The Golden Calf

by Helene Tursten

  Also by Helene Tursten

  Detective Inspector Huss

  Night Rounds

  The Torso

  The Glass Devil

  Originally published in Sweden, as Guldkalven, in 2003

  Copyright © 2003 by Helene Tursten

  Published in agreement with H. Samuelsson-Tursten AB, Sunne, and Leonhardt & Høier Literary Agency, Copenhagen

  English translation copyright © 2013 by Laura A. Wideburg

  All rights reserved.

  First English translation published in 2013 by

  Soho Press

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Tursten, Helene.

  [Guldkalven. English]

  The Golden Calf / by Helene Tursten; Translated by Laura A. Wideburg.

  p cm

  Translated for the original Swedish to English.

  eISBN: 978-1-61695-009-5

  I. Wideburg, Laura A., translator. II. Title.

  PT9876.3.U55G8513 2013

  839.73’8—dc23

  2012041039

  v3.1

  To my sister Pia

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  February 2000

  FUZZY IMAGES FROM the bank’s security cameras flickered across the TV screen. Three masked men were aiming weapons at customers and employees inside the building. The robbers wore dark overalls, black ski masks, and black gloves. Only their eyes were visible. Behind the counter, one of the men threw a large nylon bag at a cashier. A customer lay prone on the floor in the middle of the room while the second robber aimed a rifle directly at his head. The third armed man was posted near the entrance, his back to the camera. He kept glancing nervously in all directions. Then, in the upper corner of the picture, the glass door opened, emitting two spindly legs in calf-high leather boots. The robber at the entrance stepped forward and pulled an elderly woman into the frame. He spun her around by her arm, and she lost her balance and fell.

  The movements of all three robbers were jerky, since the camera recorded footage in short sections in order to save film. Nevertheless, it was obvious that the robbers were becoming increasingly nervous. The man behind the counter was making threatening gestures at the cashier, who filled the bag with bills as fast as she could with shaking hands. The masked man seemed to become irritated as something shifted near him, and he hit the cashier across the mouth with the rifle barrel. She fell to the floor, out of sight.

  • • •

  “… these BRUTAL PICTURES from inside the bank building.” The female newscaster’s well-modulated voice issued from the speakers of the wide-screen television. “A fourth man was waiting outside in a getaway car, a red Saab 9000, according to one witness. A similar car was reported stolen in Arvika a few hours earlier, which the police suspect was the same vehicle. A nationwide alert has been issued. The elderly woman seen in the video suffered a broken hip, and the cashier lost several teeth; both women have been admitted to the hospital. The hostage and remaining bank staff have received help from a crisis team. It is believed that the robbers got away with more than a million kroner. This is the fourth-largest bank robbery in northern Värmland this year, and so far there have been no arrests. The low police presence in the area may be why the criminals targeted this bank. Often, the only police car in the area may be more than twenty miles away, which delays response time.”

  “SUCH ANIMALS,” THE man sitting on the sofa growled as he clicked off the television. There was a moment of silence after the picture faded.

  “How horrible!” The man’s young female companion laughed nervously. “Can you believe he was pointing that rifle right at her head? She must have been terrified!” She paused as the man filled her wine glass, then she continued, “But honestly, Philip, one million kroner. That’s not bad at all. It’s probably the easiest way to get hold of a lot of money fast.” She giggled as she sipped.

  “Too dangerous. You could be shot and killed.”

  The man lifted his glass to his nose and inhaled slowly, enjoying the aroma.

  “Mmm. Sun-ripened blackberries with a hint of vanilla. Hope they catch those guys and throw them in the slammer. And let them rot there, I say,” said the man who had embezzled a hundred million dollars.

  Chapter 1

  DETECTIVE INSPECTORS IRENE Huss and Tommy Persson parked on the street between a blue-and-white patrol car and the anonymous car of the forensic technicians. The garage entrance had been blocked off by a sloppily parked silver Mercedes Cabriolet, its top raised.

  The detectives hunched their shoulders against the harsh sea wind as they walked toward the front door. The house was brand new, but the surrounding grounds were nothing but clay and mud. One step off the stone pathway and a shoe would be sucked off by the muck. Despite the lack of landscaping, Irene saw that the location of the house was fantastic, high on a hill with a magnificent, wide-open view of Askim Bay. How could anyone afford property like this? The villa itself was all terra-cotta brick and huge panes of glass. Obviously the architect had spared no expense.

  Tommy stopped to take a good look at the Cabriolet. He gave a silent whistle and sent Irene a meaningful glance. They continued to the front door and rang the bell. A female officer opened the door immediately. She looked young and serious.

  “Hi. I’m Tommy Persson, and this is Irene Huss from Violent Crime.”

  “I’m Stina Lindberg,” the uniformed woman replied. “The technicians have just arrived.”

  A baby was crying inside the house. Stina glanced nervously in that direction. “It’s the baby,” she explained. “Their baby.… His wife found him … her husband … when she got home.” Stina’s cheeks were pale, and she was obviously struggling to control her discomfort. A murder would rattle anyone, but everything was much worse when children were part of the picture.

