Chapter Eleven
THE SOBS WERE SEARING her throat. She tried to call but Jenny and Katarina couldn’t hear her. Their liquid laughter faded away in the air. They whirled away, higher and higher toward the shimmering mother-of-pearl sky. She tried to fly after them, but the thousands of meadow flowers held her back in the warm earth with their soft, invisible hands. In vain she tried to brace her feet against the ground to push herself off. But her toenails only dug deeper and molten metal ran in her veins. “Good God, don’t let them be sucked into the tunnel!” She cried and pleaded until she realized that there wasn’t any light tunnel, only a crevice between the pearly pink clouds, through which the friendly light blue summer sky appeared.
With a jolt Irene awoke and sat up in bed. Sammie grunted reproachfully. He was lying comfortably with his head across her shins. No wonder her feet had gone to sleep and felt heavy as lead. He wasn’t allowed to be on the bed but always crept up in the early morning. At that point there was little risk that anyone would feel like arguing with him. It was five-thirty, and she had slept for almost five hours. Now she was wide awake. That was the risk of sleeping several hours on the train.
Krister was snoring heavily next to her. He didn’t have to be at work until nine. With a thrill of joy she remembered that tonight they were going to have a cozy evening together. She would peel potatoes and make the salad. Maybe open a bottle of wine. He would create something delicious at the stove and graciously accept her applause. She had nothing against applauding, as long as she got out of making dinner. She lay back down, tried to push the dog aside, but he just rolled around on his back with his paws in the air and pretended to be asleep. Which he soon was. Dog and master began to snore to the beat of a schottische. With a sigh she realized she might as well get up.
THE DREAM had been clear as glass. She remembered all the details as sharp as a knife. You didn’t have to be a trained dream analyst to understand its meaning. Was she really so distressed about the twins becoming independent? She was filled with a sense of powerlessness, the feeling that she could no longer protect them against every danger. Something she had read or heard occurred to her: “You can never teach your children to grow up based on your own experiences. As a parent you can only try to hide your sorrow and worry. Try to offer careful guidance when things go awry. Be available.”
She felt a pang in her heart and grimaced at the dense November darkness outside her windshield. Even though the road was almost deserted, she drove below the speed limit, not her usual habit. Why was she having such a hard time shaking off that dream? Could it be because she had seen so much misery during her years as a cop? Youths, mercilessly kicked out of society, who died violent deaths and were mourned by few or none. They were victims of poverty, unemployment and hopelessness, the wrong friends, and drugs. Or else they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like John. She shivered at the memory of one of her most trying experiences as a cop.
She and Tommy had been loaned out to the Kungälv Police to assist in the investigation of the murder of John, age fourteen. It had happened in August, in unusually warm and fine weather. John and a friend had gone to Ingetorps Lake to go camping. In the evening four skinheads showed up. At least two of them were seriously drunk. The only one of them who actually knew John was a fifteen-year-old who went to the same school and had been following and bullying him for a long time. The other three had never seen John before. In the next two hours the four skinheads played a grim game of cat and mouse. Sometimes they were “nice” and sometimes they abused John and his friend. They threw John in the lake, but when he started to swim away they forced his friend to yell, “Please, John, come back. They’re going to beat me!” He went back and thus saved his friend’s life. Then he himself was kicked unconscious and thrown into the lake. As he drowned, they rolled cigarettes and stood talking on the beach.
She suddenly realized that she was clenching her teeth so hard that her jaws ached. Her grip on the steering wheel was so hard her fingers were cramping. Memory refused to loosen its grip: the sniggering skinheads during the trial who seemed unmoved as they whispered and rustled their papers. The attorneys who talked about leniency for the young killers: They could be damaged for life. The fact that they had already taken an even younger life suddenly didn’t seem so important. The parents’ unspeakable despair. The mother’s bitter whisper outside the courtroom: “They plead for leniency for the defendants, but not for the victim. There’s no sense of respect or morality.”
Irene swung into the parking garage at police headquarters, turned off the engine, but remained sitting in her car. The projection of her memories was still playing against the windshield of her car. The pictures that the prosecutor showed of John’s mangled body: The boy had injuries over his entire body, but the perps had mostly aimed for his face. His head was swollen, eyes glued shut, and his lips split. His head and neck were a grotesque violet-black color from internal bleeding. After this senseless lethal beating, he was unrecognizable.
Many of the spectators couldn’t stand it, but left the courtroom crying. The despairing father had had enough. He stood up and screamed at the four unmoved skinheads, “Look at him now, for God’s sake!”
