Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

The superintendent protested vehemently but finally admitted that Irene might be right.

Muttering and swearing to himself, he followed her reluctantly to the staff lounge. They greeted two other inspectors who weren’t involved in the von Knecht case. Otherwise they were alone. They sat down at a table some distance from their two colleagues. Irene had just bitten into her roll when the chief of General Investigations, Superintendent Birger Nilsson, came into the room. He caught sight of Irene and Sven, broke into a big smile, and headed for their table by the window.

“So you’re sitting here drinking coffee,” he said cheerfully. “You can take it easy for a while. I think the von Knecht investigation is going to be tough. Keep Rauhala as long as you need him. By the way, you never told me. . Sven. How can you be sure that von Knecht was murdered?”

Word for word, it was the exact phrase that Kurt Höök at GT had used. Superintendent Nilsson leaned nonchalantly on the table, with one hand in his pants pocket, and exuded an amiable interest. Irene didn’t dare turn her head to look at Andersson, but she could sense the throbbing vibrations of suppressed rage emanating from him. That’s why the neutral tone of the beginning of his sentence was a surprise, but the rest of it certainly wasn’t.

“Well, you see, my dear colleague-I plugged up a leak in his ass from which he’d bled to death, and I’m ready to do the same for you. This source is now dried up for good.”

It was a daring shot in the dark, based on pure instinct, but it hit the bull’s-eye. Nilsson’s face looked as if he had been stripped naked; the embarrassment of guilt was obvious. All trace of easy confidence had vanished. Without a word he disappeared through the door.

The two inspectors at the other table looked as though lightning had struck their coffee mugs. Andersson made a dismissive gesture to them and tried to explain his behavior. “Okay, this is how it is. Early leads are gold for the evening press. They pay a hell of a lot for a scoop. You know as well as I do that some of our colleagues like to make some extra dough by tipping off the press. The press conference on the von Knecht case is set for one o’clock, a little too late for the evening papers. I went and borrowed a guy from General Investigations this morning. At that time Birger Nilsson couldn’t even remember my name.”

It would be a mistake to claim that the two inspectors looked as if they were any wiser, but they did their best. The color of Andersson’s face slowly started to return to normal. He stretched.

“Since you both heard Nilsson’s question, I hope you keep your lips sealed for another two hours,” he said sternly.

They muttered, “Of course” and “Sure, absolutely,” but still looked extremely confused. Irene wasn’t sure they understood what they had to keep their lips sealed about.

She quickly finished off her coffee and hurried back to work.

HENRIK VON Knecht and his wife were waiting in Irene’s office. Henrik looked hollow-eyed and horrible. He had changed into black slacks and a navy-blue cardigan. Even though his shirt was white and fresh, the overall impression was reminiscent of a newly risen vampire. The woman on the chair next to him was stunningly beautiful. Irene vaguely recognized her, but couldn’t place her. She was also dressed in navy blue. In her case it was a suit made of soft Napa leather, with a short straight skirt and big gold buttons on the jacket. Her black boots alone, with their stiletto heels, would cost Irene a month’s salary. Her hair was shoulder length and colored a deep mahogany; her eyes shimmered like the ocean, an incredible shade of turquoise blue. The shimmer came from the tears filling her eyes, but only the tears revealed that anything was amiss. Otherwise she was utterly composed and sat with her hands calmly resting on her knee. Discreet makeup emphasized her beauty. It may have been skillfully applied foundation that gave her skin its silky luster. A touch of rouge heightened the glow high up on her sculpted cheekbones.

Suddenly the crisis of turning forty came roaring down on Irene like an express train. No matter what she did, she would never be able to look that captivating after staying up all night. It wouldn’t even matter if it was a night of red-hot love that had kept her awake; she would still look like a wreck. As Sofie Ahl once told her, “You know that your fortieth birthday is coming by the way you pack for a trip. In your twenties you just stuffed a bag of toiletries in the outside pocket of your backpack. At forty your whole pack is a vanity case.”

Henrik saw how the inspector was staring at his wife, and with a sigh he said, “Good morning, Detective Inspector. Yes, you’ve seen her before. She’s the ‘Sun Shampoo Girl.’ Although that was a few years ago.”

“Good morning. How are you? Forgive me for staring, but I was sure I recognized you, I just couldn’t figure out where from,” Irene said quickly.

Gratefully she grasped the straw that Henrik had unwittingly handed her. She went over to the young woman and shook her hand. It felt limp and damp.

“Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”

“Charlotte von Knecht.”

Her voice was deep and sensual; it didn’t match her handshake.

“This is not an official interview, of course. I just need some help with background facts to try to sketch the chain of events leading up to the tragic death,” Irene began.

The turquoise irises watched her intently. Henrik’s eyes were like two dried clay balls. Both of them nodded, however. Irene had a sudden impulse and asked, “How old are the two of you?”

Henrik replied hesitantly, “I’m twenty-nine and Charlotte is twentyfive. What does that have to do with Pappa’s death?”

“Background information. When will you be thirty?”

“April fifteenth,” he said curtly.

Which would mean that Sylvia von Knecht had been pregnant at her wedding thirty years earlier.

There was only a difference of four years between Henrik and Charlotte, but if they had to guess, most people would have said ten years. Charlotte looked a little younger and Henrik considerably older, closer to thirty-five. Irene turned to Henrik and continued, “When was the last time you saw your father?”

“At the party last Saturday.”

“Was that the last time you talked to him?”

“No. He called me at lunchtime on Sunday. I had taken him some catalogs from auctions I’ll be attending at the end of the month. In Stockholm. From November twenty-seventh to December third there’s an auction every day, but at different auction houses. For some reason I forgot to bring the catalog from Nordén’s. Their international top-of-the-line sale is set for November thirtieth. Pappa wanted that catalog. There was a little Flemish baroque bureau he was interested in. At that auction I myself will be bidding on a Tang horse.”

More bureaus were probably the last thing Richard von Knecht needed, but she began to realize that practical considerations were not the point. And what in the world was a Tang horse? It went against the grain for her to admit her lack of knowledge. So she quickly asked, “And you, Charlotte, when did you see your father-in-law last?”

Charlotte took a deep breath through quivering nostrils, fixed a steady turquoise gaze on Irene, and replied with a light catch in her voice, “Last Monday afternoon. At lunchtime. I drove over to give Richard the catalog Henrik just mentioned.”

“Did you stay long?”

“No, I didn’t even go into the apartment. First of all, he had a cold, and besides, the cleaning woman was there, straightening up after the party. I just told him ‘Thanks for the party’ and ‘Get well soon’ or something like that.”