Andersson clapped his hands together and said energetically, “We have to work fast because the media don’t know it’s a homicide yet. The press conference is set for one o’clock. We’ve been promised a preliminary autopsy report by eleven.”
The superintendent paused and thoughtfully surveyed his inspectors.
“Von Knecht was, after all, a real big shot throughout Sweden. Offhand, the only thing I recall is his sixtieth birthday party a few months ago,” he said, hesitating.
Everyone around the table nodded. It had been a celebration that echoed all the way up to the Stockholm tabloids. Everyone who was anyone in the financial and jet-set worlds had gathered at von Knecht’s fashionable country estate.
Andersson went on, “Irene and I were impressed by the apartment, but his shack outside Marstrand is at least three times as big. It’s located on a peninsula, and von Knecht owns the whole area. He’s got a private harbor too. The acreage must be several hectares. My sister has a summerhouse at Åstol. I’ve seen his place from the lake, when I was out fishing with my brother-in-law. Anything else we know? Irene?”
“His wife’s name is Sylvia. His son is named Henrik and he’s married. I only know the names, no personal data yet. Oh yes, Henrik said that his parents celebrated their thirtieth anniversary last Saturday. And of course you all know that this is one of the richest families in Sweden. Richard von Knecht had unbelievable success on the stock market during the go-go eighties. I don’t know much else. Maybe we should get some help from one of my old pals who’s a reporter at the Swedish Ladies’ Journal. I’m sure she could help us dig up some old gossip.”
Andersson didn’t look too thrilled at the thought, but finally shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, the main thing is to work fast. Maybe that will get results. In the meantime I want you to handle the interview with Henrik von Knecht and his wife this morning and try to get hold of the old lady with the dog. Those of you who can, meet me here ten minutes before the press conference. Tommy, Hans, and Fredrik will drive out and start interviewing the other tenants in the neighborhood, in case they saw or heard anything. Birgitta, you stay here for a while so you and Irene can dig up a little more on the residents of von Knecht’s building. Henrik von Knecht should know who they are. Then go out and try to get hold of them. Either at work or wherever these people spend their days. They have to be somewhere!”
He took a deep breath and tried to determine who didn’t have an assignment yet. When he figured it out he said, “Hannu, you collect all the statistical data from various databases; General Investigations is good at that. Complete background checks on all family members. When we know the names of the other residents I want their backgrounds too. Jonny, get in touch with the Financial Crimes Unit and find out what they know about von Knecht. As for newspapers, we should probably contact the Göteborg Post. They must have a pile of material. Anyone here have any contacts at GP? Ah, Hannu—okay, you take care of that too. Have I forgotten anything?”
“What are you going to do yourself?”
Of course it was Jonny who asked that question, in his smug way. Actually, he was probably quite pleased with his relatively simple assignment. The superintendent slumped a bit and sighed, apparently without noticing it. “I’ve been called before the chief. He wants a report. Then I’m going up to Pathology to meet with Madame Professor.”
Irene couldn’t help being annoyed for Yvonne Stridner’s sake. “As a matter of fact, she’s a professor in her own right; she didn’t marry into the title,” she said sharply.
If Andersson heard her he didn’t let on. He made a point of looking at the clock above the door. Everyone could see that it was getting close to ten o’clock, so they had to get busy.
IRENE HUSS started by calling the Swedish Ladies’ Journal in Stockholm. Finally Sofie’s rough, smoky voice came on the line.
“Yeah, Sofie Ahl here.”
She was surprised and happy to hear it was Irene on the other end. After a little general gossiping and banter, Irene mentioned that she’d like some old clippings on the von Knecht family. The news of the sensational death had been the lead story even for the major Stockholm papers. Sofie turned professionally inquisitive, but Irene wriggled out of it by telling her that “the autopsy isn’t done yet, but we’re trying to work up the background . . . looking for a possible basis for suicide . . .
