Chapter Three

IRENE HUSS DROVE HOME through the midnight stillness of Göteborg. Here and there electric candlesticks had begun to appear in windows, although it was more than a week and a half until the beginning of Advent. Was it because of the Christmas decorations in stores being displayed earlier and earlier, or was it merely a sign of the longing for light in the dense winter darkness? Speaking of light, Jenny needed a new candlestick for her window. The old one had shortcircuited last year. Was it Jenny or Katarina who said that she’d rather have a birch-bark star? Sometimes it was hard to remember which of them said what. Even though the girls were twins, they were so unlike in every way that people hardly believed they were even sisters. Jenny was most like Krister, a little uncommunicative and just as blond. But she hadn’t inherited her father’s interest in food, devoting herself instead mostly to music. Katarina was dark like Irene, extroverted and sporty. She had started going with Irene to the dojo when she was ten. Now she was thirteen and was about to be certified for a green belt, ukemi-waza.

Irene had been seventeen when she got hers. At nineteen she became the Nordic female champion in judo, and two years later the European champion. Of course in the women’s competitions there hadn’t been much significant opposition in the rest of Europe seventeen years ago, but it had still given her high status at the police academy.

Her fellow students still talked about the time an instructor came to the academy to address “the need for the police to know some basics of self-defense.” He was a cocksure Stockholmer who intended to show the puny police cadets how a real ninja hero defended himself.

He called up the skinniest boy in class, a wiry kid from Småland who never in his life had trained in any martial arts. On the other hand, he did belong to the Swedish national team in table tennis. The cadet was told to put a choke hold on the instructor from behind, and he obediently complied. Quickly the instructor grabbed the Ping-Pong player’s left hand, turned ninety degrees toward him, pressed his hand hard against his shoulder, and put him down on the mat with an o-sotootoshi. There was just one problem-you don’t push down wiry cadets from Småland any old way you like. Especially if they’re on the national Ping-Pong team. The cadet flared up and resisted, and then his shoulder dislocated. It hurt like hell and the poor guy lay there writhing on the mat. Instruction was halted as the student was taken to the emergency room to have his shoulder reset.

Irene was outraged. During lunch she made a decision. It was against the ground rules of the sport, but the instructor had to be put in his place. He had used a move that belonged to a blue belt, much too high a difficulty level for a beginner.

After lunch the instructor came back to the gym. With a smirk he said he hoped that “this little incident hadn’t scared them off from further practice.” No one answered, and the mood was gloomy. Quickly the instructor turned to his students and said, “Anyone figure out the hold and want to try?”

Ha, right into the trap! Irene stood up before anyone else could volunteer. With feigned shyness she lowered her eyes and said in her thickest Göteborg accent, “I guess I could give it a try.”

Tension was mounting among her fellow cadets, but the instructor didn’t notice. He was clearly annoyed when he saw that she was almost ten centimeters taller than he was. Resolutely he raised his arms so he could put a choke hold on her from behind. In a fraction of a second she had tensed her neck muscles, taken a step back with her left leg, and hooked his leg. She pulled his legs apart with a quick sweep, let him fall, and stepped back.

The cheers and applause went on and on.

The flattened instructor tried to regain the initiative as he lay on his back on the mat. “Good, very good! Anyone else want to try?”

The booing that greeted his remark was too strong to drown out. He slunk out the door. That was the first and last time they ever saw the guy.

Irene, amused by the memory, almost missed her turn onto Västerleden at Järnbrotts Motet and headed out toward Särö instead. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she longed to be home in bed.


INSIDE THE front door sat Sammie happily wagging his tail. He jumped, leaped, and wriggled with his whole body to show his boundless joy that she was home. Suddenly he stopped and pressed his nose tight against the door. He gave her a pleading look. Out. Have to pee. Right away!

With a sigh she put on his leash and went out in the night. After a few meters she remembered that she didn’t have any poop bags left in her pocket. If something happened now, they would have to rely on the darkness and the late hour and quickly slip away from the scene of the crime.


“WAS THIS the reason you were so late last night?”

