Chapter Fourteen

KRISTER CAME TO PICK up Irene at headquarters. For a short time she managed to doze off in the car despite everything, but that was all the sleep she got. When they arrived home the girls swarmed over her with questions. Her answers were evasive. Finally she pleaded that she was too tired, just to get away from the topic. She went to bed before the ten o’clock news. She didn’t feel at all sleepy, but it was a way to flee from what she still couldn’t face talking about. Krister sensed this and crept in quietly next to her an hour later. He held her for a long time. She felt his warm body against hers. Normally, that would awaken desire and longing but now not even his warmth could thaw out the cold inside her. When he eventually rolled over into his side of the bed and fell asleep, she started sweating. It was impossible to lie still. The bottom sheet felt like a damp rope under her, and every muscle and joint in her body ached. Around four she gave up. Her brain was replaying the scenes from the barn, both those that really happened and those that could have. The scornful voices shrouded her brain in a thick gray spiderweb. It was impossible to find the Point, so the Light remained unattainable. There was an impenetrable obstacle in the way and she knew its components: terror and anxiety.

During the slowly crawling hours of the night she realized how impossible it is to run away from yourself. The black hole was about to swallow her up. She had to go into it and drive out the whispering voices. She had to fight her inner enemy. She was her own uke.


IN THE big dark blue police bag Irene packed a thermos of coffee, three sandwiches, clean underwear, and a clean gi. The last item was important. No old, irrelevant smells could be allowed to distract her. The fresh sweat in her workout clothes would tell her what it cost to drive out her demons.

The bells in the German Church tolled five o’clock as she parked outside the gym by the Harbor Canal. It was dark and quiet. There was little traffic, and she heard the lonely, distant squeaking of a streetcar. She found the right key and unlocked the door.

She was met by the familiar smell of sweaty workout clothes and liniment, which sent a vague thrill of joy down her spine. A good sign. With determined steps she went into the locker room and changed, comforted by the rough cotton suit and black belt.

The dojo lay plunged in deep darkness. The windows up high on the walls let in a sparse glow from the streetlights outside. She had left the door to the locker room ajar so a little more light could come in. She didn’t turn on the ceiling light in the dojo itself but went at once to the middle of the mat and sat down on her heels, with her hands resting loosely on her thighs and her gaze straight ahead. When she felt Mokuso approaching, she closed her eyes and looked inward. It was empty and dark. The voices were whispering, but she could no longer hear as clearly what they were saying. She approached the Point, where Bruce’s calm voice with his American accent could be heard through the hiss of the demons. His voice flowed into her and she heard him say encouragingly, “Okay, baby. Your fantastic kata, when you made black belt, third dan.”

She felt sorrow and grief for him, surprised at the strength of her feelings. What she thought she had gotten over was still there. Mokuso became deeper, and she continued to seek the Point. Her breath began to make contact; suddenly she felt filled with an effervescent warm power. She became weightless and was borne by the power up toward the Light. The power flushed through her sore muscles and joints, cleaning away fatigue and pain.

As if in a trance she stood, still with her eyes closed. At first she moved slowly, but as the rhythm of the kata seized her the movements became faster and stronger. She opened her eyes and saw uke-a semitransparent foggy form with long hair down the back of leather jacket and a scornful grin.

To a spectator it looked like ballet with incredibly advanced choreography. A knowledgeable viewer would see a skilled judo master who at a furious pace went through Sandan-kata, combinations with uke, tski, and geri-waza. An initiate would also wonder why she didn’t have an opponent. But she did have an opponent. Furiously she struck at uke. At first his laughter sounded derisive, but she had the Power and was filled by her proximity to the Light.

Exhausted, she sank down on the mat. Sweat was running down her whole body. She sensed its salty taste in her mouth and felt it trickling between her breasts and buttocks. Her rib cage heaved and she felt some discomfort from her crushed rib. But the Power and the Light flowed through her and so pain did not yet bother her.

Slowly the Power ebbed and she rolled over and looked up at the ceiling. Would the black hole open and the voices start whispering again?

All was silent. Only the Light remained, pulsating in her diaphragm, and she felt the stillness and peace. She had made it through.


IRENE FOUND them inside the conference room. It was just before eight o’clock, but she wasn’t the last to arrive. Jonny Blom was missing but expected at any minute. He had called to say he had a flat tire outside Åby. Superintendent Andersson began to speak.

“We’ll start without Jonny. Great to see that you’ve recovered, Irene. Damned if a good night’s sleep isn’t the best medicine!”

“I feel better. Just black and blue and stiff. And I didn’t get much sleep. Later this afternoon I’ll drive over to visit Jimmy, and then I’ll go home,” she replied firmly.

