Chapter Six
“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? And what the hell is going on in town?”
The color in Andersson’s face rose considerably. He had thought they had a good grip on things. And suddenly all hell was breaking loose, both inside the department and out!
Hannu Rauhala kept his eyes riveted on the superintendent and continued, unmoved. “The tax authorities have copies of his personal file. Richard von Knecht has admitted paternity of a son, Bo Jonas, born July twenty-third, nineteen sixty-five, in the Katarina district in Stockholm. The mother is Mona Söder, November second, nineteen forty-one. It’s all on von Knecht’s death certificate.”
“How did you get access to . . . Oh, the hell with it.”
One look in those ice-blue eyes and Andersson decided to put off the question until later. Instead he said, “This is interesting. I wonder whether the wife and his son Henrik know about the existence of Jonas? Irene, since you’re already in contact with both of them, you handle it. Hannu, you take Pirjo Larsson. We have to find out if she has a key to von Knecht’s apartment. Ask her who may have visited him while she was there, or if she saw anything else that seemed odd. And the rag. Don’t forget to ask her about the rag. Keep digging for information about Jonas and his mother. Maybe we’ll need to enlist the help of our colleagues in Stockholm. What a damned racket those sirens are making. Has half of Göteborg blown sky-high?”
Angrily he pressed the intercom button for the duty officer. At first nobody answered his call. He had to try again.
“Yeah, Dispatch here,” replied a calm male voice.
“What’s happening in town?”
“A building on Berzeliigatan is on fire. Suspected bombing. Didn’t you hear the explosion? It’s barely a kilometer from here.”
“Sounds like the boys at PO-One are going to be busy tonight!”
“No doubt. See you.”
The superintendent looked crestfallen when the intercom clicked off. To cover his embarrassment, he continued briskly, “So now we know, but that’s somebody else’s headache. We have to concentrate on the von Knecht family. Go on, Hannu, do you have more info on the second son?”
Hannu shook his head. “Nope, but you can take it from here, right, Jonny?”
“The rest of the family’s assets, last year’s tax returns. Sylvia von Knecht’s income was one hundred fifty thousand, personal net worth six hundred sixty-eight thousand. Henrik von Knecht’s income was five hundred thousand, net worth four hundred fifty-three thousand. Charlotte von Knecht’s income was seventy-two thousand and she has a net worth of zero.”
“A pauper compared to Pappa von Knecht. And who isn’t, compared to him?” Fredrik commented on Jonny’s research. Casually he remarked, “Truth be told, Charlotte and I are in the same financial bracket.”
The others laughed before taking a coffee break.
The meeting went on for another two hours. They went over and over various suggestions and hypotheses, but couldn’t tell whether they were getting any closer to the truth. Or whether it might already have been approached without anyone realizing it.
Andersson stifled a yawn and decided to wrap up the meeting with a few concluding remarks. “Okay, see you all here at seven-thirty in the morning.”
They had started packing up their notebooks, pens and pencils, coffee cups, and everything else essential to the investigation when there was another knock at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Officer Håkan Lund opened it, filling the entire doorway. He began with a greeting. “Peace. Thought I’d drop by with a report that might interest you.”
The group watched in surprise as he strode to the end of the table. Once he was there, he started his report. “I just came from the fire on Berzeliigatan. An eyewitness heard a loud explosion and then the place went up in flames. The windows of all the nearby buildings were blown out. According to the same witness the explosion came from the third floor. And there . . .”
He paused melodramatically and gave his audience a look before he went on. “That’s where Richard von Knecht had his office!”
You could have heard a pin drop; no one could think of a thing to say. Håkan Lund was obviously pleased with the effect of his news. He continued, “My shift was supposed to end at four, but we were held up by a big traffic accident near the Tingstad tunnel. Sleet and black ice. Five cars involved in a rear-ender. No injuries to speak of, but plenty of peripheral work with reports and directing traffic. Just as we were finishing, we got the call about the explosion on Berzeliigatan, corner of Sten Sturegatan. It was burning good by the time we arrived. There were three fire engines on site and a couple of patrol cars.”