Krister held up the Göteborg Post to Irene’s bleary gaze. She was sitting at the breakfast table, trying to wake up. It was almost seven o’clock. Her daughters plopped down at the table. The morning shower fight had ended with Katarina first, Krister second, Jenny third, and herself last. Krister was trying to find a new thermostat for the downstairs shower. It was hopeless to have only one, when all of them had to leave at the same time in the morning. Now it was her turn to shower. But hadn’t her husband just asked her something? She saw the black headlines screeching across half the front page: RICHARD VON KNECHT DEAD AFTER FALL FROM BALCONY. Lower down on the page, in smaller type: “Police tight-lipped. Accident or suicide?”

She managed merely to nod in reply. Before she left the kitchen, she said over her shoulder, “I have to take a shower. Dear, make sure the coffee is strong!”

She stood under the water for a luxuriously long time. Feeling much brisker, she went back to the bedroom and threw on her clothes: black Levi’s, black turtleneck, and a bright red V-necked Pringle sweater. Well, a Pringle knockoff, at least. Thin blue eyeliner to match her eyes, a little black mascara, and a light spray of Red Door. Now she was ready to move mountains!

The girls had breakfast ready when she came down. Their bus would be leaving in fifteen minutes. Katarina scrambled around looking for her school bag while Jenny sat at the table. She made an effort to gather her courage. Finally she blurted out, “Do you think I could have the money to buy an electric guitar? Or maybe as a Christmas present?”

“An electric guitar?” her parents echoed in unison.

“Yes. A band at school needs somebody who can play guitar and sing … so they asked me. One of the guys plays guitar for the same teacher as I do.”

“Are any boys from your class in this band?” asked Krister.

“No, three boys and a girl from ninth grade.”

“Ninth grade! But you’re only in the seventh, sweetie pie.”

“I’m not a sweetie pie!”

She jumped up from her chair with tears in her eyes and whirled out of the kitchen. Katarina stuck her head in the kitchen doorway and said in surprise, “What the heck was that about?”

“She wants an electric guitar so she can play in a band at school,” sighed Krister.

“Oh, I get it. The White Killers. They’re not so bad. Sometimes they play in the courtyard at lunchtime,” Katarina informed them.

“White Killers? What kind of name is that for a band? Are they satanists or what?” Krister had an unusually long fuse, but now he was starting to lose his temper.

“Well. . more sort of punk rock, like. . maybe. . Punx Not Dead, Pappa!”

With a gleeful grin Katarina bounced out to the hall and the girls took off running to the bus stop.

Irene could hear the weariness in her own voice as she moaned, “Give me strength! White Killers! Will you be home tonight? I don’t know when I’ll be back. This von Knecht case is hot. There’s plenty to indicate that he was murdered, but we’re lying low until the autopsy is done. It seems nothing has leaked out to the press yet. They’re going to tear down police headquarters when they hear this!”

“Home? Probably not before six. But that works out fine, since Katarina has judo tonight. So I can try and talk to Jenny. Hurry up now, let’s get going.”

They took Sammie for a quick walk before they dropped him off with the dog-sitter, a retired widow. She supplemented her pension by taking care of four dogs, for payment under the table. Jenny and Katarina usually picked up Sammie on their way home from school.


THE DAY was already in full swing at headquarters when Irene Huss showed up just before eight. The annual flu season was approaching, but so far it was mostly autumn colds that were taking their toll. The Violent Crimes Unit had three inspectors out sick. It wouldn’t be easy, but Superintendent Andersson was going around trying to pry loose some officers from other units.

He was talking with the superintendent of General Investigations, Birger Nilsson, who reluctantly spared an inspector when he realized that von Knecht’s death would soon be the cause of even bigger headlines. Accident or suicide is one thing, but murder is something else entirely. Intrigued, Nilsson began asking for more details, but Andersson, feeling stressed, replied curtly. He knew that his new investigative group was already gathered and waiting for him at their first meeting.


“ALL OF us in this room will be working exclusively on the von Knecht case. Any other ongoing investigations will be set aside or turned over to other investigators. Has everyone seen the headlines in the morning papers about von Knecht’s ‘accident’?”

The seven around the table nodded. Andersson took a deep breath and unconsciously rose up on his toes before he continued.

“It was no accident or suicide. It was homicide!”

The effect, naturally, was an astonished murmur. The superintendent called for silence and began to report on what he and Irene had seen the night before. There wasn’t a sound during his entire presentation. He concluded by passing on what the techs had reported about an hour earlier, which was news even to Irene.

He said, “You probably all know Police Technician Svante Malm. You do too, don’t you, Hannu?”