Several of them raised their heads, but didn’t look at the slide screen. The fifteen-year-old stared straight ahead with an ice-cold expression. None of them batted an eye when the prosecutor related how they had gone about the murder.
She had seen primal instincts reverberating through the parents. Revenge! Revenge! But was there any justice in a case like this? Over the years she had often asked herself that question, but never found a satisfactory answer. Maybe there wasn’t any.
Why were these painful memories coming up just now? Evidently it was because of the CD she had stepped on as she sneaked in through the front door around midnight. The disc had fallen out of Jenny’s open school bag. First she stuffed it back in the bag, but a subconscious signal made her pull it out again. Yes, she had seen correctly in the weak light of the hall lamp. There was a swastika on the cover. The group’s name seemed to be “Swastika.” It took great self-control to quell the impulse to rush into Jenny’s room and ask what this meant! She peeked in through the doorway as she always did and saw her little girl sound asleep, with her golden blond hair spread over the pillow. It would have to wait until this evening. Or tomorrow. This evening was their night for cocooning, they had decided.
A glance at the dashboard told her that it was almost seven. Time to go up and write a report on yesterday’s trip to Stockholm. It was not going to be easy.
THE REPORT was as good as done when Tommy Persson and Hannu Rauhala arrived simultaneously. They each took a cup of coffee and sat down for a run-through of yesterday’s events. Before they started the superintendent showed up. He looked worn out, with red eyes and a grayish complexion, but no one commented on his appearance. They had been awaiting his arrival, with plastic cup, from the coffee vending machine. It was crowded around Irene’s desk. Naturally there was a big coffee stain on the first page of the report, but she could print out another one later. Everything was saved on the diskette marked VON KNECHT.
Andersson started by telling them about his suspicion that the charred body at Pathology belonged to Pirjo. After a dejected silence Irene asked, “But what about the body of that guy?”
It was Tommy who answered. “Evidently he’s on one of the upper floors. The arson techs haven’t dared search up there yet, but they’ll get to it this weekend. Pelle said it’s quite certain that it was a ‘devil bomb.’ Whoever built it wanted to make sure it was done right. There wasn’t anything left undamaged in the whole building. Except von Knecht’s safe, which is cemented inside the wall and awkward to get at. Pelle mentioned taking a skylift over there. By the way, I haven’t been able to interview the elderly couple on the second floor. They were bandaged up at Mölndal Hospital on Wednesday, stayed overnight, and then were released to stay with their daughter. But on Thursday morning the man had to be admitted again. Heart attack. He’s in CIC in very serious condition. His wife has collapsed. The daughter is very upset and asked me to wait to talk to her mother until Monday.”
Hannu asked, “CIC?”
“Cardiac intensive care. I’m keeping in touch with the retired couple, because I suspect they may have heard or seen something that has to do with the bomb. To make a bomb that big, a lot of equipment would have had to be dragged in. The gasoline containers in particular should have been noticed.”
Andersson cleared his throat. “Are there any witnesses who noticed anything suspicious in recent days?”
“No, and that’s strange. Nobody can think of any mysterious person or remember hearing anything odd. There’s only one statement that sounds interesting. An elderly man in the building next door to von Knecht’s, address on Sten Sturegatan, has his bedroom window on the second floor facing the courtyard. Outside the window there are some rented parking places, one of which is von Knecht’s. According to this gentleman, von Knecht parked his Porsche in that parking space just before one in the morning on Saturday.”
“On Friday night, you mean?”
“Right. And he’s positive. It was the Porsche. There aren’t that many Porsche Targas around, now that the happy-go-lucky eighties are over for most people. I called up Sylvia von Knecht yesterday afternoon and asked if that could be right. According to her it’s absolutely impossible. Apparently there was a preanniversary get-together on Friday night. Nobody went to bed before one-thirty in the morning, except Sylvia’s old mother. Even if she didn’t like her son-in-law, I don’t think the old lady would take the Porsche and zip down to Berzeliigatan to rig up a bomb. And clearly no one else from the preparty did either. Sylvia got mad as hell at me when I asked if Richard was drunk on Friday night. Finally it came out that he was obviously plastered.”
Andersson remembered what Stridner had told him at yesterday’s meeting. It seemed that von Knecht drank a good deal toward the end of his life. To establish the chronology he asked, “He was with the others until one-thirty?”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence as all four of them tried to figure out some angle. Anyway, it was obvious. Irene was the one who took it up for discussion.
“The car. The Porsche. How could it be on Berzeliigatan that night? Where was it parked earlier in the evening?”
