Eva Hansen - The Color of Pain: White. Eva Hansen Color of Pain: Black Eva Hansen Color of Pain OK

"The most impressive Swedish detective since the departure of Stieg Larsson!"

"No matter what the prudes say, this novel is not about vice, but about the abyss of love."

Uppsala Expressen

“Mix in the right proportion “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and “50 Shades of Gray” - and enjoy the taste of tenderness and pain!”

Bocker for alla

“In this novel, Stockholm is not just a crime scene, but the third side of the “love triangle”. Such Stockholm - the city of sin, sensuality and violent passions - Swedish literature has not yet known!

Öppna TV Stockholm

"A frighteningly frank, deliciously sensual erotic detective!"

Svenska magasin for kvinnor

All Swedish newspapers are trumpeting a series of mysterious murders of girls who, during their lifetime, were distinguished by not the most righteous behavior. Suspicion falls on Lars Johansson, a young eccentric millionaire known in narrow circles for his "special" erotic addictions. The young journalist, having penetrated "under cover" into the world of BDSM closed to prying eyes, soon realizes with horror that she is crazy about the suspect - she is irresistibly attracted to him, like a butterfly on fire ...

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Dedicated to A.K., without whom this book would not have been possible.

This month not only turned my life upside down, it made me change all the ideas about myself. Four weeks contained so much hope and fear, joy and horror, happiness and pain... Pain of all colors and shades, from simple physical to the hardest mental. But no matter what I experienced, I never for a moment regretted what happened, because without this pain there would be no greatest happiness.

And it all started like this...

Pink

- Britt! Bri-itt! - tying my sneakers, I call my friend not at all so that she will keep me company. It's kind of like the first wake-up call. When I get back from my run, there will be another one, and only then will the smell of freshly brewed coffee wake Britt out of bed.

From the room of a friend comes a lowing:

- I ran.

A friend pretends to have a cold, and therefore stayed at home today, although this is not uncommon. Britt often finds reasons not to run in the morning, not because she is lazy, but because she is a pathological owl, for her to get up before nine is a real torment. The mood spoiled due to getting up at seven in the morning will not be improved later by anything, not even Swedish chocolate, which Britt is ready to eat in kilograms.

Of course, she has an excuse, and quite a logical one - Britt is American, although she considers herself Swedish. She recalls America when it is necessary to explain night wakefulness and daytime sleep:

It's still night in America.

It hasn't dawned in America yet.

Although for so many months of study in Stockholm it would be possible to translate your biological clock.

Running out of the house, I decisively turn in the direction of Master Michaels Gate. This is already a ritual: I always go alone to Fjellgatan, but Britt takes the opposite route - to the Market and the Arch of Boffil, there, you see, the conditions are better and the lighting is also better. And I like to run down the Ladder of the Last Penny a couple of times, but not only because the ladder itself is good for training muscles, I just love the island of Södermalm, namely the SoFo area (Söder south of Folkunkagatan - for those who need the whole of Stockholm outside of Gamla Stana is “somewhere out there”), no matter what they say about him. And also small, almost village houses near Katarina-churka and gardens on Fjellgatan. Why? I don't know myself.

Of course, SoPho has not always been a pleasant area. Master Mikaels, whose name is given to a tiny square, for example, is simply a Stockholm executioner, and on the site of the charming Norska-churka (Norwegian Church) there once stood a huge gallows, on which the executed hung like coats in a wardrobe - in rows. And it was not without reason that Häkkelfjell was called the Devil's Mountain, according to popular belief, it was here that witches gathered before their flight over the city for a Sabbat on Mount Blokulla. Nobody saw it with their own eyes, but everyone believed it. The best way to get even with a neighbor who liked her husband was to say that she was in a hurry to Häkkelfjell at midnight, however, they could ask what she herself was doing at such an odd hour on the street ...

This is all in the past, witches now ride Saabs or the subway, Katarina-churka was once again restored after a fire, but the charm of antiquity and a village town remained. Small wooden houses with gardens behind painted fences and even water from pumps - how many megacities can boast of such? For some reason it seems to me that it is a corner of SoFo that guarantees the vitality of Stockholm.

When my snide half-sister, for whom Stockholm is Norrmalm and Östermalm, reminded me of the dark past of some places in SoFo, I snorted in response:

- How long has there been a puddle on the site of your adored Berzelius Park, called, among other things, Katthavet. Don't know why?

Teresa just shrugged her shoulders, and I replied with pleasure myself:

- Because the whole city brought kittens there - to drown! Look under the bushes, there are probably a lot of cat bones.

