The Golden Calf

by Helene Tursten

  “Birgitta, would you be so kind as to contact the travel agency to rebook our flight for tomorrow afternoon instead? And could you please ask them to find a hotel close to the Rothstaahl apartment while you’re at it? I don’t have a car here. By the look of it, I hardly believe our French colleague will offer to be my chauffeur. As long as I’m here, I really should find out as much as I can about Bergman and Rothstaahl.”

  “That’s great! At least Andersson can’t complain that your trip was a complete waste. I’ll call you when I’ve handled the travel agency. And by the way, I called HP Johnson’s Parisian office this morning, and they told me that they never had an employee named Joachim Rothstaahl. Our young friend made up that story for his parents. Now we have to find out what those two guys really were up to.”

  As soon as Irene ended the call, she suddenly felt abandoned. Her contact with her native country was gone, and she was on her own in a foreign capital city where she couldn’t even speak the language. Not to mention that the only native she had contact with now was as friendly as a cold fish.

  RIGHT BEFORE THE car swung in through the tall gates of the police station, Irene caught a glimpse of a building she actually recognized. The spires and towers covered with dragons and gargoyles could be nothing else but the famous Notre Dame cathedral. She’d recognized it from the Disney film The Hunchback of Notre Dame she’d seen with her daughters several years ago.

  They walked through an imposing wooden door with massive iron mounting. It was covered with marks that, to Irene, looked like they were made by French Revolution battering rams and storming mobs. Now the gate was guarded by a uniformed policeman in a glass booth. He saluted smartly as they walked by, and Verdier waved a casual salute back.

  They stepped into an ancient, rickety elevator. Verdier pushed a button marked “PJ.” Next to the button, the words POLICE JUDICIARE were engraved on a brass sign. The elevator carried them up a few floors, and after that they walked along a dark corridor. Tiny, dirty windows along one side let in the least amount of light possible. Irene felt as if she’d traveled several centuries back in time. Only the dull sound of traffic and the sirens of emergency vehicles gave her any sense of the present.

  After a long walk down the dim corridor, the inspector stopped at a closed door and unlocked it.

  “Please enter,” he said, as he held the door open.

  They stepped into his office. A worn desk, two chairs, and a simple, wall-mounted bookshelf with a few binders were the only furnishings in the room. An old computer sat enthroned at the center of the desk. The room was chilly. Irene struggled into her jacket before she sat down on the chair Verdier pointed to.

  Before Irene was able to launch her long tale, her cell phone rang the Marseilles again. Birgitta informed Irene that she’d booked a room at the Hotel Montparnasse Raspail. According to the woman at the travel agency, the hotel should be close to the Rothstaahl apartment. She’d also rebooked their flight.

  As Irene stammered out the entire Göteborg murder investigation in stumbling English, Verdier sat quietly and watched her. There were no pictures or flowers on the windowsill, so Irene was forced to look back at Verdier. Irene had never imagined that a person could stare that long without blinking. It was effective. For a second, Irene felt ready to confess to hitting Kajsa on the head and locking herself into the closet just to escape his chilly gaze. She controlled her emotions as she did her best to describe the case’s chain of events. If he could sit there cold as ice, well then, so could she.

  When she finished, there was a long period of silence.

  Finally, Verdier asked, “Why did your superintendent send two women here?”

  Irene was not surprised by this question, but she was starting to feel fed up with the attitude. “He sent his two best detectives because this killer is especially dangerous,” she said.

  For a fraction of a second, a sparkle flashed in the French Inspector’s eyes, but Irene couldn’t determine why before it disappeared again.

  He fixed her in his gaze for quite some time. Defiantly, she stared back, and to her great satisfaction, he was the first to look away. He tried to disguise it by getting up from his chair.

  “Would you like a ride somewhere, madame?” he asked.

  His voice was as coolly polite as ever, but Irene could tell by the emphasis he put on madame that she was supposed to notice he refused to use her title.

  “Yes, please,” she replied without hesitation. “You can drive me to my hotel on Boulevard Raspail.”