“I asked Sylvia where the car was now. According to her, it’s in a locked garage on Molinsgatan. Just like her own car, a BMW,” Tommy replied.
“So it hasn’t been stolen, but was put back in its garage. Is it certain that it was von Knecht’s Porsche and not someone else’s?”
Tommy shrugged his shoulders. “The old guy on Sten Sturegatan claimed it was von Knecht’s,” he said curtly.
Again a thoughtful silence descended over the meeting. Finally the superintendent slapped the palm of his hand on the table, which put another coffee stain on Irene’s report, and exclaimed, “It’s some damned phantom sneaking around, going through locked doors, and taking locked cars. And putting them back! Without leaving a trace. Up in smoke!”
Hannu caught his eye. “More keys.”
Andersson fell silent and took on an absentminded look of concentration. The others also realized that it was the only explanation. Irene said enthusiastically, “Of course that’s it! There has to be an extra key to the car and the garage. By the way, Sylvia said that Richard had been searching for the spare key to the Porsche the week before he died. On the same key ring there’s a key to the garage. There must also be another set of keys to the doors in von Knecht’s building on Molinsgatan and the building on Berzeliigatan. But Sylvia told me that there were only three sets of keys to the two apartments. I saw them myself; she has all three key rings at home in her apartment.”
Andersson looked at Irene after her input. Thoughtfully he said, “Sylvia certainly didn’t know about any more keys. He had a whole bunch of secrets, our fine Herr von Knecht. There must be another set of keys. Which the killer is now walking around with. Plus the spare keys to the Porsche and the garage.”
As the words sank in, Irene understood the threat. “That means that Sylvia shouldn’t be staying in the apartment before the locks are changed,” she said.
“Precisely.” Andersson made a calming gesture. “But we can lie low over the weekend. She’s at Marstrand with Henrik, after all. As long as the murderer doesn’t have keys to that house too.”
Irene gave a start and exclaimed, “Wait a minute. There were keys to the Marstrand house on the key rings! We can’t lie low. We have to warn her.”
An anxious furrow creased Andersson’s brow. “Irene, try to get hold of her right away.”
She nodded and felt a slight uneasiness inside. Sylvia might be in danger. An obvious question popped up, demanding an answer. “But who would have access to a whole set of keys to von Knecht’s various houses and cars?” she wondered.
All of them tried to figure out an answer. Finally Hannu said, “Richard von Knecht.”
At first Andersson was visibly irritated, but he had to admit the logic of Hannu’s conclusion. “And who would he give the keys to?”
Nobody had a good answer, and they dropped the subject after a while.
Irene reported on her trip to Stockholm. Her colleagues had plenty of comments about her excursion: Was it really necessary to spend a lot of taxpayers’ money going up to Stockholm? Did Mona Söder stand to inherit? Why couldn’t she have said all that on the phone? Could Mona have flown down to Göteborg on Tuesday afternoon and back the same evening? Or driven it in her fast new car?
With a dismissive gesture Irene tried to answer the questions one by one. “It was actually not so dumb of her to demand that I come up and see Jonas with my own eyes. Jonas is dying, and she has been by his side every evening. Now she’s on vacation, so she can stay with him around the clock. I’ve checked with the hospital staff and they say she was there on Tuesday evening. According to the switchboard at her job she was there all day Tuesday. The Audi has only gone thirty-two hundred kilometers. I’m actually quite convinced of her innocence. We don’t have to waste more resources by checking up on her and Jonas. They just want to be left in peace. To your question, Hannu: Yes, Mona will inherit Jonas’s share of Richard von Knecht’s estate, that’s the law. But she doesn’t need his money and doesn’t want anything to do with the von Knecht family. Can we keep her and Jonas out of the official reports to the media?”
She addressed this question to Andersson in an almost entreating tone of voice. He looked at her, surprised, but then nodded briefly.
“We’ll have to trust your intuition for the time being, until something turns up. From what I understand, Jonas isn’t going anywhere. And his mother isn’t either,” he said crassly.
Energetically he slapped his palm on the table again, so that his cup fell over and the last drops of coffee trickled across Irene’s report. With a sigh she acknowledged that she would have to print out a whole new one. Andersson didn’t notice, but turned to Tommy.
“Tommy, what have you found out about Shorty?”
“Fredrik and I split up the job. I concentrated on the buildings around Berzeliigatan. Fredrik took Shorty. I didn’t see a trace of him all afternoon. But if I know Fredrik, there will be a complete report. First thing Monday morning, if not sooner.”
