With infinite care she began to move toward Hoffa. Not because she knew what he was going to do, but driven by an instinct not to let him out of her sight. She was completely unprepared and almost screamed when she stubbed her toe on something hard. It hurt like hell. But it made only a low thud. She had kicked the heavy foundation of a patio umbrella. For several long seconds she stood motionless, on alert. Now she was so close that she could see him behind the curtain. No more than two meters separated them. But he was totally concentrating on what was happening inside the house. She was conscious of more movement in the hall. Birgitta came through the door, also with her weapon drawn. While Fredrik maintained his position, Birgitta headed for the room adjacent to the deck. She stopped in the doorway, felt along the doorjamb, and found the light switch. Light flooded the room from an elegant crystal chandelier over a dining room table.
Hoffa was suddenly visible in sharp relief against the white curtain. But the fabric of the curtain was heavy, so as to keep out the bright western sun in the summertime. Birgitta looked around without noticing the man behind the curtain. But Irene saw him. She watched him very slowly draw a knife from a sheath that was strapped to his thigh. A strip of light shone on the long, wide blade. A hunting knife for big game.
Afterward she didn’t know where her strength had come from. Without wasting time to think, she bent down and took a firm grip on the base of the umbrella. She heaved it up to her chest, took a few steps forward, and threw it with all her might against the glass wall behind Hoffa. With an earsplitting crash the door exploded.
Birgitta screamed, but stopped as soon as Irene yelled, “Don’t shoot! It’s me!”
Birgitta hurried toward the door, found the key hanging on the inside, and unlocked it with shaky hands.
Hoffa lay in a big pool of blood. It was spreading with disquieting speed. A large piece of glass was sticking up from a gash in the side of his neck. Dark blood pumped out of the wound.
“Fredrik! Are you okay? Is everything under control?” Irene yelled toward the hall without taking her eyes off the man in the pool of blood. Her demon was about to die. Revenge was being exacted. Why did she feel no triumph?
“Everything’s under control. I’ve got the drop on Shorty. But Henrik von Knecht needs an ambulance. Fast!”
Hoffa did too. Mechanically she yanked the curtain down from the other side of the glass door and went over to him. He yammered weakly when she carefully raised his head. She shoved the curtain under his neck and tied it. It was a clumsy and loose-fitting bandage, but it was all she could do for him at the moment. Fredrik was still positioned to shoot as she went to him. She stood next to him, turned her head, and saw the same scene he did.
In the middle of the room stood Shorty with his hands in the air and his palms turned toward the viewers. Blood was running down them. His face was expressionless, and the look he gave Irene was utterly uninterested. Only his lower jaw churned, as if he were chewing gum slowly. Across the double bed lay Henrik von Knecht. Or more precisely, she assumed it must be Henrik. The bedspread had once been white, but now it was so soaked in blood that it could have passed for a red batik. Henrik’s face was swollen. With each breath he took, bright red bubbles came out of his mouth, and his naked body was covered with crimson swellings from blows and kicks.
Irene had seen plenty during her years of service, but this had to be the worst. A crazed beating, verging on slaughter. With a shudder she remembered how the murdered fourteen-year-old John had looked after the skinheads’ senseless shower of kicks and blows. In the world of movies and videos, after murderous attacks, the heroes just shake it off, get up, and keep fighting. In reality the victims never get up again. They die. Anyone could see that Henrik von Knecht was dying.
Irene and Fredrik approached Shorty. Without revealing how she felt, Irene said, “Turn around! Head against the wall, spread your legs, and hands behind your back. If you don’t obey, it’d be our pleasure to shoot your balls off!”
Still expressionless, he turned around and obeyed the command. This wasn’t his first arrest; he knew when it was time to give up. These cops wouldn’t hesitate, so it would be stupid to give them a reason. He preferred to keep his balls for a while longer.
Irene put the cuffs on him and ordered him to stay where he was. She barked out commands. “Birgitta. Call and get the chopper out here. Ambulances take too long. And we’ve blocked the road with our cars. It has to be a helicopter. They can land on the lawn in front of the big house.”
