Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1

by Helen Tursten

  Birgitta asked amiably, “Would you like some coffee, Herr Reuter?”

  “Call me Valle, sweetie! Everyone calls me Valle!”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Andersson was taken by surprise when Birgitta signaled to him to go get the coffee. But that was only proper. She was the one running the interview, after all. Though he did feel rather stupid as he walked over to the coffee vending machine. He bought three cups, which he regretted on his way back. It was hard to carry three at once.

  Andersson set two of the cups on the desk. Valle Reuter was sobbing and took no notice of him. He crept back to his corner.

  “. . . my oldest friend. We had known each other forty-five years!”

  Reuter wiped his nose on the checked lining of his coat. With a well-feigned expression of sympathy Birgitta handed him a tissue.

  “We understand that you were at the party last Saturday. Their thirtieth anniversary.”

  “But of course! Leila and I served as bridesmaid and groomsman at their wedding.”

  “Leila?”

  “My ex-wife. We divorced five years ago. She didn’t get a dime!”

  Birgitta decided quickly to drop the subject of the ex-wife. Reuter’s voice had turned aggressive and hate-filled. With good humor she asked, “Was it a nice party?”

  “Party? What party?”

  “At the von Knechts’ last Saturday.”

  “Ah, the party! Excellent fun! Wonderful food and superb wines. With the appetizer they served an interesting white from South Africa, of all places! Neil Ellis, Sauvignon Blanc. Dry and peppery, fresh and round. A long finish. Slight aroma of pissant and spice shop. Excellent with the salmon tartare!”

  To the superintendent’s ears it sounded like total drivel, but since Birgitta seemed to be following it all right, he didn’t interrupt.

  Reuter sank farther into the fog, chattering on. “With the main course they served a fantastic French wine. Thank God that Richard doesn’t subscribe to that boycott nonsense. A red, Bandol Cuvée Special ’ninety-two. A profound nose, concentrated, rich and fruity with a hint of licorice. The saddle of venison landed in good company, I must say.”

  Andersson thought it sounded disgusting. Licorice in your red wine! On the other hand, he didn’t like red wine anyway. White once in a while, with shrimp. He preferred beer with a schnapps.

  Birgitta asked, “Did you think Richard seemed the same as usual?”

  “Absolutely! Happy and in high spirits, as always. We love parties, Richard and I. But now he won’t be going to any more parties. Richard ...”

  Again Birgitta had to come to the rescue with a tissue. Reuter blew his nose loudly and stared at her, red-eyed. He took a deep breath before he went on. “My dear, I beg your pardon. I’ve been drinking all night long. In memory of Richard. My friendship with Richard. He’s my best friend.”

  “How did you remember you were supposed to come here?”

  “Mats Tengman came and got me. I asked him to do it yesterday. After you called, dear . . . what was your . . . oh yes, Birgitta. He’s a fine boy, Mats Tengman. I handpicked him. My successor. My son is a doctor. He’s going to specialize in pharmaceuticals, because he wants to work with people, not for money, as he says. My whole staff is firstrate. If you only knew what fine employees I have.”

  Another audible snort underlined his statement.

  “When he dropped me off here, he saw how . . . distressed . . . I am, after everything that happened . . . with Richard. And then he said, ‘Valle, I’ll take care of the business. Take the day off and rest.’ That’s what Mats told me.”

  Andersson saw Birgitta discreetly jotting something on her notepad. Cautiously, she coaxed Valle to go on.

  “Tell me about Tuesday, Valle.”

  “What about it?”

  “Your lunch last Tuesday.”

  “We’ve been doing that for more than twenty years. Every Tuesday we’ve had lunch together. It started when Richard sold the shipping company. He was clairvoyant when it came to economic trends. If I’d dared to believe in his . . . then I’d be a very rich man today. But I’ve done all right for myself.” He paused and stared blankly into space.

  Birgitta prodded him with another question. “Which shipping company was it that he sold?”

  “The one he inherited, of course! The family company! He got a good price. He invested in real estate, together with Peder Wahl. Do you know Peder?”

  “I’ve spoken with him on the phone.”

  “He’s a great guy. It’s a shame that they live down south in Provence most of the time. I miss Peder. Tell him that next time you talk to him,” Reuter said.

