THE RAIN STOPPED during the night, and the streets were slick. The temperature was just below freezing, and the traffic was as bad as it usually was during the winter in Göteborg.
Irene was late for “morning prayer,” but as it turned out, everyone else was late as well. Svante Malm was the last one to come through the door. An expression of relief passed over the superintendent’s face when he saw Malm. Technical investigations ought to be finished by now; maybe there would be some answers.
“Good morning, everyone!” Andersson began heartily. Irene understood this to be an attempt to energize the group, but both Birgitta and Jonny seemed to need more than a cheerful greeting. Jonny’s pale appearance probably was the result of having the stomach flu, but Birgitta’s face was also pinched and white. Maybe she was just tired from the weekend shift, but Irene feared she was holding in real anger.
However, the superintendent maintained his cheerful demeanor. “Hans Borg has asked to transfer to a less challenging job for now, so he’s moving to general and Hannu is joining us.”
Irene, Birgitta, and Hannu were the only ones who showed no surprise. Andersson ignored the shocked murmurs and plowed on. “Anything turn up on Linda Svensson?”
Fredrik and Birgitta shook their heads. “No one’s seen her since she left work last week,” Fredrik said. “We have only her neighbor’s testimony that Linda left her apartment at eleven-thirty that night, a strange time to leave on a Monday. There’s nothing to go on.”
“She certainly wasn’t dressed for a bar,” Birgitta added. “According to Pontus, the only things missing from her apartment are a red down coat, black stretch jeans, and a light blue angora sweater, her favorite one. But she’d never wear that sweater to a bar. She never wanted it to smell of smoke.”
“Angora sweater. Belker … she’s a cat lover,” Irene said, apropos of nothing.
“That could be important. She loves Belker and would never leave him without food,” Birgitta said. “The passport found in her apartment indicates that she’s not abroad. And if she’d left voluntarily, she certainly would have arranged a cat-sitter. Pontus Olofsson said this about her a number of times. And I think he’s right.”
Andersson looked at Birgitta a moment. “So you really feel she didn’t leave on her own.”
“No, she didn’t.”
Silence fell over the group. To everyone’s surprise, Hannu was the person who broke it. “I’ve made the rounds this weekend, and no one has seen her.”
Irene almost asked if he’d been trolling his underground Finnish contacts, but she managed to stop herself in time. The man had amazing sources. Irene remembered the first time that they’d worked together. Hannu was able to flush out things no one else could find. Whether all his methods were legal, she couldn’t say. At times she wished she knew, but at other times she suspected it was better not to know.
“I looked into Niklas Alexandersson. His alibi checks out. Three of his pals as well as employees at the Gomorrah Club saw him until two in the morning,” Hannu continued.
“Damn, he would have been perfect. Sneaking around the hospital in a nurse’s dress and murdering his rival,” muttered Andersson.
“Any clues in Linda’s day planner?” asked Birgitta.
Andersson shook his head. “No, I didn’t find anything. Maybe you should look through it again, though. A woman might see something a guy wouldn’t.”
He pushed the day planner across the table toward Birgitta. Without looking at her boss, Birgitta took it.
“I have a question. Where is Marianne’s pocket flashlight?” Irene asked.
All the others looked at her in surprise.
“I’ve been turning it over in my mind. Marianne was a night nurse. All the night nurses carry a pocket flashlight. But Marianne didn’t have one. All she had was Linda’s day planner.”
“It wasn’t in the ICU?” Birgitta asked.
“No. I asked about it when I was there getting my scratches checked out. No one had seen Marianne’s pocket flashlight.”
“Strange. And the thing with Linda’s day planner is also weird. Maybe Linda lost it before she went home and Marianne found it,” Birgitta mused.
“Maybe Linda was biking back to pick it up,” Fredrik suggested.
“Not in the middle of the night,” Irene pointed out. “She’d have called and asked Marianne to put it somewhere where she could find it the next afternoon.”
“Maybe there was something really important in it, so she needed it right away.” They could hear that Birgitta didn’t believe her own suggestion, but it wasn’t much worse than any of the others.
The superintendent broke in. “If she hasn’t left of her own free will, we must consider she might be dead. If so, where would her body be?”
“Perhaps she didn’t get far,” Jonny said.
“I agree,” Fredrik said. “The farther she biked, the more chances that someone would have seen her.”
“It was late, almost midnight, and at least ten degrees below freezing. So there probably weren’t many people outside,” said Irene.
“Okay. We’ll keep on pounding away on Linda’s disappearance. Hannu, Birgitta, Fredrik, and Jonny will continue that search.” Andersson slammed his palm onto the table’s surface so hard that his mug leaped and spilled coffee on the table—which didn’t matter much, since it was marbled in old stains already.