This last was directed at Hannu Rauhala, the inspector on loan from General Investigations. No one in Violent Crimes had met him before. Rauhala nodded.

“He just informed me that there’s blood and hair, probably from von Knecht, on the flat end of the meat cleaver. On the sharp edge they found blood and skin fragments, also apparently from the victim. The length of the cut on the back of the victim’s hand matches the length of the cleaver’s edge. The comparison tests were ready by seven this morning. Svante and Per worked in high gear all night. There were absolutely no prints on the handle. It was carefully wiped off, and from the smell we don’t need any tests to tell us that a dash of Ajax was used.”

He stopped and looked around the table. On his right sat Irene Huss, who only raised one eyebrow slightly at the last piece of information. Next to her sat Tommy Persson, Irene’s fellow student from the academy and one of her closest friends. Then came Hans Borg, who still looked tired and worn out from his wife’s fiftieth birthday party over the weekend. Birgitta Moberg next to him could hardly be accused of looking tired. Her brown squirrel eyes were fixed in fascination on the superintendent. She was cute, blond, and cuddly. Plenty of guys in various departments had tried to make a pass at that little angel, who looked as if she had just left the police academy. But she was actually over thirty and possessed both brains and claws. Most of them made only one attempt. Among those who had tried was Jonny Blom, the man next to her. At an unforgettable Christmas party the year before, his wife and four kids had figuratively been shoved down his throat by Birgitta. The newest inspector in the department was Fredrik Stridh. He had worked with them for a year now and made a very good impression. The last man, sitting to the left of the superintendent, was Hannu Rauhala, who was of Finnish extraction. He looked inscrutable and slightly exotic with his slanted ice-blue eyes, platinum-blond hair, and prominent cheekbones. It was hard to tell how old he was, but probably somewhere around thirty.

Andersson clapped his hands together and said energetically, “We have to work fast because the media don’t know it’s a homicide yet. The press conference is set for one o’clock. We’ve been promised a preliminary autopsy report by eleven.”

The superintendent paused and thoughtfully surveyed his inspectors.

“Von Knecht was, after all, a real big shot throughout Sweden. Offhand, the only thing I recall is his sixtieth birthday party a few months ago,” he said, hesitating.

Everyone around the table nodded. It had been a celebration that echoed all the way up to the Stockholm tabloids. Everyone who was anyone in the financial and jet-set worlds had gathered at von Knecht’s fashionable country estate.

Andersson went on, “Irene and I were impressed by the apartment, but his shack outside Marstrand is at least three times as big. It’s located on a peninsula, and von Knecht owns the whole area. He’s got a private harbor too. The acreage must be several hectares. My sister has a summerhouse at Åstol. I’ve seen his place from the lake, when I was out fishing with my brother-in-law. Anything else we know? Irene?”

“His wife’s name is Sylvia. His son is named Henrik and he’s married. I only know the names, no personal data yet. Oh yes, Henrik said that his parents celebrated their thirtieth anniversary last Saturday. And of course you all know that this is one of the richest families in Sweden. Richard von Knecht had unbelievable success on the stock market during the go-go eighties. I don’t know much else. Maybe we should get some help from one of my old pals who’s a reporter at the Swedish Ladies’ Journal. I’m sure she could help us dig up some old gossip.”

Andersson didn’t look too thrilled at the thought, but finally shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, the main thing is to work fast. Maybe that will get results. In the meantime I want you to handle the interview with Henrik von Knecht and his wife this morning and try to get hold of the old lady with the dog. Those of you who can, meet me here ten minutes before the press conference. Tommy, Hans, and Fredrik will drive out and start interviewing the other tenants in the neighborhood, in case they saw or heard anything. Birgitta, you stay here for a while so you and Irene can dig up a little more on the residents of von Knecht’s building. Henrik von Knecht should know who they are. Then go out and try to get hold of them. Either at work or wherever these people spend their days. They have to be somewhere!”

He took a deep breath and tried to determine who didn’t have an assignment yet. When he figured it out he said, “Hannu, you collect all the statistical data from various databases; General Investigations is good at that. Complete background checks on all family members. When we know the names of the other residents I want their backgrounds too. Jonny, get in touch with the Financial Crimes Unit and find out what they know about von Knecht. As for newspapers, we should probably contact the Göteborg Post. They must have a pile of material. Anyone here have any contacts at GP? Ah, Hannu-okay, you take care of that too. Have I forgotten anything?”

