Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

“How did he act? His mood and manner, I mean.”

One mahogany lock of hair slid rapidly back and forth between her fingers as she pondered her response. The desk lamp cast reflections in the delicious dark blue pearl lacquer of her improbably long and well-kept nails. She gave a little shrug and said, “The same as usual. A little tired after the party and maybe from his cold.”

“He didn’t seem nervous?”

“No, not that I noticed.”

“Exactly what time was it when you arrived at Molinsgatan?”

“About twelve-thirty, maybe fifteen minutes earlier or later.”

“How did you get in the building? Do you know the code?”

Charlotte abruptly stopped twirling the lock of hair.

“Yes, naturally we know the code. How else would we be able to get in?”

“Neither of you has a key to the apartment?”

Henrik cleared his throat and said, “No. Mamma and Pappa have only one spare set of keys. We keep it when they’re away for a while. Otherwise no.”

Irene turned back to Charlotte.

“Where do you work? In case we have to reach you during the day.”

“I’m home most of the time. I’m a photo model.”

Henrik gave a little snort. She pretended not to hear but went on, “The modeling business is tough. I had just started acting school when I met Henrik.”

“Do you have any children?”

Charlotte took in a quick breath.

“I found out last Saturday that I’m pregnant,” she said after a pause.

“Oh, congratulations!”

Irene smiled and looked from Charlotte to Henrik, but realized that she could have saved her congratulations. Each sat, stiffly erect, not looking at the other. Maybe two powerful emotional events so close together were too much? First the news of her pregnancy and then the murder only a few days later.

As if she read her mind, Charlotte jumped up from her chair and said in a stifled voice, “Excuse me, where’s the bathroom? I feel sick.”

AFTER ESCORTING Charlotte to the nearest toilet, Irene returned thoughtfully to her office. There was something in the tension between this couple that didn’t make sense. So she wasn’t particularly surprised when she found Henrik slumped deep in his chair with his hands over his face. Without a word she sat and waited. After a minute he took his hands away and directed his claylike eyes at her. They were completely dry and dead, with no hint of moisture.

Tonelessly he said, “You must think we’re behaving oddly, but we’ve been living under incredible pressure. The last twenty-four hours have been pure hell!”

He took a deep breath and went on, “Charlotte and I have had a little problem. She’s been feeling lonely since I travel so much. It’s been a tough autumn, with arguments and quarrels. Last Thursday we agreed to separate for a while, but we decided to keep up appearances during Mamma and Pappa’s party on Saturday. Friday night when I came home, Charlotte announced that she’d been to her gynecologist, who told her she was in her second trimester! We went back and forth about it all weekend. On Saturday night we celebrated Mamma and Pappa’s thirtieth anniversary, and on Sunday my plane left for London at three in the afternoon. Then when I came back Tuesday night, this happens to Pappa! I’m totally beat.”

Irene felt sorry for the lanky man across the desk from her. But at the same time it was important to get as much information out of him as possible in this early stage of the investigation. Henrik seemed to need to talk, and to trust her. Every good interviewer notices things like that.

She asked in a cautious, low voice, “Have you and Charlotte reached any decision?”

He nodded. “Yes, we’re going to try to stick it out. For the sake of the child and the family. Maybe when Charlotte is busy with the baby she won’t feel so bored at home.”

Irene could remember how she practically knelt down to kiss the floor in the locker room when she finally went back to work after nine months at home with the twins. Krister had stayed home the next four months, and then the girls started day care.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Charlotte come through the door and decided to change the subject. “Who are the other residents in the building on Molinsgatan?” she asked.

“Valle Reuter, a stockbroker, lives on the second floor. His name is Waldemar, but everyone calls him Valle. On the third floor are Pappa’s old classmate Peder Wahl and his wife, Ulla. They have a house in Provence where they live most of the year, enjoying their retirement.”

“But he can’t be much older than sixty if he went to school with your father, right?”

For the first time in their whole conversation, the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Henrik’s mouth.

“Peder and Pappa sold one of the biggest construction and real estate companies in Sweden when the market was at its hottest. With more than a hundred million kronor in hand, Peder decided it was time to take life a little easier. He has three daughters, and none of them had the least interest in going into real estate.”

“You didn’t either,” Charlotte interrupted.

Henrik pressed his lips together but continued as if he hadn’t heard his wife’s comment. “The apartment below Mamma and Pappa’s is empty. Tore Eiderstam, the attorney, used to live there.”

Tore. . Tore, the attorney. . Irene had a fleeting recollection of Yvonne Stridner’s ex-husband. She said casually, “Wasn’t he married to pathology professor Yvonne Stridner?”

“Ha, Tore’s been married several times! But now that you mention it, you’re probably right. I remember a discussion Mamma and Pappa had once. Mamma said something about how disgusting she thought it was that someone in their circle of friends carved up corpses all day. That was the first time I ever heard the word necrophiliac. ”

Irene realized with a dash of sympathy that Yvonne Stridner must have had a rough time in this social circle. Now she noticed that Birgitta Moberg had quietly entered the room. Irene introduced her to Charlotte and Henrik.

Quickly she summed up for Birgitta what Henrik had told her about the occupants of the second and third floors.

“And we were just talking about the fourth floor. The attorney Tore Eiderstam used to live there, an old friend of Richard von Knecht. ‘Used to,’ you said-where did he move to?”

“Eastern Cemetery, the Eiderstam family plot.”

Neither Irene nor Birgitta could think of anything to say. Henrik went on after a short pause. “He dropped dead of a heart attack in September. The final divorce papers from his last wife had just arrived. He had two children from previous marriages, and they were clearly his heirs. It took a long time, but now the apartment is empty. Someone new is moving in on December first.”

“Do you know who?”

“I do. Ivan Viktors, the opera singer. He’s also one of Mamma and Pappa’s old friends.”

“Have you heard how your mother’s doing?”

“She’s starting to recover. I promised to drive her home this afternoon.”

Irene nodded and gave the matter some thought. This afternoon the techs would be pretty much finished with the apartment. The little she’d heard about Sylvia von Knecht told her that the woman would certainly be upset over “trespassing” by the police. Not a very suitable atmosphere for gathering information.

To feel them out she said, “When are you going to pick her up? Which hospital ward is she in?”

“She wants to be picked up at three-thirty, because then she’ll be home in time for her afternoon coffee. She’s in Ward Five.”

“If I were to go over and talk to her around three, would that be all right with you?”

Henrik just shrugged. Irene made a little note on the pad in front of her: “Call PS ward 5. Sylvia v. K. 1500?” Then maybe she’d have time to drop by and see the little dachshund lady Eva Karlsson beforehand. It was right on the way to Sahlgren Hospital. New note: “Call Eva K. 1400?”