Andersson cleared his throat. “I just want to say a few words before Svante takes over. The two victims have been identified as Joachim Rothstaahl, thirty-two, and Philip Bergman, thirty. Bergman’s parents identified him earlier today. His father last saw him when he was heading off on Monday evening to meet with Rothstaahl. He also pointed out that his son was missing a brand new jacket and a briefcase. The jacket is made of light-colored leather. Bergman’s car is also missing. He’d borrowed his father’s car, a black Saab 93 Aero. Bergman doesn’t live in Sweden any longer. According to his parents, he’s been living in Paris. Honestly, why do all these guys have to live abroad? Can’t they swindle people while living at home?”
There were widespread chuckles among his listeners. Svante Malm’s horse-like face lit up in a smile. “Did you lose a lot of money when these so-called ‘fund managers’ speculated with your stocks?” he teased.
“Never had stocks and never going to get them, either,” replied Andersson.
“Smart of you, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. It’s tougher for those of us who are young enough to be in the new pension system. We had no choice in the matter, and that was our pension money that disappeared in tech and communications stocks. Not to mention that a great deal of the old pension system’s stocks were transferred there as well. My brothers and sisters, our golden years are going to be rough.”
“So you’re going into politics?” Jonny asked sarcastically.
“Oh, no, but believe me, our pensions are blown.”
“Stop bitching about your pension and start working for your wages instead,” Jonny said.
Andersson looked irritated, but nodded in agreement.
“All right,” Svante said. “So we have the double murder in Långedrag. I have some pictures to show you of the house and the surrounding area.”
Svante turned on the projector and turned to face the photographs. As the screen still hadn’t been fixed, he was projecting them directly onto the wall.
“The property is pretty remote, though not far from Käringberg Hill. The house is a summer cabin, which has been remodeled into a year-round, eighty-five-square-meter residence with three bedrooms. The car port was added later.”
The house was built of wood and had been recently painted light blue with dark blue trim. It didn’t seem all that large or special, but once Svante showed more photographs, Irene changed her mind. The property spanned an enormous natural area on a rocky hill, complete with an expansive ocean view.
“It had been raining hard beginning Monday night until Wednesday afternoon,” Svante continued. “By the time the bodies were found on Wednesday, most potential clues had already been washed away. We’ve haven’t been able to find any trace of a third car. Only two cars left tracks on the gravel driveway in front of the house.”
Tommy raised his hand. “Were there any traces of the car Rothstaahl’s father drove there?”
“No, because he rode there on his bike. His parents live only a kilometer away. Joachim inherited the house from his grandfather a few years ago. He repaired it and, according to his father, was planning an addition once he moved back to Sweden.”
“So where was he living?”
“Paris,” said Jonny.
Both Tommy and Irene reacted to this, but Irene was quickest. “So both Joachim Rothstaahl and Philip Bergman are … were living in Paris,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“So why did they have to meet in Göteborg?”
Jonny had no answer and shrugged.
Svante changed to a close-up picture of a door handle. “This is the outer door, which was unlocked when Rothstaahl’s father arrived on Wednesday. There is no sign that the lock had been broken. The patio door was locked by a bolt that could only be opened from the inside.”
A series of photographs from the inside of the house followed. Svante flipped through them until he came to the kitchen.
“There was a bag with three bottles of red wine, one bag of French rolls, and two loaves of pain riche on the table. A packet of roast beef and a large bowl of potato salad were found in the refrigerator, as well as recently purchased brie and a package of margarine. In addition, there were four half-liter bottles of strong beer, one unopened liter of milk, and a small carton of eggs.”
“Sounds like a romantic evening for two,” Jonny said. “Were they lovers?”
Svante shrugged.
“That Rothstaahl guy was about to move in with his girlfriend, so he couldn’t have been … you know … that type,” Andersson barked.
“You don’t say!” Irene said so softly that only Tommy could hear her.
