Chapter Five
THE PRESS CONFERENCE WAS a tumultuous affair with journalists all shouting at once. Andersson had participated in press conferences before, but he had never experienced anything like this. Somehow he managed to get through it, answering as best he could about what he knew while leaving out certain facts for “investigative reasons.” A guy with a crew cut from TV 4’s local station wanted to know how the killer managed to get out of the building and avoid discovery, even though the police were on the scene so quickly.
Andersson put on an inscrutable expression and snapped brusquely, “The technicians have not yet concluded their examination of the crime scene.”
It was high time they found out the answer to that reporter’s question. So it was with great satisfaction that he saw Svante Malm sitting at the conference table in the room that served as investigation central. Malm had put up photos of von Knecht’s smashed body on the bulletin board. Among them were several blowups of the wound on the back of his head. There were pictures of the cleaver too.
“Hi, Malm!” Andersson tried to assume a cheerful tone, but when he saw Malm’s pale grimace that passed for a smile, he regretted it. Instead he said lamely, “You and Per have really done a great job.”
Malm looked like he could fall asleep at any moment. He rubbed his eyes and said, “I’d just like to report what we’ve found so far. One of you will have to take notes.”
Andersson gestured to Irene Huss to do so.
“On the balcony we found the cleaver. The sharp edge corresponds to the cut on the hand, and the blunt end matches the cross-shaped wound on the back of the neck. Professor Stridner helped us check it out this morning. It’s a small meat cleaver, taken from the utensils in von Knecht’s kitchen. The implements hang inside the stove’s ventilation hood. The handle of the cleaver was wiped off with a rag dipped in a solution of Ajax. Not any of the working surfaces, just the handle. The cleaver lay next to the balcony wall, so no rain could reach it. We found blood and hair on the cleaver, apparently from von Knecht. The analysis isn’t finished yet,” Malm rattled off. He paused briefly and gave a big yawn.
Andersson was careful to ask, “Was the balcony the scene of the murder?”
“Yes. There was no sign that the body was dragged out onto the balcony before being shoved over the railing. Keep in mind that von Knecht wasn’t a small guy. It’s hard to drag an unconscious body. On the other hand, we have a theory about how it all happened. The balcony is turreted, with four columns supporting the little roof. On one of the columns we found a fresh palm print from von Knecht. His right hand. The cut was on his right hand. We think that von Knecht was standing on the balcony with his back to the balcony door. Maybe he was holding on to the column—the print is actually quite high up. The perp hits him on the back of the neck from the rear, but he’s not knocked out; he keeps hanging on to the column. Then the perp slams the sharp edge onto the back of his hand and he instinctively releases his grip. A hard shove on his back and Richard von Knecht takes his last flight.”
It was utterly quiet in the conference room when Malm painted this picture of von Knecht’s last minutes of life. Irene felt a chill on the back of her neck. Suddenly the killer’s presence was completely palpable. Before, he had almost vanished amid the antiques and sensational headlines.
Besides Sven Andersson, Svante Malm, and Irene Huss, Jonny Blom was the only other person in the room. The others hadn’t returned yet.
Andersson decided it was a good sign. They were gathering information and the investigation was proceeding. He hoped. Aloud he said, “That sounds plausible. And Stridner pointed out that he didn’t have any defensive wounds on his forearms.”
Irene looked up from her notepad.
“He knew the killer. Trusted him. Didn’t mind having him stand behind him when he went out on the balcony and leaned over the railing. Remember, he was afraid of heights.”
Malm continued, “What’s even more remarkable is that all the light switches and door handles were wiped off with a rag soaked in Ajax. The whole upper floor is extremely orderly and clean. We probably won’t finish up the lower floor until late tonight. Åhlén and Ljunggren have taken over. They’ll be checking the elevator and stairs. Even though it poured almost all last night, it might be an idea to go over the courtyard and the trash rooms.”
“I’ll talk to the guys about that. Go on home now, Svante, and get some sleep,” said the superintendent.
After Malm disappeared down the corridor, Andersson remained seated for a while, in deep thought. He was brought back by a tap on the door. A secretary came in and handed him a note. He read it quickly. From the furrow between his eyebrows Irene understood that he wasn’t completely pleased with what it said.