Andersson suddenly looked like he had an idea and interrupted Tommy. “There’s an interesting thing that Birgitta ferreted out yesterday during her interview with Bobo Torsson.”
He stopped, recalling the heated exchange between Jonny and Birgitta the day before. He decided not to tell the others about it. Instead he gave a lively account of Birgitta’s interview of Torsson. The attack on Birgitta’s more intimate body parts made those present especially indignant. But when the superintendent fired off his final remark, they gave him an almost distrustful look. As if he must be lying.
“. . . and finally it came out that Torsson is living with Shorty right now. He and Shorty are cousins!”
He was pleased with the effect of his words. At the same time he had to admit that it didn’t simplify matters in the least that the chic doper fashion photographer and the notorious hoodlum were close relatives. He sighed heavily and said for the thousandth time in the past few days, “What a mess! Does any of it make sense, or are we running around chasing our phantom along a bunch of unrelated sidetracks?”
“I think it seems normal for a homicide investigation. We spend ninety percent of our time on leads that don’t have a thing to do with the case. Routine jobs, following a lot of leads, checking witnesses’ statements, verifying times and the like. No, I think it’s the same as always,” said Tommy.
He rolled his eyes to heaven and the others laughed. They all knew very well that this was no routine case.
Andersson turned to Hannu. “What have you found out about Pirjo?”
“Dental X rays. She was in emergency at the community dental clinic in Angered six months ago, had a toothache. They pulled it. She didn’t want a root canal.”
Andersson leaned toward him excitedly and asked, “Where are the X rays now?”
“Pathology.”
“Good! Then we’ll find out soon whether it’s really Pirjo lying there. Although it most likely is her. Anything else?”
“Yes. I got word from Helsinki. She was arrested for illegal distilling and bootlegging along with her ex-husband. The boys’ father. He was sentenced to one year. In prison he was stabbed by another inmate after a fight over a gambling debt. He died. There’s nothing about Marjatta except ‘father unknown.’”
“Did Pirjo do time?”
“No. She got a suspended sentence, because of the kids. Less than a year later she married Göte Larsson and moved to Sweden.”
“So that was three years ago?”
“Yep.”
“And now he’s in Malmö living with a Polish woman.”
“Right.”
They remained seated and continued to discuss things without getting much further. Just as Andersson stood up to go to his office, the door opened and a uniformed officer stuck in his head. It was Hans Stefansson from PO1. He greeted them cheerfully. “Hi! Just wanted to tell you, Andersson, that we haven’t found Bobo Torsson. Shorty told us to go to hell when we wanted to enter his apartment and look for him. Should we get a search warrant?”
Involuntarily Andersson’s whole face took on a disapproving expression. Irene knew why. Then he would have to contact the prosecutor in charge, Inez Collin. But he had to relinquish his personal distaste. He nodded.
“Okay. Hang on a minute, and I’ll try to fix one,” he said.
Tommy looked surprised and asked, “Why does Torsson have to be brought in so soon?”
“Assault and battery on a civil servant. He voiced a serious threat to Birgitta. I would feel better if I had some hold over little Bobo. And for him to know it. Remember, Shorty is his cousin. There’s a risk he’ll send some of his friends. There’s always some creep who owes a guy like that a favor. Why not take on the pleasure of beating up a cop? Especially a female one!”
His facial color had risen and he looked very serious. He gazed meditatively at his inspectors and went on, “One of you has to go on the patrol that picks up Torsson. Even if you don’t find him at the apartment, you can always get a sense of the lay of the land. Tommy, will you take it?”
“Yep.”
“Remember to proceed cautiously. Shorty has shot at cops before.”
Irene couldn’t help asking, “Why is one of society’s worst enemies set up in a little tobacco shop?”
“A legitimate question; unfortunately, I don’t have a good answer. But mark my words: If he’s on the scene, something fishy is going on!”
The superintendent looked very stern and determined. No one contradicted him.
WHEN THE others had left the room, Irene started to look for the phone number to Marstrand. She managed to find the number of the caretaker, just as Jonny Blom had.
A female voice answered. “Svensson.”
“Good day, this is Detective Inspector Irene Huss. I’m actually looking for Sylvia von Knecht. Can you connect me?”
“I can take a message. She and my husband are out exercising the horses right now. They won’t be back for at least an hour.”
“Would it be possible to talk to Henrik von Knecht?”
“Unfortunately, I can only switch the call to the big house. The smaller houses don’t have phone lines.”
“Do you happen to have his cell phone number?”
