Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

Andersson didn’t care anymore that Birgitta was in the room. He excused himself, pulled out his desk drawer, and took out the tube of antacids. He stepped out in the corridor and went into the men’s room. There he took a plastic cup from the vending machine and dissolved two tablets. While he waited for them to stop fizzing, he caught sight of his face in the mirror.

Old. For the first time in his life he thought he looked old. Ancient. Ready to die. No, not yet. But well on the way. Florid, hair thin, with his eyes embedded in wrinkles and folds. You could sum him up in three words: bald, fat, ugly . It was no use to have the blues about the inexorable passage of time. He was mostly to blame. Physical training had never interested him. A little gardening and fishing now and then was what he called enough exercise. He gulped down the contents of the plastic cup and cast another self-critical glance in the mirror. Unfortunately, antacids are no youth elixir. He looked just as old and tired as before. Was it the conversation with Birgitta that had triggered this paranoia about his age? That sweet, lively girl, who was so attractive that men couldn’t contain themselves but bit her on the breast and sent her pornographic clippings. He slowed his steps and thought about how she must feel right now. Distressed, violated, and furious. Afraid. There was a real reason for fear if Shorty was in the picture. The pounding in his temples hadn’t let up yet; it was too soon after taking the medicine. The minute he thought about Torsson and Shorty, von Knecht and Pirjo, the roaring that started in the convolutions of his brain made his headache worse.

Birgitta was sitting just as he had left her. All energy seemed to have gone out of her, and she looked tired. Tonelessly she continued where she had left off. “Torsson went up to Stockholm last Friday night. He took the train, says he’s a little afraid of flying. He spent the weekend with two ‘old buddies,’ both photographers. I have their names and addresses. These three are supposed to do a big job together. A catalog of next year’s fall and winter fashions. This is apparently supposed to start in January. They were meeting to plan their strategy. From what I understood of his babble, they drank like pigs the whole weekend. He rattled off a bunch of pub names where they spent their evenings and nights. Café Opera, Gino, and other places like that. And then that repulsive laugh.”

“You’re positive? He was obviously on narcotics?”

“No doubt about it! High as a kite. The strange thing is that he didn’t stay with either of his buddies, but at the Hotel Lydmar the whole time. According to him it’s a jazz club and the coolest hotel in Stockholm. I assume he was making this up, because a jazz club can’t really be a hotel at the same time, can it?”

“In Stockholm anything is possible.”

“Could be. I’ll look into it. Evidently he had barely checked in to his hotel room when he and the other guys went on a bender all weekend. With no sleep. That’s why I’m starting to lean toward amphetamines.”

“Sounds quite probable.”

“During the week they apparently tried to work, and according to Torsson they got some fantastic ‘visions’ of the job’s setup. A biennale, he said! Isn’t that some sort of big art exhibition that’s held every other year? At any rate, the partying eventually took its toll. On Wednesday evening they ate dinner somewhere, but after that Torsson felt the need to go back to the hotel and sleep. He bought a big bottle of beer, took it up to his room, and sat down in front of the TV to unwind. He watched his home and photo studio burn down on the late news. First he called up Shorty on his cell phone. Apparently Shorty was the one who told Torsson to contact us, because he didn’t know what had happened either. That’s when I started to ask about his dealings with Shorty and found out that that’s where he’s been living. And that they’re cousins. And after that. . that was when he jumped on me.”

The intercom beeped shrilly. The secretary informed them that Birgitta had to be at the doctor’s as soon as possible.

“Okay. Take off now. Go straight home afterward and get a good rest. We’ll try to find Bobo Torsson and arrest him for assault on a civil servant,” said Andersson soothingly.

He stood up from his chair and went over to her. He almost patted her reassuringly on the shoulder, but her rigid neck and stiff back made him reconsider. Uncertainly he continued, “That stuff with Jonny, we can forget that for now. I’ll talk to him. He probably doesn’t mean any harm with his jokes. And I’m sure he understands that you were upset and angry after what happened with Torsson-”

He cut himself off when she turned to look at him. Her face was completely blank and expressionless. Her eyes were again pools of molten lead. Her voice sounded hoarse and quavering when she said, “You still don’t get it.”

Stiffly and mechanically she got up. Without looking at him she vanished down the corridor. He didn’t understand this female nonsense! That thing with Jonny, anyway. He could understand that she would be mad and scared when Bobo Torsson attacked her. On the other hand, he had no idea what else he was supposed to understand.

What a day. And it wasn’t over yet. The only positive thing was that his headache was starting to ease.

THE SOBS WERE SEARING her throat. She tried to call but Jenny and Katarina couldn’t hear her. Their liquid laughter faded away in the air. They whirled away, higher and higher toward the shimmering mother-of-pearl sky. She tried to fly after them, but the thousands of meadow flowers held her back in the warm earth with their soft, invisible hands. In vain she tried to brace her feet against the ground to push herself off. But her toenails only dug deeper and molten metal ran in her veins. “Good God, don’t let them be sucked into the tunnel!” She cried and pleaded until she realized that there wasn’t any light tunnel, only a crevice between the pearly pink clouds, through which the friendly light blue summer sky appeared.

With a jolt Irene awoke and sat up in bed. Sammie grunted reproachfully. He was lying comfortably with his head across her shins. No wonder her feet had gone to sleep and felt heavy as lead. He wasn’t allowed to be on the bed but always crept up in the early morning. At that point there was little risk that anyone would feel like arguing with him. It was five-thirty, and she had slept for almost five hours. Now she was wide awake. That was the risk of sleeping several hours on the train.

Krister was snoring heavily next to her. He didn’t have to be at work until nine. With a thrill of joy she remembered that tonight they were going to have a cozy evening together. She would peel potatoes and make the salad. Maybe open a bottle of wine. He would create something delicious at the stove and graciously accept her applause. She had nothing against applauding, as long as she got out of making dinner. She lay back down, tried to push the dog aside, but he just rolled around on his back with his paws in the air and pretended to be asleep. Which he soon was. Dog and master began to snore to the beat of a schottische. With a sigh she realized she might as well get up.

THE DREAM had been clear as glass. She remembered all the details as sharp as a knife. You didn’t have to be a trained dream analyst to understand its meaning. Was she really so distressed about the twins becoming independent? She was filled with a sense of powerlessness, the feeling that she could no longer protect them against every danger. Something she had read or heard occurred to her: “You can never teach your children to grow up based on your own experiences. As a parent you can only try to hide your sorrow and worry. Try to offer careful guidance when things go awry. Be available.”