“Irene and Tommy, what’s up with the bird lady?”
Tommy told what they’d found out about Mama Bird. Then Hannu asked to take the floor again.
“I’ve contacted Lillhagen. Gunnela Hägg had been in care there since 1968, when her alcoholic mother died. The death of her mother triggered a psychosis. Schizophrenia, in her case.”
“How old was Gunnela when that happened?” Irene asked.
“Eighteen.”
Irene was surprised to hear that Gunnela was only forty-seven years old. Most of the witnesses that they’d questioned seemed to think that she was closer to sixty. Life had definitely not been kind to tiny Mama Bird.
“During the seventies and eighties, they’d tried to get her back into society, but were unsuccessful. She was just too sick.”
“Any support from the family?”
“No. Her father and one of her brothers are deceased. Gunnela’s younger brother works as a businessman and wants nothing to do with her. I called him, but he got angry. His family doesn’t even know that she exists.” Hannu’s calm face, with its high cheekbones and icy eyes, did not reveal his personal feelings, but a slight sharpening of his tone perhaps indicated some compassion for poor, disowned Mama Bird.
“When did she leave Lillhagen for good?” asked Tommy.
“She moved to an apartment on Siriusgatan in the fall of ’95. After a while a group of drug addicts took that over and she was booted out.”
“Where’s she been living since then?” Irene asked.
Hannu shrugged.
“I see. At least we know that she found shelter in the garden shed next to Löwander Hospital last Christmas. She was there as late as Tuesday night. That’s almost a week ago now. Where is she? Was she the person who set fire to the garden shed Saturday night?”
Irene turned to Svante Malm in expectation.
Svante’s freckled horse face broke into a smile. “I have no idea where she is. That’s your job. The fire inspectors took a look at the shed yesterday. It was a good thing that the patrol caught it before the fire could spread. Otherwise the hospital could have burned down. The fire was definitely arson. It started in a corner heaped with rags. The technicians found a charred candlestick. The person who started the fire probably lit a candle and then held some flammable like paper right next to it, counting on the fact that the fire would spread to the rags.”
“No sign of gasoline?”
“None. Underneath it all was an old sleeping bag covered with some kind of cotton blanket. Over that was a blackened layer of thin wool. And this.”
From a pocket in his jacket, Malm pulled out a murky plastic bag, within which was a flower shape with four visible blooms. Malm turned the bag over to show the soot cleaned away there. The silver metal inside contrasted brightly with the dark soot.
“This is a nurse’s brooch.”
They could hear Andersson inhale sharply; color flared up in his face. Malm did not notice. “Yes, I’ve talked to the school of nursing. This brooch is from the H.M. Queen Sophia University College of Nursing in Stockholm.”
Malm noticed the odd looks on the faces around him, and his proud smile faded. Andersson seemed dangerously close to having a stroke. Malm sat quietly, wondering what kind of apoplexy this was and whether it would pass.
Andersson looked down at the table and said in a controlled voice, “Excuse me, Svante, it’s just that damned ghost coming to haunt us again.”
Malm knew enough not to ask any questions. He just nodded. “The woolen cloth on top of the rag heap is extremely interesting. I studied it all yesterday afternoon. The fibers we found on Marianne’s smock, as well as the ones that Tommy found on a pine branch, came from this wool, which seems to be part of a dress. We found buttons and what was apparently a belt made from the same fabric.”
If Malm had imagined that this information would have been accepted calmly, he now could see he was wrong. The officers around the table were leaping to their feet. Irene stared at the technician. Strange. Now we’re back to where we started. Löwander Hospital and Nurse Tekla’s ghost.”
“I’m a scientist. I would like to point out that my results indicate a living person. The talc on the victim’s underarms reveals that the murderer wore gloves. Threads and fabric remnants indicate a dress. The brooch is real. And what’s more, so is the fact of Marianne’s murder,” Malm said.
“Thank you for bringing us all back to earth,” the superintendent said darkly. He gave Irene a disgusted look. “From now on, no more talk of ghosts.”
Irene had not meant she really believed that it was a ghost, but she let it go. Instead she said, “I think Löwander Hospital is at the center of all this. Both Marianne’s murder and the disappearances of Linda and Mama Bird. The fire … it all goes back to the hospital.”
“Then I suggest you go back there and poke around some more. Tommy can keep searching for the bird lady. God knows whether she’s even important in this investigation.” The superintendent’s voice was sour.
But without knowing why, Irene believed in her bones that Gunnela Hägg was extremely important.