  A tall policeman in complete protective gear appeared in the spacious hallway. Both Irene and Tommy knew Criminal Inspector Magnus Larsson well and were happy to see him. As Irene and Tommy pulled on their own protective overalls, hats, plastic gloves, and booties, Magnus gave them the rundown.

  “A woman called 112 and said she’d found her husband shot. We arrived within fifteen minutes of the alarm. She was calm at first, but she broke down after a few minutes. She had her mother’s telephone number programmed into her cell phone, so I’ve called her. Someone has to take care of the child. Her mother is on the way, but she was in Borås when I reached her.”

  “Who lives here?” asked Irene.

  “Sanna Kaegler-Ceder and Kjell B:son Ceder*.”

  The names felt vaguely familiar to Irene, but she couldn’t place them. She noticed that Tommy also reacted to the names, but before Irene could ask, loud shrieks from an unhappy baby echoed through the house. All three police officers hurried tow
ard the noise.

  The living room was large, with a huge glass wall facing the sea. Irene had been right—the view was fantastic. A young woman sat hunched in a round swivel chair covered in leather the color of eggshells. Eight identical chairs ringed an elliptical glass table, which sat on a matching shag carpet, which popped against the dark terra-cotta tile floor. Oversized modern oil paintings stood out against almost-pure-white walls.

  Irene and Tommy nodded at two uniformed officers standing beside the woman, before taking a closer look at the unmoving figure curled in the chair. Irene realized she had seen the woman’s face before. Again, she had no idea where or when.

  Sanna Kaegler-Ceder stared into space with empty eyes. Her pale complexion and stiff expression made her face seem mask-like. At her feet was an infant in a blue corduroy baby bouncer. Irene guessed the baby was, at most, six months old. He was screaming, his face bright red from the exertion.

  The glass wall continued to another doorway leading to an octagonal room enclosed in glass. In the center was a spiral steel staircase to the second floor. Sanna Kaegler-Ceder’s husband lay on his back at the foot of the stairs. The two technicians near him were setting up their camera equipment. They nodded to Irene and Tommy.

  “We need fifteen minutes,” the older of the two said.

  “That’s fine,” Tommy replied.

  Irene walked to Sanna and lightly touched her shoulder. Sanna didn’t appear to notice.

  “Hello,” Irene said softly. “My name is Irene Huss. Do you think your baby might want something to eat?”

  The woman’s only reaction was a slight flutter of her eyelashes.

  Irene sighed and picked up the wailing bundle of a baby. A noticeable odor cried out for a diaper change.

  “Come on, Tommy. Help me find the changing table and some baby food,” Irene said with determination.

  “What? Me?”

  “It hasn’t been that long since you changed your own baby’s diapers.”

  “You’re right. OK, off to find a dry diaper.” Tommy made a raspberry sound and tickled the baby’s tummy. The baby interrupted his crying to peer up at him.

  After a few minutes of opening and shutting doors, they found a large bathroom with rose marble walls. There was an enormous changing table, complete with every possible item for baby care. The baby wore a soft denim romper suit and a light blue sweater with MADE IN NEW YORK written in flashy silver across the chest. As Irene lifted him from the table, his bottom dry, he began to fuss again. His hunger was making itself known.

  Tommy had already gone to find the kitchen. When Irene, carrying the baby in her arms, followed, Tommy held up a bottle he’d found in the refrigerator in triumph.

  “Hey, buddy! Now you’ll get some grub!” Tommy said as he began to heat the bottle in the microwave.

  On the counter was a plastic bottle top, which Tommy screwed in place with a practiced motion. He instinctively checked the milk’s temperature against the inside of his wrist, then handed the bottle to Irene. Even though it had been years since his youngest child’s last bottle, the preparation routine came back quickly.

  Irene looked down at the baby, who was greedily sucking down the milk. The ultra-modern kitchen glistened in glass and brushed steel. Irene looked for somewhere to sit down, but there were only tall stools next to a bar counter. Irene leaned against one of the stools as the little boy noisily slurped the last drops. Then she lifted him to her shoulder and patted him on his diapered bottom. A huge burp was her reward.

  “Huss, now your jacket will look like a seagull pooped on it.” Tommy grinned. He found a roll of paper towels on a steel cylinder and helped Irene rub off the milk stain.

  As they walked back to the living room, the baby fell asleep. Irene set him back into the baby bouncer and spread a soft, yellow blanket from a nearby chair over him.

  Sanna hadn’t moved. She appeared catatonic. She wore light-brown pants and a cobalt-blue top with a deep décolletage. Between her breasts glittered a large cross with closely set white and blue gemstones. Their crystal clear sparkle could hardly have come from anything other than authentic sapphires and diamonds. Sanna Kaegler-Ceder walks around with a fortune around her neck, thought Irene. And her reserve capital is on her left ring finger.

