The Corpse

Former Inspector Pontus Hilmersson sat slumped on the sofa, staring blankly into nothing. Exactly as he’d done for months now, after nearly dying twice and witnessing more raw violence than any one man should. Since he came back from Norway, a month in psychiatric care at Sahlgrenska had been traded for his daughter’s flat, where he now spent most of his days.

Vicky zipped up his fly and stood, wiping her mouth. Dropping by had become a habit. Almost always at lunch, when his overprotective daughter was safely at work across town.

“I’ll get going, loads to do,” she said, turning towards the door.

“Okay, say hi,” Pontus croaked, his voice broken, flat as a cracked violin.

“Don’t think so, you,” Vicky shot back, walking slowly through the room. At the threshold she stopped, looked at him with a sad expression, then disappeared—back to her office and the endless stream of bestial murders.

In her car she switched her phone back on—the one she always turned off for those daily visits to the gloomy flat. Inside, her only real love lay down on the sofa, shut his eyes, and tried to sleep. Hoping that things would be better when he woke. Hands clasped, a silent prayer muttered that life might somehow return to how it used to be, before everything turned into days of torment and nights of anxiety and tears.

© 2026 K Westlin (Hljóðbók): 9798260851821

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Hljóðbók: 22 april 2026