Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

Hannu nodded and to everyone’s surprise actually spoke. “She’s not in the phone book.”

“Okay, well. . you’ll figure it out somehow.”

Andersson still wasn’t quite sure that he wanted to know about Hannu’s methods of gathering information. But they were effective.

Irene turned to Hannu and said, “Sylvia von Knecht said that she has Pirjo Larsson’s phone number. I’ll call her right after the meeting and set a time to meet, ask her for Pirjo’s number, and give it to you right away.”

Hannu nodded again. Andersson turned to Hans Borg, who was dozing in his chair, as usual. To wake him up, Andersson raised his voice and addressed his oldest inspector, “Hans, you’ll have to drive back to the von Knecht neighborhood. Whatever hasn’t burned down, that is. Find out if anybody saw anything on Kapellgatan, around twenty to six on the night of the murder. There’s a parking garage across the street. Even if it was dark and crappy weather, somebody might have seen the killer if he went out through the street door.”

Andersson paused, preparing to close the meeting. “We’ll get together here this afternoon around five.”

A knock on the door interrupted him. The secretary came in with a fax in her hand.

“Fresh fax from the pathologist,” she said briskly.

Andersson took it from her. The others could see his bushy eyebrows arch up to his nonexistent hairline when he exclaimed, “Von Knecht had a blood alcohol level of point-one-one! He wasn’t dead drunk, but clearly feeling no pain. That would have made it easier for the murderer.”

BACK IN her office, Irene called Sylvia von Knecht. Hannu, who came sauntering after her, sat on a chair by the door.

Sylvia answered at once. When Irene identified herself, Sylvia flew into a rage, denouncing the entire Göteborg police force for turning her apartment upside down. She got a good head of steam going. From where he was sitting, Hannu could hear her saying shrilly, “And I can’t get hold of Pirjo either! I’ve been calling her since seven o’clock. She has to come in today and help me clean up!”

Irene held the receiver a little way from her ear and gave Hannu a knowing glance before she put the receiver back and said in a friendly tone of voice, “So good of you to mention Pirjo. We would like to talk to her too. Could I get her phone number? Or perhaps the number of the cleaning firm, her employer?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally Sylvia snapped, “It’s not a crime to pay your cleaning woman under the table.”

It most certainly is, Irene felt like saying, but knew this wouldn’t be good psychology. Calmly she said, “No, of course not, Fru von. . Sylvia, but I’d appreciate it if you could give me her phone number.”

Reluctantly Sylvia gave her the number. Irene wrote it down on a slip of paper and handed it to Hannu. With a nod he disappeared down the corridor.

Only then did Sylvia mention the fire the night before. “So odd that the building on Berzeliigatan would burn down the day after Richard’s death. But it’s an old building, of course. There was probably a short circuit in the wiring. They had started tearing up the top floor. It was going to be a studio. I hope he had adequate insurance on his computers. I know the building was insured,” she said.

Irene asked carefully, “Did he have any employees at his office?”

“No,” Sylvia replied quickly. “He watched the whole world’s stock exchanges on his computer screens. He didn’t need a secretary to do that. His broker takes care of all the daily business with the stock trades. Richard was only there a few days a week.”

Sylvia agreed to meet Irene at ten.

With a sigh Irene looked at the pile of gossip magazine faxes awaiting her. Procrastinating a bit, she called Henrik von Knecht and set a time to meet him. He would come down to HQ after one o’clock.

ANDERSSON FOLLOWED Birgitta Moberg into her office. Waldemar Reuter hadn’t shown up yet, but it was only five past eight. Andersson liked working with Birgitta. She was quick witted, alert, young, and pretty. There was only one problem. She made the superintendent feel old and a little clumsy. She was in the swing of things, went out with friends, traveled abroad, and skied in the winter. She also had a scuba diving certificate and often went to the Red Sea or the Mediterranean.

Bosses were supposed to show interest in their subordinates; that’s what they had said at the last manager development course, so Andersson began by asking, “Will you be diving in the Red Sea or skiing in the Alps this spring?”

“Neither, I’m afraid. I’m trying to save money. No vacations until next fall. Then I’m going to Australia for at least two months. Pack everything in a rucksack and bum around.”

“By yourself?”

He felt foolish after he said it, but it was his spontaneous reaction.

She gave him an easy smile. “Of course. Guys just slow you down. If you take a guy along, you always have to worry about his needs. No, I want to experience things and be open to everything.”

“Isn’t it dangerous for a single woman to travel alone like that?”

Birgitta laughed. “As you know, it can be dangerous to go out on your balcony!”

Would he dare venture into the Australian outback? Never! Sleep under the stars with nocturnal predators stalking around? Snakes and spiders? He shuddered. And felt about as old as Methuselah.

“A trip like that must cost a lot of money. How do you manage to save up that much?”

“I have a cheap studio apartment out in Högsbo. My car is twelve years old and I repair and maintain it myself. But my seed money was actually a small inheritance from my grandmother.”

There was a noise at the door, and Waldemar Reuter made his entrance. He waved at someone out in the corridor. Both detectives noticed that he was slurring his words when he said, “A thousand thanks, my dear lady. It was kind of you to escort me through the labyrinth of Göteborg Police Headquarters.”

With a small lurch he turned around and fixed his bloodshot eyes on Birgitta. “Oh, good morning! Beauties abound in this building!”

He made a deep bow and belched audibly. His breath, which spread through the room, could have been sliced up and sold as well-aged Stilton. Reuter wasn’t hung over, but he would be in a few hours. His round head seemed to be fastened directly to his globular body, without any neck visible in between. He actually appeared to be as wide as he was tall. His arms seemed to stick straight out from his body, but his attempt to keep his balance by using them as stabilizers may have contributed to this impression. His legs were short. His feet, clad in expensive shoes, were surprisingly small. He had a Burberry trench coat over one arm, which flapped and waved in the air when he flailed his arms. His suit was dark blue, made of a soft wool fabric with discreet shiny piping. For some reason his tie was draped under his lapel and not around the collar of his shirt. But at least he still had it on.

Birgitta grimaced with disgust behind Reuter’s inclined back, but when he straightened up she flashed him a dazzling smile, asked him to take a seat in the visitor’s chair, and introduced herself and the superintendent.

Waldemar Reuter blurted out, “Oh, hell, there’s a guy in the room! I didn’t even see you!” He gave Andersson a moist handshake and winked mischievously, casting a roguish glance toward Birgitta.

Was it an advantage that he was drunk? Perhaps. The best tactic would be to let Birgitta handle the interview. Reuter clearly viewed her as a little cutie pie, not as a cop. Andersson tried to make himself invisible in his corner, which was entirely unnecessary. Reuter had already forgotten his existence.