  Birgitta glanced at Andersson and rolled her eyes. He made an encouraging gesture. It always helps to interview someone with a loose tongue. Birgitta continued valiantly. “Where did you eat last Tuesday?”

  “We took a cab out to Johanneshus. An excellent inn out in Billdal. We wanted to go before the Christmas hysteria sets in. Then it gets too crowded.”

  “What time were you there?”

  “Where?”

  “At Johanneshus out in Billdal. The lunch with Richard.”

  “Oh, right, of course. The lunch.”

  Valle Reuter tried hard to concentrate.

  “I think the cab must have arrived out there by one or one-thirty. Somewhere thereabouts. Ask Peter, the innkeeper.”

  Birgitta made another note. She certainly would inquire.

  “So what did you have to eat?”

  “Oh, frutti di mare! The appetizer was ice-cold oysters with lime. A not entirely compatible wine with it, from . . . let me see . . . from the States. Golden Hind Sauvignon Blanc. Not good with oysters. A blunder. An excellent wine with oysters is—”

  “The entrée, Valle. Tell us about the entrée.”

  “Poached halibut with grated horseradish and melted butter. The potatoes weren’t mashed . . . they were . . . now, what’s it called? . . . Pressed! Pressed potatoes. We decided on the South African wine. Did I mention the wine we drank last Saturday? The white with the appetizer . . . oh yes, of course . . . it was from there too. A splendid wine. Bouchard Finlayson, Chardonnay. It was just fantastic. We ordered two bottles. With dessert, which was an ice cream mousse with Arctic raspberries, we snubbed the sweet wines of the Old World. Ordered a bottle of Mike Mossison Liqueur Muscat. An Australian. Very good choice. Very good.”

  Andersson was starting to get royally tired of goofy wines and weird food. Still, when she caught his eye appealing for help, he motioned to Birgitta to continue.

  Her sigh was barely audible as she went on. “When did you finish the meal?”

  “We rushed a bit. We left at three-thirty. By cab, of course. Sylvia was coming home that night, and Richard wanted to get back and check on things. And he had a slight cold. He was going to have a little whiskey and sit in the sauna. I like to do that too when I feel a cold coming on. But I say to hell with the sauna!”

  Valle Reuter found this extraordinarily funny, and he began chuckling and wheezing in amusement. Neither Andersson nor Birgitta Moberg felt like laughing along with him. There was something sad and depressing about the little round man. Birgitta leaned across the desk and shouted, “Valle. Hello? Valle!”

  Reuter wiped his eyes with the soggy tissue. But he managed to calm down.

  “As you know, Richard was murdered. Who do you think did it? And why?”

  Reuter straightened up and gave Birgitta a sharp look, which made her wonder for a moment whether he was more sober than he let on. Caustically he said, “Sylvia! It has to be Sylvia. She inherits the money. She’s crazy about money. Miserly. And spiteful. If you only knew what she said to me.” He put on a deeply injured expression.

  “According to several witnesses she was down on the street just as he hit the ground,” Birgitta stated dryly.

  This brought back the worried furrows to Reuter’s brow. But he said nothing, merely mumbled inaudibly.

&
nbsp; “Is it the inheritance, all that money, that you think is the motive?”

  “Sylvia. The money.” He nodded to himself, looking extremely pleased with his own perspicacity.

  “Valle, what did you and Richard do after you got out of the taxi?”

  “We took the elevator upstairs. I got off on the second floor and Richard continued up to his place.”

  “Did you see him, or speak to him later?”

  “No. That was the last time I saw Richard.”

  Andersson was afraid that Reuter was going to start crying again. But he didn’t. He sat slumped in the chair like a punctured balloon, gave a big yawn, and blinked his red eyes. Andersson realized that he had to hurry up and ask his question. He stood and walked slowly toward Valle, who started and said in surprise, “Are you still here? What was your name again?”

  “Sven Andersson. One last question before we call you a cab. Where were you last Tuesday evening and night? We knocked on your door, but you weren’t home.”

  Valle pressed his lips together firmly. It was obvious that he had no intention of answering.

  Patiently the superintendent continued, “It would be good if you would answer the question. You’d save us a lot of work. You were the last one to see Richard von Knecht alive. Besides the murderer.” He put special emphasis on the last word.

