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

by Helen Tursten

  “Hello, excuse me, Robert. But it was just too funny. I could almost be your mother. If I’d only started in time.”

  “That’s cool. I’m glad I can make somebody happy. Although I do prefer mature women.”

  “Like Charlotte?”

  “Charlotte is really something special. And fun. Nice as hell.”

  “And you’re sure you heard the five o’clock news while you were in the car?”

  “Yes. Even though I wasn’t sitting in the car then. I had just gotten out. Charlotte wanted to see how to remove the spare tire. The car door was open, so we heard the news. Charlotte said something like, ‘Is it five o’clock already?’ Well, then we checked to see if she had all her papers and everything. Then she left.”

  “So it would have been about ten after five. Or more correctly, seventeen-ten.”

  “Yes, it must have been.”

  “Thanks, Robert. Please forgive the laughing fit, but you really made my day.”

  “No problem. Drop by if you ever need a good car.”

  Well, damned if a faint clearing on the horizon didn’t herald a clear day. A little sun never hurt. It hadn’t been seen in almost two weeks. Irene felt renewed energy flowing through her body. Wasn’t that called “comic relief”? Screw the ginseng; a little flirting on the phone works wonders with ladies approaching forty.

  Andersson was sitting in his office. When Irene knocked lightly on the door frame he jumped in his chair.

  “Jesus, you scared me!”

  “Sitting there trying to think? It smells like something’s burning.” Irene sniffed the air.

  He gave her a weary look. “How do you manage to be so cheerful in the morning? And smells like burning is the right expression. The fire on Berzeliigatan doesn’t seem to fit in with von Knecht’s murder. Yet it was incredibly convenient. And now the cleaning woman has disappeared.”

  “I spoke to Hannu’s pal in Stockholm, Veiko Fors.”

  “So how were things going for him?”

  “Nothing yet. He had shit by the boxful.”

  “Shit by the boxful . . . are you nuts?”

  Irene laughed and even got Andersson to smile a little.

  “Those were his exact words. Stockholm slang, you know. The shit is that Jonas Söder can’t be found. He’s apparently an artist. His mamma went crazy when Veiko Fors said he wanted to talk to both of them regarding von Knecht’s murder. She refuses to speak to anyone but the detective in charge of the investigation.”

  Andersson looked out his overgrown window thoughtfully. The poor lily hanging in its macramé holder had given up the ghost long ago. He sat in silence for a long time. Without looking at Irene, he said pensively, “Besides myself, there’s only you and Jonny here right now. Jonny is talking to Ivan Viktors. They may have already started by now. How are you doing?”

  “I thought I’d call Sylvia von Knecht in a while and ask how many hours a week Pirjo works for them. Otherwise, I just talked to the car dealer in Mölndal. He gives Charlotte an alibi up to about ten minutes past five.”

  “Then she couldn’t have made it downtown and hoisted her father-in-law over the balcony railing. It’s also hard to believe that Charlotte is particularly skilled at bomb making.”

  “Something tells me she can’t even cook a meal.”

  It was meant as a joke, but she could hear her own cattiness. In her mind Rob’s cheerful voice exclaimed: Who needs to know how to cook with steering wheels like that . . . wow!

  Andersson didn’t seem to notice the comment about Charlotte’s deficiencies in the domestic arena. He was busy with his own thoughts and plans. “And then Jonny and Hans have to watch the parking garage. Tommy and Fredrik are checking Berzeliigatan. Birgitta has to talk to the photographer, Bobo Torsson, and help Hannu look for Pirjo Larsson. And I have to talk to Yvonne Stridner. Richard von Knecht is finished being examined, you might say. What else is there? Oh yes, I have to try on some pants.”

  At the last sentence a shadow came over his face. He took a deep breath. “No, it’ll have to be you, Irene—you’re going to have to take care of the mother and son in Stockholm.”

  “That’s fine. I have Veiko Fors’s phone number. But first I’m going to call Sylvia.”

