Night Rounds

by Helene Tursten

  Irene struck the door hard with the bronze lion’s-head knocker. The heavy oak door was opened by Doris Peterzén. She looked wonderful. Her silver-blond hair was combed into a thick pageboy. A necklace glimmered thinly over beautifully contoured décolletage. Her dove gray Thai silk dress matched her eyes perfectly.

  Irene suddenly realized where she’d seen Doris Peterzén before. “It was kind of you to make time to speak to me.”

  “Come on in. I wasn’t kind. I am angry. I want to know more about that ghost they wrote about in the newspaper. Was it really the person who sabotaged the electricity and stopped Nils’s respirator?”

  Doris moved aside and let Irene in. She hung up Irene’s old, ratty leather coat next to her own beige mink without any reaction. Irene pulled off her brown boots furtively. They’d never looked worse than compared to Doris Peterzén’s elegant leather stiletto boots.

  Her hostess walked before her through an airy hallway and into an enormous reception room, the whole west wall of which was made of glass and faced the ocean. Along one of the shorter walls was a lengthy dinner table surrounded by an incredible number of chairs. The view from the room was fantastic. Irene was taken by the bleak February sunshine glittering on the ocean’s lead-colored waves.

  Doris Peterzén seemed used to the view. Without a single glance out the window, she invited Irene to sit down. They sat together on an oxblood sofa group of English design, less comfortable to sit on than to look at.

  “Would you like a cigarette? We don’t have to be so formal.”

  “No, thanks,” Irene said. “I don’t smoke. But informal is good.”

  “Have you found out who shut off the electricity?”

  “No. We know there was a witness, but we still haven’t tracked the person down.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I can’t tell you because it’s still part of the investigation.”

  Doris Peterzén shook a long cigarette from a gold package. She needed both hands to lift the heavy crystal table lighter. She took a deep drag and blew out the smoke with evident enjoyment.

  “The first time I saw you,” Irene began, “I thought I knew you from somewhere, and today I remembered. I’ve seen you in my mother’s magazines. You used to be a model.”

  Doris Peterzén smiled weakly. “That was a long time ago. I was a successful model. Very much in demand during the sixties. During the seventies not as much. You age quickly in that field.”

  “How long were you married to Nils?”

  “Nineteen years. We met at a yacht-club ball.”

  “Was he divorced?”

  “No, a widower. His wife had died from cancer the previous year.”

  “There’s a large age difference.…”

  Doris Peterzén stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray that matched the table lighter. “Yes, people talked about it. There’s twenty-six years between us. They said I was marrying him for his money. But I really did love Nils. He gave me … peace. Love. I have Nils to thank for everything I have in life.”

  “How did you choose Löwander Hospital for your husband’s operation?”

  Doris’s beautiful face showed true surprise at Irene’s change of direction. It took her a moment to answer. The Peterzén family has always trusted Löwander for our medical procedures. Kurt Bünzler, the plastic surgeon, is our good friend and neighbor. He’s also helped me with a few things.”

  She unconsciously touched the back of her ears with her fingertips. Irene had already concluded that the smooth skin and the sharp features were the work of a fine plastic surgeon, and now she knew who’d done the job. She briefly glanced at Doris’s perfect bustline and surmised that Dr. Bünzler had been doing his good work there, too.

  “But Kurt Bünzler didn’t operate on your husband.”

  “No, it was an inguinal hernia. Dr. Löwander does the normal surgery at the hospital. But the operation took longer than planned. Nils … bled a great deal. He obviously had adhesions that no one had expected. His lungs couldn’t take the long anesthesia. Emphysema. He had to be put on a respirator.”

  Doris sniffed. Her deep grief seemed real, but Irene had seen a number of good performances during her police career. She changed direction again.

  “Your son, Göran—when did he get home?”

  Doris Peterzén blew her nose discreetly into a tissue she made appear from nowhere. She pulled her voice and her face together. “He arrived on Thursday. I faxed a message to him on Tuesday.”

