The Treacherous Net

by Helene Tursten

  Leif Fryxender stopped in front of a sturdy iron gate set in a high wall made of liver-colored bricks. There was an intercom with three buttons beside the gate. A small brass plaque next to the top button had the initials o. l. engraved on it; the middle button clearly belonged to a. l., and by the bottom button a large, shiny plaque informed visitors that the law firm Leutnerwall & Leutnerwall resided on the ground floor.

  Fryxender pressed the top button. After a few seconds the speaker crackled into life; it was impossible to make out what the person on the other end said, but Fryxender leaned closer and introduced himself and Andersson. There was a buzzing sound, and the lock on the gate clicked. Fryxender pushed it open, the hinges protesting loudly. A little oil wouldn’t go amiss; on the other hand, nobody’s going to sneak in this way, Andersson thought.

  The courtyard was paved with cobbles in an intricate circular pattern. The lawn was edged with luxuriant rhododendrons, which would no doubt provide a blaze of color when they flowered in the spring. With a stab of envy Andersson noticed that the magnolia at one end of the building must be at least twelve meters tall. His own was no more than two meters, and seemed to be fading away in spite of all the care and attention he lavished on it. When he retired he would be able to devote more time to his garden. He would damn well make sure that magnolia flowered!

  The heavy oak door was also locked, with a slightly more modern intercom beside it. Fryxender pressed the button marked o. leutnerwall, and the door immediately buzzed. Andersson opened it and they entered the building.

  There were three doors on the ground floor, all adorned with huge brass plaques advertising the law firm, which seemed to occupy the whole floor. Next to the stairs leading to the upper floors was a small elevator.

  “You take the elevator,” Fryxender said.

  Andersson suddenly became aware that he was wheezing slightly, and nodded gratefully. That goddamn wind would be the death of him.

  The elevator wouldn’t have been much use to anyone suffering from claustrophobia, but Andersson decided he didn’t have much choice, and bravely stepped inside. He closed both doors and the elevator began to ascend with painful slowness. As Andersson stepped out, Fryxender reached the top of the stairs; he wasn’t even out of breath.

  Oscar Leutnerwall’s apartment boasted tall double doors in some kind of dark wood, with beautiful frosted windows with a Jugendstil pattern. The light was on in the hallway, and Andersson could see a shadow through the glass. The door opened before he had time to knock.

  A woman was standing there; they couldn’t see her face because the light was behind her, but both men noticed the sheen of her platinum blonde hair that fell softly around her shoulders. She rested one hand on the door frame and struck a pose that reminded Andersson of the film stars of his youth.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. Oscar told me he was expecting visitors. Do come in.”

  Her voice was husky, and didn’t sound young. As she stepped back to let them in, the light struck her face, and Andersson actually heard himself gasp.

  She was slim and beautifully attired in a dark blue dress, a short jacket and black high-heeled shoes, with a double rope of pearls around her neck. Her makeup was skillfully applied, if a little too thick. But it couldn’t hide the fact that the face belonged to an old woman.

  She held out a slender hand, the crooked fingers laden with sparkling diamonds.

  “Astrid Leutnerwall,” she said with a smile.

  Her dazzling white teeth shone against the bright red lipstick. So this was Oscar’s sister. Jeez, she’s ninety! Andersson was stunned by the thought. A quick glance in the mirror in front of them revealed that Fryxender had been struck by the same realization. Her handshake was surprisingly firm.

  She gestured toward a closet door. “You’re welcome to hang up your wet coats. Don’t bother taking off your shoes—it’s a terrible modern habit. Typical of the Swedes. Nobody would expect you to remove your shoes anywhere else in Europe.”

  They both took off their wet outdoor clothes and hung them in the closet, which had oval mirrors in gilded frames set in the double doors. Astrid Leutnerwall led the way into a large living room, where wine-red leather sofas and black armchairs were grouped around a smoked glass coffee table, with brightly colored Persian rugs beneath. Two matching leather chairs stood on either side of the open fireplace, and on the carved table between them were two coffee cups and two large brandy glasses, the amber liquid shining in the glow of the fire.