“Are we going to have to wrangle with another old crone now? I didn’t mean you, Irene, but the prosecutor in charge. It’s going to be Inez Collin. It was bad enough with Stridner, but now we have Collin too,” he said and sighed heavily.
Irene noticed Jonny and Andersson exchange a knowing look. She was perplexed, because Inez Collin was regarded as a very capable and judicious prosecutor. Tough but clear as glass. Again the problem of attitudes toward middle-aged, competent women. Why were they so intimidating? She realized that she herself was well on the way to joining this group of women. But Andersson never seemed to feel threatened by her, even though she was a bona fide expert detective. Evidently because he knew her and liked her, in his eyes she never grew older. That was a comforting thought.
Andersson said, “I’ll see to it that everyone in the group is informed that we’ll meet in this room at five o’clock. What are you doing this afternoon, Irene?”
“Talking to Fru Karlsson, the dachshund lady. Then I’ll drop by Sahlgren Hospital and talk to Sylvia von Knecht at three.”
“Okay. Jonny?”
“I’ll keep on checking with Financial. Richard von Knecht obviously figured in a number of shady deals. Last year he declared an income of nine hundred eighty thousand kronor.”
Almost a million. Both Andersson and Irene were impressed, but hardly surprised.
Jonny continued triumphantly, “But do you know how much his declared net assets are? Hold on to your hat: a hundred and sixty-three million! But Financial thinks he has a bunch more offshore and profits that never show up in Sweden. Who could track that down?”
It was such an inconceivable amount of money. Anyone would be lucky to win a million kronor, rich if he had two million, and Croesus if he had ten. But 163! A person with so much money—and apparently even more on top of that—what would he have left to strive for? What kind of goals would he have in life? What would give life excitement and meaning? What was it that had given von Knecht’s life that extra spice? Antiques?
Irene was jogged out of her thoughts by Jonny’s voice. “... has tried for many years. But it’s hard, because he was an early player in the Southeast Asian markets. His assets are probably plowed into companies like Toshiba and Hyundai. Financial will try and pull out as much as they can.”
“You might as well look at the rest of the family’s income and assets too. By the way, I got a list from Stridner of the other people in the von Knecht crowd,” said Andersson.
He pulled out his crumpled notepad, paged through it, and read aloud: “Sven Tosse, dentist. He has a practice on Kapellplatsen.”
“Then I can talk to him on my way back from the hospital. Although it isn’t far to walk to Tosse’s office from Fru Karlsson’s,” Irene said.
She decided to try to squeeze in Tosse before she went to Sahlgren.
“The next names are Waldemar and Leila Reuter. Birgitta Moberg will probably run into them, since they live on the second floor in von Knecht’s building. Von Knecht has really gathered his old pals around him, because on the third floor we have the couple, Peder and Ulla Wahl. But apparently they live in France most of the time.”
The superintendent broke off and leafed through his notepad again before he went on. “Gustav Ceder is the name of a guy who evidently disappeared from their social circle. He has lived in England for years. Jonny, can you check him out too, so we don’t miss anyone? The last man is Ivan Viktors. I’ll take him myself.”
Irene put in, “Did you know that Viktors is going to move in to the empty apartment below von Knecht’s? And that Waldemar Reuter lives alone on the second floor?”
“Who told you that?”
“Henrik von Knecht. And Henrik’s wife Charlotte is pregnant.”
“I see. We’ll have to go over everything in much more detail this afternoon when we all meet.”
Andersson stood up to signal that the meeting was over. Irene glanced at the clock and saw that there was no time to get any lunch before her meeting with Eva Karlsson at two o’clock.
SHE FOUND an empty parking space right outside Fru Karlsson’s street door. Only a few minutes late, she rang the bell next to the nameplate N. KARLSSON. Since that was the only Karlsson in the building, she took a chance. When she heard the creaky voice of an old woman on the intercom, she knew she had guessed right.
A buzzer sounded. She pushed open the heavy old oak door. The entryway was dark, so she pushed the button for the stairwell light. The floor and steps were of stone, but there were no marble swans here. The stairwell seemed to be newly renovated, with pale yellow walls and a green stenciled border halfway up. There was a small elevator too. It groaned quietly up to the fourth floor.
Eva Karlsson had opened the door a crack but pulled it open when Irene stepped out of the elevator, greeting her warmly. “Welcome, my dear!”
