Chapter Twenty-One
PAUL SVENSSON LAY CURLED up in a fetal position on the bed, with his face to the wall. Through the hole in the locked cell door Superintendent Andersson could see powerful tremors rippling through his skinny body. Low whimpering and sobs were heard even out in the corridor. There was nothing left of the tough Hell’s Angel. What remained was merely the remnants of a dope addict with severe withdrawal symptoms.
The guard opened the door and Andersson stepped inside. There was a rank, sweaty smell of fear coming from the man in the detention cell, who could actually use a shower. Paul Svensson didn’t seem to notice that he had a visitor. Or maybe he did, because his whines of complaint increased in volume.
Andersson assumed a brisk tone. “Hello, Paul. Time for another chat.”
Svensson turned his face dripping with sweat toward the superintendent. He had a hard time focusing. His eyeballs were rolling around in their sockets like panicked eels. His tongue kept licking his dry, shredded lips. Weakly he managed to croak, “A doctor! Get me a doctor. I’m dying! I’m dying! Don’t you get it?”
Over the years Andersson had interrogated far too many dope addicts to let it affect him. On the contrary, he viewed the situation as very favorable. Now the thin man should be ripe and ready to pluck.
“If you help me with a few new things that have come up over the past few days, maybe out of the goodness of my heart I’ll see that we get you a doctor. But I want some real help in return!” said the superintendent in his friendliest tone.
“Go to hell!”
“If that’s the way you want it. But then it’s going to be a long wait before we call the doctor. An unnnn-believably long wait . . . for you.”
Paul John Svensson’s lanky body convulsed in a fit of cramping. All he could do was moan. Fear and pain were pulsating in the cell. When the spasms passed, he whispered, “What . . . what’s it about?”
Keeping in mind that Svensson could only reveal those things he actually had knowledge of, the superintendent speculated about confusing the issue and letting Svensson try to talk his way out of the erroneous suspicions the police might have. Nothing in Andersson’s voice revealed how precisely planned his first sentence was. Nonchalantly he said, “New information indicates that you and Hoffa were mixed up in the explosive fire on Berzeliigatan and naturally also in the bomb that killed Bobo Torsson. So the grenade and the attempted murder of those two inspectors out at Billdal isn’t the only thing we can send you up for. Damn it, Svensson, you’re looking at the bunker in Kumla prison!”
Dread spilled out of Svensson’s wide eyes as he cried, “It was that upper-class shit Henrik von Knecht! He’s the one who blew that Bobo Torsson to hell!”
“Why?”
Svensson jumped at that single word, tried to stop himself from snitching, but his fear of the rock-hard narcotics-free Kumla bunker—Hell on earth for a drug addict—won out. He replied curtly and nervously, “Torsson was supposed to get some dough from von Knecht. But there was a bomb in the briefcase instead!”
“Why was Torsson supposed to get dough from Henrik von Knecht?”
“Hoffa . . . I don’t know.”
His fear of the vice president of the Hell’s Angels was clearly stronger than his terror of the Kumla bunker. But Andersson had no intention of loosening his grip yet. So he snapped harshly, “You’re not going to see any doctor until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
“Noooo, wait! I know that Torsson was supposed to extort money from old man von Knecht. But it turned to shit. Hoffa was mad as hell, but the guys from Amsterdam were still coming up here with the stuff. There were other people interested.”
“ ‘Old man von Knecht’? You mean Henrik’s father, Richard von Knecht?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said, for fuck’s sake! But that asshole didn’t pay. After a few days Bobo called us back and said it would be okay with the bread. Henrik von Knecht would cough it up instead. Sounded screwy as hell, but Hoffa said we didn’t give a shit who paid. As long as we got the bread.”
“How much money were they talking about?”
“Half a mil.”
“Five hundred thousand?”
“Are you dense or what? That’s what I said!”
“What was Bobo Torsson going to do with another half a million? And why would he give it to Hoffa?”
Now Svensson’s gaze began wandering again, but he knew that he had already spilled too much. He might as well go whole hog and get a doctor. Right now he didn’t give a shit about anything to do with the Hell’s Angels. He was dying and he needed a fix . . . of anything at all. Right now.
Resigned, he said, “Junk. Half a mil worth. Torsson wanted to be a big-time operator.”
“Together with Shorty?”