  They were interrupted by a metallic knock on the front door. Doris got up and swept out of the room. The word that came to Irene’s mind as a good description of Doris was “regal.”

  Irene took the break to stand up and stretch her legs. She saw that the ocean now shimmered bottle green, the peaks of the waves reflecting silver light.

  Doris Peterzén’s pleasant voice brought her back from her reverie. “This is Detective Inspector Irene Huss. Irene, this is Göran.”

  Irene swung around and looked right into a pair of friendly blue eyes.

  “Nice to meet you,” Göran said as he offered his hand.

  He was tall and muscular. Irene’s brain short-circuited for a second. The son was older than the mother. It took Irene a moment to realize that Göran must be Nils Peterzén’s son from his first marriage. Her eyes were drawn to the oil portrait hanging on the wall. The resemblance was striking. Nils Peterzén had a stricter mouth, however, and his gaze was sharp and hard. The son’s expression was jovial, happy, and almost carefree. His elegant dark gray suit was strained across his back and rear but still had the look of expensive English tailoring.

  Irene took his hand, which was dry and warm. Once they shook, Göran clapped his hands together and looked at his stepmother with playful horror.

  “But, my dear Doris. We’re letting the inspector die of thirst. Let’s have a small aperitif before we all have to go.”

  He said the last sentence with his head cocked. His tone was easy, but Doris was not deceived.

  “No. You have to drive. I’m still taking sleeping pills, and they affect me until the afternoon. It’s probably time to start weaning myself.…”

  Doris hadn’t seemed medicated to Irene, but perhaps only Doris could feel the effects.

  Göran’s face reflected his disappointment, but he quickly overcame it and gestured to a white leather seating group. It looked much more comfortable than the one in red.

  “Please, sit down,” he said.

  Irene sat on one of the armchairs. It was as comfortable as it appeared. Doris went to find a pack of cigarettes. When she came back, she draped herself in one corner of the sofa and lit one of the long cigarettes. Göran sat down in the other armchair. He crossed one heavy leg over the other until his tailored seams seemed to creak.

  He watched Irene steadily as he reached out and took Doris’s lit cigarette. She lit another one immediately. Göran drew the smoke in greedily and let it flow from his nostrils. When he spoke, small puffs exited from his mouth and nose.

  “Why do you need to talk to us?”

  “As Doris has probably told you, or perhaps you read it in the paper, a murder was committed in the hospital the same night your father died. The killer sabotaged the electricity, and your father’s respirator quit working. We have a number of different leads we have to investigate. One possibility might be that the sabotage was directed at your father.”

  The smoke production came to a standstill; both Doris and Göran seemed to be holding their breath. Before either of them could compose themselves, Irene continued. This is not our first line of inquiry, but all eventualities must be ruled out. Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt your father?

  Göran let out a great puff of smoke and shook his head forcefully. “I hear what you’re telling me, but I can’t believe my ears. That anyone could consider murdering Papa? Never! He was too old to have enemies. Anyone who might have been one is already dead or decrepit. He and Doris have had a good life these past few yea
rs. Traveled. Played golf. Right, Doris?”

  Doris sat up straight. “Indeed we did. Göran took over the business many years ago, but Nils still had a hand in. He had difficulty stepping back and just being retired.”

  Doris gave a suggestion of a smile to Göran, who grimaced and rolled his eyes. “That’s the truth. Business was his life. Actually, it’ll be tough to get along without him. He was a clever fox. He knew a lot and had a lot of important contacts.” He looked worried. He stubbed out his cigarette with force. “Well, Doris, I think we’d better get going so we won’t be late.”

  The three of them stood up and went to the door. Chivalrously, Göran took Irene’s leather jacket from the hanger and held it for her. As she pulled up the zippers on her old boots, she keenly felt her lack of fashion sense.

  Chapter 12

  MICROWAVED LEFTOVER SHRIMP stew was not the worst possible lunch. Irene was seldom able to have lunch at home when she was working, but today she’d managed, since it wasn’t far between Hovås and Fiskebäck. She quickly heated a mug of water in the microwave as she sorted the mail. Ads for miracle diets and rebates for gym memberships to prepare for the coming bikini season were predominant.

