The Golden Calf

by Helene Tursten

  “A French bank?” asked Irene.

  “No, an American one. It’s called HP Johnson. And—what’s the matter now?” Jonny stopped when he saw Irene’s face.

  “HP Johnson is the bank where Edward Fenton is the European Head!”

  “So?” Jonny’s expression didn’t change.

  “HP Johnson is an investment bank. Kjell B:son Ceder, Sanna Kaegler, Philip Bergman, and now Joachim Rothstaahl have all been connected to this bank. Perhaps Thomas Bonetti was, too, when he was in London. That should be easy enough to find out,” Irene said enthusiastically.

  “What is the difference between an investment bank and a normal bank?” asked the superintendent.

  Kajsa cleared her throat nervously. “An investment bank holds risky capital and places it in investments where they believe the highest return can be found. It can be enormously profitable. I can tell you that in 1990, risk capital investment banks in the United States were holding $3.5 billion. By the turn of the millennium, they had $104 billion.”

  “And what is risky capital?” Andersson asked with irritation.

  Kajsa thought a moment before she said, “It’s like money you have versus money you need. You’re able to play with it. You can take big risks. Easy come, easy go.”

  Andersson nodded. “So what else have you found out about Rothstaahl?”

  Jonny replied, “Not much. Of course, he’s been living in Paris the past two years, just like his pal Bergman. Perhaps there could be something if we went.…”

  “So we’re back to that, are we?” growled Andersson. His face turned deep red, and Irene was able to hear the sound of air whistling through his lung pipe again. Andersson sat still, drumming his fingers on the table. No one else wanted to break the silence. Glaring angrily at Birgitta, he said, “And if we did … is there anyone here who can speak French?”

  Only Kajsa Birgersdotter raised her hand.

  “I see. Well, that’s that,” Andersson said.

  “But the French can speak English!” protested Birgitta.

  “Not many of them,” growled Andersson.

  Irene was convinced that Andersson had never set foot in France.

  “All right, Kajsa, it’s your turn. So what have you found out about that computer company and Bergman and Kaegler?”

  Kajsa stood up and turned toward her colleagues. Without lifting her gaze from the paper in her hand, she began to read aloud, “Sanna and Philip were classmates during secondary school. They were inseparable for many years. People assumed they were a couple, but no one was really sure. They both studied economics in college, but they both seemed bored. They borrowed money from a bank and bought into a clothing company. Both Philip and Sanna were extremely aware of fashion. They were able to increase the store’s sales within a year or two. This company was called—” She stopped in surprise before she continued, “Zazza Boutiques.”

  “So, there’s an early connection between Bergman, Rothstaahl, and Kaegler. It’s totally obvious, but I can’t get the pattern,” said Irene. She sighed.

  Kajsa nodded and looked back down at her sheet of paper.

  “After a few successful years, Sanna and Philip sold their Zazza shares to the Rothstaahl family, who then became sole owners of the chain. Rumor has it that there were issues between Bergman and Kaegler and the older generation of Rothstaahls, which is why Sanna and Philip sold out. But they got a lot of money from the sale. They met Thomas Bonetti after that. Thomas Bonetti was incredibly rich after his time in London. They decided to invest in the new business of Internet shopping. According to Philip, Internet shopping was the future. In a few years, everyone would be doing their shopping on the Internet, and Bergman, Kaegler, and Rothstaahl wanted to get ahead of the curve. So in 1998, they founded ph.com.”

  Kajsa stopped to take a breath. Before she had the chance to start reading again, Andersson said, “So you’re telling me that Bergman and Kaegler had already been in business with Rothstaahl before they even started their computer company?”

  “Their dot-com company,” Kajsa corrected. “Yes, they’d been in business together before. At any rate, we know for sure that Rothstaahl’s uncles owned shares in Zazza. They’ve retired now, and Joachim’s two cousins are running the chain.”

  The superintendent looked glumly at Irene. “And now it appears that Bergman and Rothstaahl were putting together something new. Irene, you and Kajsa better go to Paris as soon as possible. I’ll talk to the higher-ups. If we’re ever going to solve this case, we have to know what these two gentlemen were plotting to do.”

