Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

Contritely she said, “Forgive me, I must have misunderstood you, but I thought I was supposed to follow you up here and write down the addresses.”

Sylvia didn’t reply, but her smoldering fury subsided. Instead she began to shake violently. On impulse Irene went over, carefully put one hand on the woman’s shoulder, and led her to the desk. She pulled out the chair and Sylvia sat heavily. She was still staring straight ahead. Almost inaudibly she whispered, “I usually talk to him.”

“To Henrik?”

Sylvia nodded. Irene was slightly annoyed. It was obvious that they talked often. For one thing, they only lived a few kilometers apart, and for another, there were plenty of telephones in the apartment. But she had a vague, nagging feeling that she was on the wrong track. That wasn’t what Sylvia meant. It had something to do with the brief scene with the photograph. Adoration?

Doubtfully she asked, “Do you mean that you talk to Henrik’s picture?”

Sylvia continued staring stiffly into space as she nodded. The tears were still flowing, though not as copiously. Was Sylvia about to break down again? Maybe it had been too soon to send her home from the psych ward? Best to take it a little easy. Cautiously Irene asked, “Does he answer?”

Sylvia straightened up and said firmly, “This Henrik answers me!”

What did she mean? It felt as though they were walking on thin ice, ice that was cracking beneath them with each step. This was the widow of a murder victim, just released after a nervous breakdown. It was important to proceed carefully, since she still seemed unbalanced. Was Sylvia about to slip into psychosis? But at the same time it was important to nail down her meaning.

Tentatively Irene said, “You said this Henrik. Is there another Henrik besides your son?”

The question was phrased incorrectly. Irritated, Sylvia shrugged and snapped, “Of course it’s Henrik. But the way he used to be!”

Then the penny finally dropped.

“You mean before he got sick? Before the meningitis?”

Sylvia gave her a mute, slow nod in reply.

“Is he very different since his illness?” Irene went on.

“Yes. He was in a coma for eighteen days. When he woke up he was completely changed. He had a hard time reading, difficulty walking, and often got headaches when there was too much noise. He withdrew from his old friends. Didn’t think he could hang out with them anymore. Finally they stopped calling too. Just like Emelie.”

Sylvia fell silent and a pained look passed over her face.

Irene asked in a low voice, “Who was Emelie?”

“His girlfriend. They had found an apartment and were going to move in together when he finished his military service. Much too early, I thought. But he loved her. Although she didn’t love him. It was obvious during the time he was in the hospital. She found herself a new boyfriend, an old mutual friend from their childhood. A double betrayal. I think that’s what finally broke him.”

There was hatred in her gaze again. But she was talking-which, for Irene, was the main thing. She remembered the photo clipping, with Sylvia going into the hospital alone.

“How did you husband take it? Henrik’s illness and all?” she asked cautiously.

Hatred flamed in her eyes again. It felt physical, like a slap in the face, but Irene understood that it wasn’t directed at her. It was for Richard.

In a stifled voice Sylvia said, “He denied it was happening! Henrik wasn’t sick! He would soon recover from his little ailment and be just the same as ever!”

“But he didn’t.”

“No.”

“What happened?”

Sylvia’s voice sounded infinitely weary. It seemed to cost her all the strength in the world to answer the question.

“Henrik worked hard at therapy and improved physically. But he was so different. He was no longer Henrik. The doctors said that there had been damage to his brain. It took almost three years before the dizziness and headaches went away. Gradually, Richard and Henrik slipped farther and farther apart. They had done so many things together before. Above all, Richard fretted that Henrik had suddenly lost interest in the stock market and business deals. He was furious when Henrik started to study art history at the university, specializing in the history of fashion. But after a while Richard changed his attitude. He was the one who suggested to Henrik that he start purchasing antiques directly for his clients. In time, Richard became one of his biggest customers. It brought them a little closer to each other again.”

“But things were never the way they were before the meningitis.”

“No.”

Once again Sylvia, by bending her head forward, had let her platinum-blond hair close like a curtain in front of her face. Irene was undecided. Could she get any farther? Sylvia might appear strong willed and self-centered, but intuitively Irene understood that she was psychologically fragile. The remaining questions were extremely personal and intrusive. But they had to be asked, and preferably now. She would have to proceed cautiously, so she started by asking, “But when Henrik married Charlotte three years ago, he must have been feeling quite well, wasn’t he?”

Not even a ripple in the platinum curtain. No reaction at all. But the worst questions were yet to come. Was it best to start neutrally, or perhaps begin with something positive?

“He seems to be getting along well with her now,” said Irene. “And in the midst of your grief you have the joy of becoming a grandmother-”

Suddenly, Sylvia was all over her, like a wildcat, biting, kicking, and scratching with all her might, yelling, “It’s not true! You’re lying! You’re lying!”

At first Irene was so surprised that she didn’t defend herself and received a deep scratch on her neck. After that, she reacted from instinct. She easily blocked Sylvia’s flailing arms. Gedan-uchi-uke was ingrained in the medulla oblongata of the former European women’s champion. With her left hand Irene grabbed Sylvia’s thin wrist and pulled her a little off balance, twisted her right arm up behind her back, and pressed lightly; with her right hand she gripped Sylvia’s left forearm and then put her left arm under Sylvia’s chin. Effectively locked, Irene pulled the woman’s efforts against herself. Either because of the bodily contact or the lock hold, the air went out of Sylvia. She fainted.

Irene regained her composure, saying out loud, “This is crazy! I wonder what would have happened if I’d asked one of my sensitive questions?”

She picked up Sylvia’s featherweight body and carried her into the bedroom. The thin little figure seemed to disappear in the down coverlet of the wide double bed. Naturally, Sylvia hadn’t made the bed. No doubt Pirjo would have to do that when she arrived.

Irene raised Sylvia’s legs straight up and massaged her calves. After about a minute she began to come around. She mumbled something and tried to sit up. Irene pressed her back down and talked to her soothingly, as if to a child. Sylvia moaned weakly.

“Henrik, I want Henrik.”

Maybe that was a good idea. If Henrik came here, Sylvia would calm down. He and Irene might as well have their appointment here as down at headquarters.

“I’m going to call Henrik. Where can I find his number?”

“Press two and the pound sign.”

Speed-dial numbers are practical. Irene went over to the phone on top of a small curved cabinet next to the bed.

Henrik picked up on the second ring. Irene told him who she was, and then couldn’t figure out exactly what to say next. She was deliberately vague. “I’m at your mother’s right now. She. . had a slight breakdown. She wants you to come over.”