Death Sentence Read Free Page A

seriously. I had grown used to letters that attacked my work or me personally, but on that occasion someone on the inside had leaked the electronic version of the script. My publishers couldn’t explain it, but took the opportunity to enhance their security procedures. However, this was now some years ago and such precautions quickly become ineffective if they aren’t reviewed at regular intervals.
    The bottom line was I had no way of knowing who or how many people had access to In the Red Zone , so I was none the wiser when I pulled into the drive of the Tower.
    ‘Hello, FF,’ my neighbour, Bent, called out as I got out of my car.
    He was standing in his own drive wearing baggy army trousers, a far too tight black T-shirt and resting an axe on one shoulder. During the summer he had chopped down seven or eight trees on his own property and three on mine, and most of his garden was littered with timber in all lengths and widths. He had an artificial leg, but he was remarkably active and insisted on splitting all the wood into logs by hand.
    ‘Hello, neighbour,’ I replied and tried to produce a smile.
    ‘We’re running a bit late today,’ he said, grinning.
    He was referring to our afternoon ritual of meeting up for a drink or two around three o’clock. Bent drank beer and I had a whisky, usually a single malt, Laphroaig or Oban. For me, it often marked the end of my working day. I rarely wrote for more than five or six hours and I had started to value human company after thinking about my book all day. My discussions with Bent were seldom very sophisticated and at times I got irritated by his prejudiced views about immigrants, women or politics, but he was always friendly and willing to lend a hand whenever I needed it.
    ‘I think I’ll have to make my excuses today, Bent.’ I pointed to my temples. ‘I’ve got a splitting headache.’
    ‘Oh, all right,’ he said, sounding disappointed. ‘I guess it must be hard work committing all those murders.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Coming up with them, I mean.’
    ‘Oh, right, I see. No, I think it’s something else,’ I lied. ‘Might be flu.’
    Bent nodded. ‘OK, I hope you feel better soon.’ He swung the axe from his shoulder and was about to carry on chopping, but stopped when I called out to him.
    ‘By the way, have you started the new book?’
    Bent shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t finished your last one yet. I’m not a fast reader and when I’ve been outside most of the day, I fall asleep once my head hits the pillow.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not saying your books are boring, it’s just all that fresh air wears me out.’
    ‘That’s quite all right, Bent. I was just checking.’
    ‘See you later, FF.’
    FF was the nickname he had given me shortly after we met. It was not only the initials of my name, but also of his favourite beer, Fine Festival, which for him was the perfect trade-off between price and strength.
    Bent was only ever known as Bent. He came from a working-class family. His father was a blacksmith and his mother a housewife until Bent and his brother, Ole, were old enough to look after themselves, when she got a job as a cashier in the local supermarket. Even though Bent did well at school, he started an apprenticeship at fifteen and became a smith like his father. But the trade bored him, so he was delighted when his name came up for National Service and he was sent to the barracks in Næstved. He showed considerable promise and jumped at the chance to pursue a career in the army, a career that saw him posted to Iraq. He loved being stationed abroad and extended his posting several times – until he saw one of his mates ripped to pieces by an IED and was himself hit in the leg by shrapnel. The doctors couldn’t save his leg and after three years’ service abroad he was invalided out with miserly compensation.
    Back home in Denmark, he realized he had no chance of getting a job and took early retirement at the