“Is the building a total loss?”
Lund gave Andersson, who had asked the question, a thoughtful look and replied, “Let me put it this way: On a fire scale of one to ten, where one is a match and ten is a quasar, this was a nine. An inferno. So yes, the entire building was gutted.”
“God damn it!”
It wasn’t the most intelligent comment the superintendent could have made, but it expressed precisely what everyone in the room was feeling. Lund resumed his report of the events.
“On the ground floor there’s a hair salon. The hairdresser who was in the salon escaped to the street. She was busy cleaning up after the day’s work. Fortunately, she only received minor injuries to her head and back. On the second floor there are two apartments. The residents of the larger one, a retired couple, managed to escape. They were in shock, their hearing was damaged, and they had a number of ugly burns. The tenant across the hall works as a desk clerk at the Sheraton and wasn’t home when the place blew up. He arrived just as I was leaving. Evidently he heard about the fire on the news. On the third floor is—or was would be more correct—von Knecht’s office. Apparently, it was a large apartment, according to the downstairs neighbors. By the way, von Knecht owned the whole building. The apartment next to his is currently vacant. It’s a little two-room place that he rents out to companies that need an apartment for short-term periods.”
Lund broke off, quickly went over and poured the cold dregs from the coffeemaker into a plastic cup, swished the coffee around in his mouth before swallowing, then smacked his lips contentedly and said, “Your mouth gets so dry from a fire. And from talking too.”
No one responded, so he returned to his place and went on with his report.
“On the fourth floor of the building there’s a photographer. He lives in the two-room space and has his studio in the larger apartment above von Knecht’s office. The witnesses from the second floor, the retired couple, think he must be out of town at the moment. They haven’t seen him in several days. He sometimes does fashion shoots abroad. For his sake, let’s hope he’s away shooting beautiful women under the palms. Otherwise he’s dead. Grilled. It’ll be several hours before the smoke-eaters can go into the building.”
Lund paused and looked quite stern and serious as he went on. “On the fifth floor they managed to rescue a young woman with the hook and ladder. She was in shock, of course, and refused to climb down the ladder. But the fireman grabbed her and more or less carried her down. When she reached the ground, she suddenly remembered that her boyfriend was asleep somewhere in the apartment. But it was too late. There was no chance of getting back inside. Her apartment was completely engulfed in flames and there was a big risk that the floor would cave in. The lady in the apartment next door had better luck. She came home from work in the middle of the fire-fighting work. She had evidently heard about the fire, but it was still a shock. She collapsed on the street and the ambulance had to take her to the ER. The sixth floor was empty. Work had just started on renovating it into an apartment that would take up the whole floor.”
“He seemed to have a penchant for that type of apartment building. How did you know that we were still here?” Birgitta Moberg had managed to muster enough nerve to make a comment and ask a question.
“Pure chance. Irene and I met after von Knecht’s little air show yesterday. According to the evening papers, I see that he had some help with it. Interesting. Well, after we were relieved by the swing shift, I called in to Dispatch and asked if any of you were still in the building. According to them, you were sitting here devoting yourselves to orgies of pizza. So I thought I’d drop by and light a fire under the pot with some real red-hot stuff,” Håkan Lund concluded with a satisfied smile.
“I think we all agree you’ve succeeded,” Andersson said flatly. He tried to pull himself together enough to ask some sensible questions. It wasn’t easy.
“How did you get hold of all this information, about von Knecht’s office, the fact that he owned the building, who lives in the various apartments, and all that?”
“Didn’t I tell you? The retired couple on the second floor. They were very well informed, real gold mines of inside information. Let’s see . . .”
Lund fished around in the pockets of his new uniform jacket made of heavy leather. “Here’s the note with their name and address. They’re staying with their daughter in Mölndal for the time being. But they’ll probably be in Mölndal Hospital for a few days.”
“Thanks, Håkan. You’re a gold mine yourself . . . well, you know what I mean.” It wasn’t the best-formulated remark, but Lund sensed the intended compliment, bowed deliberately, and said, “My pleasure. I’ll be going now and leave you to your theories. Good night!”