IRENE SAT AT her desk and stared, unfocused, at her computer screen. Absentmindedly, she sipped her fourth cup of coffee of the morning. The caffeine was beginning to have the desired effect; her thoughts were clearing. She suddenly thought of something no one else had. Marianne Svärd was not the only person who had died that night. Nils Peterzén had been a fairly wealthy man. Perhaps the old banker was the intended victim and Marianne Svärd had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Irene turned the idea over in her head. She found Doris Peterzén’s telephone number, lifted the receiver, and dialed. The line was picked up after two rings.
“Doris Peterzén.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Peterzén. It’s Criminal Inspector Irene Huss. We met after the sad event concerning your husband.”
“Good morning. Of course, I remember you. I’m sorry I was such a mess … but it was just too much. All of it.”
“I understand. I wonder if you have time to talk with me for a little while today.”
“Ye-ess … Göran and I are invited to lunch at one, but I could meet you before then.”
“Is Göran coming to you?”
“Yes, an hour before we have to leave. There are still many details we have to decide on about the funeral. Maybe that’s just as well. This way I don’t have to think so much.”
Irene looked at the clock. “I can be at your home in half an hour. Would eleven work for you?”
“That’ll be fine.”
They said their good-byes and hung up. Irene thought through the scenario again: The murderer sneaks into Löwander Hospital, dressed as the hospital ghost. He is just about to kill Nils Peterzén when Marianne Svärd catches sight of him. The killer has to get rid of the night nurse because she would be able to recognize him. Perhaps she already knew him! Old bankers. A great deal of money. Often the sole motive for murder.
THE PETERZÉN HOME was one of the largest and oldest houses in the area. It had been built on top of a hill and had a wonderful view of the ocean. It was somberly whitewashed, the black tile roof coated with a shimmer of frost. The pale sun did its best to thaw out the icy shell encasing Göteborg. At least it had warmed the air to above freezing.
Irene struck the door hard with the bronze lion’s-head knocker. The heavy oak door was opened by Doris Peterzén. She looked wonderful. Her silver-blond hair was combed into a thick pageboy. A necklace glimmered thinly over beautifully contoured décolletage. Her dove gray Thai silk dress matched her eyes perfectly.
Irene suddenly realized where she’d seen Doris Peterzén before. “It was kind of you to make time to speak to me.”
“Come on in. I wasn’t kind. I am angry. I want to know more about that ghost they wrote about in the newspaper. Was it really the person who sabotaged the electricity and stopped Nils’s respirator?”
Doris moved aside and let Irene in. She hung up Irene’s old, ratty leather coat next to her own beige mink without any reaction. Irene pulled off her brown boots furtively. They’d never looked worse than compared to Doris Peterzén’s elegant leather stiletto boots.
Her hostess walked before her through an airy hallway and into an enormous reception room, the whole west wall of which was made of glass and faced the ocean. Along one of the shorter walls was a lengthy dinner table surrounded by an incredible number of chairs. The view from the room was fantastic. Irene was taken by the bleak February sunshine glittering on the ocean’s lead-colored waves.
Doris Peterzén seemed used to the view. Without a single glance out the window, she invited Irene to sit down. They sat together on an oxblood sofa group of English design, less comfortable to sit on than to look at.
“Would you like a cigarette? We don’t have to be so formal.”
“No, thanks,” Irene said. “I don’t smoke. But informal is good.”
“Have you found out who shut off the electricity?”
“No. We know there was a witness, but we still haven’t tracked the person down.”
“Who is it?”
“I can’t tell you because it’s still part of the investigation.”
Doris Peterzén shook a long cigarette from a gold package. She needed both hands to lift the heavy crystal table lighter. She took a deep drag and blew out the smoke with evident enjoyment.
“The first time I saw you,” Irene began, “I thought I knew you from somewhere, and today I remembered. I’ve seen you in my mother’s magazines. You used to be a model.”
Doris Peterzén smiled weakly. “That was a long time ago. I was a successful model. Very much in demand during the sixties. During the seventies not as much. You age quickly in that field.”
“How long were you married to Nils?”
“Nineteen years. We met at a yacht-club ball.”
“No, a widower. His wife had died from cancer the previous year.”
“There’s a large age difference.…”
Doris Peterzén stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray that matched the table lighter. “Yes, people talked about it. There’s twenty-six years between us. They said I was marrying him for his money. But I really did love Nils. He gave me … peace. Love. I have Nils to thank for everything I have in life.”
“How did you choose Löwander Hospital for your husband’s operation?”
Doris’s beautiful face showed true surprise at Irene’s change of direction. It took her a moment to answer. The Peterzén family has always trusted Löwander for our medical procedures. Kurt Bünzler, the plastic surgeon, is our good friend and neighbor. He’s also helped me with a few things.”