  Large oil paintings adorned the walls; Andersson noted with satisfaction that you could tell what they were meant to be: beautiful scenes from nature in strong colors, overlaid with patches of diffuse, shimmering light. Next to the fireplace was a picture of a woman, sitting with her legs crossed, hands intertwined behind her head. Between her naked breasts hung a necklace made of yellow and black pearls. Despite the strong tones, there was an air of great serenity about the composition.

  A man was sitting in one of the chairs by the fire. Carefully he picked up the Persian cat on his knee, stood up, and with a practiced hand draped the cat over his left forearm. The animal gazed at the visitors with its sapphire-blue eyes. Oscar Leutnerwall waited until they reached him, then greeted them with a firm handshake each. The cat let out a low growl.

  “Quiet, Winston. These gentlemen are friends. I think.”

  He gave a charming smile. Andersson noticed that the cat and his owner had the same color eyes.

  “I noticed you looking at the pictures; do you like them?” Leutnerwall asked.

  The question was directed at Andersson, which worried him deeply. He didn’t know much about art, but he instinctively liked these paintings.

  “Er, yes . . . they’re very nice. They make me feel happy,” he ventured.

  Oscar Leutnerwall’s face lit up. His blue eyes sparkled and he chuckled.

  “Exactly! They make you feel happy. Impressed. Reverent. The Impressionists were utterly brilliant. I’m so grateful and pleased that I own these paintings.”

  “Were brilliant . . . Does that mean they’re all dead?” Andersson dared to ask.

  Oscar Leutnerwall’s eyes flashed, and for a brief moment Andersson thought that he was about to burst out laughing.

  “Yes, unfortunately. But their art will live forever,” he said with a kind tone.

  He was just as tall and almost as thin as Fryxender. The halo of white hair was cut very short, emphasizing the attractive shape of his head. Like his sister, Oscar looked twenty years younger than he was. The siblings were quite different in appearance, but they did have one thing in common: that sharp, clear blue gaze. Astrid had a small, neat nose, while her brother had a stronger profile. Then again, she could have had a nose job, Andersson thought. He had already noticed that all her wrinkles were horizontal and pointed upward when she smiled. And he was beginning to suspect that she was wearing a wig. Nobody has hair like that at ninety, he said to himself as he unconsciously ran a hand over his own bald pate.

  Oscar Leutnerwall was also very smartly dressed, in a dark brown wool blazer and beige pants. His shirt was a few tones darker than his pants, while his shoes and belt were also dark brown. The deep forest-green silk tie with matching socks and handkerchief were the icing on the cake. And he was over ninety years old! The only possible hint of his age was a very slight stoop, although Andersson had seen plenty of twenty-year-olds with worse posture.

  “Oscar and I have been out shopping. He came along as my adviser; he has such good taste. I’ve bought a new skirt suit to wear at my birthday party in three weeks’ time,” Astrid chirruped.

  Oscar smiled, his expression tender as he looked at his sister.

  “We thought we’d warm ourselves up as the weather is so terrible,” he said. “Can I offer you gentlemen a coffee and a drop of Cognac?”

  Before Andersson had the chance to speak, Fryxender replied. “Just cof
fee, thanks.”

  “Let’s sit down,” Astrid suggested.

  She seemed determined to stay around while they spoke to her brother—although perhaps that wasn’t so surprising, bearing in mind that Carl-Johan Adelskiöld had been her cousin too.

  The siblings sat down on a sofa with Winston between them, while the two detectives took an armchair each. The cat rolled over on his back and allowed Oscar to rub his tummy; the sound of contented purring filled the room.

  There was a plate of small cookies on the table, and the coffee cups were tiny, so delicate they were almost transparent. Andersson was terrified of snapping the thin handle. Clumsily he grasped it with his chubby fingers, and noticed to his annoyance that his pinkie was sticking out.