  THE PHONE rang about a dozen times before Sylvia’s slurred voice was heard at the other end of the line. Have you overdosed now, little Sylvia? thought Irene. But she didn’t say it. Instead she chirped in her softest voice, “Good morning, Sylvia. Pardon me for waking you. It’s Inspector Irene Huss.”

  An incoherent mumble and grumbling was her reply. Irene hastily plunged ahead, “I’m calling on behalf of Superintendent Andersson. We’re searching for Pirjo Larsson. She’s been missing since last Wednesday afternoon. You still haven’t heard from her?”

  “No-o-o. Not . . . gone . . . I think she lives in Angered,” Sylvia mumbled.

  “We know that. But she’s been missing from her apartment and left her three children alone since last Wednesday.”

  “Oh . . . that’s odd.” It sounded as though she was starting to wake up. “So who’s going to clean our apartment then?”

  She was awake now. Irene stifled a sigh and continued undeterred, “We were wondering how many hours a week Pirjo works for you.”

  There was silence for half an eternity. Finally came a dejected, “Fifteen hours.”

  “Divided over three days? Monday, Wednesday, and Friday? Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much do you pay Pirjo?”

  “I can’t see that that’s any of your business!”

  Irene tried to sound as convincing as possible. “Yes it is, actually. We’re investigating Pirjo’s financial situation.” That sounded good. But it didn’t impress Sylvia.

  She snapped, “According to her it’s not nearly enough!”

  “Does Pirjo want a raise?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does she get per month?”

  Again silence. Finally Sylvia said, resigned, “Eighteen hundred.”

  “And she wants?. . .”

  “Two thousand five hundred! Insane!”

  “How much will she get?”

  “No raise at all! I was utterly shocked!”

  Anger made her sound like she was completely alert now. Irene decided to wrap it up on a more neutral subject. “I heard from Henrik that you’re going up to Marstrand over the weekend.”

  “That’s right. Nothing wrong with that, I hope.” Her tone said that even if there was, she planned to ignore them.

  “Not at all. I just wanted to mention that if anything should turn up, or if you need to contact us, give us a call. The investigative group is always here.”

  “Do you work around the clock?”

  “No, not really. We have a duty schedule.”

  Guardedly they wished each other a nice weekend and hung up. She needed a quick cup of coffee before she called Mona Söder.

  “SWEDISH DATA, good morning. How can I help you?” The voice was professional and friendly.

  “I’m looking for Personnel Director Mona Söder.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  Click, click. A soft whirring to indicate that the signals were actually going through. A smoky and pleasant female voice answered.

  “Mona Söder.”

  “Good morning. My name is Irene Huss. Detective inspector with the Göteborg Police. I’m working on the investigation of the murder of Richard von Knecht.”

  Mona Söder took a deep breath. “I don’t want to get involved! Not now . . . not the way things stand right now. We don’t want to have anything to do with him. Are we under suspicion for something?”

  “As you no doubt are aware, this is a homicide investigation. We’re going over all the facts about the victim. We discovered that you and Richard von Knecht had a son together in July nineteen sixty-five.”

  Quiet sobbing was heard on the line. But only briefly, before Mona Söder sniffed loudly and steadied her voice. “Cou
ld we meet in person?”

  “Meet? You’re in Stockholm!”

  “Yes, I know. But this is important for your investigation. You have to come up here!” It sounded like both an appeal and a command.

  “Can’t we do it on the phone?”

  “Absolutely not! It’s very important that you come here, because you have to see with your own eyes.”

  “I’ll have to talk to my supervisor. The Göteborg Police are on an austerity program, like everyone else.”

  “Call me as soon as you know. See you later!”

  Irene hung up the phone, impressed. It was obvious that Mona Söder was a woman who was used to telling people what to do.

  “WHERE DID you get that idea? Going up to Stockholm! What is it the woman can’t say on the phone?”

  “She said she had to show me something. According to her it was very important for the investigation.”

