Life and Limb by Elsebeth Egholm Page B

Ancient Mariner ; his favourite quote he reserved for very special occasions.
    â€˜â€œGod save thee, Ancient Mariner. From the fiends that plague thee thus! Why look’st thou so? With my crossbow I shot the albatross!”’
    Dicte smiled. She wanted to give in. She would have loved to let the evening descend into wantonness and cartoon language, but her visit to Winkler still weighed heavily on her mind.
    â€˜I think the killing of Mette Mortensen was politically motivated,’ she said quietly. His body pressed against hers. Even so she carried on.
    â€˜I think that members of the town’s extreme right are behind it. For reasons which I have yet to uncover.’
    Dicte’s sombre mood, however, was not a product of the killing. Nor had it been triggered by the knowledge that a remarkable number of right-wing extremists appeared to be creating some sort of stronghold in Aarhus, or by the various reported episodes of violence that had made an impression. Not even Frederik Winkler’s patient account of the symbols that played such an important part for these kinds of ideologies was able to shake her. Everything from the number eighty-eight, which represented the eighth letter of the alphabet and was therefore a covert way of saying ‘Heil Hitler’, to the use of branded clothing such as Hooligan Streetwear and Pitbull, and also Ralph Lauren and Burberry. Brands worn by the Casuals. Or the fact that the number forty-six was used to represent the Danish Front, again because of the position of the letters in the alphabet.
    It was none of these things. It was the man himself.
    It was the impotence at the heart of his belief that he had to fight the world of which his son had become such a big part. It was a father’s loss of the most important person in his life and his urge to make sense of it all to compensate himself for what he had lost. That was what was boring its way into her and it had hit a tender spot. She couldn’t ignore the presentiment that the father’s way of dealing with his son’s decision might lead to the demise of one of them – the son or the father, depending on how the end of the story played out. The son would either kill the father, or the father would sacrifice his son.
    â€˜Remember, it’s not without risk,’ Bo said. ‘You can’t cite freedom of the press and the fourth estate and all that sacred journalistic bullshit in those circles.’
    â€˜Tell me something that isn’t without risk.’
    His hand grabbed her hair and forced her head back. He raised himself over her on one elbow and she saw the tiny smile behind the stern facade.
    â€˜Writing columns, back-page stuff, articles about the festival week program and the opening of the ice rink. Me …’
    â€˜ You? ’
    She tried to reach for the ball and return it, but her heart wasn’t in this.
    â€˜You’re more dangerous than any of them.’
    She nudged him away and felt his disappointment, but she wasn’t in the mood for intimacy right now. Sons. How did you know which paths they would choose? Could you know anything at all?
    She took her wine glass, went into the living room and switched on the television. A little while later Bo appeared and sat down next to her. She missed his hand combing through her hair, but she couldn’t face the consequences.
    â€˜It’s happening again,’ he said, staring at the television. ‘You’re doing it again.’
    He was right: it was a repeat performance; she was not proud. A case came along and she was swallowed up and allowed herself to be pulled away from him, into a dark room where evil and hatred walked hand in hand with death. She could fight it as much as she wanted, but experience had taught her it was futile. She reached out and lightly touched his hand.
    â€˜I’m sorry.’
    â€˜Me too.’
    The officer at reception in Aarhus police station recognised her