Svensson shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Dunno.”
Annoying, but what he had said was interesting enough.
AT SEVEN-THIRTY Irene walked into Andersson’s office. Hoarsely, he was yelling into the intercom, “Tell them that the press conference will be at one! Not a word before that!”
He was pale and tired, and for the first time Irene thought he looked ancient. A few days in bed wouldn’t be a bad idea. But the von Knecht case was nearing a resolution and he had no intention of missing it.
He looked at her with bloodshot eyes before he wheezed, “’Morning. Charlotte von Knecht is expected anytime now. Hope the plan holds. I put Jonny and Tommy on her. They’re picking her up.”
“Then I’ll stay out of sight. Any news from the interrogations of Shorty and Paul Svensson?”
He coughed and stuck a cough drop in his mouth. “Good news, actually! Svensson started to talk.”
Irene laughed and said, “You got him to talk. Threatened him with the Kumla bunker.”
“Cruel, but effective.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“According to Svensson, five hundred thousand kronor.”
“Five hundred thousand! Henrik’s fortune wasn’t that big.”
“Precisely. We know that because we’ve already checked it out. But Bobo didn’t know that. And we know how Henrik pulled it off. Paul didn’t have much more to offer. He got sick last night, and the doctor’s been looking in on him regularly. He got an injection and went to sleep. He hadn’t slept since we nabbed him on Saturday. Why don’t we get a cup of coffee before we continue?”
“Continue? Is there more?”
“You bet! There’s plenty more.”
They had to settle for coffee from the vending machine. Since both of them were caffeine addicts, taste played a minor role. It was possible to get used to almost anything. Andersson stopped by the toilet. From out in the corridor she could hear him blowing his nose.
Back in the office he pulled out the top desk drawer and took out a little tape recorder. With a satisfied smile he said, “Yesterday’s interrogation of Shorty. I went to see him right after my talk with Paul Svensson. The strategy was the same. Play them off against each other and get them confused. And I took along an envelope with one of the photographs from the safe.”
He began fiddling with the buttons on the tape recorder. His contented smile turned into an angry grimace. Half-stifled oaths and groans filled the air before he finally succeeded in pushing the right button. The superintendent’s voice was heard saying, “. . . a good deal now. Paul Svensson has talked. We know that you and Bobo were planning to extort five hundred thousand from Henrik von Knecht so you could buy smack from the Hell’s Angels. We know that there was a bomb in the briefcase instead of money. We know that’s why you pounded the life out of Henrik on Sunday, as revenge for killing Bobo.”
Silence. After a while there was a dull muttering, “Fucking idiot.”
“Svensson denies that he or anyone in the Hell’s Angels would have had anything to do with a contract on Henrik von Knecht. Or the bomb on Berzeliigatan. He thinks it’s you and Bobo who did the job for them.”
Silence again. Then a stream of invective poured out of the minuscule machine. If even half of the abusive words were correct, Paul Svensson ought to be picking out a nice, pleasant grave site.
Shorty’s outpouring was interrupted by Andersson’s voice. “Why isn’t what Paul Svensson told us right?”
“We didn’t have shit to do with any bombs or the murder of Pappa von Knecht! We needed the bread to do business. That’s all.”
“It was these pictures that were going to get you the five hundred thousand, right?”
Light rustling was heard from the tape recorder. Shorty took a very deep breath before he wheezed, “Where the fuck did you get hold of those? That shithead said he burned them!”
“As you see, he didn’t. Why didn’t Richard von Knecht pay?”
Sullen silence. Then came a petulant, “Because his God damned pig-face didn’t show. We couldn’t prove it was him.”
“So that’s why you tried to extort the money from Henrik von Knecht instead?”
“Fucking dumb idea. We didn’t have much time. We should have knocked over a bank instead!”
Then Andersson pushed the off button. Chuckling, Irene said, “I can imagine that discussion, between the two cousins.”
“Me too. I asked when they had contacted Henrik von Knecht. Shorty wasn’t sure, because it was Bobo who was taking care of that part. It was probably on Thursday. It must have been two days before the party that Sylvia and Richard had, celebrating the Thirty Years’ War. And on Friday Henrik primed the bomb, if it all went the way we think.”