“No, sorry.”
In a friendly voice the caretaker’s wife promised to give the message to Fru von Knecht.
Annoyed, Irene slammed down the receiver. Strangely enough, Henrik’s cell phone number wasn’t in the phone book either. Lacking anything better to do, she got started on all the material lying on her desk. She zealously sorted, wrote reports, and filed various witness statements. She jumped in her chair when the phone rang. With a quick glance at the clock, she saw that almost two hours had passed since she started looking for Sylvia.
“Inspector Irene Huss.”
“Sylvia von Knecht. Anita Svensson said you had asked for me. What is it regarding?”
Irene could hear from her voice that it would be fine to skip the pleasantries and chitchat. She assumed an authoritative tone. “We have indications that there seems to have been a fourth set of keys. Do you know anything about this?”
“No, I already told you! There are no other sets of keys except for the three I showed you.”
Irene chose her words with some care before she went on. “We have reason to believe that there are. And that the murderer has access to these keys. Plus the spare keys to the garage and the Porsche.”
There was a long pause. Irene could hear that Sylvia was breathing fast on the other end of the line. Finally she said, still in a dismissive tone, “What makes you think there are more keys?”
Irene referred to the statement that the Porsche had been seen on Berzeliigatan on Friday night. Sylvia herself had stated that it couldn’t possibly have been Richard who was driving. So someone had keys to both the garage on Molinsgatan and to the car. This someone also had access to keys to the locked street doors, both on Molinsgatan and Berzeliigatan. The garbage room doors and the doors onto the courtyard were locked in both neighborhoods. Despite this the murderer had passed unhindered through these doors and stairways. So there had to be additional keys. In conclusion Irene said, “I want to remind you that you said there were keys on your own and Richard’s key rings that fit the house outside Marstrand. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Her voice sounded thin and afraid. She had grasped what Irene was getting at. Shakily Sylvia said, “You mean that the murderer might be able to come here! And would be able to get in, because he has the keys?”
Now the panic in her voice was blatant. Irene assumed a soothing tone when she replied, “From what we can tell, there is some risk of that. It can’t be ruled out. Are you alone in the big house?”
“Yes. Henrik is down in his cabin.”
“Can you ask him to sleep in the house with you tonight? Or can you stay down there with him?”
There was a long silence. Finally she heard Sylvia’s voice, sounding much steadier and stronger. “I’ll take care of the horses up here. Then I’ll drive to a friend’s house. Henrik can drive home to his own place; the murderer wouldn’t have any of his keys, would he?”
“Probably not. Can you tell me where you’re going?”
“I can’t see that it’s any of your business!”
The familiar feeling that arose whenever Irene talked to Sylvia now reappeared. Her patience ran out and the adrenaline started pumping in her arteries. Softly and pedagogically, as if she were dealing with an unruly child, she said, “Sylvia, we suspect a dangerous killer is behind the events of the past few days. Try to understand that we’re not snooping into your private life. We’re trying to protect you.”
“Then catch the murderer!”
Click!
Astonishment changed to anger as Irene sat staring stupidly at the receiver. God damned bitch, didn’t she realize! Irene stopped her angry torrent of words. An idea popped up in the back of her mind. She picked it out, scrutinized it, and gave it her approval. Decisively she stood up and went in to see the superintendent.
“IT’S ACTUALLY not such a dumb idea. Go ahead. If anything comes of it, call me. I’ll probably be here until six. Otherwise I’ll be home all evening. Tomorrow I thought I’d try to get home a little earlier. I’m going to dinner at my niece’s place—Marianne, you know.”
Irene nodded. She was well aware of Marianne and her two small boys, even though they had never met.
“Have they found Torsson yet?”
“No. He’s gone underground; he must know that things are getting hot. You can’t just bite a police officer with impunity on the ti . . . on the breast!”
Irene managed to conceal her smile in a light cough. The superintendent, struck by newly acquired respect for the fair sex, was amusing.
It was just before noon, no time to lose. Her lunch would have to be a hot dog on the way.
HIGHWAY E6 is almost ten kilometers longer, but it’s faster than driving on narrow city streets. The wind was blowing; gray clouds had drawn the damp hems of their skirts low over Hisingen. Traffic was heavy. Apparently all the residents of the suburbs were headed for Göteborg to shop, look at the Christmas displays, and eat hamburgers with their kids at McDonald’s. Suddenly Irene realized how hungry she was. She braked quickly at the first gas station that had a hot dog stand. But it wasn’t easy to eat while she was driving. The last bit of sausage slipped out of the bun and landed in her lap. The mustard showed up well on black jeans. She borrowed some words from her boss’s vocabulary. She almost missed the exit north of Kungälv, but at the last moment saw it and turned off.