“Go as far back as you can,” she went on. “Though I’m sure that starting with the midfifties should be plenty. Maybe I could call you this afternoon and get a summary?” Irene suggested.
“No, that won’t work. I’ve got to go out on a job. But let’s do this: Give me your fax number and I’ll put one of our interns on it. We’ll call it a research project. She’ll fax down what she finds to you, and then you can go through it. I’m sure it won’t be necessary to send it all, but she can certainly pick out what might be useful.”
“You’re an angel, Sofie.”
The next name on her list was the dachshund lady, Fru Eva Karlsson at Kapellgatan 3. Irene took a deep breath before she dialed. The phone rang ten times before the receiver was lifted on the other end. A thick mumble was heard, but Irene took a chance that she had reached the right person.
“Is this Fru Eva Karlsson?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“Detective Inspector Irene Huss. We met yesterday evening after the terrible . . . accident.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it! I was asleep when you called. I had to take a sleeping pill last night.”
Fru Karlsson went on at length about her many years of insomnia and the various types of tablets she had tried over the years. Irene had a feeling that it was a good idea to listen. If nothing else, it would give the woman time to wake up.
At last she interrupted, “And how’s your dog?”
“Thanks for asking, Snoopy is lying right here and feeling so goody-woody, aren’t you, Snoopy-Woopy?”
Resolutely Irene asked the next question before Fru Karlsson wandered off again into doggy world. “You’re the closest witness we have. Are you still sure that you didn’t hear any scream before—or during—his fall?”
There was a long silence.
“No, I’m sure I didn’t hear any scream. He just plopped right down in front of me. Oh, now I can see it all again!”
“Fru Karlsson, could I come up and have a chat with you this afternoon?”
“Dear girl, of course, that would be fine. But call first.”
“I promise I will. Thanks again.”
SHE HAD to grab a quick cup of coffee before eleven o’clock. She rounded the corner of the corridor at full speed. The ensuing collision between the superintendent and herself was forceful, but she hoped it wouldn’t leave any lingering marks. And the bright red color of his face would probably fade eventually.
Testily he cried, “Watch where you’re going! Oh, it’s you. Good. Now we’ll get to the bottom of things!”
She had seen him angry many times before, but never like this. With all the outer signs of an incipient stroke he fumed, “The telephone just rang. When I answered, it was a reporter from the Göteborg Times calling, that Kurt Höök guy. You know what that jerk said? ‘How can you be sure that von Knecht was murdered?’ At first I was completely thrown off guard, but then I said, ‘Who told you he was murdered?’ You know what he said then? ‘An informed source.’ What do you say to that? I’m going to make sure that source dries up, once and for all!”
“Do you know who it is?”
“I have my suspicions. Who said they knew someone at GP? If someone has one contact in the newspaper world he could have more,” fumed Andersson.
“Sven, come with me and have a cup of coffee. What if it isn’t Hannu? Just because he knows somebody at GP doesn’t mean he knows anyone at GT.”
The superintendent protested vehemently but finally admitted that Irene might be right.
Muttering and swearing to himself, he followed her reluctantly to the staff lounge. They greete
d two other inspectors who weren’t involved in the von Knecht case. Otherwise they were alone. They sat down at a table some distance from their two colleagues. Irene had just bitten into her roll when the chief of General Investigations, Superintendent Birger Nilsson, came into the room. He caught sight of Irene and Sven, broke into a big smile, and headed for their table by the window.
“So you’re sitting here drinking coffee,” he said cheerfully. “You can take it easy for a while. I think the von Knecht investigation is going to be tough. Keep Rauhala as long as you need him. By the way, you never told me . . . Sven. How can you be sure that von Knecht was murdered?”
Word for word, it was the exact phrase that Kurt Höök at GT had used. Superintendent Nilsson leaned nonchalantly on the table, with one hand in his pants pocket, and exuded an amiable interest. Irene didn’t dare turn her head to look at Andersson, but she could sense the throbbing vibrations of suppressed rage emanating from him. That’s why the neutral tone of the beginning of his sentence was a surprise, but the rest of it certainly wasn’t.