Irene had a vague feeling of being invited to a coffee klatsch. Which was actually the case. Of course she had noticed the bakery right next door, but never in her wildest dreams had she expected Fru Karlsson to order one of everything they had. At least that’s what she seemed to have done. The cakes and pastries were set out on thin paper doilies placed on crystal cake dishes. The gold-rimmed coffee cups were delicate, with carefully folded party napkins placed beneath the plates. On the little pedestal table in the parlor there was also a silver coffee service with sugar bowl and creamer. A sofa and two easy chairs upholstered in yellow silk fabric, which looked terribly uncomfortable, were grouped around the table.
Snoopy was lying on one of the armchairs, and he didn’t look as if he intended to move.
With a shaky hand Eva Karlsson made a sweeping gesture encompassing the whole room before she said, “We moved here nine years ago. I think the move used up the last of my husband’s energy, because five months later he passed away. Nine years . . . imagine how time flies!”
Irene seized her chance. White lies seldom caused her any pangs of conscience. “Speaking of time, I can only stay for half an hour. I have an appointment at three. But it’s just around the corner.”
She added this last when she saw the expression of dismay come over Eva Karlsson’s face. Unable to conceal her disappointment, the thin little white-haired woman said, “Well then, do sit down and don’t waste any more of your precious time! The coffee is ready.”
She vanished down the dark hallway, and Irene could hear a distant clatter from the kitchen. It was located in the back, facing the courtyard. Fru Karlsson came in with the coffee and began to foist the pastries on her. Irene was thankful that she hadn’t eaten any lunch. Including the rolls and sponge cake, there were twelve varieties.
The elderly dachshund owner was voluble on every topic except the occurrence the previous evening. Irene had to hear about her childless but happy marriage, her years as a librarian at the public library, and the inexhaustible source of joy Snoopy had been for the past eight years. Feeling slightly desperate, Irene said no thanks to the tenth pastry—shortbread with raspberry jam—and decided to get to the point. She pushed away her coffee cup and turned into a police officer. In an official tone she said, “Fru Karlsson, I have to leave in a few minutes. You haven’t recalled anything new, now that the first shock has faded? You’re still sure you didn’t hear any scream?”
Realizing that the coffee party was over, Eva Karlsson slumped forward. With a slight quaver in her voice she said, “Dear Irene, please don’t act so formal with me. It feels so . . . foreign.”
Irene didn’t reply but she could see how much it cost the old woman to try to remember what had happened the night before. Fru Karlsson cast a pensive glance at the window in the den. She wasn’t thinking about the acute need to have the windows washed; it was a real attempt to concentrate and think. Now she couldn’t avoid it any longer. Her white-haired head nodded softly as she said, “He didn’t scream. I’m absolutely positive.”
Which also meant that Richard von Knecht was unconscious when he fell and struck the sidewalk. The pastries made a collective somersault in Irene’s stomach at the thought.
Snoopy was snoring loudly in his armchair and didn’t notice when Irene got up and thanked Fru Karlsson for the coffee and pastries.
SHE LEFT the car where it was. She wouldn’t find a parking place any closer to Kapellplatsen than this. The ones at the square were always taken by customers going to the bank, the state liquor store, or the small shops.
She entered the flower shop and asked where Dr. Tosse had his office. The friendly middle-aged woman pointed with a dirty thumb toward the escalators. She was busy planting hyacinths in a big basket. For the first time this year, Irene started to feel that Christmas was on its way. It had to be the scent of hyacinths, she thought, because outside an ice-cold drizzle was falling.
She took the escalator up one flight and found the door to Sven Tosse’s reception area. A shiny brass plate informed her that she was in the right place. She rang the bell, and in a moment a young dental assistant in a pale pink dress opened the door. Her smile was both warm and professional as she asked, “Hello, how can I help you?”
“Detective Inspector Irene Huss. I’m looking for Dr. Sven Tosse, regarding the murder of Richard von Knecht.”
The assistant’s violet-blue eyes became as round as her mouth. Quickly she stepped aside and silently ushered Irene into the waiting room. She vanished hastily down the corridor toward an open door, from which the whining sound of a dental drill could be heard. Irene gave a shudder. It was the sound and the smell. They were always the same in dentists’ waiting rooms. But that was the only similarity with other dental offices she had seen.