Andersson raised his eyebrow. He didn’t comment. “Okay. First I have to report that the body of the guy who was burned to death on Berzeliigatan has been found. They removed it with the help of the telescopic boom. Narcotics wants to have a meeting tomorrow at one. Evidently they have a bunch of investigations going simultaneously, but it seems as though some threads are connected with this Hell’s Angels crap. Hans, you had some luck with the keys?”

Borg nodded and tried without great success to stifle a yawn. In a tired voice he said, “Mister Minit at the Domus department store on Avenyn made a complete set of keys for Richard von Knecht in early August of this year. He ordered them himself and waited while they were made. That’s why the guy who made the keys remembered that it was von Knecht. He stood there for quite a while, plus he is. . or was. . a celebrity. But he didn’t have any extra key made for the garage or the car. Of course, he must have had a spare key to the Porsche. It’s not even a year old. He must have gotten a spare key with a Porsche! You know what one of those costs?”

Andersson sighed. “More than you or I will ever be able to afford. We have to find out more about these damned keys. Irene, get hold of Sylvia von Knecht and ask her why she thinks Richard would have an extra set of keys made. We know that he had a spare-key ring for the Porsche and the garage. He was looking for it the week before he was murdered. Maybe Henrik von Knecht knows more about it.”

Irene gave a slight nod when she replied, “Could be. But he left for Stockholm early yesterday morning to buy antiques at various auctions.”

Andersson laughed and said with a wink, “Hope he makes some finds. He could use some newer furniture.”

In the midst of the general merriment Jonny showed up. Bright red in the face, he rushed in and sat on a free chair. Out of breath he puffed, “Excuse me. I had a flat and the damned spare tire was flat too! A nice guy gave me a lift to a gas station so I could pump it up. He drove me back too.”

“Don’t you check your tire once in a while? I do at regular intervals. About every other month,” said Hans Borg.

For once Borg was interested. Cars were his passion.

Jonny made an irritated gesture and replied, “Phooey. It’s just one of those things that’s always there. Sometimes you remember to check, but most of the time you forget. Who’s interested in spare tires?”

Irene gave a start. She said pensively, “Charlotte von Knecht is.”

“Is what?” asked Jonny.

“Interested in spare tires. According to the car dealer Robert Skytter, the spare tire was the last thing they checked on her new Golf before she drove off.”

“Okay, I get it. Someone cares. But I have a lot of other things to think about. It doesn’t seem important to check the air in the spare tire until the day you need it. And then it’s too late!”

That matched Irene’s own relationship with her spare tire. Charlotte didn’t give the impression that she was the orderly type who checked everything in advance. She probably batted her heavenly eyelashes when things got screwed up. And some gentleman would come hurrying to the beauty’s rescue. Were there a few sour grapes to these thoughts? Maybe, but life had taught Irene that it wasn’t the practical girls in the woolen pants and rubber boots who awakened a male’s protective instincts. It was the small defenseless creatures in high-heeled pumps and chiffon skirts who prompted men to fling their capes across puddles. For her part she never wore high heels. And the only chiffon skirt she had ever owned was quickly confiscated by the twins to play dress-up.

Andersson asked, “Fredrik and Jonny, you haven’t discovered any activity at Shorty’s over the weekend that would indicate contacts with Billdal?”

Each shook his head in reply. Disappointed, the superintendent snapped, “On Friday we have to be able to give Inez Collin some reason for the detention order! Jonny, you’ll have to try to question Shorty today. Birgitta, have you found anything else interesting on Bobo or Shorty?”

“That’s pretty hard to do where Bobo’s concerned. He, his apartment, and his photo studio have all been blown to bits. I have to make do with what little there is. We have only those three arrests that I mentioned earlier. The assumption, of course, is that he’s been using drugs for years. Narcotics thinks he was mostly dealing, but he probably was using a lot himself. We base that conclusion on his behavior,” said Birgitta.

She paused and a dark shadow passed over her face. But it vanished quickly and she went on, “Today I’m going up to Vänersborg to talk to Bobo’s mother. She was extremely upset when she heard that Bobo is dead. But when I called her today to set a time for us to meet, she asked if I thought it would take a long time before she got the insurance money!”

Insurance money? Who had said something about insurance money before? Irene couldn’t remember, but thought it was Sylvia. Quick note in her notebook: “S. v. K. Changed lock? Insurance money?”

The superintendent nodded and looked pensive. “Has anybody tried to get hold of his father?”

“No. He’s a homeless wino. I haven’t spent much time on him,” said Birgitta.

“Hannu, this sounds like a job for you.”

Hannu nodded. Andersson asked him, “Did you find out if Pirjo had a driver’s license?”

“I did. She never had one.”

“Did you ask the daughter if she knew anything about the keys?”

“Yes, Pirjo didn’t have any. Richard von Knecht loaned her his keys whenever they went down to the garbage room. All the doors to the courtyard are locked.”

“So you have to have a key even to get out of the courtyard?”

“Right.”