“What are you going to do yourself?”

Of course it was Jonny who asked that question, in his smug way. Actually, he was probably quite pleased with his relatively simple assignment. The superintendent slumped a bit and sighed, apparently without noticing it. “I’ve been called before the chief. He wants a report. Then I’m going up to Pathology to meet with Madame Professor.”

Irene couldn’t help being annoyed for Yvonne Stridner’s sake. “As a matter of fact, she’s a professor in her own right; she didn’t marry into the title,” she said sharply.

If Andersson heard her he didn’t let on. He made a point of looking at the clock above the door. Everyone could see that it was getting close to ten o’clock, so they had to get busy.


IRENE HUSS started by calling the Swedish Ladies’ Journal in Stockholm. Finally Sofie’s rough, smoky voice came on the line.

“Yeah, Sofie Ahl here.”

She was surprised and happy to hear it was Irene on the other end. After a little general gossiping and banter, Irene mentioned that she’d like some old clippings on the von Knecht family. The news of the sensational death had been the lead story even for the major Stockholm papers. Sofie turned professionally inquisitive, but Irene wriggled out of it by telling her that “the autopsy isn’t done yet, but we’re trying to work up the background. . looking for a possible basis for suicide. .

“Go as far back as you can,” she went on. “Though I’m sure that starting with the midfifties should be plenty. Maybe I could call you this afternoon and get a summary?” Irene suggested.

“No, that won’t work. I’ve got to go out on a job. But let’s do this: Give me your fax number and I’ll put one of our interns on it. We’ll call it a research project. She’ll fax down what she finds to you, and then you can go through it. I’m sure it won’t be necessary to send it all, but she can certainly pick out what might be useful.”

“You’re an angel, Sofie.”

The next name on her list was the dachshund lady, Fru Eva Karlsson at Kapellgatan 3. Irene took a deep breath before she dialed. The phone rang ten times before the receiver was lifted on the other end. A thick mumble was heard, but Irene took a chance that she had reached the right person.

“Is this Fru Eva Karlsson?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Detective Inspector Irene Huss. We met yesterday evening after the terrible. . accident.”

“Oh, don’t talk about it! I was asleep when you called. I had to take a sleeping pill last night.”

Fru Karlsson went on at length about her many years of insomnia and the various types of tablets she had tried over the years. Irene had a feeling that it was a good idea to listen. If nothing else, it would give the woman time to wake up.

At last she interrupted, “And how’s your dog?”

“Thanks for asking, Snoopy is lying right here and feeling so goody-woody, aren’t you, Snoopy-Woopy?”

Resolutely Irene asked the next question before Fru Karlsson wandered off again into doggy world. “You’re the closest witness we have. Are you still sure that you didn’t hear any scream before-or during-his fall?”

There was a long silence.

“No, I’m sure I didn’t hear any scream. He just plopped right down in front of me. Oh, now I can see it all again!”

“Fru Karlsson, could I come up and have a chat with you this afternoon?”

“Dear girl, of course, that would be fine. But call first.”

“I promise I will. Thanks again.”

SHE HAD to grab a quick cup of coffee before eleven o’clock. She rounded the corner of the corridor at full speed. The ensuing collision between the superintendent and herself was forceful, but she hoped it wouldn’t leave any lingering marks. And the bright red color of his face would probably fade eventually.

Testily he cried, “Watch where you’re going! Oh, it’s you. Good. Now we’ll get to the bottom of things!”

She had seen him angry many times before, but never like this. With all the outer signs of an incipient stroke he fumed, “The telephone just rang. When I answered, it was a reporter from the Göteborg Times calling, that Kurt Höök guy. You know what that jerk said? ‘How can you be sure that von Knecht was murdered?’ At first I was completely thrown off guard, but then I said, ‘Who told you he was murdered?’ You know what he said then? ‘An informed source.’ What do you say to that? I’m going to make sure that source dries up, once and for all!”

“Do you know who it is?”

“I have my suspicions. Who said they knew someone at GP? If someone has one contact in the newspaper world he could have more,” fumed Andersson.

“Sven, come with me and have a cup of coffee. What if it isn’t Hannu? Just because he knows somebody at GP doesn’t mean he knows anyone at GT.”