Birgitta pulled the phone out of her pocket and did as she was told. There was a minor argument before Dispatch realized the extent of what had happened and who was involved. The constellation of Shorty Johannesson, Hoffa Strömberg, and Henrik von Knecht prompted some question about whether the whole thing was a joke. Not until Irene grabbed the phone and began bellowing and shouting just like the superintendent did the officer understand that it was urgent. It would take fifteen minutes at most before the helicopter arrived. With a glum expression Irene hung up. It was doubtful whether either of the two injured men would survive that long.
She looked around the room. There was blood everywhere. On the floor were smashed glass and ceramic shards that crunched underfoot when she walked over to the bed. Henrik von Knecht was almost unrecognizable. His face had been pounded to hamburger. His breathing was now shallow and fast. The blood bubbles came in gusts when he breathed. She leaned over toward him and said reassuringly, “Henrik. It’s Inspector Huss. It’s over now. He can’t hurt you anymore. It’s all over now.”
His eyelids began to move faintly and he managed to open his eyes to small slits. In a whisper he gasped, “The h . . . ho . . . horse.”
The horse? Irene vaguely recalled that Tommy had mentioned Sylvia’s sick horse. Was Henrik worried about it? Apparently. With all the assurance she could muster, she said very softly and slowly, “Don’t worry. The vet has been here and gave it a penicillin shot. It’ll be well soon.”
Again he began struggling to open his eyes, without success. A coughing fit threatened to choke him on his own blood. Fighting for breath, he gasped, “Idiot! The shattered . . . T . . . Tang horse!”
He lapsed back into unconsciousness. The shattered Tang horse? Suddenly she realized that she was standing in a pile of shards. She looked down at the floor and discovered a terra-cotta horse’s head. Carefully she picked it up. One ear was broken off, but otherwise it had survived. It was a nobly formed horse’s head that fit perfectly in her palm. Its nostrils were wide and its mouth open for a challenging whinny. The tensed muscles in its neck vibrated with vitality, power, and strength. But the body was gone. It was shattered and lay in bits on the floor.
Chapter Twenty
THE MOOD IN THE room was tense and feverish. Only Prosecutor Inez Collin looked cool and unharried in her dove-blue suit and white silk blouse. Superintendent Andersson was also excited, but not as ill as he had been recently. His fever had abated on Sunday evening, but his cold was hanging on in the form of loud sniffles and a whiskey-bass voice. He was glad not to have to talk. He could leave that to the three inspectors. Fredrik was the one who spoke the longest and gave the most details. His eyes flashed and his hair stood on end. He hadn’t changed clothes in twenty-four hours, nor had Birgitta or Irene. They had each borrowed a dorm room at headquarters and slept a mere three hours. In Irene’s case, less than that. The concern that Hoffa might die gnawed at her. In America, police who had injured Hell’s Angels or been involved in firefights with them that led to fatal results had later been murdered for revenge. It would be stupid to broadcast her name too much and end up the first such victim in Scandinavia. So they had agreed on an edited version of events. Only the three of them knew what actually happened. No one else, at either high or low levels, would ever find out the exact truth. They didn’t even exchange glances when Irene without a quaver in her voice related how Hoffa’s accident had occurred.
“I was unarmed when I climbed up onto the deck. I had
the night-vision telescope strapped on. Thanks to the scope I saw Hoffa, armed with a knife, sneaking up on Birgitta, who was standing with her back to the dark dining room and the deck. We thought Shorty would be alone! I had to act and just at that instant I stubbed my toe on the base of the umbrella. Somehow I managed to throw it through the glass doors. There was a regular explosion, and both Hoffa and Birgitta jumped sky-high. She spun around, caught sight of Hoffa, and aimed her pistol at him. He backed up with his knife drawn and suddenly slipped on the shards of glass. He pitched backward and . . . had bad luck. A large shard cut deep into the side of his neck.”