  “You must be pleased that the law firm is still in business,” Fryxender began. “It was started by your father, wasn’t it?”

  Astrid merely nodded in response.

  “Was it a close relative . . . or perhaps one of your children who took over for their grandfather?” Fryxender continued in the same polite vein.

  “Unfortunately I don’t have children, despite the fact that I’ve been married three times. I’m the lawyer; I specialize in company law. And I still have a significant number of clients; a couple of them have been with me for over sixty years.”

  Astrid raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows and smiled, clearly amused as she contemplated Fryxender’s embarrassment. Suddenly Andersson realized why she had stayed; it was very simple. Oscar Leutnerwall had his lawyer with him.

  “You’re right, our father started the firm and he built this house,” Oscar said. “It happened around the time our parents got married, in 1913.”

  “Oscar took over their apartment when our mother died in 1978. She was ninety-seven, so I guess Oscar and I take after her,” Astrid said.

  Andersson seized the opportunity. “Your cousin Carl-Johan lived to a good age as well. Ninety . . . such a tragedy that he lost his life in that fire.”

  Both Oscar and Astrid stiffened. After a moment Oscar cleared his throat.

  “Terrible . . . It was just . . . terrible. Poor Calle.” His eyes shone with tears, and he removed the meticulously folded handkerchief from his breast pocket.

  “Oscar and Calle were very close. They were more like brothers than cousins,” Astrid explained, glancing anxiously at her brother.

  “Did you grow up together?” Andersson asked.

  “You could say that. He really was like a younger brother, and he was my best friend.” Oscar dabbed at the corners of his eyes. Astrid grimaced and took over:

  “Calle’s father lost everything in the Kreuger crash in 1932, when the whole stock market went under. For once Uncle Henric made a sensible decision: he shot himself in the head. He was our uncle by marriage. Our father signed the house on Korsvägen over to Aunt Vera, and she immediately reverted to her maiden name, Adelskiöld, which was also our mother’s maiden name of course. She and Calle lived there for free, and the rent from the other tenants provided her with an income. She also had Henric’s pension, so she was reasonably well off, and Calle was able to finish his studies,” she said without a trace of sentimentality.

  Fryxender nodded and turned back to Oscar.

  “It seems as if you and your cousin followed the same path—you both studied law, then you both worked for the Foreign Office. And you both served in Moscow . . .” He left the sentence hanging in the air.

  Astrid started to chuckle, and exchanged an amused glance with her brother.

  “Uncle Leopold!”

  Oscar smiled. “Calle had an uncle who was one of the highest-ranking officials in the Foreign Office. He put in a good word for me when I applied as soon as I graduated from the university, although I would probably have got the job anyway; I had a first-class degree. Calle, on the other hand . . . Uncle Leopold had to pull a few more strings on his behalf. But Europe was at war, and there was a shortage of embassy staff. And of course Moscow was exciting for two greenhorns, with a certain amount of danger in the air.”

  “Did you meet Stig Wennerström when he worked at the embassy there?”

  “No,” Oscar said firmly.

  “Did you meet him during the summer of 1941?”

  “No.”

  “Had you met him previously?”

  “No, absolutely not. Even if we’d been working in Moscow at the same time, I very much doubt that we would have gotten to know each other. He was almost ten years older than me, and he was a military attaché. He would have had far more important things to do than to spend time with the underlings at the embassy. Wennerström was recalled to Sweden in the summer of ’41, and he didn’t return to Moscow. I arrived at the beginning of October, and Calle in December that same year. So we never met the future master spy.”

  “So both you and Calle were in Stockholm at the time of the Hårsfjärden disaster?”

  “Yes. It was terrible. Total chaos.”

  Oscar Leutnerwall had confirmed what they already knew: Stig Wennerström, Carl-Johan Adelskiöld and Oscar had all been in Stockholm when Elof Persson was murdered.