  One of the force’s crime scene technicians, Åhlén, stuck his bald head through the doorway to the octagonal room. He motioned to the officers, and Irene and Tommy walked over. As was his habit, Åhlén pushed his thick bottle-bottom glasses up his stubby nose with his left forefinger before he spoke.

  “I’ve already secured the wife’s prints and taken her jacket. No apparent spatter, but we’ll have to wait for analysis. This is the scene of the crime. We haven’t found the murder weapon yet.”

  “Are you absolutely sure this is the crime scene?” asked Irene.

  “No doubt about it. See for yourself,” replied Åhlén, gesturing toward where the body lay stretched out.

  Kjell B:son Ceder was well-dressed in a dark suit. Two bullet holes marked his forehead, and his head lay in a pool of blood. A broken glass lay on the floor nearby, and the unmistakable scent of whiskey hovered.

  “He’s been dead for hours. Rigor mortis has set in completely,” the technician continued.

  “Looks like an execution. Two shots right into the brain,” Tommy stated.

  Irene was surprised at how much older than his wife Kjell B:son Ceder was. Even in death he was a good-looking man. His hair, though thickly matted with blood, was steel gray and full. All of a sudden, Irene realized where she’d seen him before: for the past few years, he had been the restaurant king of Göteborg. Irene’s husband was a head chef at a competing restaurant, so she’d often heard Ceder’s name. Krister worked at Glady’s Corner, one of the finest restaurants in Göteborg, with a star in the international restaurant guide. The other two starred restaurants in Göteborg were owned by Kjell B:son Ceder. One was located in the twenty-eight story Hotel Göteborg, one of Göteborg’s tallest buildings, which Ceder also owned. Whenever Irene was in her boss’s office, she would see the mighty silhouette of the hotel rising above the rest of the city from Superintendent Sven Andersson’s window. Slightly to the southwest, she could see the two Gothia Towers next to Svenska Mässan, the Swedish Conference Center. Gothia Towers also had a hotel and restaurant and was the main competitor of Hotel Göteborg.

  “Stridner has promised to show up in all her imperial majesty,” Åhlén said. “If I’m not mistaken, here she is now.”

  Irene and Tommy had also heard the energetic clack of high heels hitting the stone floor. No other person burst into a crime scene with quite the same tempo as Professor of Forensic Medicine Yvonne Stridner.

  She swept through the entrance of the octagonal room, placed her bag on the floor, and took in the crime scene in one glance. Without greeting any of the officers, she got right to the point:

  “Is this actually a murder?”

  Irene, Tommy, and Åhlén all started in surprise. The professor rarely asked questions. Usually, she imparted certainties and issued commands.

  “He’s been shot. Two shots,” said Åhlén dryly.

  Without further commentary, the professor put on her protective gown, gloves, and plastic booties. Just like her not to bother with protective clothing before entering a crime scene, thought Irene.

  Stridner tossed her cape over a chair with a black oxidized steel frame and white leather cushions. Perhaps it was more comfortable than it appeared. There were five more chairs like it in the room as well as a matching table and chandelier.

  Stridner walked over to the body and began her investigation. Tommy nudged Irene with his elbow. “Let’s go and try to talk to Sanna Kaegler-Ceder again.”

  Irene nodded. They could do nothing here until the body was removed, not even go up the spiral staircase to check the second floor.

  Sanna Kaegler-Ceder was in the same chair, but she’d swiveled it toward the rain-streaked glass and was staring into the rapidly
gathering twilight. The baby was fast asleep in his baby bouncer, blissfully unaware that he’d just become fatherless.

  “Please forgive us for disturbing you at this sad time. My name is Tommy Persson, and I’m a detective. Are you able to answer a few questions?”

  The woman did not move, just kept staring out at the autumn weather. When they were about to give up hope of response, she ducked her head slightly. Tommy interpreted this as a slight nod and asked a question quickly before she changed her mind.

  “What time did you arrive home and find your husband’s body?”

  The woman swallowed a few times, then managed an answer. “I called … right away.”

  “The alarm came at four twenty-three P.M.,” Magnus Larsson interjected.

  “And the first patrol car arrived no more than fifteen minutes later?” asked Tommy.

  “Correct,” said the other detective.

  Tommy turned back to Sanna and continued in a gentle voice, “Did you go to your husband before the police arrived?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I saw that he was dead. All the blood.…”

  “Where were you standing when you saw him?”

  “At the entrance.…” Her voice failed her, and she swallowed hard.

  “So you were standing at the entrance to this room?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  It didn’t seem possible, but the woman became even paler. Her lips turned blue-gray, and Irene saw that she was about to faint.

  “Come, let’s have you lie down on the rug,” Irene said as she helped Sanna to the floor. She lifted Sanna’s lower legs a few centimeters, and the color slowly began to return to the woman’s face. After a few minutes, Sanna said, “I’d like to sit up again.” Irene helped her back into the chair. The young woman was still so pale that her face appeared to blend into the white leather. There was no question that she’d received a shock, though there was always the possibility she was reacting to committing a murder.

  “When did you leave the house today?” asked Tommy.