The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [42]
What an absolutely bloody day. He stretched, and felt a twinge from the operation scar just above his hip. He scratched it reflexively. What the hell was the Lithuanian doing? And what the hell was Karin thinking?
Suddenly, the door phone buzzed aggressively. Jan set the mug on the worktop and went to press the button.
“Yes.”
“It’s Inger.”
A fraction of a second ticked by before he realized which Inger. His mother-in-law.
“Inger,” he said, trying to put a smile into his voice. “Come in!”
She was slim and fair like Anne, exactly the same figure. Right now she was wearing one of her bright African dresses, her bare, tanned arms sporting four or five carved ebony bracelets. This was the sort of thing Inger could carry off—making something like that look exactly right.
“Anne said you were here,” she said. “So I thought I would seize the moment.”
“What a lovely surprise,” said Jan. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No thank you,” she said. “I just want to talk to you.”
“Oh dear,” he said, trying for a humorous note. “What have I done now?”
She didn’t buy his attempt at levity.
“Anne is upset,” she said.
“Did she say that?”
“Of course not. Anne is Anne. She would never say a thing like that. But something isn’t right with her, and I am asking you now. Is it Aleksander?”
His heart pounded madly.
“No, no,” he said. “That’s all been taken care of.”
She looked at him directly. Her eyes weren’t quite as blue as Anne’s were; there was more gray in them.
“What, then?” she asked. “Is there something wrong between the two of you?”
His smile felt as if it were glued to his face, and he was sure the lack of naturalness was showing. Why could he never do things right? He admired Inger. She was a wonderful woman, feminine and strong at the same time, just the sort of soulmate a man like Keld deserved. He so wanted her to like him.
“I would never hurt Anne,” he said.
Her eyebrows shot up.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t think you would. But that wasn’t the question I asked.”
Wrong again. Sometimes he felt as if there were a little man inside his head with one of those ear-splitting buzzers they used on quiz shows whenever a contestant got it wrong.
“Then I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he said. “We’re fine.”
She sighed. Shook her head.
“Do you know,” she said. “I don’t think so.” She got up, hitching the strap from her stylishly fringed handbag onto one bare shoulder.
“Are you leaving already?” he said.
“There doesn’t seem to be much point in staying,” she said, and again, he had the feeling that he had failed some test he didn’t really understand.
“Have you talked to Keld about this?” he burst out.
Again, she gave him one of those very direct, gray-blue looks. She shook her head once more, but he wasn’t certain it meant no. What if she had been sitting out there in the Taarbæk villa, discussing it with Keld, in the conservatory, perhaps, over a glass of late evening wine and some really good cheese, talking about him, about him and Anne and their marriage, wondering if everything were the way it should be … his stomach became a small, rocksolid lump at the thought.
“Goodnight,” she said. “I hope you work it out.” She put a hand on his arm for a moment before she left, and he was pretty sure that there was pity in her glance.
He stood by the window, watching her walk down the street. From the rear, she could still pass for a young woman, her stride full of energy