  She knew that she wasn’t pronouncing its name properly, but she no longer cared. She just wanted to get out of this depressing room and away from the even more depressing Verdier. He handed her his card and said, “I would like your cell phone number, in case something turns up. Or I have to reach you.” He managed to make it sound like a threat.

  A YOUNG UNIFORMED policeman drove Irene back to Montparnasse in an unmarked car. This time, Irene decided herself to sit in the back seat in order to avoid a stumbling conversation in broken English. As soon as she sat down, exhaustion overcame her. Spending time in the company of Inspector Verdier had taken more out of her than she’d realized. Not to mention the attack at the apartment and the time spent in the emergency room. And she’d had no chance to look in on Kajsa.

  The doctor had said she could visit Kajsa once she had been moved out of Emergency later that evening. Irene checked the time and saw it was only six P.M. She had enough time to search the apartment once more before she had to return to the hospital. Before then, however, she needed at least several cups of coffee and a sandwich. Her elbow was starting to throb, so it would be a good idea to get her pain prescription too.

  She pulled out her cell phone and called Krister, who had just arrived home. He was alarmed when he heard about the attack, and once Irene reassured him that she was relatively OK, he promised to hold down the fort at home. Krister was Irene’s anchor, and without him, Irene knew she could never have combined family and police work so well. Many of her married male colleagues with children had reached a similar balance at home. Like them, Irene rarely thought about it.

  The car stopped directly in front of the entrance to Hotel Montparnasse Raspail. She thanked her uniformed driver as she slung her backpack clumsily over her left shoulder. The hotel’s glass doors swished open automatically when she approached. The recently painted terra-cotta lobby was relatively small.

  The young woman behind the reception desk was impeccably attired in a dark blue dress. She was unusually tall and thin. She had dreadlocks that she wore wrapped around the top of her head until they hung down her back, and she had added glass pearls to many of them, so that they clicked gently as she stood up from her chair. She smiled warmly, and her teeth sparkled in contrast to her dark skin. What is this woman doing behind a hotel reception desk? Irene wondered. She could be earning big bucks on designer catwalks. This is Paris, after all.

  Irene gave her name, and the receptionist, who wore a nametag that read LUCY, typed it into the computer. She gave a friendly nod. “Welcome, Madame Huss. I hope you will feel welcome here.”

  Her English was much better than Irene’s. “Thank you.”

  Irene’s eyes found a small bar at the corner of the lobby. “Excuse me, but would it be possible to have some coffee and a sandwich?” She wasn’t able to hide the exhaustion in her voice.

  Again, Lucy nodded. “Certainly, madame. I’ll arrange it, but it will take a while.” She leaned over the reception counter. “Forgive me for asking, but do you need some assistance?”

  She was staring at Irene’s shoulder.

  “No,” Irene said in confusion. “Just coffee and a sandwich, please.”

  “I mean, madame, you have blood on your sweater.”

  One glance at the mirror behind Lucy showed obvious bloodstains across Irene’s left shoulder, ruining her light blue top.

  “Oh, no!” Irene exclaimed. “And I’ve already used my extra T-shirt to stop the bleeding! T
his is not my blood—it’s my colleague’s. She was the victim of—an unfortunate incident.”

  Before Irene had even consciously made the decision, she began to relate a somewhat censored version of the day’s events. Lucy listened, enthralled.

  “So, you are a police officer? And you did not intend to stay in Paris?” Lucy said, after taking a moment to reflect on Irene’s tale of woe. “I know! One of my friends can help you! You need a change of clothes, right?”

  “Right. I mean, thank you. And I also have a prescription.…” Irene said, her thoughts tumbling. She managed to find the doctor’s piece of paper from her backpack. “Where’s the nearest pharmacy?”

  “Madame Huss, please give me your prescription. Go upstairs and relax in your room for a while. I’ll come by with your medicine, your coffee, and some clothes. Your room number is 602. Please have a good rest.”