“Well, you see, my dear colleague—I plugged up a leak in his ass from which he’d bled to death, and I’m ready to do the same for you. This source is now dried up for good.”
It was a daring shot in the dark, based on pure instinct, but it hit the bull’s-eye. Nilsson’s face looked as if he had been stripped naked; the embarrassment of guilt was obvious. All trace of easy confidence had vanished. Without a word he disappeared through the door.
The two inspectors at the other table looked as though lightning had struck their coffee mugs. Andersson made a dismissive gesture to them and tried to explain his behavior. “Okay, this is how it is. Early leads are gold for the evening press. They pay a hell of a lot for a scoop. You know as well as I do that some of our colleagues like to make some extra dough by tipping off the press. The press conference on the von Knecht case is set for one o’clock, a little too late for the evening papers. I went and borrowed a guy from General Investigations this morning. At that time Birger Nilsson couldn’t even remember my name.”
It would be a mistake to claim that the two inspectors looked as if they were any wiser, but they did their best. The color of Andersson’s face slowly started to return to normal. He stretched.
“Since you both heard Nilsson’s question, I hope you keep your lips sealed for another two hours,” he said sternly.
They muttered, “Of course” and “Sure, absolutely,” but still looked extremely confused. Irene wasn’t sure they understood what they had to keep their lips sealed about.
She quickly finished off her coffee and hurried back to work.
HENRIK VON Knecht and his wife were waiting in Irene’s office. Henrik looked hollow-eyed and horrible. He had changed into black slacks and a navy-blue cardigan. Even though his shirt was white and fresh, the overall impression was reminiscent of a newly risen vampire. The woman on the chair next to him was stunningly beautiful. Irene vaguely recognized her, but couldn’t place her. She was also dressed in navy blue. In her case it was a suit made of soft Napa leather, with a short straight skirt and big gold buttons on the jacket. Her black boots alone, with their stiletto heels, would cost Irene a month’s salary. Her hair was shoulder length and colored a deep mahogany; her eyes shimmered like the ocean, an incredible shade of turquoise blue. The shimmer came from the tears filling her eyes, but only the tears revealed that anything was amiss. Otherwise she was utterly composed and sat with her hands calmly resting on her knee. Discreet makeup emphasized her beauty. It may have been skillfully applied foundation that gave her skin its silky luster. A touch of rouge heightened the glow high up on her sculpted cheekbones.
Suddenly the crisis of turning forty came roaring down on Irene like an express train. No matter what she did, she would never be able to look that captivating after staying up all night. It wouldn’t even matter if it was a night of red-hot love that had kept her awake; she would still look like a wreck. As Sofie Ahl once told her, “You know that your fortieth birthday is coming by the way you pack for a trip. In your twenties you just stuffed a bag of toiletries in the outside pocket of your backpack. At forty your whole pack is a vanity case.”
Henrik saw how the inspector was staring at his wife, and with a sigh he said, “Good morning, Detective Inspector. Yes, you’ve seen her before. She’s the ‘Sun Shampoo Girl.’ Although that was a few years ago.”
“Good morning. How are you? Forgive me for staring, but I was sure I recognized you, I just couldn’t figure out where from,” Irene said quickly.
Gratefully she grasped the straw that Henrik had unwittingly handed her. She went over to the young woman and shook her hand. It felt limp and damp.
“Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”
“Charlotte von Knecht.”
Her voice was deep and sensual; it didn’t match her handshake.
“This is not an official interview, of course. I just need some help with background facts to try to sketch the chain of events leading up to the tragic death,” Irene began.
The turquoise irises watched her intently. Henrik’s eyes were like two dried clay balls. Both of them nodded, however. Irene had a sudden impulse and asked, “How old are the two of you?”