“That confirms my belief that our murderer had the spare-key ring. But how did Pirjo get hold of it?”

“Maybe on Wednesday,” Hannu said.

Andersson regarded the department’s “exotic” element. Slowly he nodded. “She came to the apartment on Wednesday morning. You mean that she could have pinched it at an unguarded moment. That’s not impossible. Hans, you’re in charge of the keys; ask the techs if there’s any chance that Pirjo entered the apartment on Wednesday. And ask them if they saw a key ring lying around anywhere.”

“Which techs were there on Wednesday morning?”

“Ljunggren and Åhlén.”

Borg nodded but didn’t jot down anything on his clean, blank pad.

Irene asked Hannu, “Do Pirjo’s kids know that she’s dead?”

“Yes. They were told yesterday. Welfare has them now.”

His voice was somber, and she understood that he was at least as affected by the fate of the poor children as she was.

Birgitta cleared her throat; her expression became stubborn. Harshly she said, “I still think Pirjo was lured by someone to Berzeliigatan. Maybe with the prospect that she would have a free hand to steal now that Richard von Knecht was dead.”

No one said anything, but several nodded in agreement.

“But why was it so important for the office on Berzeliigatan to be blown up?” asked Irene.

That was another question that no one could answer.

Tommy Persson waved his hand in the air. “Late last night I got hold of the hairdresser on the ground floor of the building. Her partner was in bed at home with a cold, so she was alone in the salon on Wednesday night. She saw Pirjo arrive! When I described Pirjo’s appearance, she was positive that she had seen her minutes before the explosion.”

The superintendent interrupted him. “Why didn’t she call and tell us about it?”

“According to her, she was so shocked by the fire that she forgot. By the way, she didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary on Wednesday. When I asked whether she’d seen any unusual visitors on the days before the fire, she said something quite remarkable: ‘There was always a bunch of funny characters going upstairs to that photographer. He’s quite well known, of course, but I don’t like him much.’ Remember, she didn’t know that the victim out at Delsjön was Bobo Torsson. I didn’t tell her either. When I asked why she didn’t like Torsson, it came out that he had been over to her salon, offering her a future as a photo model if she just did as he said. He promised her fame and fortune. But that is one tough dame, and she told him to get lost. The interesting thing is that he had asked both her and her partner whether they wanted to buy any dope. He said he could get hold of whatever they wanted.”

Tommy paused, broke his Marie biscuit into three pieces, and stuffed them one after the other into his mouth. He washed each piece down with a sip of coffee. After he finished this ritual he went on, “My interview with the woman who lived below von Knecht’s office confirms many of the hairdresser’s statements. It was a brief conversation. Her husband is very sick because of his heart attack. She told me many strange people were always coming and going to Bobo’s place. And some wild parties had kept the entire building awake until the wee hours. I asked in more detail about Friday night, whether they had heard anything from von Knecht’s apartment around one o’clock. At first she couldn’t remember, but after a while she recalled that she woke up that night because someone was going up and down the stairs. At least three times, she said. But she couldn’t say for sure whether she had heard anything in particular from von Knecht’s apartment.”

The superintendent listened intently. Finally things were starting to move on Berzeliigatan. Eagerly he said, “That confirms what we already know. He was dealing. But what a careless devil, to invite people into his own building! Was that why it was so important to blow up the place? What was it that had to be destroyed, that we weren’t supposed to see? Dope? Dope-processing equipment?”

A pensive silence followed the superintendent’s last remark. Hannu straightened up in his chair and said, “No. Dope processing smells. It seems the bomb was sitting there primed for almost four days. It was von Knecht who was supposed to be blown up.”

“But on Wednesday he had already been dead for twenty-four hours!”

“But not on Friday night. He was alive then. When the bomb was made.”

The color began to rise in Andersson’s cheeks and he stared glassy-eyed at Hannu. “So we’re talking about two different murder attempts on von Knecht!”

“That’s right.”

“Would that mean that we have two murderers?”

“Maybe.”

“So the bomb murderer was beaten to the punch by the one who hurled von Knecht off the balcony!”

Irene looked at Hannu thoughtfully. Circumspectly she said, “There might be something to this argument. Killer number one rigs up the bomb at Berzeliigatan on Friday night and then goes and waits for von Knecht to arrive and blow himself up. But von Knecht catches a cold and doesn’t go there on either Monday or Tuesday. On Tuesday he eats lunch with Valle Reuter. And on Tuesday night he’s murdered by number two! Without having set foot in the office apartment for several days! But the person who made the bomb knows that it’s there, ready to explode as soon as somebody opens the door. There isn’t any back way into the apartment, so he can’t go in and disarm the bomb.”

“How did he fasten the wire to the trip mechanism on the handle of the outer door?” Birgitta wondered.