The superintendent protested vehemently but finally admitted that Irene might be right.

Muttering and swearing to himself, he followed her reluctantly to the staff lounge. They greeted two other inspectors who weren’t involved in the von Knecht case. Otherwise they were alone. They sat down at a table some distance from their two colleagues. Irene had just bitten into her roll when the chief of General Investigations, Superintendent Birger Nilsson, came into the room. He caught sight of Irene and Sven, broke into a big smile, and headed for their table by the window.

“So you’re sitting here drinking coffee,” he said cheerfully. “You can take it easy for a while. I think the von Knecht investigation is going to be tough. Keep Rauhala as long as you need him. By the way, you never told me. . Sven. How can you be sure that von Knecht was murdered?”

Word for word, it was the exact phrase that Kurt Höök at GT had used. Superintendent Nilsson leaned nonchalantly on the table, with one hand in his pants pocket, and exuded an amiable interest. Irene didn’t dare turn her head to look at Andersson, but she could sense the throbbing vibrations of suppressed rage emanating from him. That’s why the neutral tone of the beginning of his sentence was a surprise, but the rest of it certainly wasn’t.

“Well, you see, my dear colleague-I plugged up a leak in his ass from which he’d bled to death, and I’m ready to do the same for you. This source is now dried up for good.”

It was a daring shot in the dark, based on pure instinct, but it hit the bull’s-eye. Nilsson’s face looked as if he had been stripped naked; the embarrassment of guilt was obvious. All trace of easy confidence had vanished. Without a word he disappeared through the door.

The two inspectors at the other table looked as though lightning had struck their coffee mugs. Andersson made a dismissive gesture to them and tried to explain his behavior. “Okay, this is how it is. Early leads are gold for the evening press. They pay a hell of a lot for a scoop. You know as well as I do that some of our colleagues like to make some extra dough by tipping off the press. The press conference on the von Knecht case is set for one o’clock, a little too late for the evening papers. I went and borrowed a guy from General Investigations this morning. At that time Birger Nilsson couldn’t even remember my name.”

It would be a mistake to claim that the two inspectors looked as if they were any wiser, but they did their best. The color of Andersson’s face slowly started to return to normal. He stretched.

“Since you both heard Nilsson’s question, I hope you keep your lips sealed for another two hours,” he said sternly.

They muttered, “Of course” and “Sure, absolutely,” but still looked extremely confused. Irene wasn’t sure they understood what they had to keep their lips sealed about.

She quickly finished off her coffee and hurried back to work.


HENRIK VON Knecht and his wife were waiting in Irene’s office. Henrik looked hollow-eyed and horrible. He had changed into black slacks and a navy-blue cardigan. Even though his shirt was white and fresh, the overall impression was reminiscent of a newly risen vampire. The woman on the chair next to him was stunningly beautiful. Irene vaguely recognized her, but couldn’t place her. She was also dressed in navy blue. In her case it was a suit made of soft Napa leather, with a short straight skirt and big gold buttons on the jacket. Her black boots alone, with their stiletto heels, would cost Irene a month’s salary. Her hair was shoulder length and colored a deep mahogany; her eyes shimmered like the ocean, an incredible shade of turquoise blue. The shimmer came from the tears filling her eyes, but only the tears revealed that anything was amiss. Otherwise she was utterly composed and sat with her hands calmly resting on her knee. Discreet makeup emphasized her beauty. It may have been skillfully applied foundation that gave her skin its silky luster. A touch of rouge heightened the glow high up on her sculpted cheekbones.

Suddenly the crisis of turning forty came roaring down on Irene like an express train. No matter what she did, she would never be able to look that captivating after staying up all night. It wouldn’t even matter if it was a night of red-hot love that had kept her awake; she would still look like a wreck. As Sofie Ahl once told her, “You know that your fortieth birthday is coming by the way you pack for a trip. In your twenties you just stuffed a bag of toiletries in the outside pocket of your backpack. At forty your whole pack is a vanity case.”

Henrik saw how the inspector was staring at his wife, and with a sigh he said, “Good morning, Detective Inspector. Yes, you’ve seen her before. She’s the ‘Sun Shampoo Girl.’ Although that was a few years ago.”