This waiting room was empty. A large handwoven wool rug in muted autumn tones lay on the floor. On the walls hung large prints. A bulging brown leather sofa and four matching armchairs, two small glass tables, and a tall étagère for magazines lent the room an air of luxury. Yet it felt homey. The waiting room was separated from the reception area by a glass wall against which stood a fantastic saltwater aquarium. Blanketing everything was the pleasant sound of subdued classical music.
The sound of the drill had stopped. From the doorway came the assistant and a thin, wiry man with steel-gray hair. He appeared ten years younger than his sixty years. The look he gave Irene was sharp and intensely blue. It matched his light blue dentist’s smock. In his eyes she could also clearly see uneasiness. He stretched out his hand, shook hers with a painful grip, and introduced himself. With a nod he invited her to follow him to the staff room.
Noticeably upset, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, I have a patient in the chair. This won’t take long. What was it you told Mia? Richard was murdered? Impossible! Although suicide is just as unlikely. Are you sure that he was murdered?”
“Yes, quite sure. He was knocked unconscious and pushed off the balcony,” Irene replied.
She paused. Tosse merely closed his eyes and nodded.
“We understand that you and Richard von Knecht were good friends,” she went on.
“Who said that?”
“Medical Examiner Yvonne Stridner.”
“I see, Yvonne. Then she must have mentioned that Sylvia and I were engaged when she and Richard met. It was hard for me back then, but he was a better catch than I was. I met Inga, my first wife, only a few months later, so we buried the hatchet. We went to their wedding, and they came to ours the following summer.”
Irene suddenly had an idea.
“Were you at their party last Saturday?” she asked.
“Of course. Inga didn’t come, though; we’ve been divorced more than twenty years. Ann-Marie, my second wife, was with me.”
“Was everyone from the old gang at the party?”
“Yes. But far from all those who attended the wedding were present last Saturday. There were more than a hundred guests at the wedding. Last Saturday it was about twenty.”
“Were the ones who live in France there too?”
“Yes. Peder and Ulla Wahl. Ulla is my sister. They wanted to see their new grandchild. But they went back to Provence on Monday.”
“Did Richard von Knecht seem the same as usual?”
Tosse thought for a long time before he replied. “Yes, he was the same as ever. Happy and in high spirits. He loved parties. It was a great party. The only ones who didn’t seem to have a good time were Henrik and his wife. Maybe they thought we were a bunch of old fogies.”
“And Sylvia von Knecht?”
“Exactly the same. But she’s a little . . . special.”
He fell silent. Before Irene could come up with another question, he extended his hand and shook hers in another viselike grip.
“Well, now I have to get back to my patient. Catch the killer; nobody should have to be the victim of a murder. Not even Richard,” he snapped.
Irene didn’t have time to ask him to explain his last remark in more detail before he disappeared. Irene massaged her right palm and fin-gers. Dentists have strong hands.
The lovely Mia showed her to the door. From down the hall she could hear the speedy whine of the drill.
OUTSIDE, THE drizzle had changed to a cold breeze with an occasional drifting snowflake.
A windy Göteborg, cold and raw with the temperature around freezing, feels just as cold as minus twenty Celsius in Kiruna up in Lapland. If not colder. Irene tucked her chin down into the top of her jacket.
She was going to be a little late for her meeting with Sylvia von Knecht, but all in all she was satisfied with her ability to keep to her schedule today.
It was a quarter past three when she walked through the glass doors to Ward Five at the hospital. The corridor was deserted. The walls were painted a dirty yellow color and the floor was gray linoleum. A sign that said NURSES’ STATION was visible up ahead. She went over and found a nurse in her fifties dressed in white sitting behind a counter. She was absentmindedly staring at a monitor.
Irene cleared her throat. “Excuse me. Where can I find Sylvia von Knecht? Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”
The nurse started, turned to Irene, and gave her an annoyed look. She snapped, “Yes, I’m wondering that myself. Where is Sylvia von Knecht? And all our other patients.”
Had there been a mass exodus from the psych ward? Or was this one of the patients who had put on a white smock and seated herself at the computer?
The woman turned back to the screen. “This is the problem! I managed to knock my coffee cup onto the keyboard. Thank God there wasn’t any coffee left in it, but the entire current patient list disappeared. All I can find is the one for April nineteen ninety-three! God knows what key I hit. Maybe several. Darn it! The Countess is in two one,” she said all in one breath.