“He must have stood on the outside and threaded the thin wire through using a long hook. It must have been nerve-wracking and not something he wanted to repeat. It would be far too risky. What does he do now? Well, he sends over an insignificant insect like a Finnish cleaning woman,” Irene replied grimly.

“So the guy who made the bomb doesn’t know that Pirjo has three kids?”

“Or else he doesn’t care.”

Again the cold presence of calculated evil gave Irene a nasty shiver down her spine. She saw both Tommy and Birgitta unconsciously hunching their shoulders. Jonny was unusually silent. She glanced at him and saw that he seemed to be brooding. As if he heard her thoughts, he asked to speak. “I’m sitting here thinking. Who and why? What can we say about Shorty? He’s a notorious hooligan, he knows at least one and possibly more Hell’s Angels, and he has been dealing drugs together with his cousin Bobo. He could certainly make one of these devil bombs. There’s probably a do-it-yourself recipe on the Internet!”

The superintendent agreed enthusiastically. “Shorty? Yes, he could be the common denominator. But why? Why would he murder von Knecht?”

“Maybe it was the other one who murdered von Knecht! Hannu did say there could be two people.”

“The other one. . stop right there. . Then why did the second killer murder von Knecht?”

The silence was answer enough. Andersson sighed heavily. “The damned truth is that in the von Knecht case we’re just treading water! We know a lot about the family and their relatives and friends, but we have no motive for the murder. No answer to the question ‘Why?’ And where does Shorty come into the von Knecht picture? Was it Shorty who blew up his cousin? Hardly, since he didn’t seem to know about Bobo’s murder when he was brought in for questioning. I think we’re heading off on the wrong track. The Hell’s Angels, Bobo, and Shorty are a whole different case that we have to solve together with Narcotics. But in the von Knecht case we need a new angle. Let’s check all observations and witness statements one more time. If it really was Shorty who tossed von Knecht, somebody must have seen him. That guy doesn’t just melt into a crowd!”

Irene began to feel the churning sense of emptiness that always appears in a case that isn’t solved quickly. Check and double-check all the witness statements. And check again, if you don’t find anything new. A routine job. But that’s the way you solve crimes.

Fredrik started preparing for his presentation. He opened his notebook and coughed lightly before he began. “No one in the neighborhood says they noticed anyone suspicious on Tuesday evening. It was rainy and dark, of course, but it was only around five-thirty. No reports that anyone saw Shorty. He would have looked pretty disreputable in that neighborhood. Two meters tall and just as wide! Of course he looks disreputable wherever he is. But maybe we should ask around in the building one more time. Plus we can check up on whether Bobo was seen. He was almost as tall, but thin. Also somebody that people ought to remember.”

The superintendent nodded absentmindedly and sighed. “All right, go ahead and ask. Although I don’t think it’ll produce anything. But we should check. Maybe Bobo or Shorty threw von Knecht off the balcony. But there’s not a shred of evidence that Shorty had any contact with Richard von Knecht, or that they had ever met. And not a single rumor about drug deals around von Knecht. I find it hard to believe that Shorty and Bobo had started speculating in stocks!”

“You’ve got a point, Chief. But maybe we can pick up some new leads on Friday. Now that they’ve cleaned up the site, they can go into the building and start drilling von Knecht’s safe out of the wall. It’s hard because there’s a cellar under the building that they have to prop up from below. Otherwise they can’t bring in the telescopic boom and the standalone forklift. That’s heavy equipment and they don’t want it to fall into the cellar. It’ll probably take a day or two,” Fredrik concluded his report.

“Okay. Tommy, Fredrik, and Jonny will have to plan a strategy and question Shorty. Grill him! Skip the von Knecht stuff for now and concentrate on drugs and the Hell’s Angels. Birgitta, you haven’t found any connection between Shorty and that vice president. . what the hell kind of titles do these idiots give each other?”

“Vice President Glenn ‘Hoffa’ Strömberg. No, I haven’t found anything yet. As for titles, they have all sorts of different ranks. There’s one who’s responsible for weapons, another who makes sure that there’s always food and booze in the clubhouse, and so forth. Lowest in the hierarchy are the girls. They have no rank at all,” Birgitta said dryly.

Jonny sniggered and said, “A well-ordered society, where the chicks know their proper place and function!”

Andersson shot him a dark look, so he didn’t continue his exegesis of the social structure within the Hell’s Angels. Somewhere inside the superintendent a vague uneasiness arose that the old lady in Birgitta’s building could just as well have seen Jonny’s Volvo as Bobo’s Toyota. He firmly pushed those thoughts aside.

Birgitta clenched her jaws but ignored Jonny’s comment and continued unfazed, “We’ll find out more from the Narcs tomorrow. But I have to see if I can find the link between Shorty and Hoffa.”

Resolutely Andersson slapped his palm on the table. “All right, now we’re moving! If you find anything of interest, I’ll be here until this evening.”

They got up and went off to their respective tasks. Irene drew Tommy aside.