Growing up in the center of Norrmalm, while studying at the university, I have already chosen for my own housing the other end of the city - SoFo, which they mockingly say that everyone is so independent in it that they are like each other, like two drops of water.

This is not true, because the inhabitants of SoPho are not at all alike. And the fact that sometimes they dress like a carbon copy is because of too much desire to look like Stockholmers, because provincials often gather in SoFo, eager to taste the delights of metropolitan life. It passes quickly, but it is from there that design geniuses come out.

Thinking about the inhabitants of SoFo, I ran past the beautiful Norska-churka and headed for my beloved Staircase. Tourists are rare in this area, they are attracted by Gamla Stan, and if on this coast, they prefer Södermalmstorg (it's funny, now they are demanding to return its old name - Russgarden, "Russian Compound") near Slussen, central Jotgatan with the Market and a lot of shops, and now here is also Mariatorget Square and St. Paulsgatan, adored by Stieg Larsson. Around the Thor's Fishing Fountain, from now on, crowds of tourists, with their mouths open, listen to how wonderful the heroes of Larsson's Millennium lived.

Of course, it's great that a simple journalist could afford an apartment in such a place. But the discrepancy does not bother anyone, as well as the lack of a real address at the roof of Carlson. For some reason, the guides decided that Carlson lived in a red house opposite the sculpture of George with a snake on Kupecheskaya Street, and even the author was unable to convince anyone of this. The Swedes don't care, they don't like Carlson very much. And why love? An idler, a lazybones and a glutton. Well, let Mikael Blomkvist live in a penthouse on Bellmansgatan, if Stieg Larsson so wanted it. I have never been attracted to what is loved by the crowds, it seems that this is not love and not even interest, but simply the desire to “check in”, they say, and I was here.

And tourists diligently take pictures of the roof of the red house at George with a serpent and the penthouse Bellmansgatan No. 1, the stairs in the Town Hall, on which Nobel laureates descend (I wonder if any of these organized photographers actually represent themselves as a laureate, as the guides advise?) . Be sure to change the guard at the Royal Palace ... And also the restaurant-club "Rival", owned, among other things, by Benny Anderson, from the balcony of which "ABBA" and Hollywood stars greeted the crowd squealing with delight after the filming of "Mamma mia". Let the Swedes be a tolerant and patient people ...

The stairs of the Last Penny are not photographed. And thank God!

Despite the fresh morning air, the woman hurrying along the empty street did not feel cheerful, on the contrary, she was desperately struggling with sleep. Nothing, two steps to the house, I even decided not to take a shower, immediately fall asleep. On the only day off, Karin did nothing but sleep for the whole week.

She held the door to the house so that it would not bang, let the others sleep too.

- Hey! - On her floor, Karin drew attention to the slightly ajar door of a neighbor's apartment. - Kaisa, are you at home?

No one answered from behind the door, it seemed that the TV was on in the room.

Kaisa is not very sociable, she lives alone, men do not go to her. Yes, and Karin has no time to chat, barely has time to recover from one job, when it's time to rush to the second. From three in the morning until morning, she illegally cleans in an underground gaming club, so she walks sleepy all week.

Usually the neighbors were limited to phrases of greeting, they didn’t poke their noses into each other’s affairs, everyone had enough problems of their own. The day before yesterday, leaving for work late in the evening, Karin heard Kaisa let someone into the apartment, it seems a woman, or maybe even two. I even had to wait until everything calmed down before leaving herself, Karin did not need any extra questions. Did they then leave together, leaving the door wide open?

No, it's better to close the door and go to your room. Karin did just that, but already in her hallway she suddenly felt an urgent desire to still get through to her neighbor. The half-open door to the apartment early in the morning was alarming ... She tried to remember if the door was open when Karin left for work in the evening, but she did not remember. Top floor, only two apartments, but you never know what could happen?

When no one answered the call again, for some reason the woman was seized with fear. She opened the door wider. From the room came the voice of the host of the morning TV news program ... Now this is not at all the case - to leave, leaving the TV on!

- Kaisa, are you sleeping that ...

I could not finish, squealing through the whole house.

Anne, a neighbor from below, came running, looked at Karin, who had jumped out onto the platform, with horror:

- What happened?!

- There ... there ...

– What is there?

But Karin could not utter a word, only pointed towards the hallway. Ann looked into the apartment and clutched her heart.

- Oh my God!

Kaisa hung, entangled in some kind of ropes. Her face turned blue from suffocation, her large tongue fell out ...