  “Show you? Very important?” Andersson put his hands behind his back, a habit from his days on the beat, and paced aimlessly back and forth in the room. Suddenly he stopped in front of Irene, who happened to be sitting in the visitor’s chair. Resolutely he said, “You have to go. It’s the first time in this investigation that anyone has said they have something important to contribute. Check on the train times. Write up a travel requisition, and I’ll make sure you won’t have to front the money for too long. Okay?”

  “That should work. But I have to take care of a few practical things first. Jenny is sick at home. Nothing serious, just a cold. Krister is working late tonight. Katarina has to practice for a judo match on Sunday. I’ll call my mother. Just hope she has time. Since she retired, she’s almost never home. You know how it is, ‘When you’re a happy retired person . . .’” She sang the last part loudly and off-key.

  “Thank you, but I’m actually quite musical. Get going on your trip to Stockholm instead of torturing me,” said Andersson.

  “MONA SÖDER, here.”

  “Inspector Irene Huss again.”

  “Yes, hi. When are you coming?”

  That stopped Irene short, but she managed to pull herself together. “I’m taking the X-two-thousand at eleven-oh-five. Arriving in Stockholm just after fourteen hundred.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you at Five Small Houses at three P.M.”

  “Where are the ‘Five Small Houses’? Is that where you work?” Something about prefab housing came vaguely to mind.

  Mona Söder laughed, a warm and pleasant laugh. “No, I work at a computer company. Five Small Houses is a cozy restaurant in Old Town. I’ll buy,” she said.

  As if they were old friends. To her surprise Irene discovered that eating a late lunch with Mona Söder seemed like a fun idea. Although being treated might be construed as bribing an official . . . There was a risk, so it was probably better to go Dutch.

  “Do you know your way around Stockholm?” asked Mona.

  “Yes, I lived there for a year, when I was at the police academy out in Ulriksdal. I lived on Tomtebogatan downtown.”

  “Go over to Österlånggatan and walk down a few blocks. The restaurant is on Nygränd, one of the cross streets down toward the water.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be easy to find.”

  They assured each other that it would be nice to meet in just five hours. Irene glanced at the clock. One more hour before the train left. Her mother had promised to drive out to stay with Jenny and Katarina that afternoon. Krister had been informed.

  Had she forgotten anything? Nothing that she could think of. She stuck her head in the superintendent’s door to say good-bye, but he wasn’t there.

  SINCE THE major renovation a few years ago, Göteborg’s Central Station is quite a beautiful place to visit. The dark, polished woodwork of the walls, benches, and pillars creates a turn-of-the-twentieth-century atmosphere. But the crowded flow of travelers, the stoned junkies, and the winos asleep on the benches are the same as always. The ticket line is the same too, even if nowadays it’s computerized with little paper numbers and digital displays above each ticket window. A glass door separates those waiting patiently for tickets from the people in the waiting rooms and on the platforms.

  It took Irene almost half an hour to buy her round-trip ticket. She had to dash out into the biting wind and run full speed for the shiny, silvery blue Intercity train.

  It was the first time she had been on an Intercity train. Even before she sat down she knew that she was out of place. She wasn’t wearing a suit or high-heeled shoes, and she carried no briefcase or laptop. In her black jeans, her down-filled poplin jacket, and her red wool sweater she felt like a total misfit. A woman in a masculine-looking gray pin-striped suit, complementing her pageboy haircut, looked at Irene disapprovingly over the edge of her reading glasses when Irene sat down facing her on the other side of the aisle. The only baggage Irene was carrying was a yellow plastic bag from the newsstand with snacks and newspapers. Since she didn’t even own a handbag and never had, most of what she needed in her daily life she kept in her jacket pockets. They bulged unaesthetically. She decided to pretend there was a fax machine in her right pocket and a palm computer in the left.