  Valle was on the same page, and he leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “The murderess! Sylvia.”

  “Don’t you understand? You’re a prime suspect!” Andersson exclaimed.

  Valle looked deeply wounded. “Me? Kill my best friend? Never!”

  “Then where were you?”

  Birgitta had an idea. She played along with the conspiratorial mood by leaning over the desk and saying, in a slightly teasing tone, “Tell the truth, Valle—there’s a woman involved, right?”

  The little man fairly shone with joviality. “But of course, my dear. A woman’s honor.”

  “You’ve known each other a long time, isn’t that so?”

  “Absolutely, three years . . . If you already know about her, why are you asking me?”

  “I don’t know her name.” Again Valle looked displeased. He stared at Birgitta gloomily.

  She challenged him. “Valle, you have to have an alibi.”

  “She doesn’t want me to tell. She’ll get mad at me.”

  “I’m sure she’ll understand that since you have become involved in a homicide investigation through no fault of your own, you need an alibi. And she’s the only one who can give you one.”

  Valle slumped down a bit more. After a long silence he muttered, “Gunnel . . . Gunnel Forsell.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Now listen, my dear, she doesn’t want cops running around her place. Don’t tell her I said anything or I’ll never be able to go there again.”

  His tone of voice, along with the anxiety in his wide eyes, said it all. In his loneliness he’d found comfort with a prostitute.

  Quietly Birgitta asked, “When did you leave for her place?”

  “The usual time.” He stopped and gave Birgitta an apologetic look. “I usually go visit her on Tuesday. At five-thirty. But I was a little early ... she had a guest . . . but he left after a while, and then I could go in.”

  “At five-thirty?”

  “A little before that, I think.”

  “How did you get there?”

  “Taxi.”

  “When did you get home?”

  Again he hesitated with his reply. “I usually spend the whole night.” He gave Birgitta a defiant look.

  “Where does she live?”

  “On Stampgatan.”

  “When did you get back home?”

  “Around ten. In the morning. Then I went down to the office.”

  A hooker who fixed breakfast. Neither of the officers had ever heard of such a thing. This had to be a very special arrangement. Something told Andersson that it was costing Reuter a small fortune. With great effort the stockbroker tried to get up. Finally he was on his feet, wobbling unsteadily. He gave a big yawn and said, “All right, now I want to go home. Thanks for the pleasant company, my dear. Don’t forget to try Neil Ellis sometime. Perhaps we could . . . ?”

  Birgitta smiled sweetly and picked up the phone to call a cab.

  “BIRGITTA, CAN you go to the Johanneshus restaurant to verify the times? And to our pretty chicken on Stampgatan? Check if she’s got a rap sheet,” said Andersson.

  “Hardly. I can smell a high-priced call girl a mile away. Fixing breakfast after a whole night’s sleep! Small, loyal, wealthy clientele. No walking the streets. I’ll try to get hold of her this morning; there’s a better chance she won’t be with a john so early,” replied Birgitta.

  “Ask her if she knew Richard von Knecht. Who knows? Maybe they were both clients of hers.”

  Reluctantly he went into the corridor. He had two meetings set up. The first was with Police Commissioner Bengt Bergström. The second was with the people assigned to take measurements for the new police uniforms. Everyone in the building had already been there, except Andersson. Would Reuter have babbled just as openly if he and Birgitta had been in uniform? Doubtful. After working plainclothes for thirty years, he was going to be forced to sign up for a uniform in his final years of service despite the fact that he had no intention of putting it on. But it wouldn’t do any good, no matter what he said. Orders from on high. “The public must know that they are talking to a police officer”—that was the argument. No dispensations had been granted. His only means of protesting had been to avoid going to the fittings. But there was no longer any excuse.

  Chapter Seven

  IRENE HUSS ONLY HAD time to skim through the faxes from Swedish Ladies’ Journal. She jotted down a few important dates and events on her notepad. The rest of the investigative group needed a report on the von Knecht family’s past at five o’clock.

  It was interesting to read old gossip now that she had personally met those involved. Her picture of Richard von Knecht had to be constructed solely from the clippings and from what she had seen and heard during the course of the investigation.

