“No. He went into the bakery next to the bank and bought two sandwiches.”
“That could be right. He and Sylvia often did that on Tuesdays. Just had a sandwich for dinner. We always ate a substantial lunch, and then Richard had to deal with Sylvia’s starvation diets again. She wanted to be as slim as a ballerina. Poor Richard almost starved to death!”
From what Irene could remember, there hadn’t been anything in the autopsy report about severe undernourishment, but she decided to change the subject.
“Did he say anything to you about the money? It was quite a large sum, ten thousand kronor.”
“He probably wanted to buy something. Clothing, perhaps.”
Valle sounded uninterested. Evidently he didn’t think it was a large sum. Irene suspected that the easy chair he was sitting in cost more than that.
“Did he usually take out cash when he was going to make a purchase?”
Valle thought about it with renewed interest.
“No, he always used a credit card. He didn’t like carrying cash. He said you shouldn’t have any, in case you’re robbed. You never know these days, with all the skinheads and drug addicts.”
For a second her daughter’s bald pate swam before Irene’s eyes, but she pushed away the image. She motioned toward the monster painting and asked, “Did Henrik help you acquire all these fine paintings?”
“Yes. A fine boy. Talented and competent. He also purchased the rugs. And the crystal chandelier.”
He pointed at the painting with the blue-headed monster and went on, “He arranged the contact with Bengt Lindström, a noted Swedish painter in Paris. This is his portrait of me. I had him do Richard too—from a photograph—for his sixtieth birthday. Richard was overjoyed! Said it was the gift he valued most. But of course Sylvia didn’t like it! She said that they had enough Bengt Lindström. She was mad because he liked the painting.”
To her own astonishment Irene suddenly saw that it really was Valle Reuter in the painting. His expression of a jovial seal was right on the mark. The blue seal had a crimson-red glint in his left eye that clearly said, Be careful you don’t underestimate me!
Since they so opportunely had begun to talk about Henrik, Irene decided to pursue the subject and pump Valle. In a tone of friendly interest she asked, “What did Richard think about his son’s choice of profession?”
“Well, he was extremely disappointed after Henrik’s illness. Probably thought he would continue in the financial world. Just as I thought about my son. Or more correctly, Leila’s son.”
His face clouded over and Irene sensed a trauma that she ought to avoid getting into. She swiftly said, “But Henrik went his own way, as we know. From what I understand, he stays up at his house in Marstrand most of the time, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, that was the house that brought him back to life. He was apathetic and depressed after his illness. Had to fight to become reasonably healthy again. He was unhappy. But then Richard decided to build a guest cabin down by the water at their country place, and Henrik asked if he could have his own cabin. I assume he probably wanted to be left in peace. The two houses were built at the same time. Henrik was full of energy. He was with the workmen from the first dynamite blast to the last roofing tile! It did him good, both physically and mentally. Doing manual labor.”
“Dynamite blast?”
“Yes, quite a bit had to be blasted out there on the rocks by the sea. For the building site. Henrik thought it was fun. He used to be a commando, you know. They learn a lot about explosives. Good grief, my throat is getting so dry with all this talk! Shall we have a little glass after all?”
She declined, friendly yet firm, as her brain worked in high gear. Henrik had both access to explosives and the knowledge to handle them. They had to go up to Marstrand and search for plastique explosive and detonators. And the det cord. Proof! That would be tangible evidence. Although there might not be any left. Maybe he used all of it for the devil bomb and Bobo’s briefcase. She suddenly realized that Valle had started talking again.
“. . . extremely lovely up there. But Charlotte doesn’t like it. She thinks it’s too isolated. At first she went up there often. But not so much lately.”
“How was Richard’s relationship with Charlotte?”
“Good. He didn’t talk about her very often. Although he thought it was a shame that they couldn’t have children.”
Crash! The whole roof fell in on Irene’s head. Mentally, at least. Without betraying her inner excitement she asked in a neutral voice, “Can’t she have children?”