  She gave the woman in the suit a radiant smile and sat down. That’s the most effective way to startle people: They think you’re crazy and instantly avert their eyes. She demonstratively opened up GT and read about the attempts of her investigative group to solve the von Knecht case. The papers still didn’t know about Pirjo Larsson’s disappearance or the fact that von Knecht had another son. It was his mother she was going to eat lunch with, after traveling more than five hundred kilometers.

  Within fifteen minutes the detective inspector was asleep under her newspaper.

  THERE WAS a desert in her mouth. That wasn’t the only thing that proved she had been snoring. The woman in the suit across from her was smirking maliciously. Irene decided that the two of them were enemies, so she fired off another smile. The gray-toned woman pursed her lips and lost herself deeper in her three-ring binder. It was almost one o’clock. Irene needed a cup of coffee and some food. She opened her newly purchased can of Coca-Cola and ate a Heath bar. The important thing was to save room for lunch. It was beginning to feel quite exhilarating to be taking the train up to the capital like this, unexpectedly. At the same time she had to admit that she was starting to feel a little curious. What was it that Mona Söder wanted to show her that was supposed to be so important to the investigation? Could the solution to the von Knecht case be in Stockholm? She just hoped that she would be able to make it back on the next X2000 train at eight-thirty that evening.

  IT WAS no problem getting to Old Town on the subway. Despite the biting cold wind, a pale winter sun peeked through the clouds now and then. After wandering through the narrow lanes and stopping in a few small boutiques, she headed for Nygränd and Five Small Houses. Funny name for a restaurant, since it unquestionably was located in only one house. But a careful look would reveal that there were actually five different house façades next to each other. They varied somewhat in design and were painted different colors.

  The lovely warmth of the restaurant enveloped her when she walked in through the heavy old wooden door. A middle-aged hostess gave her a friendly nod. On a sudden impulse Irene asked why the restaurant was called Five Small Houses. The hostess didn’t seem surprised at the question; many people had probably wondered the same thing over the years.

  In a friendly voice she recited, “The restaurant extends, as the name indicates, through five small houses. It includes the ground floor and basement of all of them and even the second floor of some. As you can see over there, the archway and stairs mark the transition between the houses. There have been small inns in these houses ever since the seventeenth century. Even illegal pubs. Sometimes the premises were used as coal cellars. At the beginning of the nineteenth century the houses were converted to small apartments. Actors and ballerinas once lived here. They’re all retired now, but several of them have been back to look at their old place
, which is now a restaurant again, and has been for many years.”

  “How interesting. Thank you so much for taking the time to tell me about it. I can practically feel the poet Bellman breathing down my neck.”

  The pleasant hostess laughed. “Let’s hope you’re spared Carl Michael Bellman’s breath. Something tells me it might spoil your appetite. Where would you like to sit?”

  “I’m supposed to meet Mona Söder here at three o’clock.”

  “She’s already arrived. Please follow me.”

  She guided Irene between the tables with blinding white tablecloths down the stairs and through small archways. Irene was soon quite lost. And she usually had such a good sense of direction! In the far corner of a room at the very back of the house a woman was sitting alone. Irene’s eyes had adjusted to the scant light in the vaulted room, but it was still hard to see what the woman in the dim corner looked like. When Irene approached she slowly rose to her feet. Mona Söder was only a few centimeters shorter than Irene. She was stocky but not at all fat. Power, that was the word that came to mind as Irene shook hands with Mona and said hello. She didn’t have a sparkling, vital energy of the type that took your breath away, but rather a calm, sure, authoritative power. Irene did not doubt for a second that Mona must be an extraordinary boss.

  Mona Söder gestured graciously toward the chair across the table. “Please have a seat, Irene. I hope you forgive me, but I’ve already ordered for us. Is grilled Baltic herring all right, followed by plum cake with vanilla ice cream for dessert?”

  “That sounds fantastic.”

  Irene had only eaten grilled Baltic herring once before. Burned herring with mashed potatoes was what she would call it.

  Mona turned to the waiter who had soundlessly materialized at their table. “We’d like two large porters and two shots of Aalborg Aquavit.”