Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

“She said she had to show me something. According to her it was very important for the investigation.”

“Show you? Very important?” Andersson put his hands behind his back, a habit from his days on the beat, and paced aimlessly back and forth in the room. Suddenly he stopped in front of Irene, who happened to be sitting in the visitor’s chair. Resolutely he said, “You have to go. It’s the first time in this investigation that anyone has said they have something important to contribute. Check on the train times. Write up a travel requisition, and I’ll make sure you won’t have to front the money for too long. Okay?”

“That should work. But I have to take care of a few practical things first. Jenny is sick at home. Nothing serious, just a cold. Krister is working late tonight. Katarina has to practice for a judo match on Sunday. I’ll call my mother. Just hope she has time. Since she retired, she’s almost never home. You know how it is, ‘When you’re a happy retired person. .’” She sang the last part loudly and off-key.

“Thank you, but I’m actually quite musical. Get going on your trip to Stockholm instead of torturing me,” said Andersson.

“MONA SÖDER, here.”

“Inspector Irene Huss again.”

“Yes, hi. When are you coming?”

That stopped Irene short, but she managed to pull herself together. “I’m taking the X-two-thousand at eleven-oh-five. Arriving in Stockholm just after fourteen hundred.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at Five Small Houses at three P.M.”

“Where are the ‘Five Small Houses’? Is that where you work?” Something about prefab housing came vaguely to mind.

Mona Söder laughed, a warm and pleasant laugh. “No, I work at a computer company. Five Small Houses is a cozy restaurant in Old Town. I’ll buy,” she said.

As if they were old friends. To her surprise Irene discovered that eating a late lunch with Mona Söder seemed like a fun idea. Although being treated might be construed as bribing an official. . There was a risk, so it was probably better to go Dutch.

“Do you know your way around Stockholm?” asked Mona.

“Yes, I lived there for a year, when I was at the police academy out in Ulriksdal. I lived on Tomtebogatan downtown.”

“Go over to Österlånggatan and walk down a few blocks. The restaurant is on Nygränd, one of the cross streets down toward the water.”

“I’m sure it’ll be easy to find.”

They assured each other that it would be nice to meet in just five hours. Irene glanced at the clock. One more hour before the train left. Her mother had promised to drive out to stay with Jenny and Katarina that afternoon. Krister had been informed.

Had she forgotten anything? Nothing that she could think of. She stuck her head in the superintendent’s door to say good-bye, but he wasn’t there.

SINCE THE major renovation a few years ago, Göteborg’s Central Station is quite a beautiful place to visit. The dark, polished woodwork of the walls, benches, and pillars creates a turn-of-the-twentieth-century atmosphere. But the crowded flow of travelers, the stoned junkies, and the winos asleep on the benches are the same as always. The ticket line is the same too, even if nowadays it’s computerized with little paper numbers and digital displays above each ticket window. A glass door separates those waiting patiently for tickets from the people in the waiting rooms and on the platforms.

It took Irene almost half an hour to buy her round-trip ticket. She had to dash out into the biting wind and run full speed for the shiny, silvery blue Intercity train.

It was the first time she had been on an Intercity train. Even before she sat down she knew that she was out of place. She wasn’t wearing a suit or high-heeled shoes, and she carried no briefcase or laptop. In her black jeans, her down-filled poplin jacket, and her red wool sweater she felt like a total misfit. A woman in a masculine-looking gray pin-striped suit, complementing her pageboy haircut, looked at Irene disapprovingly over the edge of her reading glasses when Irene sat down facing her on the other side of the aisle. The only baggage Irene was carrying was a yellow plastic bag from the newsstand with snacks and newspapers. Since she didn’t even own a handbag and never had, most of what she needed in her daily life she kept in her jacket pockets. They bulged unaesthetically. She decided to pretend there was a fax machine in her right pocket and a palm computer in the left.

She gave the woman in the suit a radiant smile and sat down. That’s the most effective way to startle people: They think you’re crazy and instantly avert their eyes. She demonstratively opened up GT and read about the attempts of her investigative group to solve the von Knecht case. The papers still didn’t know about Pirjo Larsson’s disappearance or the fact that von Knecht had another son. It was his mother she was going to eat lunch with, after traveling more than five hundred kilometers.

Within fifteen minutes the detective inspector was asleep under her newspaper.

THERE WAS a desert in her mouth. That wasn’t the only thing that proved she had been snoring. The woman in the suit across from her was smirking maliciously. Irene decided that the two of them were enemies, so she fired off another smile. The gray-toned woman pursed her lips and lost herself deeper in her three-ring binder. It was almost one o’clock. Irene needed a cup of coffee and some food. She opened her newly purchased can of Coca-Cola and ate a Heath bar. The important thing was to save room for lunch. It was beginning to feel quite exhilarating to be taking the train up to the capital like this, unexpectedly. At the same time she had to admit that she was starting to feel a little curious. What was it that Mona Söder wanted to show her that was supposed to be so important to the investigation? Could the solution to the von Knecht case be in Stockholm? She just hoped that she would be able to make it back on the next X2000 train at eight-thirty that evening.

IT WAS no problem getting to Old Town on the subway. Despite the biting cold wind, a pale winter sun peeked through the clouds now and then. After wandering through the narrow lanes and stopping in a few small boutiques, she headed for Nygränd and Five Small Houses. Funny name for a restaurant, since it unquestionably was located in only one house. But a careful look would reveal that there were actually five different house façades next to each other. They varied somewhat in design and were painted different colors.

The lovely warmth of the restaurant enveloped her when she walked in through the heavy old wooden door. A middle-aged hostess gave her a friendly nod. On a sudden impulse Irene asked why the restaurant was called Five Small Houses. The hostess didn’t seem surprised at the question; many people had probably wondered the same thing over the years.

In a friendly voice she recited, “The restaurant extends, as the name indicates, through five small houses. It includes the ground floor and basement of all of them and even the second floor of some. As you can see over there, the archway and stairs mark the transition between the houses. There have been small inns in these houses ever since the seventeenth century. Even illegal pubs. Sometimes the premises were used as coal cellars. At the beginning of the nineteenth century the houses were converted to small apartments. Actors and ballerinas once lived here. They’re all retired now, but several of them have been back to look at their old place, which is now a restaurant again, and has been for many years.”

“How interesting. Thank you so much for taking the time to tell me about it. I can practically feel the poet Bellman breathing down my neck.”

The pleasant hostess laughed. “Let’s hope you’re spared Carl Michael Bellman’s breath. Something tells me it might spoil your appetite. Where would you like to sit?”