“It’s Henrik who can’t have children after his illness. He was tested several times, but he had no viable sperm. Richard told me the boy is totally sterile.”
“Did Charlotte know about this when they got married?”
“Yes. But she didn’t think it mattered. She didn’t want to have children, probably didn’t want to ruin her figure. If you’re a photo model, you have to think about your appearance. Really a very beautiful girl.”
“Did Richard also think she was beautiful? I mean, did he ever mention it?”
Valle gave her a surprised look. “Yes, I suppose any man can see that. Most normally constituted men probably consider Charlotte to be tremendously beautiful,” he said with emphasis.
“He never talked to you about his relationship with his daughter-in-law?”
Now Valle looked annoyed. “Since he seldom talked about her, it must have been fine! What does Charlotte have to do with Richard’s murder?”
Valle and Richard had been very close, had known each other for years. But clearly Richard had never mentioned to Valle any intimate relationship between him and Charlotte. Irene decided to drop the subject.
“You don’t happen to know what taxi company you took home from Johanneshus, do you?”
“But of course! We always use the same company, Richard and I. The only company in the downtown area with nothing but Mercedes cabs. A small firm, but they operate twenty-four hours a day. Wait, I’ll get you the number.”
He toddled off toward a door that led into a den. A window lamp with a flower-shaped glass shade shone faintly over a large, bare desk of dark, polished wood. The light reflected in glass doors and shiny leather. The reading chairs resembled those in von Knecht’s library. For a second Irene felt a longing to take a book from the shelves and sink down into one of the chairs. Just let herself be surrounded by its substantial leather embrace.
“Here it is!” Valle waved a slip of paper. He copied the number onto another piece of paper and came back into the living room.
“I always keep their card in my wallet too. It’s good to have it along. This company has excellent drivers. Helpful and friendly.”
Irene suspected that Valle was generous with his tips when he was in his cups, which would certainly be a contributing factor to the driver’s helpfulness. But she kept this thought to herself. She stood up and thanked Valle for his kindness.
“Oh, think nothing of it! If I can assist in catching the person who murdered my friend, I am at your service,” he said solemnly.
A little more of this attitude among those involved in this case and it would have been solved. Which made her wonder how the conversation at Sylvia’s was going.
“SHE WENT nuts when I asked about the sandwiches. She screamed at us to stop badgering her. She certainly shut up when Hannu said something to her in Finnish just as we were leaving. What did you say?”
There was a little tug at one corner of Hannu’s mouth as he hissed in a muffled voice, “This is about a murder investigation!”
Tommy laughed and turned to Irene, who was driving. “The conversation with Sylvia that preceded this didn’t produce much. She wouldn’t let us talk to her sister or mother. She told us that she had been up at Marstrand today. A horse had come down with bronchitis and a cough. But the vet had given it penicillin, so it would probably be fine. That was all the information we got. Otherwise she just grumbled. But she said something in
Finnish to Arja just as we came in the door. Did you hear what she said, Hannu?”
“Yes. ‘Not a word about the party.’”
“‘Not a word about the party.’ Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What party? She couldn’t have meant the funeral, could she?”
Irene had an idea just as she turned into the parking lot at headquarters. She said, “Could it have been the celebration of their anniversary? Or the ‘Thirty Years’ War,’ as someone referred to it during the course of the investigation.”
Tommy pondered out loud as she was parking. “None of them who were there said that anything special happened. They agree that it was an enjoyable party. Only Charlotte and Henrik seemed subdued, according to one account.”
“No wonder! She’s been knocked up by someone other than her husband. Maybe even by her father-in-law. And Henrik has just primed a bomb to send his father to kingdom come! No wonder they were subdued!”
Hannu put in, “Tense. Not subdued. Tense.”
It took her a second to realize what he meant. The engine was turned off, but they were still sitting in the car. She nodded. “Not subdued. Tense. Precisely. Henrik was nervous that something would go wrong with the bomb. And Charlotte had other things on her mind. Plans to take the life of her father-in-law, her lover, her child’s father? What was his relationship to her?”
