Free The Final Murder by Anne Holt Page B

were in any way genuine, real or exhaustive, his visit to the scene of the crime two days ago had made a deeper impression on him than he was prepared to
    admit. Earlier on, while he was rummaging around looking for a clean, white shirt, he had hoped that the people close to Vibeke Heinerback might give more of themselves and say more about
    her at an impulsive memorial service, held so soon after the young woman’s death. But even now, twenty minutes into the service, he realized that he should have known better. This was a day for praise. For good thoughts and happy memories, a shared grief across party-political divides.
    Adam stood with his back to the reception rooms and wondered where he would find his coat. The former party leader’s speech, with frequent pauses and a cough here and there, filtered through the wood of the solid doors as a muffled murmur.
    Then he heard another voice to his left, through a door that was ajar to what might be the kitchen. The sibilant, urgent
    whispers of a woman who sounded like she actually wanted to
    shout, but felt that it might be inappropriate, given the occasion.
    Adam was about to make his presence known, when he
    heard:
    ‘Don’t you worry about that.’
    A man’s voice, deep and aggressive.
    The sound of a glass being banged down on a table, followed
    by what was obviously a sniff from the woman. Then she said
    something. Adam could only make out a few individual words that meant nothing to him. He took a couple of cautious steps towards the half-open door.
    ‘Be careful,’ he heard the woman say. ‘You had better watch it now, Rudolf.’
    She came out in to the hall so suddenly that Adam had to step back.
    ‘Jesus,’ he said, and smiled. ‘You really gave me a fright. Adam Stubo.’
    The woman let a man out after her, closed the door with care, took Adam’s hand and returned his smile. She was smaller than he’d imagined, almost strikingly petite. She had a slim waist, something she emphasized with a tight, fitted black skirt that stopped just below the knee. The grey silk blouse had ruffles at the neck and down the front. She reminded him of a miniature Margaret Thatcher. Her nose was big and hooked and her chin
    was pointed. Her eyes were worthy of the iron lady. Icy blue and sharp, though her face was relaxed and welcoming.
    ‘Kari Mundal,’ she said quietly. ‘Pleasure. You are very welcome here, despite the occasion. Perhaps you’ve already met
    Rudolf Fjord?’
    The man was twice her height and half as old. He was obviously less practised at hiding his feelings. His hand was sweaty
    when he held it out, his eyes darted here and there for a few moments, before he finally managed to pull himself together and smile. At the same time he nodded, half bowed, as if he realized that his handshake was not particularly impressive.
    ‘Were you looking for something?’ Kari Mundal asked. ‘The
    toilet? Just down there.’ She pointed. ‘When the service is over,’
    she added, ‘there will be a bite to eat. Of course, we hadn’t expected so many people. But a little something is better than nothing. Vibeke was such
    She smoothed her hair.
    Kari Mundal was as close as you could get to the icon of a good old-fashioned housewife; she had stayed at home with her four daughters and three sons, and her husband was the first to admit that his stamina on the political front was entirely due to his loyal wife.
    ‘Everyone should have a Kari at home,’ he often said in interviews, blissfully unaffected by the complaints of younger women.
    ‘A Kari at home is better than ten in the workplace.’
    Kari Mundal had looked after the house and children and
    ironed his shirts for more than forty years. She was happy to appear in magazines and on Saturday night TV, and since her husband had retired from politics she had become a sort of national
    mascot, a politically incorrect, friendly and sharp little granny.
    ‘Were you looking for the toilet?’ she asked and pointed