The Golden Calf

by Helene Tursten

  She turned her tear-filled eyes toward Tommy and let her lips tremble. Great performance, thought Irene, and snorted out loud. Sanna tried to ignore her, something not easy to do in the small, single-bed room.

  The police had kept a watch on the Askim house all during the night. In the morning, Elsy Kaegler and baby Ludwig had been brought to Elsy’s apartment.

  “Why do you have to go home now? What if the killer returns?” asked Tommy.

  Sanna looked away and then turned her moist eyes back to Tommy.

  “He wouldn’t dare now the house alarm is armed, and he knows that you’re keeping me under surveillance,” she said with a weak smile.

  She’s not at all afraid of the man who shot her, Irene marveled. Something is off about her reaction. Sanna ought to be petrified and howling for protection, begging to stay at the hospital for as long as possible.

  “Who tried to kill you?” asked Tommy.

  “No idea,” Sanna insisted.

  Tommy leaned toward her bandaged head, which was almost the same color as the pillowcase on which it rested. He caught her eye and said in a low voice, “Sanna, listen to me now. This man has killed four people. We have proof. These people were all close to you: Thomas Bonetti, Joachim Rothstaahl, your husband Kjell, and Philip Bergman.”

  He had saved Philip’s name for last on purpose, as she had the softest spot in her heart for Philip. Before she could mobilize new strength to retort, he continued in his hypnotizing voice, “Yesterday, he tried to kill you, too. If Irene and I had not distracted him with our yells, if you hadn’t stumbled, you’d be dead.”

  Tommy leaned even closer to her pale face. He emphasized each word. “Why are you protecting this killer?”

  She stared back defiantly, but finally she had to look away. “I’m not protecting anyone. I don’t know who he is,” she whined.

  Irene and Tommy exchanged looks. Time for the bad cop to take over. Irene cleared her throat and prepared to play her part.

  She asked, “Why did you sneak out the back door?”

  Sanna wet her dry lips with her tongue. “My coat was hanging in the laundry room because it was wet. I’d used it earlier. So I’d hung it there—”

  Irene interrupted her. “I’ll ask you again. Why did you sneak out the back door?”

  Sanna looked at Irene angrily. It wouldn’t help things if Sanna could mobilize her tough attitude. Irene told herself: scare her into telling the truth.

  “It was easier. My coat—”

  “Why did you go out at all?”

  “I needed some fresh air. An evening walk—”

  “Through a muddy field. In high heels,” Irene said. She had no trace of sympathy in her voice, and she made sure Sanna understood that Irene knew she was lying.

  “I usually just walk around the house,” Sanna said lamely.

  “I watched you through binoculars. You headed straight for where that man was hiding. There is also no doubt that he intended to kill you. I saw him aim. If we hadn’t been there, you would now be dead. Killed by the same person who killed your four friends. For some reason, you feel you must protect him. You know who he is. Tell us.”

  Sanna looked frightened for a few seconds, but then she put her hand to her head theatrically as she declared, “My head hurts!”

  “Fine, then let’s get this interview over with quickly. Let me make this absolutely clear. As soon as you’re released from the hospital, we will escort you to the police station and hold you there until you tell us what you know. It is a serious crime to protect a murderer. If I were you, I’d be much more afraid for my life.”

  What Irene said about holding Sanna at the station wasn’t exactly true, but Sanna wouldn’t know that. It looked like the words hit home, but Sanna still refused to speak. She pressed her lips tightly together, turned her face away from Irene, and shut her eyes.

  “We’ll be back in a few hours,” Irene said.

  The two police officers stood up and got ready to leave. Irene already had her hand on the door handle when she turned and said, “I hope this killer is as much of a friend as you seem to believe. People have been killed in their hospital beds.”

  They could see Sanna stiffen, but she did not turn to look at them as they walked out.

  “That was harsh,” Tommy said as they headed to the elevator.

  “It won’t hurt her to have a little more fear for her life,” Irene replied. Inwardly, she had to admit that she’d been enjoying her role of bad cop just a bit too much. There was a uniformed officer at Sanna’s door. Irene had instructed him to keep an eye on the door but not to bother looking through the glass window.