The road out toward Marstrand is extremely beautiful, and she usually gave it the attention it deserved. On this gray November day, though, she was focused on driving as fast as she could while she kept an eye out for her colleagues from the Traffic Division.
She had memorized the route before she left Göteborg. Holta Church flashed by. She knew that there would soon be a side road and that she should take it toward Tjuvkil. Then she was no longer sure, so she pulled off the road and took out the map.
Just as she was about to start off again, she caught sight of a car coming toward her at high speed. A hunch, or rather an instinct, made her hold the map up in front of her face and peek over the edge.
It was a red BMW. And Sylvia von Knecht was driving. She didn’t even deign to give the old dark blue Saab a look. On the other hand, Irene saw her clearly. She sat with her eyes fixed on the road ahead, on the edge of her seat and with her back erect.
Calmly, Irene put the car in gear and made an elegant and illegal U-turn. She tried to keep one or two cars between her and Sylvia. It was easy to follow her since there was still a lot of traffic.
Sylvia took the same way back toward Göteborg. But at Olskroksmotet she headed toward the western part of town on Västerleden. Was she going out to Västra Frölunda? Apparently not, because she drove past Frölunda Square and the exit Irene usually took when she was going home to her row-house neighborhood.
Askim, Hovås, Skintebo. Now Irene knew where they were heading. She increased the distance between her and the red BMW. Sylvia passed the exit sign for Kullavik, continued a few kilometers, and turned off toward Särö.
Ivan Viktors. He was the one she planned to spend the night with. The superintendent hadn’t been far wrong when he suspected that Sylvia and Viktors had spent Sunday evening together. But Sylvia had been with her mother and sister the entire evening. And Viktors had visited his brother in the hospital. Where was the gap in the chronology? The answer was as simple as it was logical. They had concentrated on the wrong evening. It wasn’t Sunday evening, but Monday evening that Sylvia and Ivan Viktors had spent together.
She was so full of this revelation that everything nearly went to hell as she almost ran straight into the back of the BMW, which had stopped to turn off toward Särö Västerskog. Quickly, she turned the wheel and whipped by on the left side. It was her good fortune that there were no oncoming cars. Everything happened so fast that Sylvia probably didn’t have time to notice who had thundered past her. Irene swung into a passing turnout a little farther ahead. In her rearview mirror she could see Sylvia driving at a leisurely pace toward King Gustav V’s favorite tennis courts. Irene performed another illegal maneuver but wasn’t in much of a hurry to head toward the small cluster of turn-of-the-twentieth-century houses.
During the eighties large villas had been built on the meadows in front of the nature preserve, but along the narrow old country road there were several grand old patrician villas. The red BMW stood outside a big redbrick house with pinnacles and towers and a somewhat overgrown garden. Irene drove on about a hundred meters farther before she parked her car and got out. With her chin tucked down, her collar turned up against the wind, and Katarina’s black baseball cap on her head, Irene would not be easy to recognize, in case Sylvia happened to look out the window. There was a greater risk that she would recognize Irene’s jacket. But she probably didn’t burden her memory with such soiled attire.
Usually, the lovely preserve was full of people strolling around. In the summer swimming was popular at the sandy beach. But on a damp Saturday afternoon in late November there were no crowds. Irene was completely alone. She kept close to the bushy vegetation along the shoulder of the road and tried to blend into nature. When she reached the hedge that surrounded the garden of the redbrick house, she had to duck down quickly and pretend to tie her shoelace.
Sylvia was loading Viktors down with suitcases and bags from the trunk of the BMW. Was she thinking of moving in? From the amount of baggage it looked like it. She had almost as much as Irene used to pack for the whole family’s three-week vacation at her husband’s parents’ summerhouse up in Värmland. It was too windy for her to hear what they were saying to each other. But judging by Sylvia’s body language, she was very excited. She gesticulated as she talked, tossing out the baggage with great energy and making swift, abrupt movements. To top it off she went up to Viktors, wrapped her arms around his waist, and leaned her head against his broad opera singer’s chest. He glanced around quickly and for a moment Irene thought he was looking straight through her peephole in the lilac hedge. Evidently, he didn’t see her. With an impatient movement he broke free of Sylvia’s embrace. Carrying all the gear, he started walking toward the solid oak front door. It closed heavily behind them.