“Actually a brilliant plan. If he’d been lucky, both his father and Bobo Torsson would have been blown up in the same explosion! It didn’t happen, but you can understand what Henrik was thinking. He knew that he couldn’t pay the amount the extortionists were demanding. When he saw the pictures he also knew about the relationship between Richard and Charlotte. If the bomb had been triggered by Richard, Henrik would have solved at least one of his problems. In the best-case scenario, both of them.”
“Why did Henrik bother to pretend to pay? His revenge could have been to let the world see the pictures of his unfaithful wife and his lecherous father.”
“He was probably concerned about the family’s reputation. And Sylvia would have had a breakdown!”
“There’s still the murder of Richard von Knecht.”
“That’s where everything started and that’s where everything will end. And we’re going to crack the last part too.”
“One more thing. Jonny traced Charlotte’s phone calls on Sunday. After Shorty came by she made a call. To reserve a table at Brasserie Lipp.”
Andersson leaned over and pulled out the bottom desk drawer. In a subdued voice he said, “Here are the pictures you asked for from Pathology. Disgusting. He’s a murderer and deadly arsonist, but the question is whether anyone deserves this. The poor devil is completely mashed. He could pass for the chop suey special at a Chinese restaurant. God damn!”
She took them and stuffed them into the interdepartmental envelope along with the other pictures she had gotten from the lab earlier that morning.
AT EIGHT-THIRTY Irene went into the interview room where Jonny sat with Charlotte. Jonny loved the whole setup. He would get to play his favorite role, the bad cop. It would be a shame to bother a great actor during his big scene, so Irene sat passively in a corner and made herself invisible. The time for her entrance would come soon enough. Her role would be determined by the progress of the interview. Nothing must be allowed to go wrong. Charlotte wasn’t exceedingly intelligent, but she was cunning and totally self-centered. Those were dangerous characteristics combined with a beautiful body.
Charlotte ignored Irene’s entrance and concentrated completely on Jonny. The moist film over her turquoise eyes shimmered, and she ran her tongue over her lips, carefully, so as not to disturb her lipstick. Irritated, Irene noticed that she had taken time to put on her contacts and some makeup. There was a strong scent of Cartier in the room. Charlotte tilted her head and glittered turquoisely at Jonny.
“My dear man, I want an attorney and I don’t have to answer these horrid questions. I don’t know anything. And I need some breakfast. I’m pregnant,” she said in explanation.
Jonny showed his teeth in a reptilian smile. “Calm down, little lady, we’ll get to that too, eventually. Of course you’ll have an attorney. Do you have one of your own?”
“Well . . . no . . . Father-in-law did . . .”
“But you and Henrik don’t have a family lawyer?”
“No.”
“Why do you think that the attorneys at the firm Eiderstam and Sons would have any great desire to take on your defense? There’s reason to suspect you were an accessory in the arson murder on Berzeliigatan and the bombing murder of Bobo Torsson. As well as conspiracy to murder your own husband, Henrik von Knecht. Deeds that were indirectly aimed at one of their biggest clients, Richard von Knecht, who has also been murdered. We’ll come back to that later. If I may give you some advice, ask for a public defender.”
Charlotte’s lips began to tremble, and for a moment Irene thought she was about to cry. But she crossed her arms firmly under her breasts, making sure to push them up a little at the same time as she paused to think. After about a minute her strategy was decided. With her eyelids lowered and in a soft voice, she cooed, “I’ll follow your advice. I’m sure you know best. I would like to have a public defender.”
“We’ll arrange that. But until then you have to answer my questions. If you don’t I’ll take it as an indication that you have something to hide. And then there will be a very tough interrogation!”
Her eyes widened slightly and the hint of a satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“So . . . this isn’t an interrogation?”
“No. You just have to answer my questions.”
Would she bite? Did she really believe that it wasn’t an official interrogation? She might be lulled into feeling safe for the time being, but she would find out otherwise.
“Let’s begin with the bomb on Berzeliigatan. Why did you never mention to us that Henrik stored a large quantity of explosives in a box in your bedroom at Marstrand?”
She rolled her eyes so they flashed turquoise lights, and made sure to expand her bust by sighing deeply. “I didn’t know that Henrik had explosives in the box. He always kept it locked.”
“Didn’t you ever ask him what was in the box?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I?”