Henrik replied hesitantly, “I’m twenty-nine and Charlotte is twentyfive. What does that have to do with Pappa’s death?”
“Background information. When will you be thirty?”
“April fifteenth,” he said curtly.
Which would mean that Sylvia von Knecht had been pregnant at her wedding thirty years earlier.
There was only a difference of four years between Henrik and Charlotte, but if they had to guess, most people would have said ten years. Charlotte looked a little younger and Henrik considerably older, closer to thirty-five. Irene turned to Henrik and continued, “When was the last time you saw your father?”
“At the party last Saturday.”
“Was that the last time you talked to him?”
“No. He called me at lunchtime on Sunday. I had taken him some catalogs from auctions I’ll be attending at the end of the month. In Stockholm. From November twenty-seventh to December third there’s an auction every day, but at different auction houses. For some reason I forgot to bring the catalog from Nordén’s. Their international top-of-the-line sale is set for November thirtieth. Pappa wanted that catalog. There was a little Flemish baroque bureau he was interested in. At that auction I myself will be bidding on a Tang horse.”
More bureaus were probably the last thing Richard von Knecht needed, but she began to realize that practical considerations were not the point. And what in the world was a Tang horse? It went against the grain for her to admit her lack of knowledge. So she quickly asked, “And you, Charlotte, when did you see your father-in-law last?”
Charlotte took a deep breath through quivering nostrils, fixed a steady turquoise gaze on Irene, and replied with a light catch in her voice, “Last Monday afternoon. At lunchtime. I drove over to give Richard the catalog Henrik just mentioned.”
“Did you stay long?”
“No, I didn’t even go into the apartment. First of all, he had a cold, and besides, the cleaning woman was there, straightening up after the party. I just told him ‘Thanks for the party’ and ‘Get well soon’ or something like that.”
“How did he act? His mood and manner, I mean.”
One mahogany lock of hair slid rapidly back and forth between her fingers as she pondered her response. The desk lamp cast reflections in the delicious dark blue pearl lacquer of her improbably long and well-kept nails. She gave a little shrug and said, “The same as usual. A little tired after the party and maybe from his cold.”
“He didn’t seem nervous?”
“No, not that I noticed.”
“Exactly what time was it when you arrived at Molinsgatan?”
“About twelve-thirty, maybe fifteen minutes earlier or later.”
“How did you get in the building? Do you know the c
ode?”
Charlotte abruptly stopped twirling the lock of hair.
“Yes, naturally we know the code. How else would we be able to get in?”
“Neither of you has a key to the apartment?”
Henrik cleared his throat and said, “No. Mamma and Pappa have only one spare set of keys. We keep it when they’re away for a while. Otherwise no.”
Irene turned back to Charlotte.
“Where do you work? In case we have to reach you during the day.”
“I’m home most of the time. I’m a photo model.”
Henrik gave a little snort. She pretended not to hear but went on, “The modeling business is tough. I had just started acting school when I met Henrik.”
“Do you have any children?”
Charlotte took in a quick breath.
“I found out last Saturday that I’m pregnant,” she said after a pause.
“Oh, congratulations!”
Irene smiled and looked from Charlotte to Henrik, but realized that she could have saved her congratulations. Each sat, stiffly erect, not looking at the other. Maybe two powerful emotional events so close together were too much? First the news of her pregnancy and then the murder only a few days later.
As if she read her mind, Charlotte jumped up from her chair and said in a stifled voice, “Excuse me, where’s the bathroom? I feel sick.”
AFTER ESCORTING Charlotte to the nearest toilet, Irene returned thoughtfully to her office. There was something in the tension between this couple that didn’t make sense. So she wasn’t particularly surprised when she found Henrik slumped deep in his chair with his hands over his face. Without a word she sat and waited. After a minute he took his hands away and directed his claylike eyes at her. They were completely dry and dead, with no hint of moisture.
Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1 Page 5
