Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

“It sounds like you’re on the road to recovery.”

THE NEXT interruption came when Birgitta stuck her head in and wondered if she wanted to see them open the safe. Irene gave her a wan smile.

“As long as it doesn’t explode, sure. Hopefully, Henrik didn’t manage to get into the safe.”

It was almost two-thirty and already it was dark. There was a light sprinkle of small, hard snowflakes coming down. The back doors of the van were opened, and the man from Rosengren’s stepped out. With a click he fastened a magnetic plate onto the safe. It was equipped with tiny lights and hooked up to a box that looked like a normal voltmeter. The expert turned some knobs, the lights blinked, and suddenly the safe door clicked. The icy vapor coming out of the mouths of all the onlookers stopped instantly. Cautiously the man opened the door. There was a collective sigh of relief.

The space inside the safe was small, about fifty by fifty centimeters. Birgitta had brought a carton, into which they packed folders, boxes, and envelopes.

They went straight to the conference room with the carton. The table there was the most suitable for spreading out and sorting the contents.

Andersson’s face was reverential as he looked at the five inspectors present. Hannu Rauhala and Hans Borg were missing. With poorly concealed anticipation he rubbed his hands and said, “Finally! Now we’ll see if there’s anything useful here. We’ll divide up the stuff and then go through it with the utmost care. We’ll place everything that should be looked at more closely in the center of the table. If you’re unsure of something, put it in the middle pile anyway!”

He swiftly divided everything into six stacks, which he passed out to those present. Irene got a hard leather case that turned out to contain a pistol. Impressed, she said, “Wow! Here’s something. A Beretta Ninety-Two-S.”

Andersson looked surprised. “Where the hell did he get that? Is it loaded? Check if he had a license,” he said gruffly.

“Fifteen rounds in the clip. But there’s no more ammunition that I can see.”

They all looked through their stacks and boxes without finding any more ammunition. All they found were some medals from various sporting events. Plus an old gold pocket watch. It seemed to have belonged to Richard’s father. On the lid of the old watch were the gracefully engraved initials “O. V. K.” Otto von Knecht.

Irene was sitting and admiring the beautiful watch when she heard the superintendent gasp. The color began to rise in his face; his eyes were fixed on the pictures he had pulled out of a brown A4 envelope. Slowly he stood up and flung the photographs in the middle of the table.

There were ten color photos the same size as the envelope. All taken from the same angle. All with the same motif. An act of intercourse, with the man taking the woman from the rear. The woman stood leaning forward coquettishly, with her forearms supported on the back of a leather armchair. In the background there were large paintings on the walls and in one corner of the photos a crystal chandelier. The camera angle was from the side. He was dressed only in a leather helmet. It was pulled down over his face, with holes for his eyes. She wore thigh-high boots with stiletto heels and her legs were spread apart. Otherwise, naked. In some of the pictures she was staring straight at the camera, with a smile parting her moist lips. In one of them she pouted a little, as if she were sending the photographer a kiss. Her eyes were half closed with lust.

All the detectives in the room took a photo to study. Andersson’s face was as red as a stoplight when he wheezed, “Well, my lovely chicken! We’ve got you now!”

Irene almost didn’t believe it was true. Finally something concrete to present! Proof against Charlotte von Knecht.

Jonny gave a stifled moan. “What a delicious body she has! My God, I can see why little father-in-law couldn’t keep his fingers off her. All eleven of them!”

Nobody giggled, but nobody protested either. Fredrik looked closely at his picture and said after a while, “Is it really certain that it’s Richard von Knecht in the picture with her? I mean, couldn’t it be Henrik? Or somebody else?”

Irene looked carefully at her photo. All her weariness seemed to have evaporated; she felt the thrill of the hunt pulsing inside her. The trail was hot again and smelled strongly of pheromones.

Meditatively Birgitta asked, “Where were the pictures taken? Does anybody recognize the room?”

They all took another look at the photos, then shook their heads. No one recognized the interior. Irene’s attention was captured by the background. The paintings. One of the paintings.

Irritated, the superintendent slammed his palm down on the picture on the table and exclaimed, “It’s damned weird behavior, putting a leather hood over his head! It’ll be hard to prove that it’s Richard von Knecht in the pictures. Not to mention proving where they were taken.”

Irene’s brain suddenly felt amazingly crystal clear, and abruptly she knew. She started laughing out loud.

Jonny said to Andersson in a stage whisper, “Now that one’s having a breakdown too!”

Ignoring him, she said triumphantly, “I know where, by whom, and how the photos were taken. And I know that this is definitely Richard von Knecht in the pictures. His whole face is there!”

Jonny tapped his index finger on his temple and shook his head. Irene ignored Jonny’s gesture and turned to Andersson.

“Keep Charlotte under surveillance today, just as we planned. At seven in the morning we’ll bring her in and accuse her of knowing about and participating in Henrik’s bombing of his father’s office. Hammer away at her and let her try to explain herself, precisely as Inez Collin suggested. After an hour or two I’ll come in. And then I’ll nail her for the murder of Richard von Knecht!”

Andersson groaned out loud, “Would you please explain to us, your somewhat less gifted colleagues, how the hell you plan to airbrush out the leather hood on the guy and show his face?”

She did. Her colleagues gave her looks filled with respect. Even Jonny’s eyes reflected grudging admiration.

THE REST of the afternoon was hectic, but when she drove home at around six everything was ready. It had gone well. The people she wanted to get hold of had been available and those she needed assistance from were helpful. She was pleased. And exhausted.

She had to recount the events out at Marstrand one more time for her family. The edited version. In the middle of the evening news she felt her eyes close. She took a long hot shower and crawled right into bed. Her sleep was deep and dreamless, undisturbed until the alarm clock rang.

PAUL SVENSSON LAY CURLED up in a fetal position on the bed, with his face to the wall. Through the hole in the locked cell door Superintendent Andersson could see powerful tremors rippling through his skinny body. Low whimpering and sobs were heard even out in the corridor. There was nothing left of the tough Hell’s Angel. What remained was merely the remnants of a dope addict with severe withdrawal symptoms.

The guard opened the door and Andersson stepped inside. There was a rank, sweaty smell of fear coming from the man in the detention cell, who could actually use a shower. Paul Svensson didn’t seem to notice that he had a visitor. Or maybe he did, because his whines of complaint increased in volume.

Andersson assumed a brisk tone. “Hello, Paul. Time for another chat.”

Svensson turned his face dripping with sweat toward the superintendent. He had a hard time focusing. His eyeballs were rolling around in their sockets like panicked eels. His tongue kept licking his dry, shredded lips. Weakly he managed to croak, “A doctor! Get me a doctor. I’m dying! I’m dying! Don’t you get it?”