“I’m the one asking the questions. Why didn’t you ever ask him what was in the box?”
For the first time she looked uncertain before she replied. “I wasn’t interested. He had so many gadgets and so much junk all over the place.”
“So you never cared about finding out what was in the box?”
“No.”
“Then you must understand that the prosecutor has good reason to suspect you of complicity in the bombings. A married couple can’t live together for years without the wife knowing that there are explosives in the bedroom.”
“But God da . . . I’m almost never there!”
“Almost never there? At the cabin at Marstrand?”
“Yes.”
“But you have keys to it? To the gate and the cabin?”
A clear glint of fear behind the turquoise film. “Yes . . .”
“Where are they?”
She knew it was serious now. The smell of fear broke through the perfume.
“I don’t know. I haven’t looked.”
“No, of course not. Shorty had the keys yesterday. He says you gave them to him.”
“He’s lying! He must have stolen them!”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“But we do know a few things. We know that Shorty drove by Långåsliden on Sunday evening, stayed barely fifteen minutes, and then drove straight up to Marstrand and killed your husband.”
“How do you know . . .?” She cut herself off and quickly bent her head. Her hair slid forward like a curtain in front of her face, a move she had learned from her mother-in-law. Irene recognized it at once. After a while she looked up and said in a low voice, “He came by to ask if I was planning to come to Bobo’s funeral next week.”
“Funny. He didn’t tell us that.”
Basically, Shorty had refused to say anything as soon as they started asking about Henrik’s murder, but Charlotte couldn’t know that. With an audible quaver in her voice she asked, “What did he tell you?”
“That you gave him the keys and directions to Marstrand.”
It was a long shot, but Irene could see that it struck home.
“He said that? He’s lying!”
“Why would he lie? He’ll be doing hard time for your husband’s murder and has everything to gain from putting you away too. You’ll be sent up for instigation of homicide, and he’ll be sentenced for doing the job at your request. It’ll be a lighter sentence. For him.”
A person familiar with the law wouldn’t have fallen for it. But Charlotte was both ignorant and scared.
“That asshole! He threatened me! He wanted to get hold of Henrik, and he forced me to tell him where Henrik was. If I didn’t give him the keys he was going to kill me.”
“Why didn’t you call Henrik on his cell phone?”
“I couldn’t remember the number. It’s a new phone.”
“So why didn’t you call the caretaker and ask him to warn Henrik? Or the police?”
Now the scent of fear pervaded the room.
“I did! But the caretaker wasn’t in.”
“We checked your phone calls from Sunday evening. None were made to Marstrand or the police. On the other hand, one was made to the Brasserie Lipp, to reserve a table. And that’s where you went later that evening. We checked it out. You were a lively bunch, from what I understood from the owner. He wanted to get hold of the guy who pulled down the lamp; it’s going to cost five thousand to replace. All right, one more time. Why didn’t you call Henrik and warn him? Or the police?”
“I didn’t dare. Shorty said he’d cut the baby out of my belly if I contacted anyone.”
“But you weren’t so upset that you couldn’t go out and party with your friends later that evening.”
She had no reply to that. She looked down at the table, under which she was hiding her shaking hands. Neither she nor Shorty had suspected that they were under surveillance. The police wouldn’t have known about his quick visit to Örgryte if they hadn’t been tailing him. She would have had a neat alibi at the restaurant with her pals and plenty of other people all around. Cunning, but not intelligent. Cunning approaching boldness, bordering on recklessness. All the ingredients necessary for successfully murdering Richard von Knecht. Add a little intelligence to the mix and the murder would have been much harder to solve. Maybe impossible.
Jonny continued pressing her for almost half an hour about the bomb on Berzeliigatan. When she protested that she didn’t know a thing about it, Jonny pressed even harder. After a while she turned chalk white, and Irene decided the time was ripe for the entrance of the good cop.
In a softly admonishing tone she interrupted the interview. “Okay, Jonny, time for you to take a break. Can’t you see that she’s completely worn out? Would you like some breakfast, Charlotte?”
“Yes, please. Tea and a sandwich. And I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay. But no more than ten minutes.”
Jonny was in his element as the bad cop. A certain natural talent for the role, Birgitta would probably say, but Irene thought he had conducted himself brilliantly. If he had gone on to study law, he would certainly have been a feared prosecutor.