“Please come to dinner at six. Jenny will be home. And it’s perfectly safe since Krister’s in charge of the grub.”


IRENE WAS surprised that Sylvia von Knecht was home and answered the telephone. But Ivan Viktors had said that he was going back to Copenhagen on Sunday evening. Sylvia must not have wanted to stay alone out in Särö. Without any great enthusiasm, Sylvia agreed to let her come over and ask some questions at eleven.

Irene tried to start her report on what had happened in Billdal, but it was slow going. She called Krister and agreed to pick him up after she visited Jimmy. She drank the rest of the coffee in the thermos and looked outside. There was a break in the rain, and a pale sun seeped through the clouds. Six degrees Celsius. A regular heat wave, compared to the temperatures in recent weeks. She quickly decided to take a walk up to Molinsgatan. It would take exactly the half hour that was left until eleven if she walked slowly. She put on her leather jacket and went out.


TRAFFIC WAS heavy and the air thick with exhaust. The big soccer fields at Heden lay soggy and abandoned. She crossed Södra Vägen and strolled up Kristinelundsgatan. A glance in the display windows of the exclusive boutiques reminded her that she had to buy a new jacket. She had already thrown out the one that had been pissed on in Billdal without even trying to have it cleaned. The leather one she had on now was too worn. Up on Kungsportsavenyn she stopped and looked in the window of KappAhl while she discreetly buttoned up her jacket. The last part of the way she cut across Vasaparken. Behind the university she saw a gang of youths. The tall boy in the middle of the group was black. Thick Rasta dreadlocks stuck out all around his head. Her heart skipped a beat. Was there some kind of abuse going on? But all was total harmony. Coolly and completely openly, the Rastaman handed over small plastic bags in exchange for wrinkled and sweaty bills from the youths. Ecstasy for the weekend’s rave, no doubt.

What was the difference between Bobo Torsson’s and the Rastaman’s dope dealing? The environment, she decided. Smoky nightclubs and trendy, hip spots don’t change the fact that it’s dope being bought and sold. And that the buyers are drug-dependent, though they all vehemently deny it. She looked at the kids with sorrow. Some tried it out of curiosity, got scared, and stopped. But many of them would end up addicted. Some would manage despite great pressure to break loose from their dependence. But all of them would be forced to live with the consequences of their addiction.

She memorized the appearance of the tall dealer so she could report him when she returned to headquarters. The Narcs’ street-dealer squad probably knew who he was.


SYLVIA VON Knecht was haggard. For the first time she looked her age. She was walking around in an enormous gray wool sweater, knit in a pretty cable pattern, and actually wearing blue jeans, which greatly surprised Irene. Apparently she still hadn’t managed to clean up after the technical examination of the apartment. Everything looked the same as it had when Irene was there before. Big flower bouquets with cards of condolence were placed randomly in the apartment. The heavy floral scent seemed to presage the upcoming funeral. The pleasant fragrance had a rank undertone; the water needed to be changed.

They went upstairs to the airy library and sat down on the leather sofa. Sylvia nervously bit a torn nail. She raised her face, which bore no makeup, and looking at Irene said in a thin voice, “Can you imagine? I miss him so much! Every time the phone rings or someone laughs down on the street, I think it’s him. Sometimes I imagine he’s going to walk through the door and laugh, pleased that he was able to fool everyone. I’m wearing his sweater. It smells like. . him.”

She sobbed and her curtain of hair fell across her face. Irene didn’t quite know how to approach the whole subject. How did things actually stand with Ivan Viktors? She decided to start with the keys.

“We found the key ring. And Pirjo,” she said by way of introduction.

The newspapers would be informed at the press conference later that afternoon that the victim on Berzeliigatan was Pirjo. They hadn’t mentioned it earlier, for “technical investigative reasons.”

Sylvia started and said sharply, “You found the key ring? Who had it?”

“It was sitting in the door at Berzeliigatan. The door to the office apartment.”

“Well, I never! Here I changed the lock on the apartment and spent more than two thousand kronor for nothing! Why couldn’t you have told me about this earlier? Thank God I didn’t bother changing them up at Kärringnäset!”

“We weren’t completely sure that they were the right keys. . for technical investigative reasons.”

“And Pirjo! Where has that slob been hiding? I want her to come over here right away!”

“Sorry. She’s dead. She was blown up in the explosion on Berzeliigatan a week ago.”

It was cruel and brutally frank, but Irene wanted to see how Sylvia would react.

“You. . you’re lying. . it can’t be. .”

The effect was not pretty. Sylvia shrank, shriveling up right before her eyes. Once again Sylvia’s hot-tempered and slightly hysterical manner had provoked Irene to venture too far out on thin ice. Trying to smooth things over, she said, “It took several days for the identification. She was so badly burned. We got hold of the dental X rays and thanks to-”

“What was she doing at Berzeliigatan?”

