The Considerate Killer by Agnete Friis, Lene Kaaberbøl Page A

inadequate, but still . . .
    She checked her own page. Someone had posted something. She felt a freezing jolt in her stomach when she saw what it was. A biblical quote, and in English.
    Fat pale lilies that smelled like a funeral. Those damned flowers popped into her head again. This quote was a bit longer:
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    â€œ . . . they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.” Isaiah 40:29-31. May the Lord keep you strong in your hope of Heaven. Victor.
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    Victor?
    A second passed before it dawned on her. Victor from Manila. She remembered him mostly as a big, competent and good-natured bear of a man, a head taller than the other Filipinos she had worked with. She didn’t remember him being especially religious. Or . . . well, perhaps. When they found the dead. When he was sure there was no life in the crushed and trapped bodies. Then his thick fingers made the sign of the cross, and he mumbled something in Tagalog that was probably a prayer.
    He had found her on Facebook about a month ago, but this was the first time he had posted anything. And then a weirdo post like that. She tried to make sense of the archaic words Much the same kind of message as the card that had come with the bouquet.
    Victor was in the Philippines. Victor couldn’t have sent her flowers. Or could he? Through Interflora? Did they use small local Viborg florists? Bouquets for every occacion. Old-fashioned and comfortingly provincial. But how did he know she was in the hospital—and where?
    Fear flopped and writhed in her stomach. The terror of the trapped animal. She took a step backward, into the lobby’s busy, protective atmosphere and stayed there until Søren’s Hyundai appeared in front of the steps.
    The rain had stopped, and the October sun shone warm and golden through the tall windows of the conservatory. Her mother sat in a wicker chair with a blanket around her legs sipping a glass of the devil’s claw tea that her alternative medicine friend Grethe claimed would help. Who knew, maybe it was true. But it stank to high heaven and tasted awful.
    They smiled carefully at each other, like two negotiators at a peace conference.
    â€œCoffee?” asked Hanne.
    â€œThank you.” Nina let herself slide into the wicker chair’s matching companion.
    â€œI’ll get it,” said Ida, astonishingly helpful, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Nina could hear her speaking with Søren, who apparently was already quite at home and able to find such necessities as cake plates and forks. They had bought a pear tart on the way home. With crème fraîche, no less. It was all too staid for words, and Nina felt as if she was about to be smothered by bingo club invitations and barbecues with that nice couple next door . . .
    Like her, Søren had his roots in Jutland, but it was a different kind of Jutland. Gym dances and football and hot dogs from the local grill instead of Viborg’s carefully cultivated atmosphere of culture and provincial etiquette. Both of them had left those roots behind a long time ago, but whereas he seemed to be perfectably comfortable living in middle-class suburbia, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand it.
    Which might be a moot point as he hasn’t actually asked you to move in, she told herself and wondered why the thought had popped up at all.
    â€œSo, how are you?” asked Hanne.
    â€œFine,” Nina answered automatically.
    â€œSøren says that you still can’t remember what happened.”
    â€œThat’s true.” Nina squirmed in her chair. “Mom, I . . . I’m sorry about what I said.”
    Hanne Borg raised her tea glass as if to make a toast.
    â€œI guess your saying it instead of just thinking it is progress of a kind,” she commented drily.
    The door slammed and there was a rapid