Helene Tursten - Detective Inspector Huss

TRAFFIC WAS heavy and the air thick with exhaust. The big soccer fields at Heden lay soggy and abandoned. She crossed Södra Vägen and strolled up Kristinelundsgatan. A glance in the display windows of the exclusive boutiques reminded her that she had to buy a new jacket. She had already thrown out the one that had been pissed on in Billdal without even trying to have it cleaned. The leather one she had on now was too worn. Up on Kungsportsavenyn she stopped and looked in the window of KappAhl while she discreetly buttoned up her jacket. The last part of the way she cut across Vasaparken. Behind the university she saw a gang of youths. The tall boy in the middle of the group was black. Thick Rasta dreadlocks stuck out all around his head. Her heart skipped a beat. Was there some kind of abuse going on? But all was total harmony. Coolly and completely openly, the Rastaman handed over small plastic bags in exchange for wrinkled and sweaty bills from the youths. Ecstasy for the weekend’s rave, no doubt.

What was the difference between Bobo Torsson’s and the Rastaman’s dope dealing? The environment, she decided. Smoky nightclubs and trendy, hip spots don’t change the fact that it’s dope being bought and sold. And that the buyers are drug-dependent, though they all vehemently deny it. She looked at the kids with sorrow. Some tried it out of curiosity, got scared, and stopped. But many of them would end up addicted. Some would manage despite great pressure to break loose from their dependence. But all of them would be forced to live with the consequences of their addiction.

She memorized the appearance of the tall dealer so she could report him when she returned to headquarters. The Narcs’ street-dealer squad probably knew who he was.

SYLVIA VON Knecht was haggard. For the first time she looked her age. She was walking around in an enormous gray wool sweater, knit in a pretty cable pattern, and actually wearing blue jeans, which greatly surprised Irene. Apparently she still hadn’t managed to clean up after the technical examination of the apartment. Everything looked the same as it had when Irene was there before. Big flower bouquets with cards of condolence were placed randomly in the apartment. The heavy floral scent seemed to presage the upcoming funeral. The pleasant fragrance had a rank undertone; the water needed to be changed.

They went upstairs to the airy library and sat down on the leather sofa. Sylvia nervously bit a torn nail. She raised her face, which bore no makeup, and looking at Irene said in a thin voice, “Can you imagine? I miss him so much! Every time the phone rings or someone laughs down on the street, I think it’s him. Sometimes I imagine he’s going to walk through the door and laugh, pleased that he was able to fool everyone. I’m wearing his sweater. It smells like. . him.”

She sobbed and her curtain of hair fell across her face. Irene didn’t quite know how to approach the whole subject. How did things actually stand with Ivan Viktors? She decided to start with the keys.

“We found the key ring. And Pirjo,” she said by way of introduction.

The newspapers would be informed at the press conference later that afternoon that the victim on Berzeliigatan was Pirjo. They hadn’t mentioned it earlier, for “technical investigative reasons.”

Sylvia started and said sharply, “You found the key ring? Who had it?”

“It was sitting in the door at Berzeliigatan. The door to the office apartment.”

“Well, I never! Here I changed the lock on the apartment and spent more than two thousand kronor for nothing! Why couldn’t you have told me about this earlier? Thank God I didn’t bother changing them up at Kärringnäset!”

“We weren’t completely sure that they were the right keys. . for technical investigative reasons.”

“And Pirjo! Where has that slob been hiding? I want her to come over here right away!”

“Sorry. She’s dead. She was blown up in the explosion on Berzeliigatan a week ago.”

It was cruel and brutally frank, but Irene wanted to see how Sylvia would react.

“You. . you’re lying. . it can’t be. .”

The effect was not pretty. Sylvia shrank, shriveling up right before her eyes. Once again Sylvia’s hot-tempered and slightly hysterical manner had provoked Irene to venture too far out on thin ice. Trying to smooth things over, she said, “It took several days for the identification. She was so badly burned. We got hold of the dental X rays and thanks to-”

“What was she doing at Berzeliigatan?”

Sylvia’s voice sounded slightly hollow and her eyes reflected outright terror. She was scared. That hadn’t been evident when her husband was murdered. But now she was scared to death, on the verge of panic. Irene tried to sound calm but still authoritative.

“We don’t know. It’s one of the questions I was thinking of asking you. First and foremost, we’d like to know where she got hold of the spare keys. If I understood you correctly, you didn’t know about this spare-key ring?”

“No, I didn’t know about any spare-key ring. Except for the one we have here.”

“We’ve discovered that the keys were made late this summer. Richard went to Mister Minit on Avenyn to have them made.”

Sylvia was breathing heavily. Her eyes glistened. She avoided looking at Irene now. Irene was even more convinced that Sylvia knew something or had her suspicions.

“I don’t know anything about those keys,” said Sylvia firmly. Her voice sounded steadier, but she had to press her hands together hard to prevent them from shaking.

Irene felt that she couldn’t let Sylvia go yet. There was something here. She decided to press her a little more and reformulated her question. “So you don’t have any idea what he wanted the keys for, or if he gave them to anyone else?”

“No.”

She was lying. She was lying! But Irene didn’t dare go out on the ice again. Not yet.

“The bomb that blew up the building detonated when Pirjo opened the outer door to your husband’s office. She opened the door using the key ring. We found her behind the door,” she said in a neutral tone.

“But the papers talked about a missing young man!”

“That’s correct. He was found yesterday, a little farther up in the remains of the building. Two people died in the fire.”

Sylvia got up from the sofa and started pacing aimlessly around the room. She wrung her hands and sighed quietly. She was incredibly shaken, Irene could see that. But why? If she knew who had the keys, why wouldn’t she speak? Irene tried again.

“You don’t have the slightest suspicion who might have received those keys?”

“No, I told you that!”

The ice was creaking and cracking. Best to look for less dangerous areas.

“Did you know any of the other tenants in the building on Berzeliigatan?”

She shook her head in reply.

“Do you recognize the name Bo-Ivar, or Bobo, Torsson?”

Sylvia frowned and actually seemed to think about it.

“The name sounds familiar. Wait. . he was the photographer who rented the apartment above Richard’s. He’s one of Charlotte’s old acquaintances.”

Irene was so dumbfounded that she almost lost her composure. But she managed to assume a nearly neutral tone of voice when she asked, “An old acquaintance? What do you mean?”

“She worked for him as a photo model. It didn’t amount to much, that modeling. Nothing Charlotte undertakes is ever successful.”

“Did Torsson already have his photo studio on Berzeliigatan when Charlotte was working for him?”

“No. She recommended him to Richard. Richard thought it would be practical to have the same tenant in both apartments.”

“When was this?”

“Don’t know. Maybe three years ago.” Sylvia wrapped her arms around herself, hunching up her shoulders as if she were freezing. But she seemed distracted when the topic of Bobo Torsson was discussed. Her thoughts were already moving in some other direction.