With these words he sailed out the door, if a man who weighs a hundred kilos can be said to sail.
Silence settled over the room for a while. Andersson was the one who broke it. The color was rising in his face again as he energetically clapped his hands and exclaimed, “So now we’re going to have to track the progress of the fire! Fredrik and Tommy, get over there. Try to sum up the situation. Report back to the rest of us at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. You can take off right now. Here’s the note with the name and address of the retired couple’s daughter.”
The other six stayed for the better part of an hour but got nowhere. Finally Andersson said, “Okay, let’s wind it up for tonight. See you at seven-thirty on the dot.”
KRISTER WAS still up when Irene got home. It was almost eleven o’clock. Sammie was bouncing around, claiming that no human had paid attention to him all day. But his light, wheat-colored coat was glossy and newly brushed, and his food dish was washed and on the drainboard. He had nothing to complain about. As Irene flopped down in the easy chair in front of the TV, he tried to climb onto her lap. But eighteen kilos of soft-coated wheaten Irish terrier was too much to hold when she was trying to relax; he had to stay on the floor and sulk. A scratch behind the ears had to suffice.
Krister told her about his conversation with Jenny. It seemed to be her dream to play in a real band. And a used electric guitar would make it happen. The leader of the band could arrange to get a good one for a thousand kronor. They decided to think about it for a few more days. Maybe it would be a suitable Christmas present.
“But too expensive! We ought to have a fortune like von Knecht—more than a hundred and sixty million! He must have plenty of pensions and golden parachutes and that sort of thing too,” Irene said glumly.
“Hey, old lady. What good did all his millions do him yesterday when he fell without any parachute?”
Sometimes Krister’s Värmland earthiness was quite refreshing. As was his profession, which asserted itself now as he asked, “Would you like something to eat?”
“No thanks. The pizza feels like concrete in my stomach.”
“What would milady prefer, then?”
“Whiskey. A big one.”
“But of course, my darling. Chivas Regal, Jack Daniel’s, or Famous Grouse?”
“Chivas.”
With a laugh Krister got up and went out to the kitchen. He returned with two glasses and a can of Pripps pilsner. Irene looked disappointed.
“For once I feel the need for a good shot of booze to unwind. Not much. An ordinary whiskey will do,” she complained.
“We could make punch in this can: five centiliters of O. P. Andersson and one deciliter of Amontillado. That’s all we’ve got in the house. I’ll go to the liquor store tomorrow and pick up a few bottles of wine for the holidays. I’m working late on Friday, but I can go early on Saturday. Of course, I know something else that might make you unwind. Just come with uncle, and you’ll get some goodies . . .”
Sammie realized what was going on, lowered his tail, and slunk up the stairs to Jenny’s room. He understood that a paltry scratch behind the ears was all he was going to get that evening.
THEY WERE all in place in the conference room at seven-thirty. Tommy Persson sat yawning, while Fredrik looked like he’d slept for eight hours instead of his usual four. And he was the one who had to give the report on the fire.
“Tommy and I were there by nine-thirty. We went around and questioned the people in the building across the street. They confirmed what Håkan had told us. The explosion came at precisely six-twenty P.M. The fire blazed up instantly, and it seems that it spread explosively. Could they have poured gasoline all over the apartment?”
“The neighbors should have smelled it,” Jonny put in.
“Yes, you’re right. But the firefighters are leaning that way. This morning they’re going to go inside because that guy who was asleep in the apartment on the fifth floor is missing. Apparently he moved in with the woman the week before. I guess she hadn’t gotten used to having him there. That’s probably why she didn’t remember him until it was too late. His name is Mattias Larsson, twenty-two years old. A student at the teachers’ college.”
