The Golden Calf

by Helene Tursten

  “Why?” Fredrik asked.

  “Money. Everything in this case has to do with money,” Irene answered.

  “But that can’t be right. When Bonetti disappeared, ph.com had already lost all the money,” Birgitta objected.

  “That’s right, and who got the blame for taking it?” Irene countered. “Thomas Bonetti.”

  Fredrik Stridh asked, “How much money was gone?”

  “Several million kroner. Maybe even as much as fifteen to twenty million, according to Sanna Kaegler,” Irene replied.

  “Fifteen million,” Birgitta said. “Many folks have lost fingers and lives for much less.”

  “But why would they torture him before they killed him? Or were the fingers cut off after he was murdered?” Fredrik wondered.

  “We don’t know. The autopsy won’t be able to answer that question, either. It’s been much too long since the death, and the body was pretty decomposed,” Irene said.

  An image forced itself to the forefront of Irene’s memory: a grinning skull protruding from the remains of a Peak Performance jacket. The jacket had been tough nylon and well preserved. The shoes and suit trousers had also lasted. Buying quality really does pay off, thought Irene. She grimaced.

  “There is, however, no question how he died. Two shots in the right temple. There was a bullet still in the cranium. The technicians haven’t determined what type, but I’ll put my money on a .25,” Irene continued.

  “So he was killed three years ago. But why were Ceder, Bergman, and Rothstaahl killed recently?” Birgitta asked.

  “When we have answers to those questions, we’ve solved the case,” Tommy said.

  MADAME BONETTI APPEARED calm and in control as she opened her heavy oak door for the police officers. Her eyes behind her glasses, however, were swollen and red. The older woman was hefty but camouflaged in a finely tailored, dark blue dress suit. Beneath her jacket, she wore a cream silk blouse and large rose pearls. She’d dyed her thick hair black and wore it in an intricate knot at the top of her head, but the dark dye was garish against her over-powdered, flabby face. Irene had trouble breathing from her overpowering perfume.

  Diamonds flashed on her hands as she gestured for them to come inside. She waddled as she led them to a large, airy room furnished with elegantly cool Nordic furniture. This woman did not fit the décor of her living room. She must have had an interior designer.

  “Please sit down. My husband will be here shortly,” she said.

  Her voice was as high as a girl’s and was startling coming from her large body. She gestured to two armchairs covered in beige- and white-striped linen.

  Irene had called ahead a few hours before and had reached the mother. She’d requested that the Bonettis come to the police station for a conversation, but Marianne Bonetti had refused. She was too upset to drive after learning her son was really gone, so she requested that the meeting happen at her house in Långedrag instead.

  Now, Marianne Bonnetti sank into one of the other armchairs. Irene saw that she was nervously fiddling with a handkerchief in one of her hands. Tommy used his most sympathetic voice, “We’re sorry for your—”

  “It’s better this way. To know for sure,” Marianne Bonetti interrupted him.

  “I understand. The uncertainty must have been very difficult,” Tommy said.

  She nodded and swallowed. “How could anyone … Thomas … he was so kind.” Her voice dwindled away. In the silence, they heard the front door open and shut and quick steps head toward them. Antonio Bonetti walked into the living room. Both Irene and Tommy stood up to shake hands. His grip was firm, but Irene noticed his palm was damp from sweat. The famous lawyer was half a foot shorter than his wife. He was almost completely bald, and he’d combed what few strands remained over his freckled scalp. He was wearing an elegant suit, but the expensive tailoring could not hide a growing belly. A bright, fat signet ring flashed from his ring finger. It fit the style of the Rolex watch on his wrist. Antonio Bonetti was more than sixty-years-old, but he was still one of the most sought-after lawyers for criminal cases in Sweden. These days, he took only cases that promised both maximum media coverage and a guaranteed win. Through the years, he’d been interviewed many times on television, where he’d proclaim his version of the case’s facts—always to his client’s advantage, of course.

  “So, you’ve begun already?” he asked, shooting a quick glance at his wife. His eyes were colorless pools framed by white brows and lashes.