BACK AT headquarters, Irene found out that not much had happened. Torsson seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth. Shorty claimed that he had no idea where his cousin was. Andersson was very pleased with Irene’s investigative efforts. He was especially happy that he had been right about Sylvia and Ivan Viktors. He clapped his hand to his chest and beamed like the sun.
“Male intuition, understand? Male intuition!”
Irene tactfully refrained from pointing out whose intuition had led to the disclosure.
Andersson went on, “Fredrik called just before you arrived. From lunchtime until midnight yesterday he kept Shorty’s smoke shop under surveillance. A person who may have been Bobo Torsson entered the street door to the stairwell of Shorty’s apartment building at three-thirty yesterday afternoon. The same man left after about an hour. In his hand he was carrying a large bag. Based on my description of Torsson, which I got secondhand from Birgitta Moberg, Fredrik thinks it was him. Now I’ve spoken with both Hannu and Fredrik. They’re continuing the surveillance of Shorty over the weekend. Not because I think Torsson is so damned stupid that he’d show up on Berzeliigatan again, but you never know. It might be good to see what Shorty’s up to as well.”
Irene teased him, “Male intuition?”
“Nope. Cop intuition,” said the superintendent.
Both laughed. Andersson turned serious then. “Speaking of cop intuition . . . because Torsson threatened Birgitta, I’ve asked her not to stay at her apartment this weekend. She must have been feeling jumpy, because she complied. Really. She’s staying with her mother in Alingsås for a few days.”
“You’re afraid that Shorty and Torsson might be our phantoms?”
“Well . . . no . . . but I don’t want them tramping around in this shit. They’re stirring things up!”
From many years of working with Andersson, she knew what he was getting at. Maybe Shorty and Bobo Torsson didn’t have a thing to do with the von Knecht case. They were troubling elements, though, and the police couldn’t just ignore them. Shorty was too well known to the force for that. Suddenly, she had an idea.
“What if I tried to ferret out something useful on Bobo Torsson?”
“There should be something on him. Birgitta is stone certain that he was high as a kite. Go check with Narcotics, see what they’ve got.”
The only person she could find in the International Narcotics Division was unknown to her, a relative rookie. He muttered that he had tons of things to do, but promised to get back to her on Monday morning. There wasn’t much else she could do just now. She wrote a report about her surveillance of Sylvia von Knecht and decided to go home. It was almost five, and she was tired, but pleased with her day. And she looked forward to the rest of the evening.
A WONDERFUL feeling of excited anticipation rippled through her as Irene turned into their parking lot. She almost ran over Jenny, who was on her way out of the row-house courtyard. Quickly, she parked the car and went over to her daughter. Irene gave Jenny a hug. She noticed her reserve, but decided not to mention it. Cheerfully she said, “Hi, pal! Where are you off to?”
“Out.”
“Yes, I can see that. Where to?”
Jenny sighed heavily. “To the rec center. We have to practice.”
“The band? White Killers?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you going to stay home with us tonight? We’re going to have a special evening and—”
“You’re going to drink wine and eat dinner! What’s so special about that? I want to be with my friends!”
“But Katarina—”
“She went to Uddevalla with the judo crowd.”
“Uddevalla?”
“Did you forget the tournament that’s going on there tomorrow? Admit you forgot it!”
“Well, yes . . . ”
She had indeed. The von Knecht case had taken up all her mental energy this week. Still, that was no excuse for forgetting that Katarina was competing in the junior Swedish championship in judo. But she hadn’t forgotten the hickey on Jenny’s neck. As nonchalantly as possible she asked, “Is that guy coming, what’s-his-name?”
“Markus.”
Right into the trap! Jenny was furious when she realized she had let the cat out of the bag. “Lay off, will you? Do you think I’m one of your crooks to be interrogated, or what?” she screeched in rage.
Irene was worried the neighbors would begin to wonder. Tactfully she said, “Not at all. Do want us to pick you up?”
“No!”
“Then don’t come home later than midnight. On the dot! Are a bunch of you going together?”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to pick up Pia.”
That was a relief. Pia lived a few buildings down, in their neighborhood. She was a good, responsible girl, Irene thought. The rec center was about a kilometer away, so it wouldn’t be far for them to walk. But Markus was waiting for her there. Irene realized there wasn’t anything she could do about it. It made her uneasy, through. A little too quickly she said, “Have a great time. If you need anything, give us a call.”
“Yeah. ’Bye!”
Impatiently, Jenny slipped out of her mother’s attempt to give her another hug. She vanished into the November darkness. The same forlorn feeling that Irene had experienced in her dream seized her without warning. It took all the self-control she could muster to resist the impulse to run after her little daughter.