After a confused moment Irene understood that she had received an answer to her question. “The Countess” must be Sylvia von Knecht. “Two one” must mean room two, first bed.
She knocked lightly on the door marked with a scratched and barely legible “2” before she stepped inside. In the bed near the door lay an elderly, emaciated woman gazing vacantly at the ceiling. Her yellowish skin seemed to be stretched tight over her skull with no musculature in between. She had no teeth and her lips had caved in, so her mouth appeared to be a straight line. Without blinking even once, she lay staring up at absolutely nothing. A tube was stuck in one nostril. It was taped to her cheek so it wouldn’t fall out.
In the corner by the window sat Sylvia von Knecht. No lamp was lit. A gray afternoon fog had begun to creep in from the sea, lending the room an unnatural murk. The only bright thing in the room was Sylvia’s hair, which was thick, shoulder length, and platinum blond. She looked like an ethereal elf, seated, dressed in a dark suit and white silk blouse. Her hands were clasped on her knee. The small, fragile woman sat absolutely still and looked at Irene.
“Are you the one who’s the cop?” she asked.
Her voice sounded pleasant with its slight hint of a Finnish accent, but her tone was sharp. Irene felt like a tardy schoolgirl who ought to be bringing a note from home. She nodded and was just about to introduce herself when Sylvia went on, “Huss, that’s what it was. Why are you so late?”
Irene quickly took refuge in her police role and replied in measured tones, “Detective Inspector Irene Huss. I’ve been interviewing a number of witnesses this morning in order to gather facts and information. It took longer than expected.”
She had no intention of apologizing!
Sylvia von Knecht said tonelessly, “Henrik is coming to pick me up in half an hour. I refuse to stay here another night. First they tried to put me in a room with four beds. Not on your life, I said. Then they put me in here with that zombie over there.”
With a graceful gesture she pointed to the woman in the neighboring bed.
“Oh well, there’s no need to worry about her. She hasn’t moved or said a word in several years, the nurses say. She has to go back to long-term care as soon as there’s room. They force-feed her through the tube in her nose. Apparently it goes all the way down to her stomach. It’s incredibly disgusting, but it doesn’t really matter. I don’t feel like eating anyway. Although I did want to stay for afternoon coffee.”
Irene steeled herself for this interview with Sylvia von Knecht. Stiffly she began, “We’re trying to find out what motive there might be for the murder of your husband, and—”
Sylvia von Knecht interrupted her. “How do you know it was murder?”
She had clearly been thinking about it since their telephone conversation that morning. Irene took her time reporting the facts that had been uncovered so far.
During the whole account Sylvia von Knecht sat quietly with her hands clasped at her knee and her head bent slightly forward. Her hair fell like a curtain in front of her face. Irene couldn’t see her expression.
When Irene finished speaking, Sylvia raised her head. There were tears in her eyes and her voice quavered with emotion as she said, “To think that something like this would befall our family. It’s despicable! I refuse to believe it! Who would want to murder Richard? Why?”
“Those are precisely the questions we’re trying to answer. Fru von Knecht . . .”
“Call me Sylvia, I’m not that ancient.”
Ancient was certainly not an accurate description. According to their information, this woman was a few years over fifty, but she looked not a day older than forty. At least not in the dimness of the room.
Before Irene managed to repeat her question, Sylvia answered it herself. “No, I don’t have the foggiest idea. Richard never received any threats. Although big businessmen who are successful always make enemies.”
“Would he have told you about it if he were being threatened by someone?”
“Yes, he would have, absolutely!”
Why was she lying? Irene noticed the way she tossed her head, which was much too defiant to be convincing. She decided to come back to the subject, but not just yet. Instead she asked, “When did you make the trip up to Stockholm?”
“Last Sunday, at two o’clock.”
“Where did you stay in Stockholm?”
“Hotel Plaza. My mother and Arja accompanied me on the plane. Arja is my sister. We had tickets to the evening performance of Cyrano at the Oscars Theater. The next morning Mother and Arja took the ferry over to Helsinki. And I went to the House of Dance.”
“The House of Dance? What’s that?”
“Don’t you know? It’s a place in Stockholm where all types of dances are performed. It’s the cornerstone of dance in Scandinavia, I might add. I’m a choreographer, as I’m sure you know. The House of Dance will celebrate its fifth anniversary next year, and one of my ballets is going to be staged. It’s an awful lot of work, but great fun. I’ve already been up there twice this fall to go over my conception. Now we’ve reached the point where we can start selecting the dancers.”