After a visit to the toilet and a cup of coffee, Charlotte had plucked up her courage again. But Jonny and Irene had made good use of the break. Tactics had been planned, and she had given Jonny the pictures showing Henrik beaten to a pulp.
Charlotte said curtly, “Now I’d like to have an attorney. I won’t say any more.”
“Good idea. But you’ll have to wait in this room. Meanwhile I think you should take a look at these pictures.”
Jonny shoved the photos across the tabletop with a flick of his wrist. Purely out of reflex, Charlotte caught the pictures and then glanced at them. Her eyes widened and her breathing grew heavier. She seemed unable to tear her gaze away.
Jonny said in a low voice, “Was he really such a pig that he deserved this?”
She didn’t seem to have heard the question. He slammed his fist hard on the table and screamed, “Answer me! Did he deserve this? Was he a pig?”
She seemed to wake up and looked at him in bewilderment. Her eyes narrowed and she had to clear her throat before she replied. “Not a pig. A . . . sawhorse. A wooden sawhorse is what he was!”
“And now you’re free of him. Does it feel good? Look at the pictures! Does it feel good?”
No reply. She stared straight ahead, into the wall. But Irene could see her hands twisting under the table. Soon, soon . . .
Jonny was merciless. For the next half hour he went over all the events of Sunday night and the early hours of Monday morning once more. She had no explanation for Shorty’s visit to her before the murder, no explanation for how he got hold of her keys, no explanation for why she went out to eat with her friends instead of warning Henrik. Charlotte was in the frying pan, and she knew it. She lamely tried to prevaricate, but there were no more lies for her to tell.
The time was ripe. Irene got up and walked across the room. In wordless agreement Jonny stepped aside and left the room. Birgitta slipped in and took over the listener role.
Irene began. “Charlotte. I’ve been working on the investigation of the murders of Richard von Knecht and Bobo Torsson, the two arson fire victims on Berzeliigatan, and now Henrik’s death. A lot has come out in the course of the investigation, strange connections and relationships. As you no doubt know, we have arrested both Shorty and one of the Hell’s Angels gang. And they’re telling us everything now. Both of them!”
Charlotte started and terror danced in her eyes. Irene calculated coldly that she didn’t know Shorty very well and consequently didn’t realize he had a reputation for always keeping his mouth shut. She had apparently never met Paul Svensson. The Hell’s Angels were Bobo’s contact. She also didn’t know about Hoffa’s fate, since she couldn’t have had time to read the morning paper or listen to a news program. If she ever did. Still in a friendly tone, Irene began to run down the facts for the terrified Charlotte.
“We know that Bobo and Shorty planned a major narcotics purchase, via Bobo’s old friend Glenn ‘Hoffa’ Strömberg, vice president of the Hell’s Angels Göteborg chapter. The guys from Holland were supposed to deliver it. Everything was arranged and ready, when suddenly Bobo had trouble raising the cash. We now know why. Richard refused to pay.”
Charlotte was pale gray beneath her makeup, but her eyes were fixed on Irene. Slowly Irene continued. “Five hundred thousand. Half a million. For pictures in which Richard’s face can’t be seen. No wonder he refused to pay!”
With these words Irene whipped out the sex pictures, in which there was no doubt who the female participant was. For a moment it looked as though Charlotte was going to faint. Irene declared, “We know that it’s Richard you’re having sex with in these pictures.”
“No! It’s . . . someone else!”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember.”
“So . . . you don’t remember. Are you accustomed to having sex with men whose names you can’t remember afterward?”
Charlotte raised her head defiantly. “It happens!”
“And this man isn’t Richard?”
“No.”
“Then I can tell you that his face is actually in the picture. And it is Richard.”
“No. His face can’t be seen.”
“Yes, it can. Do you see the big painting in the background of the picture? Yes, that one. One of Bengt Lindström’s famous ‘monster heads.’ I had our technician blow it up and make a copy. Then I took it to Valle Reuter last night. He identified the painting as the portrait of Richard von Knecht that he gave to Richard for his sixtieth birthday! Since Sylvia thought they already had plenty of Bengt Lindström’s paintings on the walls, Richard hung the painting in his office apartment. How do we know that? Because the pictures are of Richard von Knecht’s office apartment, taken with a telephoto lens. Where from? From across the street. Who lives there? Why, Shorty Johannesson, cousin of your pal Bobo Torsson! Who took the pictures? Bobo, obviously! Don’t try to tell us that the man you’re fucking is anyone other than Richard von Knecht!”
