Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

“At home. Why?”

“I need to ask her where she was last Tuesday evening, between five and six P.M. to be specific.”

Henrik nodded and gave a curt, joyless laugh as he said, “If anybody has an alibi, it’s her.”

“And the two of you.”

“And the two of us. She was out picking up her new car. At the Volkswagen Center on Mölndalsvägen.”

Sylvia gave a start. “What? Has she bought another new car?”

“Calm down, Mamma. Her old Golf was in the shop most of the time. The electrical system was always shorting out.”

“But it wasn’t even two years old!”

“We traded it in and got a good deal. Now she has a brand-new Golf. They’re selling off this year’s model at a five percent discount.”

Sylvia looked sullen. “She could have bought my BMW. I can manage with Richard’s Porsche,” she said.

“Your BMW is three years old and has only thirty thousand kilometers on it. You’ll get a good price when you sell it.”

“But that’s so much trouble. You have to place an ad, people have to come and look at it. It’s so complicated when you’re alone.”

Henrik sighed. “Let a car dealer do it for you,” he said patiently.

“No, they don’t pay much if you’re not buying a new car. By the way, maybe I’ll sell the Porsche and keep the BMW. You can get more for a new Porsche.”

Sylvia seemed to have slipped quickly into the role of a single woman. But all her problems were clearly of a financial or practical nature.

Irene cleared her throat to remind her that she was there. “I’ll let you know when we’ve established more facts about the fire on Berzeliigatan. I should probably tell you that there are very strong indications that the fire was caused by a bomb. Since the newspapers will get that information this afternoon, I wanted to give it to you now.”

At first Sylvia looked utterly baffled. But Irene was completely unprepared for the reaction that followed.

“A bomb! And you didn’t tell me until now? There’s a totally insane murderer on the loose. He might be out to get all of us!”

Henrik turned so pale that his skin took on a waxy yellow tinge. He looked as if he might pass out at any moment. Maybe, in addition to the complications from his old meningitis attack, he was ill.

“We need police protection! No, we demand it!”

Aimless and restless, Sylvia flitted around the room. Irene tried to be as reassuring as she could.

“Of course we’ll have to investigate whether there is any overriding threat. But nothing that has come out so far points to this. Has anyone else in the family been threatened?”

Henrik just shook his head weakly, while Sylvia gesticulated wildly.

“No! Not yet! But we probably won’t get any protection from the police before the whole family is murdered and blown to bits!”

That’s what you call a tautology, Irene recalled from her philosophy lessons in high school. Was it the proximity to Hvitfeldt High School that was making things like that crawl out of the dust in the attic of her memory? Evidently Sylvia had forgotten her complaint about the boorish rampage of the police through her upper-crust neighborhood. Now she wanted them back. Irene felt that it was time to wind up the conversation and said in a friendly tone, “We’ll stay in touch. Call me if anything turns up.”

Irene again gave them each her card with her direct line noted. But experience had taught her that people always tended to lose such cards. She didn’t need to look any farther than herself.

Henrik escorted her downstairs in mutual silence. Not until they reached the front door did he ask, “Is it all right if we drive up to Marstrand this weekend?”

Irene was caught off guard. She tried to think before she replied. “As far as we know, there is no threat to the rest of your family. It was your father who was murdered, and the bomb was at his office. Did anyone else in the family ever visit him there?”

Henrik gave a start, but then realized what Irene meant. “You mean, perhaps the bomb was intended for someone besides Pappa? No, it was probably meant for him. It is. . was extremely rare for any of the family to visit his office.”

“Did he really need an office? From what I understand, he had a brokerage firm that looked after his affairs,” Irene asked tactfully.

Henrik bowed his head as if totally absorbed by the intricate pattern of the soft carpet. She was beginning to think he didn’t intend to answer, when he muttered, “He needed somewhere he could have peace and quiet. That was Mamma and Pappa’s old apartment. The one they lived in when they were newlyweds. I must have been two years old when they moved to this building. They kept the apartment, because Pappa needed an office even then. Later, he bought both this building and the one on Berzeliigatan. Along with a bunch of other property with Peder Wahl. But all the other property has been liquidated.”

“How big was the office apartment?”

“Four rooms and a kitchen. Bathroom and toilet. About a hundred and thirty square meters.”

“Getting back to your plans to go to Marstrand. Will both Charlotte and your mother be going?”

“No. Charlotte is going to her sister’s in Kungsbacka. But Mamma needs to see to her horses. She has a stable up there. And I need to get away. Very early on Monday morning, at four A.M., I’m driving up to Stockholm. Lilla Bukowski’s November auction is starting that day. I have a number of commissions there.”

“May I ask how that works? Do you buy up specific rare items and then sell them to interested buyers?”

“No, I work as an agent, you might say. The buyers read through the auction catalogs and then they contact me. They tell me which items are of interest and the maximum price they’re willing to pay. I charge an hourly rate and the client pays for travel and expenses. Often there are several buyers who go in together to cover my services, especially for jobs abroad. The cost of the trip and my expenses are the same, but they’re shared by several people.”

“It sounds like an expensive way to collect antiques,” Irene observed.

Henrik shrugged. “My clients have a lot of money but not much time. And they know what they want and what it should cost.”

“So you never buy with your own money?”

“Not when I’m buying on behalf of my clients. Sometimes I buy things for myself, of course. Like the Tang horse.”

His face had almost returned to its normal color as he talked about his unusual profession. But Irene realized that he didn’t view it as a job. A faint flush had appeared on his cheeks. She remembered his ardent lecture about the Haupt furniture and the carpet and all the rest. This was really a matter of passion and zeal. It would not be easy competition for the beautiful Charlotte. Her value resided in the moment. In fifty years her collector’s value would be zero. The ideal man would be an archaeologist. In his eyes a woman would grow more interesting the older she got. And what about a collector of antiques, who only looks at the patina and future investment value? Irene felt grateful that she and Krister had purchased their household furnishings mostly from the local furniture warehouse, IKEA, in Kållered.

Real curiosity made her finally ask the question, “What in the world is a Tang horse?”

Amazement was reflected in his eyes, and she realized that this was something everyone was expected to know.

“A ceramic horse from the Tang period, of course! The Tang dynasty in China lasted from the beginning of the seventh century A.D. through the early years of the tenth century. The horse followed its owner in death, so we’re talking about grave goods. When he was buried, the deceased was provided with everything he might need in his existence on the other side. Household implements, jewelry, whole staffs of servants, and entire armies have been found. During the Tang period everything was made of ceramics but earlier, humans were sacrificed. There is a clear similarity with-”