She stopped and Tommy filled in, “From what I understood from the reports this morning, it cut a large vein. The blood loss was enormous. He’s in a coma, and the doctors don’t know his prognosis. On the other hand, it’s quite clear that he will have lasting brain damage.”
“Great! Then he can continue as vice president of the Hell’s Angels!”
Of course Jonny had to draw attention to himself. Sulkily he had explained why no one could get hold of him on Sunday afternoon. He had taken his two youngest kids to see Pocahontas.
Hans Borg had wondered all Sunday evening where everybody had gone. Birgitta wasn’t there when he came to relieve her outside Shorty’s house at six o’clock. And no one was in the department when he called. He had also called both Birgitta and Fredrik at home. Where was he when Birgitta tried to get hold of him at five-fifteen? Well, yeah . . . there was a classic car exhibit at the Swedish Convention Hall and he stopped in for just a minute before he went on his stakeout shift . . .
Andersson sighed out loud. It’s annoying to have people who mentally retire ten years too soon but still show up at work. To hide what he was thinking, he said in a scratchy voice, “All right. I myself was in bed with this cold. So now we know what everybody was doing yesterday. Hannu, we haven’t heard about your day off. How was it?”
“Good.”
What did he expect? A rapturous depiction of the fantastic tango evening at the Finnish Society’s hall, or whatever it was that Hannu might find amusing?
Andersson cleared his throat again to conceal his embarrassment and began to sum up. “The situation looks like this: Henrik von Knecht died before the helicopter arrived. He had severe internal bleeding and both lungs were punctured from having his ribs kicked in. Shorty Johannesson was arrested for his murder. He’s not saying anything, as usual, except ‘That shit got what he deserved.’ Hoffa is in a coma, prognosis uncertain. The other biker scumbag, Paul Svensson, we’ve charged with the attempted murder of Irene and Jimmy Olsson, in addition to narcotics offenses, since he had a lot of dope on him when he was apprehended. By the way, I’m pleased to announce that Jimmy is recovering well. I ran into the assistant superintendent of Narcotics, that Nilsson woman.”
“Nilsén. Annika Nilsén,” Irene corrected him. She was tired enough to burst and could feel that her tolerance level was low. It was a good thing she just had to sit and write reports today. She was going to try to leave early and go to bed.
Andersson pretended not to hear her and went on, “That Paul Svensson is starting to get a little disruptive. He’s just about climbing the walls from withdrawal. That sh . . . creep hasn’t had any drugs in two days and is beginning to fall apart. Maybe he’ll start talking so we can use it against Shorty.”
Irene raised her hand wearily. “I think that’s the perfect strategy for solving this case. We have to play them off against each other. Make Paul Svensson think that Shorty has started talking and vice versa. The hardest thing will be to get Sylvia von Knecht to start talking and—”
Birgitta interrupted her discreetly, “Excuse me, but Sylvia von Knecht was taken to the psych ward last night. When her pastor told her what happened to Henrik, she had a total breakdown. This time it’s serious. Her sister Arja called here a while ago.”
An ice crystal glinted in Irene’s eyes when she stated dryly, “Someone who won’t break down so easily is Charlotte von Knecht. We’ll have to convince her to speak.”
Fredrik broke in excitedly, “But the key in the front door had a metal label with her name engraved on it! On the same key ring was a key to the gates and one to Henrik’s cabin! Isn’t that proof? I mean, her name was on the label!”
Irene shook her head and said wearily, “You can buy those engraved nameplates at almost any store or gas station. She could say that Shorty stole the keys without her knowledge. No, we need to nail this lady, and nail her good.”
Andersson looked at her with his slightly bloodshot eyes and asked quietly, “You think she’s the one?”
“I do. I think she’s directly involved in the murder of Richard von Knecht. And was an accomplice in the murder of her husband.”
Irene shut her eyes and pressed her fingertips lightly to her temples to try to stop her headache. Never in her life had she felt so tired.