One look at Charlotte was enough. Her face was a clay mask. It was inconceivable that it could ever have been considered beautiful. Her features were distorted with loathing. Half choking she said, “I was forced to do it. I didn’t have any choice. I owed Bobo money. A lot of money.”
“Drug debts?”
“Yes. I thought I could get a little money over at the car dealership, but Henrik managed it all through his account. I was desperate. I didn’t have a cent.”
“Didn’t you get money from Henrik? For the household, I mean.”
“Sure. Ten thousand kronor a month. But it wasn’t enough. At first I had my own money, from my modeling days. But that ran out. Henrik took care of all the payments for the house and the cars and that was all.”
“How much did you owe Bobo?”
“Eighty-five thousand.”
“Cocaine and amphetamines, I suppose.”
Charlotte nodded.
“How did Bobo find out about your relationship with Richard?”
“He met me a few times on the stairs, on the way to or from Richard’s apartment. And at a models’ party in September he asked me straight out. And I was dumb enough to tell him. I’d snorted a lot and was babbling.”
“And so he got the bright idea to blackmail Richard by taking pictures of the two of you.”
“I didn’t want to. He forced me. And I owed him money.”
“But you did it. Tell us.”
“I actually liked Richard. At first. He was cool and loved sex. Henrik didn’t at all. The past year we’ve hardly touched each other. He’s . . . was abnormal, I think. And boring. Boring in bed.”
“But Richard wasn’t?”
“No.”
“How and when did your relationship with Richard start?”
“Last summer. At the end of July. Sylvia had gone to Finland to visit her mother and sister. Henrik was at Marstrand, of course. Richard called and asked me out to dinner. There was nothing strange about it. But it turned into something more. We suited each other, in some way.”
“How did you manage to get the pictures taken?”
“We used to meet in Richard’s office apartment. But we usually did it in the bedroom. It was a great room for . . . that. The only time I managed to lure him into the living room, he had to put on that damned hood! Or ‘Roman helmet’ as he called it. He called himself ‘the Roman commander’ when he had it on. Ha!”
“And that’s why he refused to pay when he saw the photos?”
“Yes. He said that Bobo could never prove who the man in the pictures was. Laughed right in his face. Although it was over the phone, of course.”
“And then you two got the brilliant idea of blackmailing your husband for the money instead?”
“I didn’t know anything about it. It was all Bobo’s idea. He didn’t mention anything to me.”
“When did you find out that Henrik had seen the pictures?”
She put her hands to her face and whimpered. When she took them away there were no tears. Tonelessly she said, “The Thursday before Richard and Sylvia’s anniversary party. The Thirty Years’ War, you know. All the men said that in their dinner speeches. It was the worst thing I’ve ever been to. Henrik knew that Richard and I . . . and then to sit there and pretend that nothing was going on.”
“What happened on Friday?”
“Henrik drove up to Marstrand. In the morning.”
“And you went to the gynecologist, to get confirmation of your pregnancy?”
“No. I knew that I was pregnant two weeks earlier. But I didn’t know what to do about it.”
“Whether you should keep the child?”
“Exactly.”
“Let’s return to Henrik and Friday. When did you see him again?”
“On Saturday afternoon. We were supposed to go to the party that evening.”
“Had he taken the keys from you on Friday?”
“The keys?”
“The keys you took from Richard, after his sixtieth birthday party at Marstrand. Arja stated that she saw you coming out of his bedroom, with his key case in your hand.”
“That fucking dyke!”
She slumped down in her chair and said, resigned, “Richard didn’t want to give me any keys of my own, but I saw them lying on the nightstand that morning. I figured it might be good to have them.”
“Did Henrik take the keys from you on Friday?”
“Yes, I discovered that the keys were missing on Friday. I usually kept them in my handbag, but they were gone on Friday evening. I immediately suspected it was Henrik who took them. On Sunday I found them again.”
“In your handbag?”
“Yes, he had put them back.”
“When did you find out he really had taken them? Or did you just have a hunch?”