Karin was already poking at the buttons on her cell phone, calling 911.

“The police… need to…” Anne shook her head.

- They'll call.

The police arrived quickly.

Karin chose not to mention that she heard Kaisa let someone into the apartment. All the same, she did not see the woman and could not even say anything about the voice, the voice was like a voice, and then she would have to explain where she herself was returning from early in the morning.

Kaisa died the day before yesterday, and for the second day she dangled like this. Terrible death from suffocation.

Neighbors gossiped: a maniac?! And each checked the strength of their constipation. If you have already started to crack down at home ...

They remembered what looked suspicious in Kaisa's life. Now everything seemed like that: she lived alone, talked to few people, rarely had guests, never men, only a woman of the same age.

Why weren't you interested in your neighbor for two whole days? And how to be interested, if Kaisa had disappeared before and did not appear for weeks, who knew what was wrong this time? Where was she at this time? Who knows, she didn't tell. She didn't say where she worked either. If a person does not want to tell everyone the details of his life, who has the right to interfere?

I did not stay to live in the eternally bustling Norrmalm or luxurious Ostermalm because of my half-sister. When my mother married a second time, an unbearably self-confident and arrogant creature appeared in the family - the daughter of her stepfather Teresa. Her mother left the girl and sped off with her new husband to the other side of the Atlantic. The father of the child spoiled, the Italian nanny, pitying the baby, allowed her everything. The result was deplorable, over time, no one could cope with this monster, moving from Milan to Stockholm did not correct the situation. The nanny, tortured by endless whims, remained in Italy, and fifteen-year-old Teresa decided that her half-sister was quite suitable as a new object of bullying. There is a year and a half difference between us, which, according to Teresa, gave her the right to take my things without asking. They returned useless, if they returned at all.

Luckily for me, it didn't last long. After graduating from school and starting an independent life, I categorically put my stepsister out as soon as she tried to penetrate my new world, and reduced communication with the whole family to a minimum. There was still a grandmother - the mother of my forever absent adored daddy. We call her daily, even when she leaves for a country house on Lake Valentuna for the summer or closer to Christmas.

Grandma thinks that spending Christmas or summer holidays in the city is almost a crime. So do I, and therefore, as soon as Britt flies to his sunny California, I will leave for the holidays with my grandmother. But not before, because my conscience does not allow me to leave my girlfriend, who is moping because of the autumn-winter bad weather, alone in Stockholm. Of course, Britt did not reject the invitation to spend the holidays in Bulle with me, but somehow she answered so evasively that I understood: thanks, it’s better not to.

Actually, Britt's imminent departure to California is a secret, but an open secret. My friend herself doesn’t gu-gu about this, and I am very sorry that she is hiding. I accidentally saw a plane ticket, Britt does not know about it, and I pretend that I do not know why she is slowly packing her things.

Surely put me in front of a fact like:

“Lynn, I’m sorry, I just decided to fly home… You won’t be offended, will you?”

I was offended for a long time, but not at her decision to visit her home, but at what she hides from me. Offended and silent, let him think that I have no idea.

You can, of course, fly with her to California, but I'm not too drawn to go there, I don't like long flights. In addition, Britt should be able to decide everything herself, and my presence in their house on the west coast of the United States will be frank pressure on the already unstable soul of Britt. Something tells me she's not likely to come back...

Britt's favorite topic is maniacs, she can talk about all sorts of passions for hours. Reasonable and otherwise very practical, the girl listens with bated breath to the news reports if another murder is reported, and she herself, with a breath, talks about various rapists.

When I remind you that the vast majority of people in their lives have never even seen crime reports in photographs, and troubles have a nasty property to be attracted precisely to those who are waiting for them, Britt gets excited:

- You are not right! You are wrong, and I responsibly declare this to you!

Sometimes it seems to me that Britt secretly hopes to meet a maniac, no matter how crazy it sounds. In America, a friend even went to some martial arts courses and learned something, in any case, from time to time she demonstrates her imaginary skills to an imaginary rapist: she puts her palms on edge and with a wild cry: “Ye!” throws the right leg forward. Apparently, this should discourage the rapist from the slightest desire to get involved with such a trained and militant person.

In fact, after such an exercise, Britt rarely manages to stay on her feet, she loses her balance, and more than once I had to carefully hide a smile.

“Because I don’t train much now.

“You don't do it at all. You can't even force you to run in the morning.

Girlfriend shivering chilly:

- In this cold?

How cold, Britt? It's not winter yet!