  Overwhelmed, Irene took the plastic card key and headed for the small elevator. It felt wonderful to let someone else worry for once, even though she’d always considered doing so a dangerous weakness. She’d never caved in to this temptation before. Maybe now was the time. Lucy’s heartfelt sympathy had dissolved the lump of rage she felt at Inspector Verdier’s ice-cold eyes and dismissive attitude.

  The room was small, but it was clean and attractive. Actually, it looked as though the entire hotel had been renovated recently. A clean, inviting bed—what more could a person ask for?

  IRENE WOKE UP at the knock at the door. The clock showed she’d slept for forty-five minutes. She didn’t even remember lying down on the bed. She’d probably fallen asleep before her head hit the pillow—she was still fully dressed and on top of the bedcovers.

  Lucy was waiting when Irene opened the door. She carried in a tray, and from her wrist dangled a large wax paper shopping bag in dazzling colors.

  “Here you go, madame,” she said with her shining smile. “My friend would like thirty-eight euros and the prescription cost eighteen.”

  Irene had only fifty euros in her wallet, but was relieved to see she had even that much. “Take this for now,” she said. “I’ll go and get more money. Thank you very much.” Irene really did feel incredibly grateful.

  “Don’t rush. There’s an ATM around the corner on the way to Montparnasse. Hardly more than a hundred meters from here.”

  On the bag, the words GALERIES LAFAYETTE were written in an elegant script. There was an attractive pale lilac cotton top and a few pairs of cotton underwear. At the bottom of the bag was a clear plastic makeup bag with small testers of cleansers and skin cream. There was even a mini mascara wand.

  FINDING THE ATM was not a problem. Irene took out one hundred euros and went directly back to the hotel, where she paid her debt to Lucy.

  Rothstaahl’s apartment was almost directly across the street from Hotel Montparnasse Raspail. Feeling like she was taking her life in her hands, Irene jaywalked through the heavy traffic. When she got to the other side in one piece, she swore to herself she’d keep to the lights and crosswalks on the way back.

  Irene put the key into the apartment’s front door, then hesitated before she turned it. What if the man who’d attacked her and Kajsa had returned? She decided it was unlikely, but as she opened the door, she still had a knot of worry in her stomach and all her senses on high.

  There was no scent of men’s cologne. If only she’d understood what that strong scent had meant before! She opened the bathroom door to notice that the grooming kit was gone. Had the attacker remembered to take his toiletries with him or had the French police come to investigate and taken it for technical examination? She walked back into the hallway and surveyed the scene. The large bloodstain in the doorway was still there. She took a quick look into the kitchen, bedroom, and living room, and her suspicions were confirmed—there was no sign that the French police had been on the scene. She had locked the apartment door as the ambulance was leaving, and Inspector Verdier had not requested the key—which she wouldn’t have given him anyway. Perhaps he realized that.

  The kitchen was tiny and a window opened to the interior courtyard. This side of the apartment building was not as well kept as the street-side façade. Plaster was missing. Obviously the most important thing was the public appearance on the side of the boulevard.

  In one cupboard, Irene found simple white place settings, wine glasses, normal drinking glasses, utensils, and a few serving plates. The pantry held instant coffee and a few dry goods. Three pots and one frying pan were the only cookware she could find. Obviously the current resident didn’t cook much. As Irene took a closer look at the furniture, she realized that the apartment must have come furnished. Nothing had a personal touch. No trendy design here—just run-of-the-mill stuff. This didn’t fit with Irene’s impression of Philip Bergman’s ph.com glory days. This apartment would not be featured in a glossy interior decoration magazine. On the other hand, it was Joachim Rothstaahl’s apartment. Perhaps he had different taste.

  The bedroom had not changed since she’d left it a few hours before. An involuntary shudder went through her as she looked at the shattered closet door. Overcoming her hesitation, she entered the room and turned on the light.

  Apparently, Philip Bergman and Joachim Rothstaahl shared the closet. Since Philip had been much taller and more athletic than Joachim, his clothes were larger as well. They were hanging neatly on clothes hangers. There were shoe racks beneath the clothes, and Irene couldn’t help counting the pairs. Philip had forty-seven while Joachim had only twenty-two. Irene made a quick mental count and realized that she owned just nine pairs of shoes, if she included her rubber boots and the pair of boat shoes she was wearing at the moment.