  Absentmindedly, Irene scooped three heaping spoons of instant coffee into the hot water. As the coffee cooled, she went to the hall mirror and took a good look at her reflection. Her hair was passable. Reddish brown and shoulder length with some wave and a touch of gray. It needed to be cut, but she had an appointment tomorrow for that, she reminded herself. Her face was oval, and her wide mouth had good teeth. A bit baggy under the eyes, though. She tried lifting the edges of her eyes with her fingertips on her forehead. Her eyebrows rose and the bags disappeared, but she acquired an expression of chronic surprise. Not a good look for a criminal inspector. You probably shouldn’t go around with a face that said, “Really? You don’t say!” every time you visit the scene of a crime or bring a suspect in for questioning. That rationalization was easier than admitting she didn’t have twenty thousand crowns for a face lift. Sighing, she let go of her forehead and looked at the clock. Time to head to Löwander Hospital.

  • • •

  AS SHE NEARED the exit for the hospital, she spotted a gang of boys busy on the bridge over the stream. Curious, she slowed and saw that the stream had swollen from the torrential rains during the weekend. On an impulse she parked at the side of the road and strolled over. The boys were about middle-school age. A muscular boy in a muddy snowboarding jacket dangled dangerously from the railing while he scrabbled industriously in the culvert underneath the bridge. He had a broken Christmas-tree branch to help him.

  One of the smaller boys saw Irene and said, “He’s only trying to get rid of what’s blocking it.”

  Now Irene was able to realize that the creek had risen only on the upstream side. Farther down, the stream was flowing normally on its way to Mölndal River.

  The boy with the stick was groaning from his effort. “There’s something … here.… I feel it.… Damn! It’s stuck! Now it’s coming loo—”

  The boy almost lost his grip on the bridge fence when the branch came unstuck with a jerk. It took Irene’s brain a few seconds to register what her eyes saw. A soaking-wet pink beanie was dangling on the end of the stick.

  THE FIRE STATION’S divers helped recover the body. Irene had immediately called Superintendent Andersson and Tommy Persson, who were now at the scene. The three police officers stared unhappily at the mangled corpse of Gunnela Hägg. Life had certainly been hard on Mama Bird, but her death had not been more merciful. Small animals had gnawed off her nose and lips. While waiting for the forensic doctor, they decided to place a gray tarp over her. The body was so emaciated that there were hardly any contours under the stiff plastic. They turned and walked heavily over to the other discovery the divers had made.

  Linda Svensson’s bicycle lay on the bank. It had been wedged sideways in the culvert and had anchored Gunnela Hägg’s body in the rapid runoff of the melting snow. Superintendent Andersson inspected the bicycle morosely, mumbling so quietly that only his people could hear him, “I see. That’s what a city bike looks like.”

  He straightened himself and turned toward the fire station’s chief. “I’d like your divers to comb the area around the bridge and a bit farther downstream. Maybe the murderer threw in something else.”

  The familiar white Ford Escort zoomed toward the bridge, Yvonne Stridner’s frizzy red hair visible behind the windshield. Irene was extremely relieved to see her, although her boss was not. Irene wanted someone as competent at Stridner at the murder scene.

  “The bike is here, but where’s Linda?” the superintendent asked himself.

  “Linda? Is that the name of the victim?” asked Stridner. She’d parked and walked up to the group, giving the gray tarp an appraising look.

  “No, Linda is the missing nurse. Her bicycle is over there. The victim is Gunnela Hägg, a homeless woman,” Andersson said.

  “I see. Well, tonight she’ll be inside for a change. I won’t be able to do the autopsy this afternoon, so it will have to wait until first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Irene thought, Too bad some people have to die in order to be indoors. She was startled back to attention by Yvonne’s brisk, “Turn her over!”

  The command was directed at two of the firemen, who complied immediately. One of them rushed off to vomit into the stream immediately afterward. Stridner didn’t say anything, but her expression said, wimp, loud and clear. She pulled on her rubber gloves and protective smock and began to examine the body on the ground.

