Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

Over the years Andersson had interrogated far too many dope addicts to let it affect him. On the contrary, he viewed the situation as very favorable. Now the thin man should be ripe and ready to pluck.

“If you help me with a few new things that have come up over the past few days, maybe out of the goodness of my heart I’ll see that we get you a doctor. But I want some real help in return!” said the superintendent in his friendliest tone.

“Go to hell!”

“If that’s the way you want it. But then it’s going to be a long wait before we call the doctor. An unnnn-believably long wait. . for you.”

Paul John Svensson’s lanky body convulsed in a fit of cramping. All he could do was moan. Fear and pain were pulsating in the cell. When the spasms passed, he whispered, “What. . what’s it about?”

Keeping in mind that Svensson could only reveal those things he actually had knowledge of, the superintendent speculated about confusing the issue and letting Svensson try to talk his way out of the erroneous suspicions the police might have. Nothing in Andersson’s voice revealed how precisely planned his first sentence was. Nonchalantly he said, “New information indicates that you and Hoffa were mixed up in the explosive fire on Berzeliigatan and naturally also in the bomb that killed Bobo Torsson. So the grenade and the attempted murder of those two inspectors out at Billdal isn’t the only thing we can send you up for. Damn it, Svensson, you’re looking at the bunker in Kumla prison!”

Dread spilled out of Svensson’s wide eyes as he cried, “It was that upper-class shit Henrik von Knecht! He’s the one who blew that Bobo Torsson to hell!”

“Why?”

Svensson jumped at that single word, tried to stop himself from snitching, but his fear of the rock-hard narcotics-free Kumla bunker-Hell on earth for a drug addict-won out. He replied curtly and nervously, “Torsson was supposed to get some dough from von Knecht. But there was a bomb in the briefcase instead!”

“Why was Torsson supposed to get dough from Henrik von Knecht?”

“Hoffa. . I don’t know.”

His fear of the vice president of the Hell’s Angels was clearly stronger than his terror of the Kumla bunker. But Andersson had no intention of loosening his grip yet. So he snapped harshly, “You’re not going to see any doctor until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“Noooo, wait! I know that Torsson was supposed to extort money from old man von Knecht. But it turned to shit. Hoffa was mad as hell, but the guys from Amsterdam were still coming up here with the stuff. There were other people interested.”

“ ‘Old man von Knecht’? You mean Henrik’s father, Richard von Knecht?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, for fuck’s sake! But that asshole didn’t pay. After a few days Bobo called us back and said it would be okay with the bread. Henrik von Knecht would cough it up instead. Sounded screwy as hell, but Hoffa said we didn’t give a shit who paid. As long as we got the bread.”

“How much money were they talking about?”

“Half a mil.”

“Five hundred thousand?”

“Are you dense or what? That’s what I said!”

“What was Bobo Torsson going to do with another half a million? And why would he give it to Hoffa?”

Now Svensson’s gaze began wandering again, but he knew that he had already spilled too much. He might as well go whole hog and get a doctor. Right now he didn’t give a shit about anything to do with the Hell’s Angels. He was dying and he needed a fix. . of anything at all. Right now.

Resigned, he said, “Junk. Half a mil worth. Torsson wanted to be a big-time operator.”

“Together with Shorty?”

Svensson shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Dunno.”

Annoying, but what he had said was interesting enough.

AT SEVEN-THIRTY Irene walked into Andersson’s office. Hoarsely, he was yelling into the intercom, “Tell them that the press conference will be at one! Not a word before that!”

He was pale and tired, and for the first time Irene thought he looked ancient. A few days in bed wouldn’t be a bad idea. But the von Knecht case was nearing a resolution and he had no intention of missing it.

He looked at her with bloodshot eyes before he wheezed, “’Morning. Charlotte von Knecht is expected anytime now. Hope the plan holds. I put Jonny and Tommy on her. They’re picking her up.”

“Then I’ll stay out of sight. Any news from the interrogations of Shorty and Paul Svensson?”

He coughed and stuck a cough drop in his mouth. “Good news, actually! Svensson started to talk.”

Irene laughed and said, “You got him to talk. Threatened him with the Kumla bunker.”

“Cruel, but effective.”

“How much money are we talking about?”

“According to Svensson, five hundred thousand kronor.”

“Five hundred thousand! Henrik’s fortune wasn’t that big.”

“Precisely. We know that because we’ve already checked it out. But Bobo didn’t know that. And we know how Henrik pulled it off. Paul didn’t have much more to offer. He got sick last night, and the doctor’s been looking in on him regularly. He got an injection and went to sleep. He hadn’t slept since we nabbed him on Saturday. Why don’t we get a cup of coffee before we continue?”

“Continue? Is there more?”

“You bet! There’s plenty more.”

They had to settle for coffee from the vending machine. Since both of them were caffeine addicts, taste played a minor role. It was possible to get used to almost anything. Andersson stopped by the toilet. From out in the corridor she could hear him blowing his nose.

Back in the office he pulled out the top desk drawer and took out a little tape recorder. With a satisfied smile he said, “Yesterday’s interrogation of Shorty. I went to see him right after my talk with Paul Svensson. The strategy was the same. Play them off against each other and get them confused. And I took along an envelope with one of the photographs from the safe.”

He began fiddling with the buttons on the tape recorder. His contented smile turned into an angry grimace. Half-stifled oaths and groans filled the air before he finally succeeded in pushing the right button. The superintendent’s voice was heard saying, “. . a good deal now. Paul Svensson has talked. We know that you and Bobo were planning to extort five hundred thousand from Henrik von Knecht so you could buy smack from the Hell’s Angels. We know that there was a bomb in the briefcase instead of money. We know that’s why you pounded the life out of Henrik on Sunday, as revenge for killing Bobo.”

Silence. After a while there was a dull muttering, “Fucking idiot.”

“Svensson denies that he or anyone in the Hell’s Angels would have had anything to do with a contract on Henrik von Knecht. Or the bomb on Berzeliigatan. He thinks it’s you and Bobo who did the job for them.”

Silence again. Then a stream of invective poured out of the minuscule machine. If even half of the abusive words were correct, Paul Svensson ought to be picking out a nice, pleasant grave site.

Shorty’s outpouring was interrupted by Andersson’s voice. “Why isn’t what Paul Svensson told us right?”

“We didn’t have shit to do with any bombs or the murder of Pappa von Knecht! We needed the bread to do business. That’s all.”

“It was these pictures that were going to get you the five hundred thousand, right?”

Light rustling was heard from the tape recorder. Shorty took a very deep breath before he wheezed, “Where the fuck did you get hold of those? That shithead said he burned them!”

“As you see, he didn’t. Why didn’t Richard von Knecht pay?”

Sullen silence. Then came a petulant, “Because his God damned pig-face didn’t show. We couldn’t prove it was him.”