  The bedroom dressers were not as orderly as the closet: underwear, T-shirts, and socks were tossed in random piles.

  Next, the bed. If her attacker had stayed in the apartment for at least a night, there could be traces of him left behind. Irene turned on one of the halogen bedside lamps and aimed it at the bed cover. She inspected the surface carefully, and she felt a shiver of excitement when she saw a few strands of hair on a bolster. Irene walked into the kitchen and found a roll of white plastic bags under the sink. She took the whole roll back into the bedroom. Since she had forgotten to bring gloves, she slipped a bag over her left hand. She didn’t dare use the right one yet; every time she moved a finger on that hand, a wave of pain shot to her elbow. She was clumsy with her left hand, and it was difficult to try to pick up the strands of hair and put them into a second bag, but it worked. When she succeeded, she felt elated, but she knew there was still a lot to do. She carefully pulled back the bedcover and repeated the procedure with the two main pillows. There was a lot of hair. She put every strand into another bag. Malm and Åhlén’s job would be to sort through them. It wouldn’t be too difficult. Joachim’s and Philip’s hair could be eliminated immediately. Perhaps the third person’s hair would be detected. And maybe some from the intruder, although there was also the possibility that some could have come from an innocent bed partner. Irene didn’t expect that. She carefully knotted the bags and put them in her backpack.

  In one corner of the room, there was a plain desk with a laser printer and a number of electrical cords, but no computer. Irene pulled open the desk drawers but found nothing of interest. On the wall above the desk there was a bookshelf with some binders. One was marked APARTMENT. Irene pulled down that one and began to flip through it. She found the rental contract, signed by Joachim Rothstaahl on April 1, 2001. He’d rented the fully furnished apartment for fifteen hundred euros a month. Irene calculated the exchange rate in her head; fourteen thousand Swedish kroner for an apartment that was only seven hundred square feet. Perhaps that was another incentive to find a roommate.

  The next binder to catch her interest was titled Euro Fund in gold lettering on the spine. It contained a number of fat brochures printed on expensive paper. There were graphs and diagrams to give an impression of financial responsibility as well as a number of beautiful photogra
phs of Paris. From the Swedish version of the text, Irene understood that the brochure was meant for investors for a mutual fund with a high rate of return. “Guaranteed to be the best fund with the highest return rates on the market today!” Irene stuffed the entire binder into her backpack.

  The only expensive item in the entire room was a wide-screen television that looked brand new. Irene noticed a shelf of videos, mostly American action and horror films. She recognized some of the titles: Silence of the Lambs and Se7en. As she shifted the video player, she saw a few films hidden behind it. She took them out and read titles like Lover Boy and Beach Boy Sex. The covers showed handsome, muscular men in provocative positions. She wasn’t surprised, thinking back to her colleagues’ hypothesis.

  The apartment gave the impression that its residents had been in a long-lasting, stable relationship. There was no indication that one of them was there only on a temporary basis. She felt pretty certain that their relationship was sexual.

  In the article that she’d read on the plane on the way over, Philip was described as a magnet for young women, but that didn’t mean he was drawn to them. Perhaps the young women were a cover, especially if he wanted to keep his homosexuality hidden? Or maybe he was bisexual? Perhaps there was a motive for murder in a personal relationship among the people involved? People’s sex lives were always of interest in a murder investigation, but from experience Irene knew that it was difficult to get to the heart of the matter in such cases. People tried hard to hide the truth when they felt threatened by exposure.

  A thought crossed her mind: the shower. Perhaps there were hairs from the intruder caught in the drain. She picked up the roll of bags and headed back into the hallway. She opened the door to the small bathroom. In the weak light from the lamp above the sink, she bent down to take a closer look inside the shower. She was disappointed when she saw no hair at all. Her bad knee creaked as she stood back up, but not loud enough to cover the sound of a key turning in the front door lock.