Irene noticed how Sylvia’s voice changed when she began talking about dance. This was true passion; she could hear it. It was news to her that Sylvia was a choreographer, but it was probably best not to reveal that fact, or that she had never heard of the House of Dance. To change the subject, she asked, “Did you speak with your husband on Monday or Tuesday?”
“Tuesday, around noon. I knew that he was starting to get a cold on Sunday, but he felt really bad on Monday. That’s what he said, anyway. But evidently it was just an ordinary virus, because by Tuesday he was feeling better. He planned to go to his Tuesday lunch with Valle.”
“Valle? Do you mean Waldemar Reuter?”
“Yes, that’s what I said! They’ve eaten lunch together every Tuesday for more than twenty years.”
“At the same restaurant?”
“No, I think it varied. I’m not quite sure.”
“How was his mood when you talked to him?”
“The same as usual. He sounded a little tired and had a stuffy nose.”
“What did he say? Can you remember?”
Sylvia seemed to think for a moment. Finally she shrugged and then said indifferently, “He told me about his cold and that he had stayed indoors all day on Monday. The cleaning woman had been there to clean up after the party. I think she had her daughter with her.”
“What’s the cleaning woman’s name?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“She may have seen or heard something significant. We have to interview everyone who was in contact with your husband on those last few days.”
Sylvia pressed her lips tight, but finally decided to answer. “Her name is Pirjo Larsson. She’s Finnish, married to a Swede, but speaks abominable Swedish. I found her through the recommendation of a friend of mine about two years ago. Only Finnish women can clean properly. Swedes are too lazy and Chileans and those types are too ignorant,” she declared.
“How often does she clean your place?”
“Three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“Where does she live?”
“Don’t know. Out in Angered, I think. I have her phone number at home.”
“Did your husband say anything else?”
“Well, he was supposed to go buy two open-faced submarine sandwiches for us to have the evening I . . . when I came home.”
Again she bowed her head. Her shoulders shook a little, and for a brief moment Irene almost had the feeling that she was trying to stifle a fit of laughter. But the dry, hot sobs indicated grief. Irene decided this was enough for now.
She took a couple of steps toward Sylvia, but sensed that she shouldn’t touch her.
“Thank you for answering my questions. I’ll come by tomorrow. But I’ll call first. If you’d like to talk to any of us involved in the investigation, just call the number on this card,” Irene said.
She handed her a card with the number of her direct line written on it. When Sylvia didn’t seem to take any notice, she stuck it carefully between her clasped hands, which were still resting on her knees.
As she turned to leave the room, Irene thought that a glow appeared in the eyes of the mummylike old woman in the next bed. Hatred. Seething hatred. But it could have been just a reflection from the lights in the corridor, since the door was open and a nurse came in with coffee.
SHE SPENT the time before the five o’clock meeting writing up reports about the day’s inquiries. As yet there had been no formal interviews. Still, she felt pleased with the results. There was already a great deal of information, even though they had only been working on the case for twenty-four hours. This was the advantage of stepping into the investigation quickly. Were the murderer and motive lurking in the material already acquired, even though they couldn’t yet see them? Or were they still light-years from the truth? As long as there weren’t any concrete leads to follow, it was just as well to continue digging and scratching here and there. Something useful might always turn up.
She called home. Krister answered. He had just come in the door but told her that Katarina had already taken off for her judo training and Jenny was out walking Sammie.
“I’ll talk to Jenny tonight and try to get a handle on this thing with the ‘White Killers.’ I’m reading about you in the evening paper right now. VON KNECHT MURDERED! all the headlines are shouting. It’s obvious they stopped the presses all over the country and tore down the newspaper placards that were printed this morning.”
Irene sighed. She always had a guilty conscience about Krister having to stay home most of the time. On the other hand, she was very glad that he was handling the discussion with Jenny.
Feeling stressed, she said, “We’re going to have a meeting at five o’clock. I guess that means right now. I’ve got to run. Probably won’t be home before nine. Kisses and hugs!”
She had stolen that last bit from a TV show. Cute.