Fredrik looked upset and started leafing through his papers before he went on. “Here it is! The photographer in the apartment above von Knecht’s called Dispatch; they then contacted us. He saw the report on the fire on the late news. What a shock! Imagine, getting comfortable in an easy chair with a beer, turning on the hotel TV, and finding out that your home is burning down! He’s working on an assignment up in Stockholm, he said. But he’s going to come down today and will be in touch with us. His name is Bo-Ivar ‘Bobo’ Torsson. We thought we’d continue with our follow-up on the fire and see if it produces any connections to the murder.”
The superintendent nodded. “Okay. You should also contact the retired couple when they’re released from the hospital. They’re going to be staying with their daughter in Mölndal. Of course there is a connection between von Knecht’s murder and the bomb in his office. The question is why they had to blow up his office too. Did he have any employees, maybe a secretary?”
“I’ll be talking to Sylvia von Knecht this morning. She should know,” said Irene.
“Then why don’t you take on Henrik von Knecht too? Tommy and Fredrik will follow up on the fire. Birgitta is supposed to meet Waldemar Reuter, the stockbroker, today.”
“Yes, first thing this morning,” Birgitta confirmed.
“I want to be with you at that interview. He must have been among the last to see von Knecht alive. Jonny, can you try to get hold of the opera singer, Ivan Viktors? We haven’t heard back from him, despite the notes we’ve left and messages on his answering machine. Wait a minute, I have the note here somewhere . . .”
The superintendent rummaged around in his papers on the table. Finally, he exclaimed: “Here it is! Take it. And Hannu, keep digging up information on the illegitimate son in Stockholm. Although the most important thing right now is to get hold of Pirjo Larsson.”
Hannu nodded and to everyone’s surprise actually spoke. “She’s not in the phone book.”
“Okay, well . . . you’ll figure it out somehow.”
Andersson still wasn’t quite sure that he wanted to know about Hannu’s methods of gathering information. But they were effective.
Irene turned to Hannu and said, “Sylvia von Knecht said that she has Pirjo Larsson’s phone number. I’ll call her right after the meeting and set a time to meet, ask her for Pirjo’s number, and give it to you right away.”
Hannu nodded again. Andersson turned to Hans Borg, who was dozing in his chair, as usual. To wake him up, Andersson raised his voice and addressed his oldest inspector, “Hans, you’ll have to drive back to the von Knecht neighborhood. Whatever hasn’t burned down, that is. Find out if anybody saw anything on Kapellgatan, around twenty to six on the night of the murder. There’s a parking garage across the street. Even if it was dark and crappy weather, somebody might have seen the killer if he went out through the street door.”
Andersson paused, preparing to close the meeting. “We’ll get together here this afternoon around five.”
A knock on the door interrupted him. The secretary came in with a fax in her hand.
“Fresh fax from the pathologist,” she said briskly.
Andersson took it from her. The others could see his bushy eyebrows arch up to his nonexistent hairline when he exclaimed, “Von Knecht had a blood alcohol level of point-one-one! He wasn’t dead drunk, but clearly feeling no pain. That would have made it easier for the murderer.”
BACK IN her office, Irene called Sylvia von Knecht. Hannu, who came sauntering after her, sat on a chair by the door.
Sylvia answered at once. When Irene identified herself, Sylvia flew into a rage, denouncing the entire Göteborg police force for turning her apartment upside down. She got a good head of steam going. From where he was sitting, Hannu could hear her saying shrilly, “And I can’t get hold of Pirjo either! I’ve been calling her since seven o’clock. She has to come in today and help me clean up!”
Irene held the receiver a little way from her ear and gave Hannu a knowing glance before she put the receiver back and said in a friendly tone of voice, “So good of you to mention Pirjo. We would like to talk to her too. Could I get her phone number? Or perhaps the number of the cleaning firm, her employer?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally Sylvia snapped, “It’s not a crime to pay your cleaning woman under the table.”
It most certainly is, Irene felt like saying, but knew this wouldn’t be good psychology. Calmly she said, “No, of course not, Fru von . . . Sylvia, but I’d appreciate it if you could give me her phone number.”
Reluctantly Sylvia gave her the number. Irene wrote it down on a slip of paper and handed it to Hannu. With a nod he disappeared down the corridor.
