Michael Connelly - The Locked Room

She didn't answer immediately – just looked at him and blinked once or twice, as though her eyelids were so heavy it was an effort to lift them. ‘I'm cold,’ she said at last.

Martin Beck looked around the room. A blanket lay on a chair at the foot of the bed. He picked it up and spread it over her.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ she whispered.

Again he sat quiet, looking at her. Not knowing what to say, he just held her thin, cold hand in his.

There was a faint rattle in her throat as she breathed. Gradually her breathing became more calm, and she closed her eyes. He went on sitting there, holding her hand. A blackbird sang outside the window. Otherwise all was quiet.

When he had sat there, quite still, a long while, he gently let go of her hand and got up. He stroked her cheek. It was hot and dry. Just as he took a step towards the door, still looking down at her face, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

‘Put your woollen cap on,’ she whispered, ‘it's cold out.’ And again she closed her eyes.

After a while Martin Beck bent down, kissed her on the forehead, and left.

Today Kenneth Kvastmo, one of the two policemen who had broken into Svärd's flat, had to give evidence again in the district court. Martin Beck looked in on him where he sat waiting in a corridor of City Hall and had time to get answers to two of his most important questions before Kvastmo was called into court.

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