“But you have no proof.”
“No.”
Inez Collin said thoughtfully, “Maybe we can make Charlotte believe that the other two we arrested snitched on her?”
Irene shrugged. “Maybe. But the question is, do they know that Charlotte was involved in the murder of Richard von Knecht? She may have even planned and carried it out herself. We have to find a motive and proof that ties her to the murder!”
Inez Collin thought for a moment before she said, “Couldn’t we arrange a detention order for complicity in the murder of Bobo Torsson and the arson murder on Berzeliigatan?”
The others looked at her in surprise. She went on, “You did find some dynamite things . . . what are they called . . . Dynamex, thanks . . . and some detonators in a locked chest in Henrik and Charlotte’s bedroom up there in Marstrand. The charge against her will be as follows: We don’t believe that you, as the wife of the house, didn’t know that your husband was storing considerable quantities of explosives in the bedroom you shared. Yet you didn’t say anything when both the office apartment and Bobo Torsson were blown up. Why? You must have been part of it! Even covering up a crime is complicity.”
“But she almost never went to that cabin,” said Fredrik.
Inez Collin turned and smiled at him. “That’s not something we know about. Officially. We have to go on the facts of the situation. The explosives were stored in their shared bedroom.”
A trace of respect was visible in Andersson’s eyes. Pensively he said, “That might not be such a dumb idea. Bring her in for something she had nothing to do with. Make her try to talk her way out of it. It’s another person to play off against the others. Yes, by God, that might be the best way! Tommy, Jonny, and Hans will keep her under surveillance until it’s time to reel the lady in. We really need to have our ducks in a row, because she’s going to yell for her lawyer first thing!”
Hans Borg felt it was probably time to try participating in the investigation. He hummed and raised his hand. “I swung by Berzeliigatan on the way in this morning. The guys were already working. The standalone is making a new try at lifting out the safe this morning. If all goes well, I’ll call Rosengren’s and ask their guy to come over this afternoon.”
“Okay. I hope the machine doesn’t fall into the cellar again. We’ll hold another meeting here after four. By the way, does anyone have any idea what the techs might mean by this fax that was lying on my desk when I came in? It says: ‘No! We don’t raid refrigerators!’”
OF ALL the long afternoons, this one took the cake. Irene tried to force her sponge of a brain to formulate a report, but progress was sluggish. At lunchtime she went out to eat with Birgitta. Afterward she couldn’t remember what they ate. She should really have gone home. But at the same time she felt that they were moving toward a solution of the von Knecht case.
The standalone made child’s play of pulling out the safe and loading it into a van. In triumph the safe was taken to the courtyard of police headquarters. There it was left in the back of the van to await the experts from the safe manufacturer.
After
lunch the phone rang and Irene gladly interrupted writing her report. Someone hooted on the line. “Hello! It’s Jimmy.”
She was so happy at the sound of his voice that she couldn’t think of anything witty to say, only a lame, “Hi! How’s it going?”
“Much better. You nabbed both of them! I yelled out loud when I heard about it this morning!”
Confound it! She had that lump in her throat again. Jimmy knew and understood a great deal, but not even he would ever hear the whole truth. He obviously felt a strong sense of vengeful satisfaction. Why didn’t she? Why did she only feel empty? Not happy, not sad, just tired and empty. She swallowed and managed to say, “Are you well enough to read the paper?”
He hesitated. “Well, not really. Remember the blond nurse with the braid who came in when you visited me last time? Her name is Annelise. She reads to me. There are newspapers on tape, but the news is several days old. I listen to the radio too.”
“How’s it going with the tail vertebrae?”
He sighed. “It’s the next thing to deal with, I’m afraid. I’m having problems with the plumbing. I can’t take a leak when I need to. And the pain in my legs is worse. There was a whole crowd of orthopedists here a while ago. They’re moving me over there in a few days. They think I’ll probably need an operation. But that’ll go fine. I really do feel better now. Because you nabbed those shitheads!”
Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1 Page 44