Only then did Sylvia mention the fire the night before. “So odd that the building on Berzeliigatan would burn down the day after Richard’s death. But it’s an old building, of course. There was probably a short circuit in the wiring. They had started tearing up the top floor. It was going to be a studio. I hope he had adequate insurance on his computers. I know the building was insured,” she said.
Irene asked carefully, “Did he have any employees at his office?”
“No,” Sylvia replied quickly. “He watched the whole world’s stock exchanges on his computer screens. He didn’t need a secretary to do that. His broker takes care of all the daily business with the stock trades. Richard was only there a few days a week.”
Sylvia agreed to meet Irene at ten.
With a sigh Irene looked at the pile of gossip magazine faxes awaiting her. Procrastinating a bit, she called Henrik von Knecht and set a time to meet him. He would come down to HQ after one o’clock.
ANDERSSON FOLLOWED Birgitta Moberg into her office. Waldemar Reuter hadn’t shown up yet, but it was only five past eight. Andersson liked working with Birgitta. She was quick witted, alert, young, and pretty. There was only one problem. She made the superintendent feel old and a little clumsy. She was in the swing of things, went out with friends, traveled abroad, and skied in the winter. She also had a scuba diving certificate and often went to the Red Sea or the Mediterranean.
Bosses were supposed to show interest in their subordinates; that’s what they had said at the last manager development course, so Andersson began by asking, “Will you be diving in the Red Sea or skiing in the Alps this spring?”
“Neither, I’m afraid. I’m trying to save money. No vacations until next fall. Then I’m going to Australia for at least two months. Pack everything in a rucksack and bum around.”
“By yourself?”
He felt foolish after he said it, but it was his spontaneous reaction.
She gave him an easy smile. “Of course. Guys just slow you down. If you take a guy along, you always have to worry about his needs. No, I want to experience things and be open to everything.”
“Isn’t it dangerous for a single woman to travel alone like that?”
Birgitta laughed. “As you know, it can be dangerous to go out on your balcony!”
Would he dare venture into the Australian outback? Never! Sleep under the stars with nocturnal predators stalking around? Snakes and spiders? He shuddered. And felt about as old as Methuselah.
“A trip like that must cost a lot of money. How do you manage to save up that much?”
“I have a cheap studio apartment out in Högsbo. My car is twelve years old and I repair and maintain it myself. But my seed money was actually a small inheritance from my grandmother.”
There was a noise at the door, and Waldemar Reuter made his entrance. He waved at someone out in the corridor. Both detectives noticed that he was slurring his words when he said, “A thousand thanks, my dear lady. It was kind of you to escort me through the labyrinth of Göteborg Police Headquarters.”
With a small lurch he turned around and fixed his bloodshot eyes on Birgitta. “Oh, good morning! Beauties abound in this building!”
He made a deep bow and belched audibly. His breath, which spread through the room, could have been sliced up and sold as well-aged Stilton. Reuter wasn’t hung over, but he would be in a few hours. His round head seemed to be fastened directly to his globular body, without any neck visible in between. He actually appeared to be as wide as he was tall. His arms seemed to stick straight out from his body, but his attempt to keep his balance by using them as stabilizers may have contributed to this impression. His legs were short. His feet, clad in expensive shoes, were surprisingly small. He had a Burberry trench coat over one arm, which flapped and waved in the air when he flailed his arms. His suit was dark blue, made of a soft wool fabric with discreet shiny piping. For some reason his tie was draped under his lapel and not around the collar of his shirt. But at least he still had it on.
Birgitta grimaced with disgust behind Reuter’s inclined back, but when he straightened up she flashed him a dazzling smile, asked him to take a seat in the visitor’s chair, and introduced herself and the superintendent.
Waldemar Reuter blurted out, “Oh, hell, there’s a guy in the room! I didn’t even see you!” He gave Andersson a moist handshake and winked mischievously, casting a roguish glance toward Birgitta.
Was it an advantage that he was drunk? Perhaps. The best tactic would be to let Birgitta handle the interview. Reuter clearly viewed her as a little cutie pie, not as a cop. Andersson tried to make himself invisible in his corner, which was entirely unnecessary. Reuter had already forgotten his existence.