  “They’ve just arrived.… We’ve only had time to sit down,” Marianne Bonetti said hastily.

  Irene understood the lawyer wanted to make sure they had not started to question his wife without his presence. Antonio Bonetti sat down on the sofa. He crossed one well-pressed trouser leg over the other, and Irene saw he wore extra high-heeled shoes.

  “So, do you have any information?” the lawyer asked as he stared at Tommy.

  “No. We know as much as we did three years ago, except for the fact that he’s been found murdered. We have no idea why. Do you?” Tommy used a friendly tone.

  “No. Thomas had no arguments with anyone. Many lies went around after he disappeared—but they were groundless rumors.” The lawyer emphasized the last word.

  “He was indicted for embezzlement.…”

  “Lies!” Bonetti cut him off. His foot was jiggling with irritation in its elegant shoe. His feet were unusually small for a man. “It was those other two. Sanna Kaegler and Philip Bergman. They conspired against Thomas and blamed him for ph.com’s bankruptcy. But you notice they certainly took care of themselves before the crash.” Antonio became calmer as he spoke.

  “Do you have any proof?” asked Tommy.

  “No. Just what Thomas was saying that last summer. He accused Philip and Sanna of taking kickbacks. I never bothered to follow up any of this after Thomas disappeared and the indictment was dropped. There was so much we had to do. We had to deal with Thomas’s disappearance at the same time I was involved in a rather large pharmaceutical lawsuit—the biggest one ever seen in Sweden. It was rough, but we won.”

  He seemed unaware of the contented smile that spread across his face. They had come to talk about his dead son, and he was smiling about a long-ago trial. Irene shuddered and wrote kickbacks? in her notebook.

  “Do you remember if Thomas was ever threatened?” Tommy continued.

  Both parents shook their heads.

  “Never,” said Antonio.

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “Not a single one,” said Marianne Bonetti.

  Irene remembered Annika Hermansson saying: He had no friends. No one ever wanted to play with him. Not even Billy.

  She asked, “Who were Thomas’s friends?”

  The parents turned their heads to look at her, but neither one answered the question. The silence was painful. Finally, Marianne Bonetti said, “Thomas had many acquaintances in business. He lived in London.… We didn’t know all his friends.”

  “Did he have any acquaintances here in Sweden?” Irene asked.

  “Maybe … but he wasn’t home much,” Marianne said doubtfully.

  “Joachim Rothstaahl was murdered just a few kilometers away. He grew up here in Långedrag, too. Did they know each other when they were children?”

  “No, the age difference was too great,” said Masianne Bonetti. “They were four or five years apart. That’s a lot, especially in the teenage years. They first really got to know each other in London.”

  “Did he have any friends on Styrsö?”

  “Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”

  “Thomas went to Styrsö on the last evening of his life. Perhaps he planned to meet someone. Did he still see Billy Hermansson?”

  “No, I don’t—” Marianne Bonetti stopped abruptly as her husband suddenly stood up. She looked at him nervously as he held his hand to his chest. His signet ring shone against the dark cloth of his suit.

  “My medicine.…” he mumbled. He hurried away from the room, an
d they could hear the clatter of his heels on the wooden floor.

  “Antonio has heart trouble. He takes medicine for it,” Marianne Bonetti explained. “As you can imagine, this has hit him fairly hard. He doesn’t show his emotions.… He keeps his sorrows to himself.”

  “We understand that this must be extremely difficult for you both,” Tommy said soothingly.

  She nodded and dried her eyes with the handkerchief she’d been clutching during their entire conversation.

  Styrsö. Why did Antonio react so strongly when the island was mentioned? Up to that moment, he seemed in complete control of the situation. Does he know something that he doesn’t want to talk about? Irene decided this was something she wouldn’t let go.

  “I’ll fetch us some mineral water,” Marianne Bonetti said as she pushed herself with difficulty up out of the soft, cushioned armchair.

  Before the police officers could decline, she marched off in the same direction as her husband.

  Irene bent over as if she were going to adjust her sock.