Tommy sighed and threw up his hands. “It’s all circumstantial! We need proof! Proof!”
THE SUPERINTENDENT had driven home, simmering with fever. The three inspectors sat down and went over what the day had produced. On Andersson’s desk was a fax from the lab. The techs reported that the pipes in the cellar on Berzeliigatan had been located and “in all probability match the pipes that were used in the fabrication of the bombs in question. Additional tests for positive verification are ongoing.” They called the techs to ask about the sandwiches in von Knecht’s refrigerator, but no one answered. So they sent a fax too: “Definite information received that Richard von Knecht bought two ready-made sandwiches an hour and a half before his death. Did you see these sandwiches in the refrigerator? If so, were any of you hungry?”
Irene called the cab company. After lengthy explanations and fuss it came out that the driver they were looking for was on vacation. He was probably at his summer cabin in Bengtsfors. No, there was no telephone. But they could have the number of his apartment in town. Irene thanked them and hung up. As she had expected, she got no answer at the driver’s home number. She turned to her two colleagues and said, “Let’s go home now. I’ll take the number with me and try to get hold of the taxi guy over the weekend. Although tomorrow morning I’ll be downtown with the twins. It’s a tradition. We’re going to look at the Christmas decorations. I promised to go with them. I thought they were too old to want to take their old mother along. But they actually asked me to come with them.”
Inside she felt both happy and flattered.
Chapter Eighteen
IRENE WOKE UP WITH a start. She thought she heard quiet sobbing. Was Jenny awake and crying again? Cautiously she sneaked up and listened at her daughter’s door. All was quiet. When she cracked open the door, she could hear calm breathing and panting. The panting came from Sammie. He lay squirming on his back with his paws in the air. His “little mistress” lay dangerously close to the edge of the bed, but Irene felt no uneasiness, only tenderness. It was good for Jenny to have her dog close to her. It had been a difficult Friday for her.
IRENE HAD come home around ten. What she wanted most of all was to have a big cup of tea and a sandwich and then crawl into bed. But it wasn’t to be. Not right away at least.
Sammie stormed toward her, but he wasn’t himself. His tail hung anxiously straight down and he crouched down and whimpered instead of leaping and yelping. Was he sick or in pain? She bent down and started to babble to him as her hands slid over his body to see if he was sore anyplace. Then she heard sobs and Katarina’s voice from the living room. “She looks like a God damned skag!”
“Skag”! What in God’s name did that mean? And who looked like one? Irene got up, tossed her leather jacket on the hat rack as she passed by, and went to find her daughters in the living room. Katarina was hanging off the edge of the easy chair talking to Jenny, who lay prone on the sofa, shaking with sobs. She had hidden her bald head under a sofa pillow, which she was holding tight. Katarina hadn’t heard her mother arrive and didn’t notice when she came in the room. She was intensely involved in comforting her sister.
“There are thousands of other guys who are cooler and nicer! And thousands of other bands. With better music. And if you don’t want to play skinhead music, you can let your hair grow out. In two months your hair will be as long as Marie Fredriksson’s in Roxette! We can bleach it. Cool as shit! Pale stubble! Before it grows out we can say you had cancer. Your hair fell out because of all the chemo and all that radiation . . . Hey! Are you crazy?”
With a wail Jenny jumped up and threw the pillow straight at Katarina. She was furious. Tears sprayed from her wide eyes. Her stamina was running out, because she didn’t pursue the attack. When she saw Irene she rushed over and flung herself with full force into her arms and sobbed. Sobbed inconsolably, wordlessly. Sobbed over her first betrayed love, her first betrayed hopes. Irene’s crushed rib hurt when Jenny came flying into her arms, but she didn’t show it; she started silently rocking her as she tenderly stroked her bald head.