“Good morning. How are you? Forgive me for staring, but I was sure I recognized you, I just couldn’t figure out where from,” Irene said quickly.

Gratefully she grasped the straw that Henrik had unwittingly handed her. She went over to the young woman and shook her hand. It felt limp and damp.

“Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”

“Charlotte von Knecht.”

Her voice was deep and sensual; it didn’t match her handshake.

“This is not an official interview, of course. I just need some help with background facts to try to sketch the chain of events leading up to the tragic death,” Irene began.

The turquoise irises watched her intently. Henrik’s eyes were like two dried clay balls. Both of them nodded, however. Irene had a sudden impulse and asked, “How old are the two of you?”

Henrik replied hesitantly, “I’m twenty-nine and Charlotte is twentyfive. What does that have to do with Pappa’s death?”

“Background information. When will you be thirty?”

“April fifteenth,” he said curtly.

Which would mean that Sylvia von Knecht had been pregnant at her wedding thirty years earlier.

There was only a difference of four years between Henrik and Charlotte, but if they had to guess, most people would have said ten years. Charlotte looked a little younger and Henrik considerably older, closer to thirty-five. Irene turned to Henrik and continued, “When was the last time you saw your father?”

“At the party last Saturday.”

“Was that the last time you talked to him?”

“No. He called me at lunchtime on Sunday. I had taken him some catalogs from auctions I’ll be attending at the end of the month. In Stockholm. From November twenty-seventh to December third there’s an auction every day, but at different auction houses. For some reason I forgot to bring the catalog from Nordén’s. Their international top-of-the-line sale is set for November thirtieth. Pappa wanted that catalog. There was a little Flemish baroque bureau he was interested in. At that auction I myself will be bidding on a Tang horse.”

More bureaus were probably the last thing Richard von Knecht needed, but she began to realize that practical considerations were not the point. And what in the world was a Tang horse? It went against the grain for her to admit her lack of knowledge. So she quickly asked, “And you, Charlotte, when did you see your father-in-law last?”

Charlotte took a deep breath through quivering nostrils, fixed a steady turquoise gaze on Irene, and replied with a light catch in her voice, “Last Monday afternoon. At lunchtime. I drove over to give Richard the catalog Henrik just mentioned.”

“Did you stay long?”

“No, I didn’t even go into the apartment. First of all, he had a cold, and besides, the cleaning woman was there, straightening up after the party. I just told him ‘Thanks for the party’ and ‘Get well soon’ or something like that.”

“How did he act? His mood and manner, I mean.”

One mahogany lock of hair slid rapidly back and forth between her fingers as she pondered her response. The desk lamp cast reflections in the delicious dark blue pearl lacquer of her improbably long and well-kept nails. She gave a little shrug and said, “The same as usual. A little tired after the party and maybe from his cold.”

“He didn’t seem nervous?”

“No, not that I noticed.”

“Exactly what time was it when you arrived at Molinsgatan?”

“About twelve-thirty, maybe fifteen minutes earlier or later.”

“How did you get in the building? Do you know the code?”

Charlotte abruptly stopped twirling the lock of hair.

“Yes, naturally we know the code. How else would we be able to get in?”

“Neither of you has a key to the apartment?”

Henrik cleared his throat and said, “No. Mamma and Pappa have only one spare set of keys. We keep it when they’re away for a while. Otherwise no.”

Irene turned back to Charlotte.

“Where do you work? In case we have to reach you during the day.”

“I’m home most of the time. I’m a photo model.”

Henrik gave a little snort. She pretended not to hear but went on, “The modeling business is tough. I had just started acting school when I met Henrik.”

“Do you have any children?”

Charlotte took in a quick breath.

“I found out last Saturday that I’m pregnant,” she said after a pause.

“Oh, congratulations!”

Irene smiled and looked from Charlotte to Henrik, but realized that she could have saved her congratulations. Each sat, stiffly erect, not looking at the other. Maybe two powerful emotional events so close together were too much? First the news of her pregnancy and then the murder only a few days later.

As if she read her mind, Charlotte jumped up from her chair and said in a stifled voice, “Excuse me, where’s the bathroom? I feel sick.”


AFTER ESCORTING Charlotte to the nearest toilet, Irene returned thoughtfully to her office. There was something in the tension between this couple that didn’t make sense. So she wasn’t particularly surprised when she found Henrik slumped deep in his chair with his hands over his face. Without a word she sat and waited. After a minute he took his hands away and directed his claylike eyes at her. They were completely dry and dead, with no hint of moisture.