“No, I knew. He wanted to have them back on Wednesday morning, the day after Richard died. He just took them out of my handbag, dangled them in the air, and said something like, ‘You’ve never seen these keys! Get it?’ And then he left.”
“Do you know what he did with them then?”
She nodded. “Yes. He gave them to that cleaning woman. The Finn. I didn’t figure it out until Bobo was blown up too. But I had nothing to do with those bombs. It was Henrik. He was jealous of Richard. He wanted revenge. And he refused to pay for the pictures.”
“What about your baby, Charlotte? Who’s the father?”
“Henrik.”
“No. We’ve learned that he became sterile after having the mumps. And don’t forget that we have him up in Pathology. We’ve already asked the postmortem examiner to check to make sure.”
She had fought as hard as she could but finally collapsed over the table and buried her head in her arms. For a long time she stayed like that, without moving. Once again Irene noticed that there was no trace of tears when she showed her face again.
Charlotte said harshly, “It was Richard’s. The child is a genuine von Knecht.”
“So that’s why Henrik chose to kill his father and not you. Isn’t that right? This was his chance to become a father, as biologically close to the real thing as he could get. Father to his own half sibling. The continuation of the line would be secured. But he wanted revenge.”
“Yes.” She answered in a whisper.
In a low, neutral voice Irene asked, “You knew nothing about the bomb on Berzeliigatan?”
“No.”
“That’s why you decided to murder Richard yourself. Isn’t that true?”
“No! That’s not true! I have an alibi! I was out picking up my car from the dealer.”
“That alibi has been cracked wide open. Your little cowboy from Mölndal, Robert Skytter, told us exactly what happened. How you missed the appointment on Monday. Suddenly you called on Tuesday and demanded that he had to be the one to handle the delivery of your new car. Then the cunning seduction; naked under your coat, wearing only stockings and high-heeled shoes. Not a very original move, but it worked on a young man like Robert.”
“But the time. I could never have made it back in twenty or twentyfive minutes max.”
“No. But in forty or forty-five, yes. You gained fifteen minutes with that remark, ‘Oh, it’s the five o’clock news already! I have to run!’ And little Robbie was probably still giddy from fucking in the Ford, so he didn’t react. Clever. But you made a mistake.” Irene paused.
Again Charlotte’s eyes were fixed on her lips; she was incapable of tearing her gaze away. A barely audible whisper, “What kind of mistake?”
“There isn’t any five o’clock news on the radio. Today’s Echo at a Quarter to Five is what it’s called. Why do you think that is?”
Charlotte’s voice failed her when she replied, “It’s on at quarter to five?”
She was sitting erect, with her arms hanging down at her sides and her eyes fixed on Irene’s face. She knew it was over.
Irene tried to appear unmoved, even though inside she felt as if a volcano was about to erupt.
“Why, Charlotte? Why? Tell me.”
“Richard . . . two weeks before he . . . died . . . I told him I was pregnant and that he was the father. At first he tried to wriggle out of it. He didn’t know who I’d been sleeping with, and stuff like that. But I actually hadn’t been with anyone else since July. So I insisted, and I read about this technique of determining paternity with . . . DNA. When I told him I wanted one of those tests, he backed down. He promised to give me money every month. I thought that sounded fair. But then this thing with the photos came up . . . those lying on the table. He asked if I knew anything about them, but I denied it. You see, he didn’t know that Bobo was the one who took them. Bobo contacted him anonymously, by telephone. But I think Richard suspected something. He didn’t want to see me.”
Charlotte’s hands were twisting and turning now, though she was unaware of it. Irene sat in silence, waiting for what she knew was coming.
“But then Henrik ended up getting the pictures instead. He showed them to me and . . . he was out of his mind! He recognized Richard and me. I told him everything. He didn’t say a word. Wouldn’t speak to me, and then he left for Marstrand on Friday afternoon. I thought it was great that he left. Right after that I noticed that Richard’s keys were gone from my handbag. On Saturday around three he came home. He didn’t say a word, just got ready for the party. We went to it. It was abominable. But Henrik put on a good act. All those old fossils.”