Birgitta asked amiably, “Would you like some coffee, Herr Reuter?”
“Call me Valle, sweetie! Everyone calls me Valle!”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
Andersson was taken by surprise when Birgitta signaled to him to go get the coffee. But that was only proper. She was the one running the interview, after all. Though he did feel rather stupid as he walked over to the coffee vending machine. He bought three cups, which he regretted on his way back. It was hard to carry three at once.
Andersson set two of the cups on the desk. Valle Reuter was sobbing and took no notice of him. He crept back to his corner.
“. . . my oldest friend. We had known each other forty-five years!”
Reuter wiped his nose on the checked lining of his coat. With a well-feigned expression of sympathy Birgitta handed him a tissue.
“We understand that you were at the party last Saturday. Their thirtieth anniversary.”
“But of course! Leila and I served as bridesmaid and groomsman at their wedding.”
“Leila?”
“My ex-wife. We divorced five years ago. She didn’t get a dime!”
Birgitta decided quickly to drop the subject of the ex-wife. Reuter’s voice had turned aggressive and hate-filled. With good humor she asked, “Was it a nice party?”
“Party? What party?”
“At the von Knechts’ last Saturday.”
“Ah, the party! Excellent fun! Wonderful food and superb wines. With the appetizer they served an interesting white from South Africa, of all places! Neil Ellis, Sauvignon Blanc. Dry and peppery, fresh and round. A long finish. Slight aroma of pissant and spice shop. Excellent with the salmon tartare!”
To the superintendent’s ears it sounded like total drivel, but since Birgitta seemed to be following it all right, he didn’t interrupt.
Reuter sank farther into the fog, chattering on. “With the main course they served a fantastic French wine. Thank God that Richard doesn’t subscribe to that boycott nonsense. A red, Bandol Cuvée Special ’ninety-two. A profound nose, concentrated, rich and fruity with a hint of licorice. The saddle of venison landed in good company, I must say.”
Andersson thought it sounded disgusting. Licorice in your red wine! On the other hand, he didn’t like red wine anyway. White once in a while, with shrimp. He preferred beer with a schnapps.
Birgitta asked, “Did you think Richard seemed the same as usual?”
“Absolutely! Happy and in high spirits, as always. We love parties, Richard and I. But now he won’t be going to any more parties. Richard ...”
Again Birgitta had to come to the rescue with a tissue. Reuter blew his nose loudly and stared at her, red-eyed. He took a deep breath before he went on. “My dear, I beg your pardon. I’ve been drinking all night long. In memory of Richard. My friendship with Richard. He’s my best friend.”
“How did you remember you were supposed to come here?”
“Mats Tengman came and got me. I asked him to do it yesterday. After you called, dear . . . what was your . . . oh yes, Birgitta. He’s a fine boy, Mats Tengman. I handpicked him. My successor. My son is a doctor. He’s going to specialize in pharmaceuticals, because he wants to work with people, not for money, as he says. My whole staff is firstrate. If you only knew what fine employees I have.”
Another audible snort underlined his statement.
“When he dropped me off here, he saw how . . . distressed . . . I am, after everything that happened . . . with Richard. And then he said, ‘Valle, I’ll take care of the business. Take the day off and rest.’ That’s what Mats told me.”
Andersson saw Birgitta discreetly jotting something on her notepad. Cautiously, she coaxed Valle to go on.
“Tell me about Tuesday, Valle.”
“What about it?”
“Your lunch last Tuesday.”
“We’ve been doing that for more than twenty years. Every Tuesday we’ve had lunch together. It started when Richard sold the shipping company. He was clairvoyant when it came to economic trends. If I’d dared to believe in his . . . then I’d be a very rich man today. But I’ve done all right for myself.” He paused and stared blankly into space.
Birgitta prodded him with another question. “Which shipping company was it that he sold?”
“The one he inherited, of course! The family company! He got a good price. He invested in real estate, together with Peder Wahl. Do you know Peder?”