  Both Irene and Kajsa jerked to attention as if struck by lightning.

  Chapter 7

  DELICIOUS SCENTS MET Irene when she opened the door to her townhouse. Krister had called her earlier that afternoon and asked what she wanted for dinner. She knew exactly what she craved. “Your fish soup. With plenty of garlic and saffron, please. And afterward, a little chocolate mousse would be perfect.” Bouillabaisse à la Glady’s was one of the prime attractions at the restaurant where Krister was the head chef. They couldn’t take it off the menu, just like their famous chocolate mousse. The recipe for the mousse was a closely guarded secret, but Irene knew that Krister had a little trick that involved a dash of good cognac.

  This was one of their sacred Third Weekends. Every third weekend, Irene and Krister were off work at the same time on both Friday and Saturday. That’s when they would try to gather the whole family and enjoy a good dinner. The twins were happy to join the meal if they didn’t have other plans, but they often disappeared after dinner. Krister used to look displeased, saying, “Why does everything start at the time we used to go home for the evening?”

  Krister had given Irene the product codes for a white and a red wine that he wanted to serve this weekend. He never bothered to give her the names for any wine because he knew she couldn’t pronounce them. The recently introduced self-service option in the state-run liquor stores were perfect for her.

  As usual, Sammie was the first to welcome her home. His tail wagged like the rotor blade of a helicopter, and he was skipping around her eagerly. Although he was the ripe old age of ten, he was still happy and healthy. His sight and hearing had declined noticeably in recent years, but Irene suspected that he had started doing what all older people do: he heard only what he wanted to hear.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Krister called over the exhaust fan. “Did you find the wine?”

  “Yes, I did. Two bottles of each,” said Irene.

  She broke away from Sammie and carried the green plastic bags into the kitchen. The bottles clanked as she set the bags on the table. Without taking off her jacket, she walked up to Krister, grabbed his shoulders, swung him into a tango position, placed him on one of her bent knees, and gave him a kiss on the lips.

  When she released him, he ended up laughing on the floor. “You’re crazy. But that’s what happens when you marry a former jujitsu world champion. I have only myself to blame.”

  Before Irene got away, he pulled her to him and enveloped her in a bear hug. His kiss sent hot waves through her body.

  “What are you doing?”

  Irene and Krister stopped and looked toward the kitchen door. Their daughters looked back at them, aghast.

  “We’re wrestling,” said Krister. Chuckling, they parted. Irene went out into the hall to hang up her jacket. Krister scrambled to his feet and headed back to the stove.

  “What did you make for me?” asked Jenny.

  She had been a vegan for several years. At the moment, her hair was jet black with purple highlights, and she was all dressed in black. As a singer in one of Göteborg’s most famous pop bands, she had major investments in hair and fashion. Next week her hairstyle could be a blaze of neon pink, accompanied by a second-hand outfit inspired by ’70s flower power.

  “You get vegan moussaka. Made of oat milk. Still in the oven,” said Krister.

  He had become quite fond of vegetarian cooking. Jenny’s vegan diet was still so
metimes a challenge.

  “Great! Did you make dessert?”

  “Yes, but unfortunately for you, it’s chocolate mousse. You may make yourself a fruit salad. Add a dash of port wine and.…”

  Jenny interrupted him with a loud sigh. “Pappa! You know I don’t drink alcohol.”

  “Well, a tiny splash won’t hurt. Enhances the flavor. Think of it as a spice,” suggested her father.

  “I’ll take the port, and you get the fruit salad,” Katarina offered generously. She smiled at her sister, who did not look as amused.

  “Are you staying home tonight?” asked Irene as Jenny danced out into the hall and up the stairs. “Yes,” said Katarina, following her sister’s exit with her eyes. “But not overnight.”

  “Is it still … what’s the name of that new guy again?” teased Krister.