Sylvia’s voice sounded slightly hollow and her eyes reflected outright terror. She was scared. That hadn’t been evident when her husband was murdered. But now she was scared to death, on the verge of panic. Irene tried to sound calm but still authoritative.

“We don’t know. It’s one of the questions I was thinking of asking you. First and foremost, we’d like to know where she got hold of the spare keys. If I understood you correctly, you didn’t know about this spare-key ring?”

“No, I didn’t know about any spare-key ring. Except for the one we have here.”

“We’ve discovered that the keys were made late this summer. Richard went to Mister Minit on Avenyn to have them made.”

Sylvia was breathing heavily. Her eyes glistened. She avoided looking at Irene now. Irene was even more convinced that Sylvia knew something or had her suspicions.

“I don’t know anything about those keys,” said Sylvia firmly. Her voice sounded steadier, but she had to press her hands together hard to prevent them from shaking.

Irene felt that she couldn’t let Sylvia go yet. There was something here. She decided to press her a little more and reformulated her question. “So you don’t have any idea what he wanted the keys for, or if he gave them to anyone else?”

“No.”

She was lying. She was lying! But Irene didn’t dare go out on the ice again. Not yet.

“The bomb that blew up the building detonated when Pirjo opened the outer door to your husband’s office. She opened the door using the key ring. We found her behind the door,” she said in a neutral tone.

“But the papers talked about a missing young man!”

“That’s correct. He was found yesterday, a little farther up in the remains of the building. Two people died in the fire.”

Sylvia got up from the sofa and started pacing aimlessly around the room. She wrung her hands and sighed quietly. She was incredibly shaken, Irene could see that. But why? If she knew who had the keys, why wouldn’t she speak? Irene tried again.

“You don’t have the slightest suspicion who might have received those keys?”

“No, I told you that!”

The ice was creaking and cracking. Best to look for less dangerous areas.

“Did you know any of the other tenants in the building on Berzeliigatan?”

She shook her head in reply.

“Do you recognize the name Bo-Ivar, or Bobo, Torsson?”

Sylvia frowned and actually seemed to think about it.

“The name sounds familiar. Wait. . he was the photographer who rented the apartment above Richard’s. He’s one of Charlotte’s old acquaintances.”

Irene was so dumbfounded that she almost lost her composure. But she managed to assume a nearly neutral tone of voice when she asked, “An old acquaintance? What do you mean?”

“She worked for him as a photo model. It didn’t amount to much, that modeling. Nothing Charlotte undertakes is ever successful.”

“Did Torsson already have his photo studio on Berzeliigatan when Charlotte was working for him?”

“No. She recommended him to Richard. Richard thought it would be practical to have the same tenant in both apartments.”

“When was this?”

“Don’t know. Maybe three years ago.” Sylvia wrapped her arms around herself, hunching up her shoulders as if she were freezing. But she seemed distracted when the topic of Bobo Torsson was discussed. Her thoughts were already moving in some other direction.

Irene tried again. “Does the name Lasse ‘Shorty’ Johannesson mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“A huge guy around thirty-five.”

“No.”

Absentmindedly, Sylvia gathered up some fallen petals from a purple chrysanthemum that had dropped onto the dusty coffee table. Irritated, she swept the pile up and then seemed to forget both the petals and Irene at the same moment. Her shining eyes didn’t seem to notice her surroundings as she sat gazing into her own abysses. Irene would have given a lot to know what she saw. But a glance at Sylvia’s face made her less sure that she wanted to see it herself. The discussion about the key ring had made Sylvia retreat within herself. Irene had to get her to come out again. What might tempt her to start talking? A vague hunch told Irene that money could always get Sylvia to talk. Wasn’t that what Valle Reuter had said?

“Well, Sylvia, that insurance you once told me about. .”

She left the sentence unfinished on purpose to see if Sylvia would bite. At first she seemed not to have heard, but after a while she turned her head and gave Irene an unexpectedly sharp look.

“Insurance? Did I mention the insurance to you?”

“Yes, when we spoke on the telephone the first time. When you were in the psychiatric ward.”

“I don’t remember that. Maybe I did. They put me on a lot of medication, and I have very dim memories of those first few days.”

She took a deep breath and to Irene’s relief sat down in one corner of the angular sofa. She kicked off her Birkenstocks and, tucking her legs beneath her, started chewing on her chipped nail again. In a normal tone she said, “The insurance. That was probably the only thing Richard ever did for Henrik’s and my benefit. He explained to me that it’s a sort of retirement annuity. After he turned sixty, he could retire anytime he wanted and draw an annual income of a million kronor for ten years. But it’s also life insurance. If Richard died, Henrik and I would receive the same sum over ten years, to be divided between us.”

“So the insurance falls due with a survivors’ benefit?”

“The same as most retirement annuities.”