- So much the worse! Wet, damp, gray ... - she hides her chin in a huge collar of a warm sweater, and her hands deep into the sleeves.

I hug her, as if sheltering from the cold and dampness. Poor hot girl...

Do you regret coming here to study?

- No, what are you! my American friend replies cheerfully, but every day the confidence in her voice becomes less and less.

I suspect that, having flown home to her sunny California for the holidays, she will not return back. Britt's parents are Swedish, but her father was taken to the USA as a baby, but her mother has childhood memories of fabulous Stockholm and fluffy snow at Christmas. The memories that she generously shared with her daughter abounded with delight: snowy winter, Christmas reindeer sleigh rides, national costumes ... Forgetting to mention the short daylight hours for half a year, cloudy skies and the fact that deep snow in winter is north, not south of Sweden, but there is generally a polar night.

Britt herself remembered only the originality of Swedish designers, which is simply unattainable either for other Europeans, or, even more so, for Americans. My friend believed that to become a real designer, you just need to go to study at a Swedish college, which she did in August this year. For an American, Britt has a clearly odd inclination, as far as I remember, doing something with her own hands, if it is not cooking a Christmas turkey or a signature pie, they are not honored. Sewing your own clothes? Why, it is full in any boutique for every taste and budget.

And to create lamps from wooden blocks or clothes hangers from wire is completely stupid. Much better manufactured industrially.

I suspect that it was the unusual hobby that increased the value of Britt in her own eyes. It was also a way to express their uniqueness.

She came to Stockholm to study design, enrolled at Beckmans College, and throughout the autumn, with inspiration, turned kilometers of fabric into original outfits. But the shorter the day became, the more Britt’s mood deteriorated, the poor fellow increasingly asked a rhetorical question: how can you live without the sun for half a year ?! The rain gave her almost toothache and a lack of desire to keep fit. No persuasion that one morning run cheers up much more noticeably than a kilogram of delicious Swedish chocolate did not help. If a cold wind was blowing outside or it was raining, even if it was light, Britt would stay in bed.

“The deceased is a young woman of about twenty-five… It is difficult to determine more precisely, her face is too swollen…” Chief Inspector Mikael Bergman hastily slandered into the recorder.

He really was in a hurry, because it was unpleasant to be near this corpse, although the inspector had seen everything in his life. It's just that he pathologically disliked the hanged, the sight of his tongue falling out caused nausea. I wish the medics would come and take me away...

Actually, it's none of his business to inspect the crime scene, but Mikael am allowed his subordinate Doug Vanger to stay late this morning, and therefore carried out his duties. Vanger has already called, should be here at any moment. Mikael Bergman sighed, his mood and appetite were spoiled for the whole day, but who could have known that the most unpleasant thing awaited him here. Since childhood, after he saw a neighbor who hanged himself, he could not stand suicides.

Bergman went to the kitchen, pretending to want to once again inspect the dishes left on the table ... Nothing special - an unfinished bottle of wine, a couple of glasses, cups, leftover pizza ...

The finger specialist shook his head negatively.

No, just her fingers.

“But two of you were drinking?”

- Rather, she was waiting for someone, the second glass was not touched. And a cup too.

- It's strange - to drink early in the morning.

- I drank in the evening, I ate pizza too.

Finally, Doug Vanger appeared, seeing the corpse, even whistled:

- Suicide?

“More like an accident. Self-suffocation. There are no signs of a struggle, so far there are no other people's fingers either.

Doug went to interview the neighbors, who were few in number. The house is small, there are only two apartments on each of the three floors, they don’t live in one, pensioners are hard of hearing in two, the neighbor who discovered the corpse also didn’t see anything ...

A little later, doctors arrived, ascertained death from suffocation, and took away the corpse.

The inspector sighed.

- Stupid death...

“Yes,” replied the senior medical team, “she was dying painfully. Are there documents? Relatives will identify the body?

We don't know if there are relatives yet. Lived alone.

Finally, inspection and questioning are over. Bergman and Wanger left the apartment, relieved. After what he saw, even the gloomy sky seemed pleasant. Everything is relative.

You can return to the department and, having completed the paperwork, hand over the case to the archive. The inspector did not yet know that this was only the first of the ridiculous deaths of women.

But they didn't leave right away.

“Damn newspapermen! How did they know?!

Eva Hansen

Pain color: white

All events and names are fictitious, coincidences are random.

It's darkest before the dawn

– That's it… This is your last hour! the woman whispered.