“I’ve spoken with him on the phone.”
“He’s a great guy. It’s a shame that they live down south in Provence most of the time. I miss Peder. Tell him that next time you talk to him,” Reuter said.
Birgitta glanced at Andersson and rolled her eyes. He made an encouraging gesture. It always helps to interview someone with a loose tongue. Birgitta continued valiantly. “Where did you eat last Tuesday?”
“We took a cab out to Johanneshus. An excellent inn out in Billdal. We wanted to go before the Christmas hysteria sets in. Then it gets too crowded.”
“What time were you there?”
“Where?”
“At Johanneshus out in Billdal. The lunch with Richard.”
“Oh, right, of course. The lunch.”
Valle Reuter tried hard to concentrate.
“I think the cab must have arrived out there by one or one-thirty. Somewhere thereabouts. Ask Peter, the innkeeper.”
Birgitta made another note. She certainly would inquire.
“So what did you have to eat?”
“Oh, frutti di mare! The appetizer was ice-cold oysters with lime. A not entirely compatible wine with it, from . . . let me see . . . from the States. Golden Hind Sauvignon Blanc. Not good with oysters. A blunder. An excellent wine with oysters is—”
“The entrée, Valle. Tell us about the entrée.”
“Poached halibut with grated horseradish and melted butter. The potatoes weren’t mashed . . . they were . . . now, what’s it called? . . . Pressed! Pressed potatoes. We decided on the South African wine. Did I mention the wine we drank last Saturday? The white with the appetizer . . . oh yes, of course . . . it was from there too. A splendid wine. Bouchard Finlayson, Chardonnay. It was just fantastic. We ordered two bottles. With dessert, which was an ice cream mousse with Arctic raspberries, we snubbed the sweet wines of the Old World. Ordered a bottle of Mike Mossison Liqueur Muscat. An Australian. Very good choice. Very good.”
Andersson was starting to get royally tired of goofy wines and weird food. Still, when she caught his eye appealing for help, he motioned to Birgitta to continue.
Her sigh was barely audible as she went on. “When did you finish the meal?”
“We rushed a bit. We left at three-thirty. By cab, of course. Sylvia was coming home that night, and Richard wanted to get back and check on things. And he had a slight cold. He was going to have a little whiskey and sit in the sauna. I like to do that too when I feel a cold coming on. But I say to hell with the sauna!”
Valle Reuter found this extraordinarily funny, and he began chuckling and wheezing in amusement. Neither Andersson nor Birgitta Moberg felt like laughing along with him. There was something sad and depressing about the little round man. Birgitta leaned across the desk and shouted, “Valle. Hello? Valle!”
Reuter wiped his eyes with the soggy tissue. But he managed to calm down.
“As you know, Richard was murdered. Who do you think did it? And why?”
Reuter straightened up and gave Birgitta a sharp look, which made her wonder for a moment whether he was more sober than he let on. Caustically he said, “Sylvia! It has to be Sylvia. She inherits the money. She’s crazy about money. Miserly. And spiteful. If you only knew what she said to me.” He put on a deeply injured expression.
“According to several witnesses she was down on the street just as he hit the ground,” Birgitta stated dryly.
This brought back the worried furrows to Reuter’s brow. But he said nothing, merely mumbled inaudibly.
“Is it the inheritance, all that money, that you think is the motive?”
“Sylvia. The money.” He nodded to himself, looking extremely pleased with his own perspicacity.
“Valle, what did you and Richard do after you got out of the taxi?”
“We took the elevator upstairs. I got off on the second floor and Richard continued up to his place.”
“Did you see him, or speak to him later?”
“No. That was the last time I saw Richard.”
Andersson was afraid that Reuter was going to start crying again. But he didn’t. He sat slumped in the chair like a punctured balloon, gave a big yawn, and blinked his red eyes. Andersson realized that he had to hurry up and ask his question. He stood and walked slowly toward Valle, who started and said in surprise, “Are you still here? What was your name again?”
