Free The Hanging Girl by Jussi Adler-Olsen

guard.
    On guard and much more.

8
    Thursday, May 1st, 2014
    The breakfast table had been set for three people by the window overlooking the harbor area. Rose was already sitting with her eyes lost somewhere out over the sea where the eye could never quite reach.
    “Good morning,” Assad tried bravely. “Well, you’re looking pale in a bit more of a babylike way today, Rose. So at least we’re making progress, as the camel said to the Arabian camel when it grumbled about being whipped.”
    Rose shook her head and pushed the plate away.
    “Shall I grab you something from the pharmacy?” Assad suggested.
    The same shaking of the head.
    “We know it was stupid that you saw that DVD with Habersaat, right, Carl?” Assad grunted.
    Carl gave a feeble nod, thinking it would be better if the guy would put a sock in it or at least wait until after the first coffee of the day. Couldn’t he see that she wasn’t feeling any better than when she’d gone to bed?
    “It hasn’t got anything to do with the film,” she said. “I didn’t have a problem watching it even though it was sickening.”
    “What, then?” asked Assad as he piled crispbread on his plate.
    Her eyes disappeared into the distance once again.
    “Leave Rose in peace and pass me the butter, Assad.” Carl looked despondently at the already almost empty dish. “Just a little bit of what’s left that you aren’t planning to use yourself.”
    He apparently didn’t hear the comment. “Do you know what, Rose? Maybe it would be good if you said what’s going on in that head of yours,” he said crunching, crumbs flying left and right. It was a good thing they didn’t share breakfast every day.
    Assad momentarily fixed his eyes on the small group of demonstrators with banners in preparation for the day’s May 1st celebrations in the square in front of the Brugsen supermarket.
Stronger Together,
declared one of the banners.
    “Do you also think Bjarke Habersaat was gay?” he said, without moving his eyes.
    Carl frowned. “Why are you saying that? Do you have some information on it?”
    “Not directly, no. But his landlady was definitely pettable and really not bad-looking, in my opinion.”
    “Pettable,” what the hell sort of expression was that? Speak for yourself, he thought.
    “What of it?”
    “He was only thirty-five, a relatively young man, who she obviously didn’t have any objections to. No doubting she was ripe for the picking.” He looked at Carl like someone who’d stuck his well-formed nose in a hornet’s nest and gotten away with it. Pretty smug.
    “I don’t have the slightest damn idea where you’re going with this, Assad.”
    “If she and Bjarke had something going on, his room wouldn’t have looked like it did. She’d have fussed over him; you saw yourself how she was. She’d have fussed and flapped, aired his bed, emptied his ashtrays, and whipped his laundry away to have some love and affection in her life!”
    “Really, you don’t say? Interesting! But in that case, I don’t see why they couldn’t have had sex in other parts of the house. It doesn’t prove anything, Assad. Your imagination is running wild.”
    Assad tilted his head slightly. “Yes, you could say that. You mean, then, that they could’ve had sex among the family photos and lace doilies with ping-pongs?”
    “Pom-poms, Assad. Yes, why not? But why is the question even of any importance?”
    “I also think he was gay because he only had magazines under his bed with images of men with tight trousers and leather caps on the front cover. That, and all the posters of David Beckham on the wall.”
    “Okay, you could’ve said that in the first place. But what about it? Isn’t it totally irrelevant?”
    “Yes, it is. But I don’t think his mom liked it and for the same reason didn’t like to visit where he lived. He wasn’t a pretty boy with cookies in a crystal bowl, worshipping his mommy like a goddess or who loved to go shopping with her. He was