  “THE HARD RAIN last night washed out most traces, but we managed to secure a footprint under the bushes where the gunman hid. It’s a good print—really clear,” Svante Malm said.

  Irene and Tommy had gone straight to his lab to get a firsthand report.

  “Is it the same kind of footprint we have from the laundry room of the Ceder house?” asked Tommy.

  “We’re still analyzing it. But at first glance, I’d say they’re pretty similar,” Malm said with satisfaction. “Won’t you stay for a cup of coffee to celebrate?” he asked excitedly.

  Both Irene and Tommy accepted gratefully, but regretted it when they tasted the coffee in the plastic mugs he handed them. Irene understood why Svante had the uncanny ability to appear at the Violent Crime Division right around their coffee break. The fourth floor coffee was definitely better.

  “THE PATROL CARS couldn’t catch our man, but at least they stopped two drunk drivers and retrieved a stolen motorized lawn mower,” Jonny summarized that afternoon. “They were too late for ours.”

  “Some guy was really driving a stolen lawn mower in the middle of an October storm?” asked Birgitta incredulously.

  Jonny glared at her. “No, it was on a flatbed truck. The guys on patrol became suspicious when the driver was too nervous. When they checked things out, they found that the lawn mower was reported stolen two weeks ago. The thief had written a classified ad to sell it and was about to deliver it to the buyer. He probably thought the storm would prevent him from being caught.”

  “Did the guy have a record?” asked Fredrik.

  “No. Thirty-year-old immigrant with just small stuff in his background. Shoplifting as a juvie. They found two stolen TVs, two brand-new bicycles, and a computer in his garage. Obviously fronting for someone. Our colleagues think they’ve stumbled onto a ring of petty thieves. Not our problem, though.”

  “Our problem is this stupid Kaegler woman!” growled Andersson. “Why does she believe she can’t talk to us?”

  Tommy shrugged. “I have no idea. It seems odd to me.”

  “So you two believe she knows who the murderer is,” Andersson said.

  Tommy and Irene nodded in unison.

  “What’s your theory?” Andersson leaned back in his chair, which began to creak ominously. Andersson had gained quite a few kilos during the summer. Not good for his asthma or his blood pressure, Irene thought with worry. She couldn’t do anything about it even if she wanted to. She knew Andersson wouldn’t listen.

  Irene doubted her own intuition, even as she started to speak. “I’ve been thinking hard about this. One, she’s not afraid of the man who shot at her. Two, she refuses to believe that he actually tried to kill her yesterday. Why is she behaving so strangely? The only explanation I have is that she doesn’t believe us. She thinks we’re lying and trying to set a trap for an innocent man.”

  “Who would that be?” asked Andersson.

  “Ludwig’s father,” Irene said.

  “The boy’s dad? Why would he want to kill her?” exclaimed Jonny.

  “If I knew that, we’d know it all,” Irene said wryly. She reached over the table for the pot of coffee and poured herself a cup. Much better than that cat piss down at the lab, she thought with contentment. She sipped carefully in case it was hot. Fortified by her elixir of life, she continued to explain her theory.<
br />
  “Rothstaahl’s apartment in Paris. We found hair from a man who might be Ludwig’s father. Blond hair. The man who shot at me there was also blond. I assume he was Ludwig’s father.”

  “Not far-fetched,” conceded Tommy.

  “The boy’s father.… That would explain why she couldn’t believe he might really be the murderer,” Birgitta said.

  “What a dumb bitch!” exclaimed Andersson. “Irene saw him try to kill her!”

  “We women are like that,” Birgitta said with a smile. “Loyal to the man we love until death.”

  Andersson glowered but decided not to comment further on the general lack of logic among women. Irene had arranged a gift certificate for Andersson’s sixtieth birthday, a flight to London. He’d met Glen Thompson’s Brazilian mother, and it appeared that the two of them had hit it off. Three nights at Glen’s sister’s hotel in London with lunches and dinners at Donna’s restaurant had left Andersson quite pleased about his trip when he’d returned. He’d been so pleased, in fact, that he returned to London for a week at the end of July. No one in the department knew about it except for Irene. Glen had tattled to her.