  “What do you mean new? John and I have been together for six months. Or almost, in any case,” said his daughter. She picked up the wine bottles from the plastic bags and scrutinized them. “Christobal Verdelho. White, so it’s for the fish soup,” she noted. She read the label of one of the red bottles. “Hécula. Spanish. What’s for dinner tomorrow?”

  “Pork stew with mushrooms and lingonberries. Mashed potatoes on the side.”

  “Sounds good, but I won’t be home. We’re planning to sail to Anholt early tomorrow morning. Sleeping on the boat and getting home on Sunday.”

  Katarina’s boyfriend occasionally borrowed his parents’ sailboat. Neither Irene nor Krister had any sailing skills, but they trusted John. He had sailed since he was in diapers and knew the archipelago like the back of his hand.

  “Just the two of you on board?” asked Krister.

  “Just us.”

  “I hope you’re bringing life jackets? I mean, if you fall in.…”

  “We always wear our life jackets when we go into open water,” Katarina assured him.

  I wish other experienced sailors would do the same, thought Irene. Why had Kjell B:son Ceder and his wife Marie not worn their life jackets when they went out on deck that stormy night sixteen years ago? The boat had been in the middle of the North Sea, and it was practically a gale. Tommy was right: there was something fishy about that accident. Could the incident have any connection with the murders that they were investigating now? It seemed unlikely, but.…

  “Hello! Earth to Irene!” said Krister. He smiled at her.

  “What? Sorry,” said Irene.

  “I asked you where the corkscrew is, and Pappa asked if you would like some sherry before dinner,” said Katarina.

  “No, thanks. Whiskey. In the top drawer by the stove,” said Irene, still lost in thought.

  Krister and Katarina exchanged glances.

  “Go ahead and sit down on the couch, Mamma. Pappa will get you your whiskey while I open the bottle of wine. And don’t worry about Sammie. I’ll take him on his walk after dinner.”

  There was a scrabbling of paws on the parquet floor in the hall. Sammie had clearly heard his name and the word “walk.” There probably wasn’t much of a problem with his hearing after all.

  “Go lie down. You’ll have to wait,” said Katarina.

  “Wait” was not the word Sammie wanted to hear. When he realized his walk had been postponed, he lowered his tail and padded up to Jenny upstairs.

  Irene followed her daughter’s instructions and went into the living room. She sank down on the couch and pulled her legs underneath her body. Only now did she realize how tired she was. Her head felt full of wool and her muscles like jelly. Could it be age? No way. As long as she managed to get to the dojo on Sunday to train with her jiujitsu group, her energy would return. Afterward, she and Krister would go vote in the EU elections. She was still unsure how she’d vote. In the morning, she planned to jog five miles, though her right knee was starting to give her trouble. She always had to wear an elastic brace around it when she went running. It was an old injury from her years as a handball player. Maybe she should have surgery soon, instead of waiting. Gloomily, Irene felt that her bodily decline had begun.

  “Sweetheart, there’s just a bit of the whiskey left. Do you want to drink it up or have something else?” Krister’s voice came from the kitchen.

  “Go ahead and pour it for me. I’ll buy a new duty-free bottle when I go to Paris,” said Irene absently.

  There was silence from the kitchen area. Irene heard Krister and Katarina rush toward the living room. They stared at her. Irene made a dismissive gesture.

  “All right, I’ll tell you all about it. Just hand me my little bit of whiskey first,” she said.

  ANDERSSON CALLED AT nine o’clock that evening and confirmed Irene and Kajsa would go to Paris. Birgitta had obtained a key to the Paris apartment from Joachim Rothstaahl’s parents. They’d seemed reluctant at first to give it to her, and it took all of Birgitta’s patience to coax it from them. She’d also found out that Joachim Rothstaahl and Philip Bergman lived in the same apartment. None of their parents had mentioned it during the initial interrogation. Birgitta had called Philip’s mother and asked whether it was true that her son shared an apartment with Joachim. His mother had said it was, but she hastened to add that it was only temporary. Philip had been looking for a place to live, but it was both difficult and expensive to find anything in central Paris.