Henrik and Sylvia would each receive half a million per year over the next ten years. People have been murdered for less. Added to the rest of the fortune, maybe Valle Reuter was on the right track. If only mother and son hadn’t been down on the street, surrounded by witnesses, when Richard fell. Irene decided to proceed cautiously.

“But the rest of your husband’s assets and fortune, who inherits all of that?”

Now Sylvia was utterly calm. She looked a bit like a small Siamese cat that has just swallowed a goldfish.

“I do. But it’s extremely complicated. The lawyers are busy making sense of it all. They say it could take a long time. But the insurance money will start being paid out next month, with this month’s payment retroactive.”

It had to be a hallucination, but Irene thought she heard a whirring sound as the wheels turned in her brain. The key ring was forbidden territory, but the money and Bobo Torsson had gone well. Should she continue with Bobo?

“Bobo Torsson is also dead. You may have read in today’s paper that he was murdered early Monday morning. He was blown up in his car.”

Sylvia gave her an uninterested look. “Blown up? No. I’m not reading the papers very carefully right now. I can’t face it. I have enough to think about with everything that’s happened.”

“Do you know if Bobo and Charlotte were still seeing each other?”

“No idea. Charlotte likes to go out and be part of the hip scene.”

“Does Henrik accompany her when she goes out and gets into the swing of things?”

Uh-oh, the ice was cracking again. Sylvia put her feet down on the carpet and gave Irene a measured look. Abruptly she said, “Henrik does not enjoy going out. Not after his illness, which I told you about.”

Suddenly Irene was struck by an idea. “It was meningitis that Henrik suffered as a result, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“As a result of what?”

“A childhood illness.”

“Which childhood illness?”

“The mumps.”

There was nothing left of the little contented kitten, only a sorrowful mother huddled in the corner of the sofa. Something clicked in Irene’s mind. One of her male colleagues at the police academy got the mumps while they were attending Ulriksdal. Both his testicles were also affected, and they swelled up so grotesquely that he couldn’t walk. Unfortunately his name was Paul, and he was always called “Paul Fig-Ball” after that. At a party he later confided to Irene and Tommy that there was a great risk that he was now sterile. Apparently it wasn’t an unusual complication in adult men who got the mumps. Had this also happened to Henrik? It was a long shot, but she decided to try.

“It’s common for adult males to become sterile after having the mumps. Were Henrik’s testicles affected?”

Sylvia’s eyes widened with terror. With a horrible crash the ice shattered and she fell through. She hid her face in her hands and began to cry hysterically.

It took twenty minutes before she calmed down enough for Irene to consider her somewhat stable. But Sylvia refused to answer any more questions and stubbornly repeated, “You have to go now! I’m due at the seamstress at one o’clock to try on my dress for the funeral. Go! Go!”


IRENE HAD a lot to think about as she sat in a mediocre pizzeria a few blocks down the street gnawing on the “daily special.” It consisted of a serving of tough lasagne, along with some pitiful cabbage strips in vinegar. The ice water was lukewarm and the coffee looked like Sammie’s bathwater. Not even Irene could manage to drink it. But it didn’t really matter, because questions and facts were tumbling through her head. Sylvia was scared stiff when the spare keys were mentioned. She knew, or had an idea, who might have taken them. Or had they been given to someone? Why wouldn’t Sylvia talk about it? Charlotte von Knecht and Bobo Torsson were old friends and had worked together. She initiated the contact between him and her father-in-law, and then Torsson was able to rent the two apartments. Did they still see each other? Did it have any significance for the investigation? Was this the point of contact they had been looking for? Irene had a hard time believing it. Not in her wildest fantasy could she picture Bobo Torsson knocking down Richard von Knecht and throwing him off the balcony, fabricating the bomb on Berzeliigatan, and then blowing himself to kingdom come. The last maybe by mistake. It wasn’t even logical, since it didn’t answer the question of why.

Why would Bobo murder Richard von Knecht? Why would he destroy his own home and studio? Not to mention himself! Picturing Charlotte in any of these roles was even harder. She certainly wasn’t a bomb maker. But the fact that Bobo and Charlotte knew each other was interesting. Were they still friends? More than friends? It seemed to be time to have a talk with young Fru von Knecht. Henrik von Knecht had gotten the mumps as an adult, and subsequently meningitis. Had the mumps spread to his testicles? If so, was he sterile? Viewed in the light of this latest information, she thought that many of Sylvia’s odd reactions over the past few days became more understandable. If you know that your son is sterile, would you be glad to hear that your daughter-in-law is pregnant? And the follow-up question was possibly even more interesting: In that case, who was the father of Charlotte’s child? Why did Henrik react as he did? According to his own statement he was prepared to try to keep his shaky marriage together, “For the sake of the child and the survival of the family.” That didn’t make sense. Either he thought he was the father of the child, or else he didn’t care. But if he was sterile he must know it! And if he didn’t care, would he then be prepared to continue working on his relationship with Charlotte?