She watched the victim for a few moments, then sighed and hurried away. Turns out it's not that hard to kill...

The call came in at 7:30 am. An excited female voice announced that a certain Emma Grütten had been found dead. With great difficulty, we managed to get the address where the crime was committed, the caller, through sobs, kept repeating only that it was her fault, she!

Inspector Martin Jansson, who was on duty that day, or rather, was already preparing to hand over his duty, cursed through his teeth. Well, so that this stupidity does not kill someone half an hour later, or at least report the murder later? No, she chose the boundary between the shifts, they won’t have time to hand over to the next one, they’ll have to deal with this malnourished one ... The inspector was especially displeased with the knowledge that it was Friday morning, therefore, hanging up today, he and his partner Dean Marklund would lose the entire weekend.

But grumble, don't grumble, and still there is no choice, Martin waved his hand to Dean:

- Let's go to. Maybe there's nothing special?

The group had already left, and they had to go in Dean's car themselves. While Marklund spun around the streets, trying to turn out to Midsommarkransen in some way he knew only, Martin tried to remember what he knew about this area. He didn't have to investigate there, all the inspector remembered were yellow houses with red roofs, a park called Swan Pond, and the Ericsson factory. A working-class district that never claimed sophistication or special treatment.

“Dean, we need somewhere to get coffee.” The victim will not run away, the witness, if she herself called, too, and I'm about to fall asleep ... Besides, the group is already there, let them examine everything for themselves.

Martin understood that such a request spoils Marklund's pleasure, he liked to get to the scene first, demonstrating amazing knowledge of the city. But Jansson was indeed ready to fall asleep. The previous night, his wife Zhanna had a toothache, she was whining and would not let anyone sleep, no matter what, not succumbing to persuasion to go to the doctor in the middle of the night. That night they also did not have the opportunity to sleep, the drug addicts were buzzing ...

But Dean, apparently, was not averse to drinking coffee himself, nodded:

“Now we’ll stop at the Shell gas station at the Hagertenswagen exit, have a drink there and I’ll fill up the tank at the same time.

– How do you remember all the streets outside the center?

- I worked in a taxi for six months. This was enough to explore the city.

They drank coffee, felt noticeably better, although the prospect of killing all weekend did not add vigor.

- How far is Pindgswagen?

- No, next to it. We'll be soon. It would be nice to be back soon. They said that it was nothing special: they killed him while trying to rob ...

Martin just sighed in response. He knew from experience that the simplest and most understandable crime can take so much time that you forget not only about breakfast, but also about dinner, and not for one day ...

Indeed, the area of yellow houses under red roofs ...

They quickly arrived at the place, in the indicated apartment they found a young woman swollen from tears, a terrible bedlam and a corpse on the floor.

Glancing over the crime scene and the unfortunate figure huddled on a stool in the kitchen, Martin Jansson grimaced, he could not stand such murders - ridiculous, committed in the heat of the moment, after which the killers repent quite sincerely, but they still face punishment. Of course, this repentance will be taken into account in court, but a person can execute himself much harder than any justice. A moment of madness - and all life down the drain.

Eva Hansen

Pain color: white

All events and names are fictitious, coincidences are random.

It's darkest before the dawn

That's it... This is your last hour! the woman whispered.

She watched the victim for a few moments, then sighed and hurried away. Turns out it's not that hard to kill...

But grumble, don't grumble, and still there is no choice, Martin waved his hand to Dean:

Let's go to. Maybe there's nothing special?

The group had already left, and they had to go in Dean's car themselves. As Marklund spun around the streets, trying to turn onto Midsommarkransen in some way he knew, Martin tried to remember what he knew about the area. He did not have to investigate there, all that the inspector remembered was yellow houses with red roofs, a park called Swan Pond and the Ericsson factory. A working-class district that never claimed sophistication or special treatment.

Dean, we need somewhere to get coffee. The victim will not run away, the witness, if she herself called, too, and I’m about to fall asleep ... Besides, the group is already there, let them examine everything for themselves.

But Dean, apparently, was not averse to drinking coffee himself, nodded:

Now we will stop at the Shell gas station at the exit from Hagertenswagen, there we will have a drink and I will fill the tank at the same time.

How do you remember all the streets outside the center?

I worked as a taxi driver for six months. This was enough to explore the city.

They drank coffee, felt noticeably better, although the prospect of killing all weekend did not add vigor.

How far is Pindgswagen?

No, side by side. We'll be soon. It would be nice to be back soon. They said that it was nothing special: they killed him while trying to rob ...

