other than herself.
     
    The visit to Vibeke Heinerback’s flat had not made Adam any
    less judgemental, but he now didn’t know what to expect
    from the memorial service. He parked some distance from the
    house. The cars stood nose to tail along the narrow road, making it almost impassable.
    The former party leader had generously offered his house and home for the occasion. The colossal villa by the water, only a few hundred metres from the old airport at Fornebu, was no longer plagued by pollution and noise, following the long-awaited relocation of the main airport. The once beleaguered, uninhabitable
    timber house, with its scores of bay windows, large terraces and two Ionic pillars framing the front door, had risen like a phoenix from the ashes, though the garden that sloped down to the fjord was still no more than clay and loose stones, ashen and snow-white.
    The number of mourners dressed in dark clothes was impressive.

Adam
    Stubo shook hands with a woman at the door and, just in
    case, mumbled his condolences. He had no idea who she was. He almost stumbled on an umbrella stand further down the hall. At least fifteen people were waiting to hang up their coats. Then he felt someone tug his sleeve and before he could turn round, a young man with a thin neck and badly done tie had taken his coat from him and given him a gentle push towards one of several
    public rooms.
    Before Adam knew it, he was standing with a half-full glass in his hand. As he was driving, he looked around in desperation for somewhere to put it down.
    ‘It’s non-alcoholic,’ whispered a voice.
    He recognized the woman straight away.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said, bewildered, and squeezed in to the side so he wouldn’t block the door. ‘You’re here too.’
    ‘Yes,’ said the woman in a friendly quiet voice that could be heard above the humming of the crowd. ‘Most of us are. This is more than politics. It’s a tragedy that’s touched us all.’
    She was wearing a tight black suit that contrasted with her short blonde hair and made her look paler than she did on TV Adam
    looked down, self-conscious, and noticed that the funereal mood had not prevented the Socialist Left leader from choosing a skirt that was so short it would have been more appropriate for someone ten years younger. But her legs were