  Oscar picked up the beautiful silver coffeepot to top off their cups. The lid was shaped like a gentle wave, while the knob and handle were made of dark polished wood.

  “What did you and your cousin do in Moscow?”

  “We worked at the embassy, dealing with a range of issues involving Swedish interests—usually private individuals or business matters.”

  “So you were never what we might refer to as spies?”

  “Never. It was more the military personnel attached to the embassies who went in for that kind of thing.”

  “Like Stig Wennerström?”

  “Like Stig Wennerström.”

  “So you and Wennerström never met in Stockholm during the war?”

  Fryxender maintained the same calm, neutral tone, but Andersson could actually feel the tension emanating from his colleague. His own palms were sweating.

  “No. If I’d bumped into him on the street, I wouldn’t have known who he was.”

  “What about your cousin? Did he know Wennerström?”

  Oscar shook his head.

  “No. He would have told me, certainly when the Wennerström affair hit the headlines. Calle would never have been able to keep something like that to himself.”

  “And after Moscow you both had glittering careers. I assume that the years in Russia were extremely beneficial?”

  “Being in Moscow during the war was very educational. We learned a great deal.”

  “Did you and Calle keep in touch?”

  “We called each other now and again, and exchanged Christmas and birthday cards. But we could go for two or three years without meeting up.”

  “But you both moved back to Göteborg after you retired?”

  “Yes—we had our apartments here, after all. Aunt Vera lived to the age of ninety-four. Calle had the place renovated after her death, and moved in a few years later. He loved that building.”

  There was a brief pause as they remembered what had happened to the building and its owner. Andersson thought about what had been found in the cellar after Carl-Johan’s death.

  Fryxender broke the silence. “Did you and Calle ever meet a man named Elof Persson in Stockholm during that last summer, before you went to Moscow?”

  Oscar frowned. “Elof Persson . . . Not as far as I recall. The name doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “What about Mats Persson?”

  “Mats Pers—but wasn’t that the name of the man they found walled up in the . . . I saw the name in the paper. Neither Astrid nor I have ever known anyone named Mats Persson. We discussed it when we read the article, but I’ve been wondering ever since why he ended up in Calle’s cellar,” Oscar said.

  “We’ve never known a Mats Persson,” Astrid c
onfirmed.

  “So who’s Elof Persson?” Oscar asked, giving Fryxender a sharp look.

  “Mats Persson’s father.”

  The siblings looked puzzled when no explanation was forthcoming.

  Eventually Astrid spoke up. “And why are you asking questions about him?”

  “He was murdered too.”

  In the stillness that followed they could all hear Winston, purring away contentedly.

  Once again Astrid was the first to speak. “When?”

  “In the fall of 1941. In Stockholm.”

  “And why would you think that Calle or I knew this Elof Persson?” Oscar asked.

  “Your names came up, along with Stig Wennerström’s name, in the papers Mats Persson left behind. He had been doing some research of his own, trying to find out the truth behind his father’s death. Unfortunately it looks as if he found it,” Fryxender said dryly.

  Oscar and Astrid stiffened. Neither of them moved or said anything for a long time.

  Eventually Oscar cleared his throat. “And what was the truth?”

  “We’re not quite sure, but obviously it was dangerous,” Fryxender replied.

  “I imagine this Mats had been reading too many spy stories from the Second World War,” Astrid said firmly. “Maybe he’d just jotted down the names of some of the people who worked at the Swedish embassy in Moscow in 1941.”

  Oscar looked pensively at his sister. “I think Astrid is on the right track. As I said, Calle and I never met Wennerström during the war, or afterwards. We might have said hello at some reception or other during the ’50s, but I have no recollection of that. We just didn’t have any contact with him.”

  “And I’ve never met him either. Which is perhaps regrettable—he was a very handsome man,” Astrid said.

  “In that case I’d like to ask you a few questions about Carl-Johan Adelskiöld. Who was he? What was he like?” Fryxender presssed.