“Of course, we collected as much as we could as far as hair and fibers are concerned, but I’m pessimistic regarding those, since the house was really filthy. Right now, we can’t say we have anything that is of the slightest use. Not even anything like the reflective ribbon out in Askim. We’re working through the fingerprints now. The bullets are still in the bodies, so we don’t have to look for them. On the other hand, I have a theory regarding how the killer did his work. I am assuming the murderer is a single person.”
Svante turned off the projector and turned on the overhead. He placed a sketch of the house, which he’d drawn in red and black ink.
“When you enter the house, the kitchen is immediately to the right. If you go to the left, you come to the living room. Straight ahead in the hallway are two doors. One is to the bathroom, and the other is to the closet. I believe the killer was hiding in the closet. Alternatively, he could have entered through the house’s outer door after Rothstaahl and Bergman had arrived, if they left the door unlocked. Though if that were the case, I believe the guys would have seen the killer through the kitchen window, and one of them would have gone into the hallway to meet the visitor.”
Svante showed the next picture, which was taken from above and revealed the mess on the floor of the hall closet. In addition to the jumble of shoes, cushions for outdoor furniture, and exercise outfits, there was a dark blue terry-cloth belt that looked like it had been thrown on the floor, with half of it landing on the threshold.
“I noticed that the door was half open. It couldn’t be shut because the belt was there. This could be because someone didn’t want the door shut. Like if someone were standing inside the closet looking out. From here, it’s only three steps to the kitchen where the victims were standing. The suspect probably surprised them. Rothstaahl probably didn’t even have time to realize what was happening. I believe that Bergman turned around and tried to escape into the bedroom. He had just enough time to realize what was going on.”
Svante’s scenario was believable but also unpleasant. The two men didn’t stand a chance. Although Andersson and Jonny joked about a “lady’s gun,” this killer knew exactly what he was doing.
The question was still why.
Svante Malm thanked them for their attention and left the room, saying he’d let them know if anything else turned up.
“I was talking to one of Rothstaahl’s uncles this morning. He lives at the beginning of the turnoff to the house. It appears that Grandfather Rothstaahl bought a great deal of property out in the countryside in the early fifties. Wish my grandpa had done that,” Jonny said, making a face.
“So what did Grandpa do? I mean his, not yours,” Tommy asked.
“They were in the clothing business. Joachim’s father and uncle took over the company, and they still sell clothing. Joachim didn’t want to go into the family business. Anyway, the uncle says he saw Philip Bergman’s car turn up the road at seven thirty, but then the car drove off a few minutes before eight, with Bergman at the wheel. He recognized the tan leather jacket.”
The superintendent appeared to be thinking. “Maybe Bergman drove off to buy something they’d forgotten, and then he drove back. They were shot after.…”
One look from Jonny made Andersson fall silent. Jonny shook his head. “No. The uncle and his wife were sitting beside a huge picture window
from seven thirty until ten that night.
They had a fire going in the fireplace and were listening to music. Bergman didn’t return. They saw no other car between seven thirty and ten.”
“Are there any other houses along that road?” asked Irene.
“No, just the uncle’s at the head of the road and Joachim’s at the end.”
“So it’s a cul-de-sac?”
“Right.”
“What’s the distance between the two houses?”
“About one hundred meters.”
“Did they hear anything sounding like gunshots?”
“No.”
Irene paused. “Just a thought … if they were sitting in front of the fireplace, perhaps they weren’t able to see the entire road? And if they like to look at the ocean view, I doubt they were doing so last Monday night because it was raining.”
“I was in their house this morning. The fireplace and their armchairs are in a glass-enclosed addition of the living room, so there are windows on three sides. The fireplace is in one corner and their armchairs face the ocean. The road runs fifteen meters below the house. If nothing else, they can hear whenever a car is coming. Though the uncle and his wife are both in their sixties, neither are deaf,” Jonny said.