  “Don’t let go of Styrsö,” she whispered to Tommy. “There’s something there.”

  “Mmm,” he replied, barely audible.

  They could hear the flushing of a toilet. After a while, the Bonetti couple returned to the room. Antonio Bonetti was carrying three bottles of mineral water, and his wife held a silver tray with four crystal glasses. A few ice cubes were in each glass. She set four golden coasters on the coffee table and placed a glass on each. The ice cubes clinked as her husband filled the glasses with the mineral water. The couple returned to their seats, and Antonio drank some water.

  “I have angina,” he explained. “I’m supposed to have an operation this winter.”

  Both Irene and Tommy nodded to show they understood his situation. Tommy also drank some water before he said, “Getting back to Styrsö. Was there anyone on the island that Thomas might have wanted to meet?”

  “Absolutely not.” Antonio Bonetti banged down his glass onto the golden coaster.

  “So he and Billy Hermansson no longer …?” Irene let the question hang in the air.

  The lawyer’s face had no expression when he looked at her. And yet—there was something there, but before she could put her finger on it, he’d looked away again.

  “No. They only played together as children,” he replied firmly.

  “So neither one of you have any idea why he wanted to go to Styrsö that last evening?” Irene was too stubborn to let go yet.

  “No. We already told you. He said that he wanted to think things over in peace and quiet.”

  Antonio Bonetti regathered his superior and collected manner. Irene saw that his hands shook slightly as he set his glass back down, but perhaps this was a side effect of the medicine he’d just taken.

  “Do you still have his computer?” Irene asked.

  “Computer? What kind of computer?” Antonio said with irritation.

  “His personal computer. We think he had a laptop. Do you have it?” Irene asked.

  Both Bonettis appeared to think about it. Finally, Antonio shook his head.

  “I don’t remember finding a computer among his things. Do you?” He turned to his wife.

  “No, there wasn’t one. Neither here nor in London,” she said.

  “Any computer discs?” asked Irene.

  “No,” they both said.

  “When we were thinking of possible suspects in his death, we considered his part in Poundfix. He was with Joachim Rothstaahl on that project. You know that Rothstaahl was murdered just a—”

  “That Norwegian, what was his name … Dahl! He was behind that scandal!” Antonio snapped. “Thomas was lured into it! Dahl was found guilty. Poundfix is an old story, one that shouldn’t have been a big deal from the beginning.”

  “I’ve looked into Erik Dahl,” Tommy continued calmly. “The Norwegian police got back to me this morning. A fellow prisoner stabbed Dahl to death in December of the same year your son was killed.”

  This was news to Irene, too. She sat, silent, as the Bonettis stared at Tommy.

  “So there have been many people in this circle who have come to a violent end,” Tommy said.

  “Even if businesses go bankrupt, people aren’t usually murdered for it!” Antonio Bonetti exclaimed.

  Depends on what kind of business they’re in, Irene thought.

  “You must keep in mind that global financial crises are inevitable and occasional recessions will follow in their wake. It’s part of business,” the lawyer said.

  And your son helped bring about one of the worst recessions we’ve seen lately, Irene thought. Stock markets crumbled all over the world.

  “We have another question. Did Thomas have a girlfriend?” Tommy asked.

  “Thomas had many girlfriends,” Antonio Bonetti said imperiously, emphasizing many.

  “Do you have any names? Especially in the last year of his life. Winter, spring 2000,” Tommy clarified.

  “He never brought any of them home to us,” Marianne Bonetti said. “You must remember that he was living in London, and he traveled all over the world. He was seldom home. His business kept him occupied—I don’t believe he had time for a steady girlfriend.”

  The rest of the conversation with the Bonettis revealed little more. It was clear that the couple knew very little about their son’s private life.

  As they got up to leave, the lawyer took some business cards from the breast pocket of his jacket and told them, “I want to be informed as soon as the autopsy has been completed. Just call any of the numbers on this card. As his father, I want to know … if he suffered much.” His voice failed him. Irene nodded and looked directly into his eyes. It was difficult to do. And at this point, she could not bring up the missing fingers. It would come out soon enough after the autopsy was done.