  Irene’s thoughts were interrupted by her cell phone. She excused herself and went into the hallway to take the call. Coincidently, it was Glen.

  “Hope you’re sitting down. Things are moving like crazy around here. We found out that Edward Fenton went to Paris, confirmed by our Parisian colleagues. They’d found Fenton, all right. He was listening to a bit of trunk music.”

  “Trunk music? What’s that?”

  “An old mob expression,” Glen said. “It’s when a victim is shot and put in the trunk of a car.”

  “What’s that you’re saying? Fenton is dead?” Irene exclaimed. She headed for her office and sat down at her desk. Glen was right. She really had needed to sit down.

  “Yes, he’s been dead for a few days at least. They found him the day before yesterday. The rental car had been abandoned in an unused industrial park. A security guard on patrol was alerted by the smell, so he called in the police. Fenton had rented the car, but he’d used a false name. They couldn’t find anyone by the name of Morgan Chesterton, and they had no way to identify him until we called. We sent along a photograph, and they could tell it was him.”

  Irene’s head was spinning. If Edward Fenton had been dead for days, he could not have been on the telephone with Sanna. Strange that she’d lied about that. She’d convinced them when she’d told her story about the telephone threat. Obviously he wasn’t the one who tried to shoot her, either. Irene’s thoughts were interrupted as Glen said, “Hello? Are you there?”

  “Yes, but I’m a little … shaken up. A lot has happened on this end, too,” she replied.

  She swiftly filled him in on the attempt on Sanna’s life and about the supposed telephone threat from Edward Fenton where he warned they had to find all the cut-off fingers from Thomas Bonetti. But that conversation had taken place while Edward Fenton was lying dead in the trunk of a rented car.

  “He’d definitely been dead for days,” Glen said. “He was giving off … a smell.”

  “I know. It doesn’t make things any clearer. Can you send me as much information you have?”

  “There’s not much, but I’ll send you what I have. And as for you.…” He paused for effect. “You Göteborg people have a much more interesting case than you know. More interesting than the one here in London, at any rate!” He chuckled.

  Irene didn’t smile.

  WHEN IRENE HAD returned to the conference room and given everyone the latest news, a flurry of speculation burst out among the assembled police officers. Andersson rapped his knuckles on the table and roared, “One at a time! One at a time!”

  When the commotion died down, he said, “Irene, where do we stand now?”

  “We’re standing up to our knees in shit,” Jonny couldn’t help interrupting.

  Irene had to agree with him for once, though she didn’t say that out loud. “My conclusion is that Edward Fenton did receive a finger, just like the others. So Philip Bergman must not have, since only four are missing from Thomas’s body. Still, Philip was also murdered. Something’s not adding up,” she said.

  “Perhaps because he was with Rothstaahl? Maybe the killer didn’t want to leave a witness?” Fredrik suggested.

  “Philip’s money dwindled just like Joachim’s and Sanna’s during the past three years. They’ve all lost a lot,” Birgitta said. “That indicates that Philip was also the victim of extortion.”

  “I’ll call Glen Thompson back,” Irene said. “Fenton lived mostly in London. There must be financial records for him there.”

  “Sounds good,” said Andersson, nodding.

  It was always a good thing if other departments took on part of the expenses of an investigation. An investigation in London would be prohibitively expensive for the Swedish police force, not to mention all the entangling red tape.

  “Who is going to inform Edward Fenton’s Swedish relatives about his death?” asked Birgitta.

  Andersson furrowed his brow. Finally he replied, “We’ll wait until we have positive identification. Irene, you coordinate with London and Paris. When everything is settled, you’ll be the one to contact the family.”

  Irene said, “Then I’ll have to have Kajsa as a partner. She’s the only one among us who can speak French. That would make talking to Paris easier.”

