Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

In the bedroom, mother and son were sitting side by side on the edge of the bed. Sylvia flung her blond hair back with a spiteful snap of her head and said, “Henrik just told me the same thing you did. I must really be off balance, reacting the way I did.”

It took a moment before Irene realized that this was not only an explanation, but also an apology. She nodded and smiled encouragingly, but got no response, from either mother or son. Henrik looked like he hadn’t slept in several days. Irene began to feel thoroughly sick of the weird behavior of this family. Having to tiptoe around and be so careful when they were trying to investigate both a murder and a homicidal bombing!

She decided to get straight to the point with Henrik. Matter-of-factly she said, “Henrik, I just told your mother. . Sylvia, that we have discovered information that your father has a son from a prior relationship.”

Henrik’s face remained expressionless. He blinked a couple of times, but said nothing.

“Did you know of the existence of your half brother?”

He shook his head gently, still without replying.

Sylvia said rancorously, “Apparently he’s supposed to share in the inheritance! Never, I say! Never!”

Henrik gave her a weary look. “Mamma, there are laws for such things. Leave it to Pappa’s lawyers.”

No one said a word. Neither Sylvia nor Henrik had any questions about the newly discovered half brother. Wouldn’t it have been natural to ask where he lived, how old he was? But maybe that’s not what people did in a situation like this. Maybe the shock was too great. The silence was becoming embarrassing.

Irene cleared her throat and said, “Henrik, what do you think about the fire last night?”

“It might not have any connection with Pappa’s death.”

She could hear from his voice that he wasn’t convinced himself. Irene continued. “Did either of you ever observe that Richard was being subjected to threats?”

They looked at each other, then back at Irene; both shook their heads. Irene went on, unperturbed. “Did he ever talk about anyone having hostile or vindictive feelings toward him? Perhaps related to business?”

Sylvia looked away, uninterested, and pretended to study a Chinese artwork above the bedstead. Irene had also noticed the risqué silk scroll painting. Her thought was that if a woman could twist her hips into the position assumed by the one in the picture, it would be like having sex with a female contortionist. Impulsively she stretched out her hand, pointed at the painting, and exclaimed, “Why did he collect sex pictures?”

Henrik gave her a cool look and replied haughtily, “Sex pictures? This is the finest collection of erotica in Sweden.”

Sylvia jumped up from the bed. She waved a thin finger in front of Henrik’s face and shouted, “No! She’s right. Sex pictures are precisely what they are. They have to go. Get rid of them! I’m sick to death of them!”

She stopped and looked around the room, at all the pictures of naked or copulating people. Again the tears began quietly flowing down her cheeks. Softly she sobbed, “He was so proud of his collection. I hate them. Hate them all.”

Henrik stood up and put his arm around his mother’s shoulders.

“Mamma, I’ll handle the sale. There’s a big market in Europe. Especially in England. I imagine Christie’s would be very interested. This collection is worth several million kronor, you know.”

She nodded and sobbed aloud. “Yes, I know. I don’t want to look at them anymore.”

“I’ll help you take them all down. We’ll put them in my old room. Do you want to take down the Zorn, too?”

“All of them.”

Irene felt a bit desperate. It was hard to get a grip on everything simmering beneath the surface. Clearly there was a lot of tension in the von Knecht family. But was it the reason for Richard’s death? Or the bombing of his office? Since the friction seemed to be old and ingrown, it could hardly have anything to do with the events of the past few days. But it would be worth remembering what had been said and what had transpired today in the apartment. When one began to stir up the mud, clouds of old swamp gas arose. She had to keep at it, for the time being. Eventually something she could use would turn up. She moved on to her last questions.

“There are a few more details before I go. First of all, does Pirjo have a key to this apartment?”

Sylvia shook her head when she answered. “No. Either Richard or I would let her in.”

“How many keys are there?”

“Three sets.”

“So there are three different key rings?”

“Yes. Besides the door keys there are the keys to the seven deadbolt locks. The insurance company requires it. They also said we couldn’t have handles on the outsides of the French doors. Or the balcony door upstairs.”

“Do you know where all three key rings are right now?”

“Of course. I have my own keys in my handbag. The extra keys are in my desk drawer. I saw them this morning. Richard’s key ring is where I found it yesterday, on his nightstand.”

She pointed to the other side of the bed. A smaller key ring lay there, apparently holding car and garage keys. Next to it was a black leather key case. Irene unsnapped the case and counted six keys. She had a fleeting image of the tongue twister “Six shiny sardines stuffed in a shiny sardine can.”

“How many of these keys are for the apartment?” asked Irene.

“Two. One to the Yale lock and one to the deadbolt.”

“What are the other keys for?”

“Two are for the house on Kärringnäset, our house outside Marstrand. The other two must be for Richard’s office.”

“Are there any spare keys to the office?”

“Yes. They’re on the spare-key ring in my desk drawer.”

“There are no other sets of keys?”

Sylvia shook her head. “No. But speaking of keys, I remember that Richard was looking for his spare keys to the car and garage. Like the ones lying there on his nightstand,” she said.

“When was that?”

“It must have been at least a week ago.”

“Did he find them?”

“Not that I know of.”

Irene made a note in her notebook. In order to clarify, she asked again, “The car keys here on the table are his regular set? Not the spare set?”

“Exactly.”

Irene jotted down more notes. Evidently the spare keys to the car and garage were still missing. She quickly asked another question.

“Who cleaned Richard’s office?”

“Pirjo did it sometimes. She would agree on a time with Richard, and he would let her in. Most often on Tuesdays or Thursdays. Those are the days she’s not cleaning here. Occasionally she takes on other cleaning jobs, I understand.”

A thought occurred to Irene. It was a long shot, but no idea could be ignored.

“What does Pirjo look like?”

“Rather chubby, and short. She must be a little over thirty, but looks like she’s well over forty. Her hair is thin and blond, usually put up in a ponytail. She looks sloppy, but she’s actually the best cleaning woman I’ve ever had. Alice, my friend who recommended her, said so too. But she smokes. If she quit she’d have more money for herself. I’m not paying her too little-she’s smoking it all up!”

Irene got a feeling that there had recently been salary negotiations between Sylvia and Pirjo. An illegally employed cleaning woman hardly has much clout, even when she can plead her case in Finnish. With a sigh Irene had to abandon her little idea. There couldn’t have been any hanky-panky between Richard and Pirjo. She had gleaned enough about his preferences to realize that he would hardly view a fat, worn-out cleaning woman as a sex object.

“My next question is for you, Henrik. Where can I get hold of Charlotte today?”