Tonelessly he said, “You must think we’re behaving oddly, but we’ve been living under incredible pressure. The last twenty-four hours have been pure hell!”

He took a deep breath and went on, “Charlotte and I have had a little problem. She’s been feeling lonely since I travel so much. It’s been a tough autumn, with arguments and quarrels. Last Thursday we agreed to separate for a while, but we decided to keep up appearances during Mamma and Pappa’s party on Saturday. Friday night when I came home, Charlotte announced that she’d been to her gynecologist, who told her she was in her second trimester! We went back and forth about it all weekend. On Saturday night we celebrated Mamma and Pappa’s thirtieth anniversary, and on Sunday my plane left for London at three in the afternoon. Then when I came back Tuesday night, this happens to Pappa! I’m totally beat.”

Irene felt sorry for the lanky man across the desk from her. But at the same time it was important to get as much information out of him as possible in this early stage of the investigation. Henrik seemed to need to talk, and to trust her. Every good interviewer notices things like that.

She asked in a cautious, low voice, “Have you and Charlotte reached any decision?”

He nodded. “Yes, we’re going to try to stick it out. For the sake of the child and the family. Maybe when Charlotte is busy with the baby she won’t feel so bored at home.”

Irene could remember how she practically knelt down to kiss the floor in the locker room when she finally went back to work after nine months at home with the twins. Krister had stayed home the next four months, and then the girls started day care.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Charlotte come through the door and decided to change the subject. “Who are the other residents in the building on Molinsgatan?” she asked.

“Valle Reuter, a stockbroker, lives on the second floor. His name is Waldemar, but everyone calls him Valle. On the third floor are Pappa’s old classmate Peder Wahl and his wife, Ulla. They have a house in Provence where they live most of the year, enjoying their retirement.”

“But he can’t be much older than sixty if he went to school with your father, right?”

For the first time in their whole conversation, the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Henrik’s mouth.

“Peder and Pappa sold one of the biggest construction and real estate companies in Sweden when the market was at its hottest. With more than a hundred million kronor in hand, Peder decided it was time to take life a little easier. He has three daughters, and none of them had the least interest in going into real estate.”

“You didn’t either,” Charlotte interrupted.

Henrik pressed his lips together but continued as if he hadn’t heard his wife’s comment. “The apartment below Mamma and Pappa’s is empty. Tore Eiderstam, the attorney, used to live there.”

Tore. . Tore, the attorney. . Irene had a fleeting recollection of Yvonne Stridner’s ex-husband. She said casually, “Wasn’t he married to pathology professor Yvonne Stridner?”

“Ha, Tore’s been married several times! But now that you mention it, you’re probably right. I remember a discussion Mamma and Pappa had once. Mamma said something about how disgusting she thought it was that someone in their circle of friends carved up corpses all day. That was the first time I ever heard the word necrophiliac.

Irene realized with a dash of sympathy that Yvonne Stridner must have had a rough time in this social circle. Now she noticed that Birgitta Moberg had quietly entered the room. Irene introduced her to Charlotte and Henrik.

Quickly she summed up for Birgitta what Henrik had told her about the occupants of the second and third floors.

“And we were just talking about the fourth floor. The attorney Tore Eiderstam used to live there, an old friend of Richard von Knecht. ‘Used to,’ you said-where did he move to?”

“Eastern Cemetery, the Eiderstam family plot.”

Neither Irene nor Birgitta could think of anything to say. Henrik went on after a short pause. “He dropped dead of a heart attack in September. The final divorce papers from his last wife had just arrived. He had two children from previous marriages, and they were clearly his heirs. It took a long time, but now the apartment is empty. Someone new is moving in on December first.”

“Do you know who?”

“I do. Ivan Viktors, the opera singer. He’s also one of Mamma and Pappa’s old friends.”

“Have you heard how your mother’s doing?”

“She’s starting to recover. I promised to drive her home this afternoon.”

Irene nodded and gave the matter some thought. This afternoon the techs would be pretty much finished with the apartment. The little she’d heard about Sylvia von Knecht told her that the woman would certainly be upset over “trespassing” by the police. Not a very suitable atmosphere for gathering information.