Indeed, the area of yellow houses under red roofs ...

They quickly arrived at the place, in the indicated apartment they found a young woman swollen from tears, a terrible bedlam and a corpse on the floor.

But already a second, closer look suggested to the investigator that everything is not so simple here. The disorder in the room indicated a search, but not a struggle. The dead woman was lying on the floor in a rather strange position, there was little blood around her broken head. The pathologist, having greeted Martin, grunted:

They tried to pretend that they had been killed by hitting them on the head.

But in reality?

In fact, she died from something else, a blow only a later imitation ... From what exactly, I can only say after the autopsy.

Jansson nodded, this pathologist is experienced, if Agnes Valin can't determine the cause of death at a glance, no one else can. Except for the killer himself.

Or herself?

No signs of break-in or even a struggle, despite the scattered things, the deceased obviously let the killer in herself.

Looking around the room once more, Martin went to the kitchen, where a weeping young woman was at the table, trying to tell Dean Marklund what had happened in the apartment. Jansson stopped in the doorway, anyway, his large body would not fit in the kitchenette without creating too much inconvenience for the others. This was not required, usually the partner asked questions quite sensibly, but this time I had to ask only one question:

Fru Hunter, you said it was your fault...

The woman shook her head in dismay, trying to fight off yet another flood of tears, her handkerchief soaking wet.

I... I... understand, if I had arrived yesterday, as she asked, then Emma would be alive!

Emma is this? .. - Jansson intervened.

Hunter nodded towards the room.

Emma is my friend, more than a friend, we were in the hospital together… Emma from Brekke, - Hunter looked at the investigator as if he used to know everyone in Brekke, but now he forgot and now he had to remember. Not waiting for the desired reaction to the mention of a tiny town, the victim's friend sighed contritely and continued: - She called the day before yesterday and ... asked to come and support her ... but I could not. - The woman pressed her hands with a wet handkerchief to her chest. Martin automatically noted that the handkerchief left a mark even on a thin sweater. - My cousin had a wedding... Is that a good reason?

She looked at the tall Jansson with such a pleading, as if it depended on him, to admit good reason someone's wedding or not. Both investigators did not understand anything. And the woman continued to confusingly explain that she could not come, because the wedding is so important ... maybe not for everyone, but for Marta it is very important ... in their family it is a tradition ...

Martin already realized that he would not achieve anything, besides, he was tired of talking about someone else's wedding, and the investigator almost barked:

Enough! Now tell me everything. No need for a cousin and a wedding, tell us about yourself and the deceased.

As is often the case, it was the loud voice and harsh tone that proved useful. The woman instantly stopped shedding tears and even crumpling her handkerchief in her hands, straightened up and, looking at Martin like a rabbit at a boa constrictor, quite clearly explained that the victim was her friend Emma, called the night before yesterday and asked to come urgently, but she could not, because... Hunter was silent for a moment, apparently stopping herself, so as not to mention the wedding again...

It is clear that you arrived not yesterday, but ... when?

The woman turned to Dean Marklund, who asked the question, as if he were her savior, and began to tell him already:

I arrived this morning as soon as I could. And right here. The door is not locked, although I still had the key, but it was not closed ...

The hysterical note reappeared in his voice. Martin sighed - if he starts to shed tears, then for another half an hour. The only thing he already knew for sure was that it was not a murderer in front of him, such a weakling could not even slam a fly, let alone kill his beloved girlfriend, and even scatter things around the room. She even sits there, carefully tucking her woolen skirt under her...

But Hunter managed herself and explained:

Emma was lying like this... I immediately realized that she was lifeless...

Her eyes are open and somehow glassy ...

And who closed? Martin remembered that the dead woman's eyes were closed.

I... couldn't see her glassy eyes... Couldn't it? But I immediately called the police...

Everything looked like an attempted robbery, as if the victim caught the criminal in this unsightly occupation and paid with his life.

But Martin looked around the room and did not believe it. The modest apartment, although with a separate kitchenette, is furnished with cheap furniture that was obviously bought a long time ago. The sofa at night, apparently, served as a bed, it was laid out according to the principle of a French folding bed. And the victim herself didn't look too chic either.

Jansson bent down and looked under the hanging blanket in the hope of finding the dead woman's phone there. The cell phone for the investigator is in second place after the corpse itself, it can tell so much that any investigator tries to find the phone right away. There was no cell phone under the sofa, only a couple of licorice candies and an old subway ticket. This indicated that the sofa was not folded too often, most likely, they did not do it at all.

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