Before she left for the conference room she grabbed a fresh notebook from her desk drawer. On the front she wrote “Von Knecht” with a black marker. She turned to the first page and printed neatly on the top line: “Pizza.”
SHE WAS the last to arrive, but they hadn’t started yet. She passed the pizza list around the table, and everyone who wanted one wrote his or her name and the kind of pizza. Light beer and salad were included. The list was sent out to a secretary who would phone in the order to be delivered to HQ at six o’clock.
Andersson went over what Pathology and the techs had put together during the day. The only thing new to Irene was that they hadn’t managed to get hold of Ivan Viktors. Andersson had left a message in his mailbox and another one on his answering machine.
The inquiries that Tommy Persson, Hans Borg, and Fredrik Stridh made in the neighborhood were largely negative. The only positive thing, although somewhat questionable, was the statement from a retired teacher. She was eighty-one years old and almost blind. “But that’s why my hearing is so sharp,” she said. Stridh wasn’t convinced, but he reported what she had told him.
“She claims that she heard the door to the farthest trash room close after the last sirens died out. That would mean about quarter to six, before the last ambulance arrived on the scene.”
The superintendent interjected a question. “How does she know that it was the door to the farthest garbage room?”
“Her apartment is right next to it. So she lives directly across the courtyard, viewed from von Knecht’s stairwell. But if what she says is true, it seems a little suspicious that the door was opened again almost immediately and she heard quick steps moving toward the courtyard door that leads to her stairwell. Not running, but sort of nervous-sounding. She assumed that the person who was hurrying wanted to get out of the rain. Not so strange, because it was pouring at the time. But she claims that she knows her neighbors by the sound of their footsteps. Her apartment is on the second floor, so she certainly has the opportunity to keep tabs. But she didn’t recognize these footsteps. It wasn’t someone from her building.”
Jonny Blom groaned and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Fredrik ignored him, but looked down at his notepad before he went on.
“She heard the courtyard door open and someone went up the steps to the ground-floor apartment, but then the footsteps didn’t continue up the stairs but instead crossed the hall and went out the front door to the street. The door is heavy and closes with a thump, according to the old lady.”
Andersson interrupted him with another question. “Did she seem confused or senile?”
“Well, she is ancient, after all. And I don’t know if she hears as well as she claims. But she seemed pretty sure of what she was saying.”
Anyone over fifty was a fossil in Stridh’s view. Andersson gave a little sigh before he asked, “Did any of you check to see whether someone in the building was out taking a walk at that time?”
Stridh, Borg, and Persson had found no one who confessed to being out at the time in question who might have been the cause of the slamming doors or the footsteps in the courtyard.
Andersson said, “If this was our murderer, then it shows he was incredibly cold blooded. To wait in the building for fifteen minutes after the murder! On the other hand, at first everyone probably thought it was suicide. No one was looking for a killer. And if it’s true that he went across the courtyard and straight through the entryway, then he would have come out on Kapellgatan. A whole block from the murder scene!”
Andersson wasn’t as doubtful as Stridh. Experience had taught him that sedentary old people who kept watch on their neighborhood were invaluable witnesses.
Eagerly he said, “Assume that it actually was our killer. Under cover of rain and darkness he slips out into the courtyard. For some reason he slinks quickly into the garbage room and disposes of something. What? An idea is coming to mind. Any suggestions?”
Andersson looked around the room, but no one else came up with a guess. Triumphantly he exclaimed, “The rag! The rag with the Ajax on it! It wasn’t found in the apartment. The only cleaning rags we found were in an unopened package in the broom closet. Now we’ve run into some bad luck, because we weren’t on the alert this morning. The sanitation department came and picked up the garbage before we had a chance to look through the cans. And the only fingerprints on the door opening onto the courtyard belonged to Irene and to Henrik von Knecht. Someone wiped off the handle before Irene and von Knecht’s son touched it.”
The others gave Irene a quizzical look, but neither she nor the superintendent felt like explaining about the hide-and-seek game with the press the night before.
Instead Irene said, “According to Sylvia von Knecht the cleaning woman is Finnish; her name is Pirjo Larsson and she speaks terrible Swedish. We have to get her phone number, and then we can find her address. She lives somewhere out in Angered. Hannu, may I ask if you speak Finnish?”
Hannu Rauhala nodded.
“Would you please handle the interview with Pirjo Larsson?”
Another nod from Hannu.
