Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

Birgitta asked amiably, “Would you like some coffee, Herr Reuter?”

“Call me Valle, sweetie! Everyone calls me Valle!”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Andersson was taken by surprise when Birgitta signaled to him to go get the coffee. But that was only proper. She was the one running the interview, after all. Though he did feel rather stupid as he walked over to the coffee vending machine. He bought three cups, which he regretted on his way back. It was hard to carry three at once.

Andersson set two of the cups on the desk. Valle Reuter was sobbing and took no notice of him. He crept back to his corner.

“. . my oldest friend. We had known each other forty-five years!”

Reuter wiped his nose on the checked lining of his coat. With a well-feigned expression of sympathy Birgitta handed him a tissue.

“We understand that you were at the party last Saturday. Their thirtieth anniversary.”

“But of course! Leila and I served as bridesmaid and groomsman at their wedding.”

“Leila?”

“My ex-wife. We divorced five years ago. She didn’t get a dime!”

Birgitta decided quickly to drop the subject of the ex-wife. Reuter’s voice had turned aggressive and hate-filled. With good humor she asked, “Was it a nice party?”

“Party? What party?”

“At the von Knechts’ last Saturday.”

“Ah, the party! Excellent fun! Wonderful food and superb wines. With the appetizer they served an interesting white from South Africa, of all places! Neil Ellis, Sauvignon Blanc. Dry and peppery, fresh and round. A long finish. Slight aroma of pissant and spice shop. Excellent with the salmon tartare!”

To the superintendent’s ears it sounded like total drivel, but since Birgitta seemed to be following it all right, he didn’t interrupt.

Reuter sank farther into the fog, chattering on. “With the main course they served a fantastic French wine. Thank God that Richard doesn’t subscribe to that boycott nonsense. A red, Bandol Cuvée Special ’ninety-two. A profound nose, concentrated, rich and fruity with a hint of licorice. The saddle of venison landed in good company, I must say.”

Andersson thought it sounded disgusting. Licorice in your red wine! On the other hand, he didn’t like red wine anyway. White once in a while, with shrimp. He preferred beer with a schnapps.

Birgitta asked, “Did you think Richard seemed the same as usual?”

“Absolutely! Happy and in high spirits, as always. We love parties, Richard and I. But now he won’t be going to any more parties. Richard …”

Again Birgitta had to come to the rescue with a tissue. Reuter blew his nose loudly and stared at her, red-eyed. He took a deep breath before he went on. “My dear, I beg your pardon. I’ve been drinking all night long. In memory of Richard. My friendship with Richard. He’s my best friend.”

“How did you remember you were supposed to come here?”

“Mats Tengman came and got me. I asked him to do it yesterday. After you called, dear. . what was your. . oh yes, Birgitta. He’s a fine boy, Mats Tengman. I handpicked him. My successor. My son is a doctor. He’s going to specialize in pharmaceuticals, because he wants to work with people, not for money, as he says. My whole staff is firstrate. If you only knew what fine employees I have.”

Another audible snort underlined his statement.

“When he dropped me off here, he saw how. . distressed. . I am, after everything that happened. . with Richard. And then he said, ‘Valle, I’ll take care of the business. Take the day off and rest.’ That’s what Mats told me.”

Andersson saw Birgitta discreetly jotting something on her notepad. Cautiously, she coaxed Valle to go on.

“Tell me about Tuesday, Valle.”

“What about it?”

“Your lunch last Tuesday.”

“We’ve been doing that for more than twenty years. Every Tuesday we’ve had lunch together. It started when Richard sold the shipping company. He was clairvoyant when it came to economic trends. If I’d dared to believe in his. . then I’d be a very rich man today. But I’ve done all right for myself.” He paused and stared blankly into space.

Birgitta prodded him with another question. “Which shipping company was it that he sold?”

“The one he inherited, of course! The family company! He got a good price. He invested in real estate, together with Peder Wahl. Do you know Peder?”

“I’ve spoken with him on the phone.”

“He’s a great guy. It’s a shame that they live down south in Provence most of the time. I miss Peder. Tell him that next time you talk to him,” Reuter said.

Birgitta glanced at Andersson and rolled her eyes. He made an encouraging gesture. It always helps to interview someone with a loose tongue. Birgitta continued valiantly. “Where did you eat last Tuesday?”

“We took a cab out to Johanneshus. An excellent inn out in Billdal. We wanted to go before the Christmas hysteria sets in. Then it gets too crowded.”

“What time were you there?”

“Where?”

“At Johanneshus out in Billdal. The lunch with Richard.”

“Oh, right, of course. The lunch.”

Valle Reuter tried hard to concentrate.

“I think the cab must have arrived out there by one or one-thirty. Somewhere thereabouts. Ask Peter, the innkeeper.”

Birgitta made another note. She certainly would inquire.

“So what did you have to eat?”

“Oh, frutti di mare! The appetizer was ice-cold oysters with lime. A not entirely compatible wine with it, from. . let me see. . from the States. Golden Hind Sauvignon Blanc. Not good with oysters. A blunder. An excellent wine with oysters is-”

“The entrée, Valle. Tell us about the entrée.”

“Poached halibut with grated horseradish and melted butter. The potatoes weren’t mashed. . they were. . now, what’s it called?. . Pressed! Pressed potatoes. We decided on the South African wine. Did I mention the wine we drank last Saturday? The white with the appetizer. . oh yes, of course. . it was from there too. A splendid wine. Bouchard Finlayson, Chardonnay. It was just fantastic. We ordered two bottles. With dessert, which was an ice cream mousse with Arctic raspberries, we snubbed the sweet wines of the Old World. Ordered a bottle of Mike Mossison Liqueur Muscat. An Australian. Very good choice. Very good.”

Andersson was starting to get royally tired of goofy wines and weird food. Still, when she caught his eye appealing for help, he motioned to Birgitta to continue.

Her sigh was barely audible as she went on. “When did you finish the meal?”

“We rushed a bit. We left at three-thirty. By cab, of course. Sylvia was coming home that night, and Richard wanted to get back and check on things. And he had a slight cold. He was going to have a little whiskey and sit in the sauna. I like to do that too when I feel a cold coming on. But I say to hell with the sauna!”

Valle Reuter found this extraordinarily funny, and he began chuckling and wheezing in amusement. Neither Andersson nor Birgitta Moberg felt like laughing along with him. There was something sad and depressing about the little round man. Birgitta leaned across the desk and shouted, “Valle. Hello? Valle!”

Reuter wiped his eyes with the soggy tissue. But he managed to calm down.

“As you know, Richard was murdered. Who do you think did it? And why?”

Reuter straightened up and gave Birgitta a sharp look, which made her wonder for a moment whether he was more sober than he let on. Caustically he said, “Sylvia! It has to be Sylvia. She inherits the money. She’s crazy about money. Miserly. And spiteful. If you only knew what she said to me.” He put on a deeply injured expression.

“According to several witnesses she was down on the street just as he hit the ground,” Birgitta stated dryly.