  After his military service, young Richard was apparently sent to England for two years. In an article about a college party at which Princess Birgitta was a guest, she found a picture of Richard and the princess in the midst of the dancers. The caption read: “Princess Birgitta was dazzlingly happy in the company of stylish Richard von Knecht.” In the brief article it said she “danced several times with young Richard von Knecht. He has just returned from studying economics at Oxford. His father Otto von Knecht, king of Göteborg’s shipping magnates, must be pleased that his son will now begin his MBA studies at the Stockholm School of Economics.”

  From the picture she could see that the gossip columnist was right. Richard was definitely stylish. Tall and slender. His dark blond hair was most certainly too long for the fashion of the time. He wore it parted on the side, with an unruly shock of hair slipping forward in a thick wave over his left eye. But the most attractive thing about him was his smile—a smile that glinted in his eyes and radiated from his perfect teeth. A lovely mouth. A sexy face, no doubt about it. Not a pretty boy’s face, but handsome. Masculine. How in the world could this man be Henrik’s father? Everything about Richard that seemed alive and vibrant in a photo almost forty years old was no more than a vague physical resemblance in his son. Henrik possessed none of the joie de vivre evident in Richard. Had he ever? Curious despite herself, Irene continued leafing through the faxed pages. There were several pictures from parties and premieres where Richard was seen in the crowd. Always with some young lady on his arm. Seldom the same one twice in a row. In 1962 Richard attended a large Whitsuntide wedding and was photographed with a beautiful woman at his side. Irene didn’t recognize her. The article said: “One of the young men from the princess’s jet set, Richard von Knecht, converses with an enchanting young lady. Could he be telling her that he just passed his MBA exam and will start
at Öberg’s brokerage in the fall? When our reporter asked why he didn’t start right away with his family’s shipping company in Göteborg, Richard von Knecht replied that it’s always useful to gather experience from other fields before you settle into one profession.”

  The following two and a half years he appeared in various society photos. But in January 1965 the magazine ran a whole spread with a huge headline: OTTO VON KNECHT DIES SUDDENLY. From the article it appeared that Richard’s father suffered a cerebral hemorrhage on New Year’s Day and died a week later, at the age of sixty-nine. Richard was called home to take the helm of the family shipping company. His mother appeared in some of the pictures, a rigid and severe-looking woman. From the text it was quite evident that she was the one running the shipping operation. Richard must have met Sylvia relatively soon after that. In a photo from the May Day Ball that year, Richard was seen dancing with a tiny, graceful blond woman. “Our new shipping magnate Richard von Knecht danced all night with the new star of the Grand Theater, Sylvia Montgomery, 22.”

  The tall Richard and the elfin Sylvia made a very handsome couple. They were magnificent at the elaborate wedding of Waldemar Reuter and his Leila on Whitsun Eve, a month later. Richard was elegantly attired in his white tie and tails, and Sylvia was innocently sexy in a bare-shouldered pink silk gown. The wedding took place in the old Örgryte Church. The bridal couple looked quite odd. He was half a head shorter than the bride, short and plump. According to the article, he worked in his family’s brokerage firm. She was a brunette, startlingly pretty, and looked to be no more than twenty years old. Even though she was holding the bouquet in front of her stomach in the photo on the church steps, it was obvious that she was pregnant.

  In late August Richard and Sylvia got engaged. Richard’s mother was said to be “simply delighted.” The wedding was set for November 18. Uh-oh! That was a bit rushed. The reason, of course, was Henrik. The pictures from the wedding were charming. Sylvia was a dream in heavy cream-white silk. No one could see the slightest sign that she was pregnant. Richard was more stylish than ever, and according to the captions “he had eyes only for his lovely bride.” There were three photos that showed Richard dancing with three different women. Naturally the bridegroom had to dance with all the ladies present. But there was something that suggested things were other than they seemed, upon a closer examination of the pictures. Especially one of them, which showed him dancing close with a now flat-stomached Fru Leila Reuter. Richard’s face was turned to the photographer. His eyes were closed, and his lips slightly parted. His lower body was pressed hard against his partner’s. Damned if “he had eyes only for his lovely bride.” It was perfectly obvious that it wasn’t eye contact he was looking for.