THE HOUSE already smelled lovely inside. Her mood and spirits brightened instantly.
“Hello, dear. Child-free tonight!”
Krister stuck his head out the kitchen doorway. His kiss tasted of the sea and he smelled like garlic.
“Oh, don’t tell me!” Irene sighed, delighted. “You’re making crab au gratin!”
“I have to take the opportunity when we’re alone. Although I split a small crab. It’s only for an appetizer.”
“And the entrée is something with garlic.”
“Mmmm. Roast lamb fillet marinated in oil and garlic, with sliced potatoes and puree of parsnips. A tomato salad with onions and olives will also be served. With the appetizer we’ll be drinking the usual Freixenet champagne, then a red wine with the lamb: Baron de Ley, Reserva nineteen eighty-seven. Rioja. What do you say?”
“Save your wife from death by hunger! When do we eat?”
“You’ve got time for a shower.”
NEWLY SHOWERED and feeling fresh, wearing a new sky-blue polo shirt that was exactly the same color as her eyes, Irene enjoyed the glorious repast. They observed one of the few absolute rules they had in their marriage: no talk about work until after dinner. Instead of dessert they drank coffee with a piece of chocolate, sitting on the sofa in the living room.
She dug her bare toes into the soft Gabbeh rug and sighed with contentment. Was it permitted to feel this good? Sammie came squirming under the coffee table and tried to lick her toes. He preferred them sweaty and warm, but right out of the shower would do. Irene laughed, “No, Sammie, stop it! I know you want a little attention. When was he out last?”
“It’s probably quite a while ago, I’m afraid. We could take a walk later, after we digest our food. It’s only ten o’clock.”
Krister put his arm around her and she snuggled up to him. He sniffed at her newly washed hair.
“Irene. The restaurant owner wants me to increase my hours and work full time. There’s a lot of pressure at Glady’s right now even with two of us working shifts. They need one of us to work full time. Sverker is sixty-three now, and he doesn’t want to give up his partial pension. It has to be me.”
“Well, if that’s something you want to do . . .”
“It wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I’ve worked thirty-hour weeks since the girls were little. It’s about time we thought about putting something into the General Supplemental Pension. That is if there’s anything to think about. Although it’s been very nice working part time.”
“That’s the only reason it worked out at all. Plus a little help from Mamma. But the girls are big now. They don’t need us the same way anymore.”
The last remark sounded false and hollow even to her own ears, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Precisely. They’re independent. Jenny has her music, Katarina her judo. And we have each other.”
He gave her a big hug. She felt warm inside and blessed by life.
Sammie started whimpering over by the door. One more minute and despite his training, he’d be forced to pee.
IT WAS icy out, cold and clear. Irene put her arm under Krister’s. It was great to get outside; she felt drowsy from the food and wine. They walked along the illuminated walkway and bike path. It led all the way down to the swimming beach, less than two kilometers ahead. They would pass the rec center, and Irene felt a stab of guilty conscience. Was she about to spy on Jenny? No, they were just passing by with the dog. But she had to be honest with herself and admit that the unknown Markus seemed like a troubling element.
Two young people came walking toward them. When they came closer, Irene saw that one was Pia. The other wasn’t Jenny, but another classmate.
Irene greeted them. “Hi, Pia. Is Jenny still at the rec center?”
“Hi. Jenny? No, she hasn’t been there.”
The girls walked on by. Irene didn’t move. She noticed that her grip on Krister’s arm was much too hard, but she couldn’t loosen it. She felt a desperate need for support. The dreamlike feeling of wanting to scream, but not being able to, constricted her throat. She could only whisper, “Where is she? Good God, where is she?”
“Now, now, don’t get upset. She must be around here somewhere. Probably with that boy,” said Krister. He meant to calm her, but his words pushed Irene’s worry to the verge of panic.
“We don’t even know his last name, just Markus!”
Silently they turned toward home. The gloriously cozy mood was gone, replaced by a terror as black as the November night all around them.
Their cluster of row houses came into view just as Irene saw two skinheads coming toward them. Involuntarily she thought of her memories that had been replayed early that morning. She was glad to have the dog with her.
A few meters before they would pass each other, one of the skinheads stopped abruptly. Sammie began to pull on his leash and bark. Astonished, Irene heard that he didn’t sound angry, but glad and eager. The skinhead, who stopped abruptly, then spoke, saying in a quavering voice, “Hi, Mamma and Pappa.”