“But Philip Bergman couldn’t have driven the car away, since it obviously didn’t return. Philip was definitely murdered in his cabin, and the car is still gone,” Tommy said.
“Philip wasn’t the one driving the car away since it’s gone,” Irene said. “It must have been the suspect who leisurely drove away from the scene of the crime. He didn’t just take the car. He got Philip’s jacket, too. In the rain and darkness, Rothstaahl’s uncle must have assumed that the person behind the wheel wearing the tan jacket was Philip.”
“Highly probable,” said Tommy.
“At any rate, we’re closer to pinpointing the time of the murder: sometime between seven thirty and eight P.M.” Irene’s colleagues were nodding.
Jonny’s forehead furrowed. “But then why didn’t the uncle and his wife hear the shots? There were four. Could they have been playing music so loudly that they wouldn’t have heard them?”
“The suspect used a silencer,” Tommy said.
“Why do you think so?” asked Andersson.
“No one heard the shots in Askim either. Why risk someone hearing shots? A silencer on a fine-caliber pistol using unjacketed bullets, which were seriously deformed. Accurate shots for fatal results. We’ve got a guy who’s a professional,” Tommy said.
Irene was inclined to agree with him. “A high-caliber weapon is heavy and needs a holster to keep hidden. People often still notice it because of unusual bulges in clothing. A fine-caliber weapon is easier to conceal beneath clothing.”
“So what did Philip Bergman have in his briefcase that the suspect wanted?” asked Kajsa.
This was an important question that they all had lost track of. Jonny glared at Kajsa, mostly because he didn’t have a good answer. “No idea,” he finally said.
“And Irene brought up a good question,” Kajsa went on. “Why did they have to meet in Göteborg when both of them were living in Paris?”
“We should figure that out,” Tommy said.
“How has your research on that dot-com company been going?” Andersson asked Kajsa encouragingly.
“It’s moving right along, thanks,” she said. “I’m meeting a journalist tomorrow who is writing a book about the dot-com crash. He’s written a chapter on ph.com, and I’m hoping he can give me some good information.”
IRENE SAW HER opportunity to jump in and share the results of her investigative efforts with Tommy. “Bonetti and Rothstaahl ran shady business deals together in London,” she began. “There’s another dark horse, namely the Norwegian Erik Dahl. We’ll have to follow up. Philip Bergman, Sanna Kaegler, and Thomas Bonetti founded ph.com, and ran it until it went bankrupt. The Fenton brothers and their old pal Kjell B:son Ceder were all on the sailboat when Ceder’s first wife died. One year ago, Ceder married Sanna Kaegler in a surprise wedding. And now it appears that Philip Bergman and Joachim Rothstaahl were planning a new scheme. Where in this spider web of relationships do these three murders fit?” Irene asked her colleagues.
“Perhaps four murders,” Tommy said.
“What? Four?” the superintendent exclaimed.
“Don’t forget Bonetti. There hasn’t been a sign of life from him for three years. Perhaps he’s been killed.”
Birgitta, usually silent, now asked for the floor. “Maybe we ought to investigate Bergman and Rothstaahl’s apartment. The one in Paris.”
“Paris! That’s out of the question,” Andersson said.
“How else will we find out what they’ve been up to?” asked Birgitta.
“We should send a request to the authorities.…” Andersson said half-heartedly.
“Perhaps, but it would be a long time before we’d get an answer. From what we’ve heard about these gentlemen already, I hardly believe the authorities have any idea what they’re up against. If our friends had just begun to plan their project, there should be information on their computers. Have you already looked at them?” Birgitta aimed her question at Jonny, but Fredrik Stridh replied.
“No—since there weren’t any computers in the house. There was a printer with a bunch of cables on the desk in the bedroom, but there wasn’t a single computer.”
“These aren’t the kind of guys to have desktop computers.
They’d have laptops, so they could work from hotel rooms and airplanes,” Birgitta said.