She was aroused from her musings by a voice in her ear.

“’Scuse. Lady want more coffee?” A short, dark waiter was giving her a friendly smile and holding out the glass coffeepot. To her dismay she realized that in her distraction she had actually been sipping the coffee slop.


JIMMY’S FACE brightened with joy when she came in with a bag of goodies and a stack of newspapers. He looked about like he did the day before, only a little darker purple in complexion. The IV was gone and he was sitting in a high-backed vinyl armchair over by the window. There was room for one more patient in the room, but that bed was still empty.

“Hi Jimmy! You look like an LSD hallucination,” Irene said cheerfully.

“Thank you. That’s just what I needed to hear.”

He laughed heartily and they chatted about neutral topics. Irene gave him the latest news on the investigative front. He was exceedingly interested in the information about the traces of narcotics in the summer cabins.

“We’ve been investigating part of the motorcycle gang for a long time. Death Squadron Number One is especially interesting. They’ve been full members of the Hell’s Angels for several years. The gangs ride around Europe and visit each other. It takes a lot before two lowly customs agents down in Helsingborg will start rummaging through twenty Hell’s Angels packs when they’ve been visiting their brothers in Denmark or Holland. We also know that they smuggle narcotics in other ways.”

“Why do they deal drugs?”

“Big business. Hardly any of the members have a job. They need plenty of money for daily living, new choppers and spare parts, clubhouses and weapons. They have enough weapons to start a revolution! And many of them are drug users themselves. So dope for their own use too. They say they belong to ‘the extreme percentage-the sociopaths, for whom no laws apply.’”

He fell silent and both of them had the same thought. It was Jimmy who expressed it. “Sometimes I think, They could have done whatever they wanted to me. I was completely defenseless. And a defenseless cop! So sometimes I wonder why they didn’t finish us off.”

Once more Irene saw the glow of the explosion and she felt the hot pressure wave against her face. She could only whisper, “They thought about it. They tried.”

Softly, she began to tell him as objectively as possible. Sometimes she had to pause to wipe away her tears, but she wanted him to know the exact course of events. He was the only one who could understand her feelings, since he had been there. While she was speaking, she noticed that the last emotional knots were loosening and she felt a sense of calm rising inside her. A troubling thought occurred to her: Had she transferred her anxiety to Jimmy? Not once during the entire account did he interrupt her. His one visible eye did not waver from her face. But his comment when she was done calmed her.

“What luck that you were the one who was awake and not me! I was always lousy at throwing balls. My best events have always been the high jump and the hundred meters. Those wouldn’t have helped us much!”

He laughed heartily again and offered her some of the candy from the bag. Mentally he seemed unscathed, but his physical damage was much worse.

“A crack in one of the bones in my forearm. Do you know what it’s called? You don’t? Radius fissure. You learn a bunch of useful stuff when you’re in the hospital. Although you have to be healthy to deal with it. Today I spent two hours on my back in Radiology waiting for a skull X ray. To check that there’s no bleeding between the brain membranes. Then you get a. . what was it called? Wait, I wrote it down.”

He got up and shuffled over to his bedside table. With a shock Irene realized that his injuries were even worse than she’d thought.

“Jimmy, what happened to your legs?”

He turned and grimaced. “Violent blows or kicks to my lower back. I have to get it X-rayed tomorrow. They suspect a fracture of one of the tail vertebrae. It hurts like hell to walk or sit. That’s why I’m going to lie down now. You have to come over here. Ah, here’s the note!”

Triumphantly he waved a little scrap of paper torn from a notepad.

“Computer tomography. No, that’s the examination! A machine they stuff you inside. But you don’t feel anything. What they’re afraid I might contract is called subdural hematoma. It can appear several years later, say the doctors. That’s why I can’t go home before Friday. Damn it!”

He said the last when he had to lift his legs onto the bed. With a sigh he went on, “Then I’ll probably be on the disabled list for a while. Although I’ll try to get home care.”

The last he said with a wink and a knowing look toward the door. A young nurse with a waist-long blond braid came in. She nodded to Irene and gave Jimmy a gleaming smile. There was a light blush on her cheeks, and her eyes indicated that she wouldn’t be particularly hard to convince. She chirped at Jimmy, “X-ray preparations. Just a little micro-enema. I’ll come back in a while and help you with the enema, if you want.”

“Now you’re talking, baby,” Jimmy said in English. “No, all kidding aside, I can handle it myself.”

She laughed and left a little yellow plastic tube with a long nozzle on his nightstand. With another bright smile she vanished into the corridor.

Irene stood up and said, “Well, I’ll leave you to your anal orgies. If I can’t stop by tomorrow, I’ll call you.”

“Calling is good enough. Although it’s more fun when you come by.”

He waved with his good hand.

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