A LITTLE later they were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating open-faced egg sandwiches with Kalle’s caviar. Bit by bit the story came out. Jenny had told Markus that she didn’t want to go to the demonstrations on the anniversary of Karl XII’s death. She didn’t want to shout slogans that she didn’t agree with. But she did want to stay in the band. Markus got furious and said, “If you don’t believe in them, then you can’t stay with the band. You’ve shown where you stand!”
Then he turned on his heel and left. Jenny was devastated, because she was in love with him, or so she thought anyway. He was the first boy who had kissed her so her knees got weak. When Katarina mentioned this, Jenny flared up again but soon calmed down. That was exactly how it had felt.
It had been Katarina’s idea to rent Schindler’s List that night. Grandma was coming over, and surely she would enjoy a movie that took place during her own youth. The movie was about a man who pretended to cooperate with the Nazis while he succeeded in saving hundreds of Jews from the extermination camps.
Katarina told her mother that after the movie Grandma had described in detail her own experiences as a seventeen-year-old at the end of the war. About the white Red Cross buses that emptied their cargoes of walking skeletons. At her school they had opened up the baths. Nurses had stripped the ragged clothes caked with filth off the human wrecks. They were treated with delousing powder and scrubbed with hot water and scrub brushes. A poor old Jewish man was so scared when they were about to delouse him that he had a heart attack and died! He thought it was poison. Like the poison the Nazis used when they wanted to kill lots of people at once. Although that was probably gas, Grandma said. Her job had been to hand out clean clothes and help those who couldn’t even dress themselves. Strangely enough, Grandma didn’t say a word about Jenny’s clean-shaven head. It was as if she didn’t even see it.
By then Jenny thought that her sister had been allowed to talk long enough. After all, this was mostly about her! Eagerly she broke into the conversation. “When Grandma finished telling her story, I asked her if she really had seen all those people who had been in concentration camps. She had. Then I asked if it was true that there were really extermination camps. And then she said ‘Yes.’ I asked why they let it happen! Why didn’t the Swedes protest that millions of people were being killed in these camps? But she didn’t know the answer. Then she said that in Sweden we didn’t know about it during the war. It wasn’t until the war was over and Hitler was dead that the camps were opened and people found out about it. I
think that sounds incredible! I mean ... it’s not so strange that someone might not believe that the camps existed . . . since nobody reacted during the war. They just let it happen!”
She stopped and Irene sensed a slightly apologetic tone in those final remarks. Jenny sat running her fingernail along the edge of the table. That was a sign that she was holding back something that was difficult to say. Finally she took a deep breath and said, “Could you tell Tommy that I’m not a racist? We don’t have to be enemies. I don’t want that! Tell him. I’m not a racist, really. The lyrics are racist. I can hear that now. Totally. I gave my CDs back to Markus. He can give them to Marie!”
“Is she the one who’s a ‘God damned skag’?”
“Exactly! She is a God damned skag!”
It wasn’t necessary to ask for an explanation of the word. Her tone of voice explained everything.
Cautiously Irene asked, “What happened to Markus?”
Jenny turned all crinkly around the eyes, but before Katarina could start to speak for her again, she said with a teary tremble in her voice, “Markus and Marie started going steady yesterday. She’s in the eighth grade.”
“Is she a skinhead too?”
“Naw, she has neon pink hair. Sometimes she makes lavender loops in it. And she got pierced too. She has a ring in her eyebrow, one in her upper lip, and one in her nose. Disgusting!”
Both daughters were agreed that it was “totally heinous,” and Irene was grateful for that.
WHEN KRISTER came home at one A.M. the girls were asleep, but Irene was still up. After telling him about Jenny’s troubles and about the impending end to her skinhead period, she tried to seduce her husband. But he was too tired and not at all in the mood. The Christmas rush at the city’s restaurants had begun. She lay awake for a long time, her whirling thoughts of skinheads, millionaires, bombs, murderers, biker gangs, sexual relations between people who shouldn’t be having any, and sexual relations between people who should.
Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1 Page 40