  The police officers watched her in silence. All three felt oppressed by the shabbiness of life and death.

  Ice-cold certainty began to seep into Irene’s consciousness. Her lips were reluctant to form the words coming from her brain. “She’s here.”

  Andersson was jolted from his thoughts. “Who? Gunnela Hägg?”

  “No, Linda.”

  Tommy and Andersson looked at her and started to nod at the same time.

  “She biked away around midnight. Her bike is here. Ergo, so is she,” Tommy agreed.

  They began to search. There were overgrown bushes all along the banks of the stream, as well as a number of fir trees whose long branches swept the ground. Linda could be under any of these. She certainly wasn’t in the grove by the parking lot.

  “We’ll have to bring in a dog,” said Superintendent Andersson.

  Irene pulled out her cell phone and arranged for a canine patrol.

  The sun had already gone down behind the buildings. The shadows under the trees began to deepen. None of the police officers wanted to talk. They stood lost in their own thoughts as they waited for the pathologist’s preliminary results.

  Finally Yvonne Stridner got to her feet. She waved majestically at the body, which the men from Funeral Services understood they could now take to the pathology lab. She ripped off her protective covering and stuffed it into a plastic bag. Irene realized then that Stridner was wearing rubber boots. They were uncharacteristically plain for the pathologist.

  “Large, deep wounds on the back of the head. One or more powerful blows to the base of the skull. Again, we’re dealing with a strong killer. I estimate she’s been dead for a number of days. It’s been cold until Thursday evening, which hinders decay. I will have to examine her more closely tomorrow.”

  “She must have been left on top of the ice, because the stream was frozen until last Thursday,” Tommy pointed out.

  Stridner nodded. “I’ll have to keep those factors in mind when I perform the autopsy. She hasn’t been in the water all that long. I’ll get in touch tomorrow afternoon.”

  Mud squishing under her boots, the pathology professor turned to go to her car.

  Andersson glared after her. “Why is she always in such a hurry to get back to work? It’s not like her patients pick up and go home when they’re tired of waiting.”

  Gunnela Hägg’s body was carried away inside the discreet g
ray station wagon. The technicians had arrived and were wrapping the bicycle in the same gray tarp that had earlier covered the body. One of the divers shouted and triumphantly waved a muddy tool. Irene came closer and saw that it was a large pair of pliers. She did not doubt for a minute that they were the wire cutters. One of the technicians wrapped them in a large plastic bag.

  Andersson looked extremely tired.

  “I don’t know about you, but I need coffee, preferably intravenously,” Irene said.

  The superintendent gave her a grateful look. It was starting to get dark in the ravine. The Canine Unit arrived, and two eager German shepherds were let out of the backseat of a Volvo. The superintendent was happy to see they were on a leash. He was not particularly fond of dogs—nor any other animal for that matter. He nodded and said, “Since Irene wants coffee, let’s go back to the station and get some.”

  THE ENTIRE TEAM had assembled in the conference room. The superintendent briefed the rest on what had happened near the hospital that afternoon.

  “Even though Gunnela Hägg was totally bonkers and completely harmless, she was a danger to the murderer. He must have understood that she had seen something the night of the murder when he read Kurt Höök’s article,” Tommy said.

  Irene nodded. “So he knew who Mama Bird was, and he knew how to get her.” She thought a moment. “When I asked around at the hospital, I had the feeling that very few people knew she’d stayed in the garden shed. Gunnela came late in the evening and left early in the morning.”

  “The murderer must have been waiting for her there,” Tommy said.

  “Nurse Ellen saw her once right after six A.M.,” Irene said. “A hasty glimpse at the parking lot. They call the area Burnsite, by the way.”

  “Why is that?” asked Birgitta.

  “There used to be an old mansion there, but it burned down eleven years ago. According to Sister Ellen, Sverker Löwander’s ex-wife, Barbro, accused his present wife, Carina, of arson.”

  “Why would she want to burn the place down?”