Page 22 of Hidden in Memories
“Obviously Charlotte had her differences with some people,” Henry says. “She wasn’t exactly the kind of person who panders to anyone.”
Hanna frowns. “Could you be a little more specific? Do you know individuals she’d fallen out with?”
“Unfortunately that would be a very long list.”
“Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”
Henry gives a half smile. “I don’t really want to name names—isn’t that something the police should be looking into?”
Daniel glances at his watch; it is almost six o’clock in the evening. They need to go back to the station to run through the day, and to link up with Östersund. Grip has messaged to say that she wants a debrief as soon as possible.
“What happens with the Storlien project now?” Hanna asks Henry. “Will you be taking it forward now that Charlotte is gone?”
Henry picks up his phone and puts it in his pocket.
“It was all built on Charlotte’s driving force,” he says with a certain weariness in his voice. “She was the engine. Her vision was key.”
“So does that mean the plans will be canceled now she’s dead?” Hanna persists.
“I can’t answer that. It’s way too soon.”
Daniel isn’t letting go either. “But if the scheme were to be ditched, then doesn’t that mean you wouldn’t have to invest all those millions?”
Henry is clearly irritated. “I don’t understand where you’re going with this.” His tone is suddenly razor sharp. “Are you insinuating that I stand to gain from Charlotte’s death?”
17
A camera flash goes off as Daniel and Hanna make their way down the stairs to the hotel foyer a little while later.
Daniel gives a start and stops on the bottom step. Hanna is a short distance ahead of him. When he looks around, he sees a gaggle of photographers by the reception desk.
Charlotte’s press conference. The journalists have a completely different sensation to write about.
Someone points to Daniel, and a man in his early thirties with short blond hair comes hurrying over, full of self-importance. He is holding a microphone bearing the logo of one of the big TV stations. The mic is on the end of a long boom, which he holds out toward Daniel.
“What can you tell us about the homicide?” he says challengingly.
Daniel holds up one hand. “We have no comment at this stage.”
The TV journalist ignores the rebuff—in fact, it seems to spur him on.
“A woman has been found stabbed to death in one of the hotel rooms,” he continues in the same hectoring tone. “What can you tell us about the situation we’re facing?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t comment on that right now.”
The other man comes closer. “Do you have any suspects?”
Meanwhile, most of the other reporters have realized that they have a senior police officer in front of them. They too hurry over and surround Daniel, holding up their microphones.
There are too many of them, and they are too close. Daniel tries to back away, but there is nowhere to go.
There are people everywhere.
The blond guy is so close that Daniel can smell his breath.
“Are any hotel employees involved?”
It is suffocatingly hot, Daniel can hardly breathe. It is becoming harder and harder not to lose control.