“Sven Andersson. One last question before we call you a cab. Where were you last Tuesday evening and night? We knocked on your door, but you weren’t home.”
Valle pressed his lips together firmly. It was obvious that he had no intention of answering.
Patiently the superintendent continued, “It would be good if you would answer the question. You’d save us a lot of work. You were the last one to see Richard von Knecht alive. Besides the murderer.” He put special emphasis on the last word.
Valle was on the same page, and he leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “The murderess! Sylvia.”
“Don’t you understand? You’re a prime suspect!” Andersson exclaimed.
Valle looked deeply wounded. “Me? Kill my best friend? Never!”
“Then where were you?”
Birgitta had an idea. She played along with the conspiratorial mood by leaning over the desk and saying, in a slightly teasing tone, “Tell the truth, Valle—there’s a woman involved, right?”
The little man fairly shone with joviality. “But of course, my dear. A woman’s honor.”
“You’ve known each other a long time, isn’t that so?”
“Absolutely, three years . . . If you already know about her, why are you asking me?”
“I don’t know her name.” Again Valle looked displeased. He stared at Birgitta gloomily.
She challenged him. “Valle, you have to have an alibi.”
“She doesn’t want me to tell. She’ll get mad at me.”
“I’m sure she’ll understand that since you have become involved in a homicide investigation through no fault of your own, you need an alibi. And she’s the only one who can give you one.”
Valle slumped down a bit more. After a long silence he muttered, “Gunnel . . . Gunnel Forsell.”
“Where does she live?”
“Now listen, my dear, she doesn’t want cops running around her place. Don’t tell her I said anything or I’ll never be able to go there again.”
His tone of voice, along with the anxiety in his wide eyes, said it all. In his loneliness he’d found comfort with a prostitute.
Quietly Birgitta asked, “When did you leave for her place?”
“The usual time.” He stopped and gave Birgitta an apologetic look. “I usually go visit her on Tuesday. At five-thirty. But I was a little early ... she had a guest . . . but he left after a while, and then I could go in.”
“At five-thirty?”
“A little before that, I think.”
“How did you get there?”
“Taxi.”
“When did you get home?”
Again he hesitated with his reply. “I usually spend the whole night.” He gave Birgitta a defiant look.
“Where does she live?”
“On Stampgatan.”
“When did you get back home?”
“Around ten. In the morning. Then I went down to the office.”
A hooker who fixed breakfast. Neither of the officers had ever heard of such a thing. This had to be a very special arrangement. Something told Andersson that it was costing Reuter a small fortune. With great effort the stockbroker tried to get up. Finally he was on his feet, wobbling unsteadily. He gave a big yawn and said, “All right, now I want to go home. Thanks for the pleasant company, my dear. Don’t forget to try Neil Ellis sometime. Perhaps we could . . . ?”
Birgitta smiled sweetly and picked up the phone to call a cab.
“BIRGITTA, CAN you go to the Johanneshus restaurant to verify the times? And to our pretty chicken on Stampgatan? Check if she’s got a rap sheet,” said Andersson.
“Hardly. I can smell a high-priced call girl a mile away. Fixing breakfast after a whole night’s sleep! Small, loyal, wealthy clientele. No walking the streets. I’ll try to get hold of her this morning; there’s a better chance she won’t be with a john so early,” replied Birgitta.
“Ask her if she knew Richard von Knecht. Who knows? Maybe they were both clients of hers.”
Reluctantly he went into the corridor. He had two meetings set up. The first was with Police Commissioner Bengt Bergström. The second was with the people assigned to take measurements for the new police uniforms. Everyone in the building had already been there, except Andersson. Would Reuter have babbled just as openly if he and Birgitta had been in uniform? Doubtful. After working plainclothes for thirty years, he was going to be forced to sign up for a uniform in his final years of service despite the fact that he had no intention of putting it on. But it wouldn’t do any good, no matter what he said. Orders from on high. “The public must know that they are talking to a police officer”—that was the argument. No dispensations had been granted. His only means of protesting had been to avoid going to the fittings. But there was no longer any excuse.