“I believe we have the answer as to what was in the briefcase that the killer took with him,” Irene said. “Bergman and Rothstaahl’s laptops.”
“Perhaps there’s something backed up in their Paris apartment,” Birgitta said.
“Can you stop going on and on about Paris already?” Andersson growled. “Keep talking to Bergman’s parents. Perhaps they know what our guys were up to. Find out how much money they stashed in various places. That goes for everyone involved—check finances. Irene and Tommy, I want you to go have another chat with Sanna Kaegler-Ceder. See how she reacts to the deaths of Bergman and Rothstaahl. Jonny and Fredrik, keep following up with Rothstaahl’s parents, neighbors, other relatives.…” Andersson fell silent for a moment and then exclaimed, “I knew I was forgetting someone! Kajsa, keep finding out whatever you can on that computer company where all that money disappeared.”
“Internet company. It’s called ph.com.” Kajsa sighed.
Andersson pretended he hadn’t heard her correction.
SANNA KAEGLER-CEDER HAD put on discreet makeup and appeared much more energetic than the day before. Her freshly washed blonde hair flowed over her shoulders and shone in the light of the art nouveau ceiling lamp. She let in the detectives and led them into the library. The scent of citrus and jasmine followed in her wake. Irene noticed Sanna’s black leather suit with its mid-length jacket cut, and her diamond cross necklace hanging in its familiar place.
The evening sun filtered through the dirty windows and lit up the dancing dust particles floating in the air. It made Irene think of a generous fairy shaking magic dust from the tip of her wand and watching it drift down to settle on the polished side table. She didn’t know if it was an old memory of the Sleeping Beauty film or the heavy odor of old books that reminded her of fairy tales.
Sanna would definitely be the princess in a modern success story. She was young, beautiful, and rich. Her prince, however, didn’t fit the part. Kjell B:son Ceder was rich enough, but he certainly wasn’t young, and he certainly was not the father of crown prince Ludwig.
Following Sanna’s invitation, the detectives sat down on the sofa while she sat in one of the armchairs. Her hair, backlit by the window, glimmered like a halo, but her face was in shadows, hiding her expressions and giving her the upper hand. Irene suspected that was why she offered the sofa to them. Sanna sat quietly, waiting for their questions.
“When will you
be moving back to the house in Askim?” Tommy began.
“On Saturday. The house will be cleaned tomorrow, and the alarm system should be functional by then.”
“Our technicians mentioned that the alarm system was not on the evening your husband was murdered.”
“No, Mike—that is, Michael Fuller, the head of security at Hotel Göteborg—is going to help me with the alarm system. That’s his specialty.”
Tommy nodded and continued in his same relaxed tone. “I would like to know if you’ve heard from your former partner Thomas Bonetti since his disappearance.”
Sanna stiffened. She hadn’t been expecting that question. Her voice was tense after she took a moment before answering.
“No. He just … disappeared. Why do you want to know?”
“Do you have any idea why he disappeared?”
This answer came more quickly. “No idea. We haven’t been in contact at all since ph.com went bankrupt in April 2000.”
“Why not?”
“We … didn’t part friends. Philip and I were trying to talk to him. He didn’t agree with our goal of finishing the website and arranging all local offices to work for the company’s IPO. We were working like slaves twenty-four-seven! Thomas was in charge of our finances, but he never understood you have to risk it all to win it all. We were aiming to be a global company. His goal was to get ph.com listed on the stock market and grab as much money as possible before getting out.”
Her voice was filled with hate by the time she finished. It was obvious she didn’t think highly of her former partner.
“So he took out a lot of money before the bankruptcy?”
“That’s right.”
“How much?”
Sanna shrugged her shoulders. “I really don’t know for sure. We bought him out for five million, but we also know that he moved money from ph.com to a bank account he’d set up somewhere. We reported it to the police later. I really don’t know exactly how much money it was.”
The Golden Calf Page 7