To feel them out she said, “When are you going to pick her up? Which hospital ward is she in?”

“She wants to be picked up at three-thirty, because then she’ll be home in time for her afternoon coffee. She’s in Ward Five.”

“If I were to go over and talk to her around three, would that be all right with you?”

Henrik just shrugged. Irene made a little note on the pad in front of her: “Call PS ward 5. Sylvia v. K. 1500?” Then maybe she’d have time to drop by and see the little dachshund lady Eva Karlsson beforehand. It was right on the way to Sahlgren Hospital. New note: “Call Eva K. 1400?”

She looked up from her notepad and turned to Charlotte. “Did you hear from your father-in-law again on Monday?”

“No.”

“Did you meet him or speak with him on Tuesday?”

“No.”

“Do you know the cleaning woman’s name, Charlotte? The one who was at the apartment when you arrived?”

Both of them shook their heads. That was one thing they agreed on, at least.

“Thank you both for being kind enough to come down here. We’ll be talking to you again during the course of the investigation. If you think of anything, just call me or any of the other inspectors. Or Superintendent Andersson, of course. There are eight of us working on this case. There will always be someone here to talk to you,” Irene concluded in a friendly tone of voice.

She stood up and held out her hand to Henrik. His was ice cold. He only gave Irene’s fingers a light squeeze before he quickly released his grip. Charlotte gracefully offered her well-manicured fingers, but her handshake felt like a moist towelette.


ALONE IN the room again, Irene called the psychiatric ward and got permission to talk to Sylvia von Knecht on her room telephone. Her voice sounded slurred and dull when she answered. There was a slight, barely noticeable trace of a Finnish accent.

“Well, it’s probably best to get it over and done with. But if you ask me why he jumped, I have no answer for you. He seemed completely normal lately. And he was so lively at the party last Saturday. . oh!” she broke off in the midst of a sob.

It wasn’t ideal to tell Fru von Knecht by telephone that the police suspected murder. But the press conference at which it would be announced was going to be held in an hour. There was a chance that Sylvia might hear it on the radio news before three o’clock. It was probably best to beat the media. Knowing how they usually behaved, Irene wanted Sylvia to be aware of the risk of a bombardment with questions by scandal-mongering reporters. They would be after her the minute she closed the door to the psych ward behind her. A homicide in that milieu had a hundred times more news value than a simple suicide.

Irene cleared her throat and said, “Fru von Knecht. What I’m going to say will no doubt come as a shock to you. We have certain leads indicating that your husband was the victim of a homicide.”

Silence on the line. Finally, an unexpectedly sharp reaction. “You mean murdered? He was murdered?”

“Yes, there are strong indications that-”

“Thank the good Lord! What a relief!”

Whatever Irene had expected, it certainly wasn’t this remark. She tried not to show her surprise, but continued in a neutral tone, “There will be a press conference at one o’clock at police headquarters. Superintendent Sven Andersson will have to notify the press that we are working on a homicide, not a suicide. You need to be prepared because the reporters might get pushy.”

“They always are anyway. Imagine what a bunch of crap they would have written if Richard had committed suicide. And his insurance. . Well, there won’t be any problem with that now. A murder is horrible, of course, but at least it can’t be blamed on the family. No one can protect themselves from madmen. Was it three o’clock you were going to be here?”

Bewildered, Irene confirmed the time. Not until she hung up did it occur to her that Sylvia von Knecht hadn’t asked why the police were so sure it was murder. Part of her odd behavior could be due to various medicines she may have received in the psych ward. But her reaction was still extraordinary.


EVA KARLSSON, the dachshund lady, sounded considerably more spirited than she had the first time Irene called her that morning.

“Yes, of course, it’s so nice you want to drop by. Two o’clock will be fine, and I’ll have coffee ready,” she chirped happily.

Irene’s protests were kindly but firmly overridden. With a sigh she hung up. It might be tight trying to make it up to Sahlgren by three; she would have to be stern. Elderly ladies who lived alone had an unfortunate tendency to regard the police as their best friends.

Unfortunately, the police were also often their only friends.

It was ten minutes to one, and high time to get hold of the superintendent. Andersson wasn’t in his office. His secretary said that Sven had driven up to Pathology to meet a professor. He had promised to be back by quarter to one but hadn’t shown up yet.

At two minutes past one he came charging through the doors.

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