Irene reported on the conversations she had had during the day. They all thought, just as she did, that quite a few interesting angles had developed, even though there was no motive yet or any plausible perpetrator.
Birgitta Moberg had managed to reach the Wahl couple in Provence by phone. Their youngest daughter, who was unmarried, was listed in the phone book; she had given Birgitta the number. She had called the couple, who had already heard that Richard von Knecht had been murdered, from one of their daughters. They told Birgitta that they had taken the car ferry to Kiel the previous Sunday evening. This morning they reached their farm about fifty kilometers outside Aix-en-Provence. They could only confirm what others who were at the party had said, that von Knecht was happy and in high spirits as usual, and that they didn’t have the foggiest idea of a motive or murderer. Unbelievable, was their comment. She leafed through her notes.
“Waldemar Reuter was at his brokerage office. He didn’t have time to talk to me today but promised to come here tomorrow morning at eight. He did say this much: He was shocked and found it impossible to comprehend why anyone would want to kill von Knecht. Seems to have been a regular model citizen, that Richard von Knecht,” she said dejectedly.
There was a discreet knock on the door, and the secretary came in with a thick stack of faxes under her arm. Dryly she said, “Greetings from the fax room to Inspector Huss; the fax machine burned up! Do you know why?” With that she slammed the heap on the table in front of Irene.
She had to admit that her journalist contact at Swedish Ladies’ Journal was a real find. Irene could see that, even after a cursory glance through the pile. Everything was neatly arranged in chronological order and stamped with the date.
Jonny reported on the investigative material he had been allowed to examine with his two colleagues in Financial. Von Knecht was mixed up in a tangle of suspected tax crimes that had to do with moving money out of the country for stock deals abroad. The material, gathered over a period of almost two years, had been left untouched, Jonny explained.
“These guys in Financial are trained to unravel financial crimes, but they work here at police headquarters, even though they’re actually associated with the National Unit for Financial Crimes in Stockholm. So it’s a government deal, really. But since their work often runs into a hitch on the prosecution side, they do some other investigative work here at Crime Police. Evidently there were suspicions of insider trading relating to the sale of a pharmaceutical company a couple of years ago. But it couldn’t be proven. Von Knecht made a neat little profit of eleven million on that one. According to the financial guys, they think his offshore assets are larger than the ones he has in Sweden. But since foreign brokers handle those deals, they’re hard to check up on. And in Sweden he’s taxed on personal assets of a hundred and sixty-three million!”
The appreciative whistles and shouts in the room were interrupted by an angry buzz from the intercom.
“Hello! This is the duty officer! Will you please come down and get your damned pizzas? It stinks like a pizzeria in here!”
Fredrik Stridh and Birgitta Moberg volunteered. It occurred to Irene as they vanished out the door that she had seen them together quite a bit lately. Jonny Blom seemed to be thinking the same thing. He unconsciously pressed his lips together as he gazed after them with a gloomy expression. The others were busily rising and stretching their legs.
The pizzas were devoured quickly, right out of the boxes, using the plastic utensils that had been supplied. The local pizza maker knew what was required when he made deliveries to police headquarters.
The coffeemaker was turned on. Andersson leaned back in his chair, feeling full, bloated.
Just at that instant a powerful muffled explosion was heard. The pressure wave made the windowpanes bend inward and start to rattle ominously.
“Damn, one of the refineries on Hising Island must have blown up!”
Jonny meant it as a joke, but nobody laughed. It was an unpleasantly large boom, even if it wasn’t the Shell Oil tank that had exploded.
Andersson shrugged his shoulders and tried to ignore the outside world.
“That explosion is someone else’s problem. Well, we’ve heard a report from everyone—except for you, Hannu.”
Hannu Rauhala looked straight at the superintendent when he began to speak. His voice was unexpectedly deep and his lilting Finnish accent sounded pleasantly soft. “I’ve been at the tax office—”
Jonny sat up in his chair and interrupted him, sounding agitated. “We don’t need to do double work!” He sounded agitated. “I’ve already ferreted out everything of interest from Financial!”
Hannu’s expression didn’t change, and his voice didn’t alter, but his eyes took on a colder ice-blue tinge.
“Richard von Knecht has another son.”
In the tense silence that followed, it seemed as though the sirens from all the police cars and fire engines in Göteborg began wailing at once.