  “AGNETA TOLD ME that you and she were going mushroom hunting,” Tommy said as they were driving back to the center of the city in the afternoon rush hour.

  “We planned to go this Sunday. There was no time last weekend. She was busy with something,” Irene said.

  Tommy muttered, “She certainly was.”

  An odd kind of silence fell over the car. Irene didn’t understand why. It lasted until they parked at the station. Tommy cut the motor and pulled out the key. He took a deep breath as if he wanted to say something, but then he didn’t.

  “No … she’ll have to tell you herself,” Tommy said out loud as he got out of the car and strode toward the building. Irene had a hard time keeping up as they headed into the building.

  “SO … you didn’t find out much,” the superintendent stated. He had his elbows on the table and was clenching his fingers together so hard that his knuckles cracked.

  “No, we didn’t,” Irene said. “But he had a strong reaction when Styrsö Island was mentioned. Tomorrow morning I should go out there.”

  “It’s a Saturday. Do you think you’ll find anything?” Tommy asked.

  “Krister is working, and I can take my dog Sammie with me,” Irene thought out loud. “Or no … that won’t work. Annika Hermansson has a cat.”

  “That wouldn’t be a wise move,” Andersson agreed. He’d heard the story of Sammie killing the neighbor’s cat with one giant bite and all the repercussions afterward.

  “Sammie will have to stay home,” Irene said. “But, yes, I do think there’s something there. I just have a feeling that we’ve overlooked something. I’ve forgotten something important. Or I haven’t understood the weight of a detail I’ve heard. You know the feeling.”

  Both Tommy and Andersson nodded.

  KRISTER WAS FREE Friday evening since he would have to work both Saturday and Sunday. They lit candles. The light reflected on the golden wine in their glasses. They were enjoying one of their favorite dishes, warm stuffed crabs, and the aromas of French mustard, sherry, dill, cheese, and the sea combined to tease their taste buds. Krister lifted his glass and looked into Irene’s eyes.

  “Skål, my darl
ing, and thank you for your company this pleasant evening,” he said.

  They clinked their glasses together and sipped the chilled wine, letting it slide across their tongues.

  “And I have some good news,” Krister said, as he put his glass down.

  “Tell me,” said Irene.

  “Sis called. Maggan, that is, not Ulla. Neither of them want Pappa’s car. They both have much newer ones. In fact, Maggan’s family has two.”

  Krister’s father had passed away unexpectedly just before Midsummer. His mother was eighty-four now and suffered from rheumatism. She had found a two-bedroom ground floor apartment with a small patio, just a few minutes’ walk from his sister Ulla’s house. Both Ulla and Margareta, nicknamed Maggan, still lived in Säffle with their families. So Krister and Irene had been spared much during the past summer. Now his parents’ home in Säffle would be sold. Krister’s brother Stefan lived in Stockholm since his divorce. He was the oldest. He kept to himself, without much contact with the rest of the family. Whenever he did turn up, he always had a brand new sports car. In spite of all the recent crises in the banking and financial world, he, in upper management, still earned a pretty good salary. Now the sisters wanted to get rid of the Volvo in their parents’ garage. They wanted the house ready to sell by December.

  “It’s a Volvo 7410. From ’92. Hardly eight thousand kilometers on it. It’s practically just off the lot,” Krister said.

  “But it’s eleven-years-old,” Irene said. “That’s only two years newer than our Saab.”

  “My father took good care of it,” Krister said. “And it has only a quarter of the mileage on the odometer. They’ll give it to us for twenty-five thousand.”

  Irene smiled. “It sounds like a good deal. Let’s take it. Skål for our new car!”

  “Skål! I’ll be off work on Monday. I’ll take the train up to Säffle, and then I’ll drive the car home. And I’ll put an ad in the paper for the Saab. We’ve had it checked not that long ago. If we get five thousand, that’ll be great.”

  “What’s the Volvo like?”