  “All right. But this afternoon I want you and Tommy to go back to the hospital and force some truth from Sanna. I’ve told you over and over! A thousand times already at least! You have to lean on her as hard as you can.”

  Tommy sighed. “Easier said than done.”

  Andersson gave him a sharp look. “Stop coddling her! Scare her with Fenton’s murder! She’s the only person who is still alive after getting one of those fingers. Our little Miss Ceder. If she doesn’t wake up and smell the coffee, there’ll be no one left. And goddamn, but I’m getting tired of all these corpses piling up!”

  IRENE COULDN’T REACH Glen Thompson when she called. She left a message that he should get in touch with her again as soon as he could.

  She realized she’d also have to get in touch with Inspector Verdier in Paris. He was the only one she knew there who spoke English. If she couldn’t reach him, she’d have to bring in Kajsa. She sighed. Tommy glanced up at her from his place behind a stack of papers, but he let his glance fall back to his work when she didn’t say anything. Irene dug around her desk drawer until she found the business card with Verdier’s name. His direct number was on it. She sighed again as she dialed the number.

  IRENE WAS PLEASANTLY surprised by how well everything went. Inspector Verdier was in his office. When she explained that the discovery of Edward Fenton’s body was part of their earlier Paris investigation, he sounded genuinely interested.

  “I’m not a part of the team investigating his death, but I will go to my boss and tell him about this connection. Then I’ll probably be put on the case, too. It’s very complicated. An American living in London is killed in Paris and the case is being investigated by the Swedish police,” Verdier said.

  “You understand our involvement,” Irene said. “We’re dealing with the murders of Bergman and Rothstaahl, who were living in Paris, as well as the restaurant owner Kjell Ceder. We now have the body of a fourth victim killed three years ago. His name is Thomas Bonetti. Then, yesterday evening, there was an attempt on the life of Sanna Kaegler, who knew all four victims well.”

  “She must have been their lover.”

  Verdier wasn’t asking; he was making a statement. Irene managed to stop herself from sighing right into his ear.

  “No. She was the childhood friend of Bergman, the business partner of Bonetti, knew Rothstaahl in passing, and was married to Ceder. We all agree that Bergman and Rothstaahl were a couple.”

  Verdier replied, “Yes, yes. And her relationship with this Edward Fenton?”

  “Her sister is married to Fenton’s old
er brother. The mother of the two brothers is Swedish. The father is English. They probably had dual citizenship, though I haven’t tracked that down yet. We also know that she and Fenton were close during the ph.com years.”

  “This is worse than a soap opera. Everyone is connected to her. But it also makes our job easier. The killer is in the same circle.”

  True enough. Irene had had the same thought a few times, but no light had dawned. Who gained from the deaths of these people?

  Irene gave Inspector Verdier Glen Thompson’s number at New Scotland Yard. Police in all three countries needed to work together on this case.

  Irene’s mouth was dry after all her talking, and she felt a headache forming at her temples. To top it off, her period was due. She closed her eyes to shut out the daylight. Friday afternoon. One entire workweek from hell, and there was still a long way to go before these crimes were solved. Now five murders hung around their necks. Four fingers cut from a corpse. Five murders were more than four fingers.…

  “Hey, Irene. Are you falling asleep?”

  Irene jumped at the sound of Tommy’s voice.

  “No, I have a headache. I was just shutting my eyes for a minute. I need some coffee,” she mumbled as she got up and stumbled toward the machine. She got two cups, just to be on the safe side. She offered one to Tommy.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “You’re the one with the headache. Drink them both,” he said in his friendly way.

  Irene searched through her desk drawer until she found some pain pills. She had no idea how long they’d been there, but the bubble was unbroken and the foil was intact. She opened it and swallowed the pills with a sip of coffee.

  “I’m not sure you’re in shape to come with me to Östra Hospital and ‘lean on that Kaegler-Ceder woman,’ ” Tommy said in a perfect imitation of their boss.

  The only mistake he made was that Andersson had just appeared at the door. He gave Tommy a sour look. “I thought you two had already left. What are you waiting for?”