  “You can stop by the police station tomorrow. The key is at the reception desk. You are booked for the eight-twenty A.M. flight Monday morning from Landvetter, and you’ll return on the flight that leaves at eight P.M. from Paris,” said Andersson.

  Irene felt slightly dazed. “I’ll make sure to pick it up. And thanks for all the trouble of booking and—”

  “Don’t thank me. Birgitta did all the work,” the superintendent said.

  Irene realized that this made more sense.

  “By the way, there’s a stack of papers I’m leaving for you, too. Kajsa found them. You’ll have something to read on the plane.”

  “Stack of papers?” echoed Irene. By the time Andersson called, the small shot of whiskey had been joined by two glasses of wine, so Irene was not as clear-headed as she wished. Especially when her fatigue was added to the equation.

  “Kajsa was sent the chapter from that journalist’s book. Apparently, he writes about all these computer companies and the money that disappeared after the crash. And he gave her the section that dealt with the Bergman, Kaegler, and Bonetti company,” said Andersson.

  “Ph.com,” Irene said.

  “Right. This investigation is so extensive I can’t keep all the details clear. But it’s probably good if you and Kajsa know the background behind those three and their past cons.”

  Irene knew her boss was not interested in anything having to do with computers. Or any white-collar crime, actually, because that often required good computer skills. It was with ill-concealed relief that he left the high-tech and financial questions to her and Kajsa.

  Irene wondered about that journalist’s chapter.

  Chapter 8

  IT WAS AS if a surge of electricity swept through the nightclub as the young man entered. The guests might have noticed the two people following right behind, but all eyes were on him. He walked down the stairs with practiced elegance, well aware of the impression he was making.

  At the bar he ordered three vodka martinis. His friends laughed at something he said, obviously no longer sober. With nonchalance, he handed the bartender his Visa card, which stayed there the rest of the evening. It took just a few minutes before the first beautiful young woman came up to him, soon joined by many more. He knew many of them from his previous visits. He invited all of them to a round of champagne. Naturally, it was the most expensive brand in the house.

  All of the women were younger than twenty-five.

  The woman who had entered the bar with him was beautiful in the classically Nordic way. She had light blue eyes and platinum blonde hair swept up on the top of her head. She used very little makeup, but her clothes signaled direct purchase from Lon
don’s top designers. Although she was tipsy, it was clear she was bored. After only a few sips of her martini, she stood up abruptly and gave the young blond man a light kiss on the cheek. She spun around on her stilettos and disappeared up the stairs. The blond man did not notice.

  The lighting by the bar was stronger than other parts of the room, and it made the young man’s hair shimmer. He wore it slightly longer than was fashionable, but his features were attractive—high cheekbones and a strong chin. He frequently fired off a blazing smile. He was in good shape and wore elegant clothes of the best brands. His appearance embodied success.

  His male friend was his opposite: short and fat. He looked forty-years-old, but had just turned thirty. His reddish-blond hair had already begun to thin, and he sweated profusely. His suit, obviously not tailor made, stretched over his portly body. He couldn’t care less. He had enough money to buy a new one—in fact, he had enough money to buy anything he wanted.

  The party lasted until the early hours of the morning. The two men and the young girls were the only ones left at the bar, which wouldn’t close until its wealthy guests decided to leave. The employees knew they’d receive generous tips for their trouble, which included ignoring the white powder the young man snorted from a line off the counter. Or when the fat man brought one of the young girls into the men’s restroom, forced her to lean over the sink, and then raped her. One of the security guards peeked in, but hastily drew back. Keeping silent about what he’d seen would certainly be worth a bill with a high number on it.

  These employees were used to this particular gang coming in to party. This evening’s escapades were not out of the ordinary. A typical after-work evening for the owners of ph.com. The facts behind the above are true. The girl reported the rape to the police, but then decided to retract it.

  The bar is Zodiac, and I’ve been there myself to interview the employees, many of whom saw the owners of ph.com often, as this was the favorite haunt of the famous threesome whenever they were in Göteborg. The bosses of this company were certainly good at one thing—partying all night.