She unconsciously touched the back of her ears with her fingertips. Irene had already concluded that the smooth skin and the sharp features were the work of a fine plastic surgeon, and now she knew who’d done the job. She briefly glanced at Doris’s perfect bustline and surmised that Dr. Bünzler had been doing his good work there, too.
“But Kurt Bünzler didn’t operate on your husband.”
“No, it was an inguinal hernia. Dr. Löwander does the normal surgery at the hospital. But the operation took longer than planned. Nils … bled a great deal. He obviously had adhesions that no one had expected. His lungs couldn’t take the long anesthesia. Emphysema. He had to be put on a respirator.”
Doris sniffed. Her deep grief seemed real, but Irene had seen a number of good performances during her police career. She changed direction again.
“Your son, Göran—when did he get home?”
Doris Peterzén blew her nose discreetly into a tissue she made appear from nowhere. She pulled her voice and her face together. “He arrived on Thursday. I faxed a message to him on Tuesday.”
They were interrupted by a metallic knock on the front door. Doris got up and swept out of the room. The word that came to Irene’s mind as a good description of Doris was “regal.”
Irene took the break to stand up and stretch her legs. She saw that the ocean now shimmered bottle green, the peaks of the waves reflecting silver light.
Doris Peterzén’s pleasant voice brought her back from her reverie. “This is Detective Inspector Irene Huss. Irene, this is Göran.”
Irene swung around and looked right into a pair of friendly blue eyes.
“Nice to meet you,” Göran said as he offered his hand.
He was tall and muscular. Irene’s brain short-circuited for a second. The son was older than the mother. It took Irene a moment to realize that Göran must be Nils Peterzén’s son from his first marriage. Her eyes were drawn to the oil portrait hanging on the wall. The resemblance was striking. Nils Peterzén had a stricter mouth, however, and his gaze was sharp and hard. The son’s expression was jovial, happy, and almost carefree. His elegant dark gray suit was strained across his back and rear but still had the look of expensive English tailoring.
Irene took his hand, which was dry and warm. Once they shook, Göran clapped his hands together and looked at his stepmother with playful horror.
“But, my dear Doris. We’re letting the inspector die of thirst. Let’s have a small aperitif before we all have to go.”
He said the last sentence with his head cocked. His tone was easy, but Doris was not deceived.
“No. You have to drive. I’m still taking sleeping pills, and they affect me until the afternoon. It’s probably time to start weaning myself.…”
Doris hadn’t seemed medicated to Irene, but perhaps only Doris could feel the effects.
Göran’s face reflected his disappointment, but he quickly overcame it and gestured to a white leather seating group. It looked much more comfortable than the one in red.
“Please, sit down,” he said.
Irene sat on one of the armchairs. It was as comfortable as it appeared. Doris went to find a pack of cigarettes. When she came back, she draped herself in one corner of the sofa and lit one of the long cigarettes. Göran sat down in the other armchair. He crossed one heavy leg over the other until his tailored seams seemed to creak.
He watched Irene steadily as he reached out and took Doris’s lit cigarette. She lit another one immediately. Göran drew the smoke in greedily and let it flow from his nostrils. When he spoke, small puffs exited from his mouth and nose.
“Why do you need to talk to us?”
“As Doris has probably told you, or perhaps you read it in the paper, a murder was committed in the hospital the same night your father died. The killer sabotaged the electricity, and your father’s respirator quit working. We have a number of different leads we have to investigate. One possibility might be that the sabotage was directed at your father.”
The smoke production came to a standstill; both Doris and Göran seemed to be holding their breath. Before either of them could compose themselves, Irene continued. This is not our first line of inquiry, but all eventualities must be ruled out. Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt your father?
Göran let out a great puff of smoke and shook his head forcefully. “I hear what you’re telling me, but I can’t believe my ears. That anyone could consider murdering Papa? Never! He was too old to have enemies. Anyone who might have been one is already dead or decrepit. He and Doris have had a good life these past few years. Traveled. Played golf. Right, Doris?”
Doris sat up straight. “Indeed we did. Göran took over the business many years ago, but Nils still had a hand in. He had difficulty stepping back and just being retired.”
Doris gave a suggestion of a smile to Göran, who grimaced and rolled his eyes. “That’s the truth. Business was his life. Actually, it’ll be tough to get along without him. He was a clever fox. He knew a lot and had a lot of important contacts.” He looked worried. He stubbed out his cigarette with force. “Well, Doris, I think we’d better get going so we won’t be late.”
The three of them stood up and went to the door. Chivalrously, Göran took Irene’s leather jacket from the hanger and held it for her. As she pulled up the zippers on her old boots, she keenly felt her lack of fashion sense.