She stopped talking, looking angry. A thin film of sweat appeared on her skin. Her gaze was still fixed on Irene, but it was doubtful whether Charlotte saw her. Her voice was strained when she went on. “On Sunday Henrik was supposed to fly to London. Right before he left, Richard called about some auction catalog that Henrik had forgotten to give him. Then Henrik said to me, ‘You can take it over to him tomorrow, since you have a key!’ And then he left. So I did. I had to talk to Richard. But when I arrived on Monday, the cleaning woman and her daughter were there working. Richard had a slight cold and was home, taking it easy. But when I handed him the catalog he whispered to me to come back later, around seven. And I did. And stayed overnight.”
“Had you ever been together in the apartment on Molinsgatan on previous occasions?”
“No, never. And on Tuesday morning, as we were sitting, eating breakfast, that shithead says, ‘I think we’ve had enough fun with each other so it’s time we call it quits. We won’t meet anymore, but will go back to being daughter-in-law and father-in-law. And you can raise the child as my grandchild. Ha ha!’ He laughed at me! That fuck laughed at me! Right in my face! He was dumping me like an old slut! But I didn’t let on, just asked him what financial arrangements he contemplated. He said I’d get five thousand a month. Five thousand! That’s not enough for anything. I gave him a piece of my mind. He kept on laughing at me, but finally he said . . .”
She paused, stretched, and assumed an arrogant tone of voice to imitate Richard von Knecht. “I understand that you’re a little oversensitive right now. Let’s do it this way. Valle and I are going out for our Tuesday lunch today. If you clean the whole apartment so that Sylvia can’t see the slightest sign that you’ve been here, I’ll give you ten thousand kronor this afternoon. But that’s all you’ll get during the pregnancy. You won’t get the five thousand a month until after the delivery. We’re coming home around four o’clock. See that the apartment is ready in time, because Sylvia will be here between five-thirty and six.”
She slumped down again and spat out, “‘The delivery.’ As if I was some breeding sow. And I knew that he wouldn’t give me any more money. He was kicking me out like a piece of worthless shit. That’s when I decided that he had to die! It would be much easier to get money out of Henrik. Now that the child is on the way . . . You wouldn’t believe how thoroughly I cleaned the rooms we’d been in. For safety’s sake I even wiped off the light switches and changed the sheets and towels. Gave the place a real once-over. Then I did exactly as you said. Called Robbie and . . . picked up the car.”
She fell silent and started breathing harder. Unseeing, her eyes gazed straight ahead; her voice seemed to come from a long way off when she continued, “I deliberately went to see Richard very late. He would be more rushed then, I thought. Clever. I was very clever. I parked by Ascheberg High School. Since all the front door keys fit all four doors in the building, I went in on the Kapellgatan side, walked across the courtyard, and went in through the courtyard door. Then I took the elevator up and opened the door to the apartment. I didn’t have gloves on. That’s why I wiped off everything with a rag when I left . . . later . . . after . . . Then I threw the rag and the vacuum cleaner bag in a trash can in the garbage room. I watch TV, after all. It’s important not to leave any traces. I went back the same way across the courtyard. You didn’t find a thing!”
Triumph shone in her turquoise eyes. Eagerly, as if to reveal how clever she had been, with her words practically falling over each other, she turned to Irene and continued her story. “He didn’t hear a sound when I opened the front door. I went through the kitchen and took a little meat cleaver that was hanging over the stove. I stuffed it under my trench coat. I went upstairs and there lay Richard on the sofa, resting after a sauna. He was pretty drunk. He jumped up, nervous as hell because of the time. Sylvia would arrive any minute. He ran off to get the envelope with the money. When he came back and gave it to me, I said, ‘Come on, you have to see my new car! It’s parked right under the balcony. It looks really great in the light from the display window.’ At first he didn’t want to. But at the same time he wanted to get rid of me before Sylvia came home. So he went out onto the balcony with me. He leaned over the railing so he could see the car. I whacked him on the back of the neck as hard as I could and shoved him over!”
She showed not a trace of regret or remorse. Nothing but pure triumph.
Cautiously, Irene asked, “He had a cut on the back of his hand. How did he get that?”
“That wimp was afraid of heights. He was holding on with one hand. I had to give it a whack so he’d let go.”
She began to laugh. A hysterical giggle that grew into a howl.
“Charlotte, one more thing. The sandwiches in the refrigerator. Were you the one who took them?”
“Yes. I was hungry afterward. So I took them with me and ate them at home. You get hungry all the time when you’re pregnant.”