Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1

by Helen Tursten

  “No.”

  Once again Sylvia, by bending her head forward, had let her platinum-blond hair close like a curtain in front of her face. Irene was undecided. Could she get any farther? Sylvia might appear strong willed and self-centered, but intuitively Irene understood that she was psychologically fragile. The remaining questions were extremely personal and intrusive. But they had to be asked, and preferably now. She would have to proceed cautiously, so she started by asking, “But when Henrik married Charlotte three years ago, he must have been feeling quite well, wasn’t he?”

  Not even a ripple in the platinum curtain. No reaction at all. But the worst questions were yet to come. Was it best to start neutrally, or perhaps begin with something positive?

  “He seems to be getting along well with her now,” said Irene. “And in the midst of your grief you have the joy of becoming a grandmother—”

  Suddenly, Sylvia was all over her, like a wildcat, biting, kicking, and scratching with all her might, yelling, “It’s not true! You’re lying! You’re lying!”

  At first Irene was so surprised that she didn’t defend herself and received a deep scratch on her neck. After that, she reacted from instinct. She easily blocked Sylvia’s flailing arms. Gedan-uchi-uke was ingrained in the medulla oblongata of the former European women’s champion. With her left hand Irene grabbed Sylvia’s thin wrist and pulled her a little off balance, twisted her right arm up behind her back, and pressed lightly; with her right hand she gripped Sylvia’s left forearm and then put her left arm under Sylvia’s chin. Effectively locked, Irene pulled the woman’s efforts against herself. Either because of the bodily contact or the lock hold, the air went out of Sylvia. She fainted.

  Irene regained her composure, saying out loud, “This is crazy! I wonder what would have happened if I’d asked one of my sensitive questions?”

  She picked up Sylvia’s featherweight body and carried her into the bedroom. The thin little figure seemed to disappear in the down coverlet of the wide double bed. Naturally, Sylvia hadn’t made the bed. No doubt Pirjo would have to do that when she arrived.

  Irene raised Sylvia’s legs straight up and massaged her calves. After about a minute she began to come around. She mumbled something and tried to sit up. Irene pressed her back down and talked to her soothingly, as if to a child. Sylvia moaned weakly.

  “Henrik, I want Henrik.”

  Maybe that was a good idea. If Henrik came here, Sylvia would calm down. He and Irene might as well have their appointment here as down at headquarters.

  “I’m going to call Henrik. Where can I find his number?”

  “Press two and the pound sign.”

  Speed-dial numbers are practical. Irene went over to the phone on top of a small curved cabinet next to the bed.

  Henrik picked up on the second ring. Irene told him who she was, and then couldn’t figure out exactly what to say next. She was deliberately vague. “I’m at your mother’s right now. She . . . had a slight breakdown. She wants you to come over.”

  “Certainly, I’ll be right over. Mamma is quite unstable right now. Why did she break down?”

  That was precisely the question Irene wanted to avoid.

  “I tried to cheer her up with something positive. I congratulated her on becoming a grandmother . . . I thought she knew.”

  There was a long silence. Irene wondered whether Henrik had keeled over too. Finally he snapped, “God damn it!”

  Click! He had hung up on her. Irene felt stupid. As if she had done something wrong. Had she? Guiltily, she thought about how she had restrained the hysterical Sylvia. Could she have done it some other way? Hardly.

  When she turned back to the bed again, she saw that Sylvia was holding a medicine bottle in her left hand and was about to put her cupped right hand to her mouth. The top drawer of the nightstand was open. Instinctively, Irene bent over and grabbed the woman’s right hand. Three small white tablets with a notch across the middle lay in her palm. There was no question of a suicidal dose.

  Making an attempt to regain Sylvia’s trust, she said in an overly cheerful voice, “Would you like some water to take the pills with?”

  Sylvia nodded without looking at her. Irene pried loose her grip around the medicine bottle. She quickly read the label: STESOLID TABLETS, 5MG. When she put the bottle back in the drawer, she saw several more just like it. The technicians must have noted this so she closed the drawer.

  She went out to the luxurious bathroom and ran some water into a toothbrush glass hanging in a gilt holder on the wall. The glass was cut crystal; and the faucets were gold plated. A large, wet terry-cloth bath towel had been tossed on the floor. Absentmindedly, she hung it up on the heated towel rack on the wall. Pirjo would have a lot to straighten up when she returned.

  Sylvia lay staring up at the ceiling when Irene brought her the water glass. She raised herself up on one elbow to take the pills. Then she sank back, exhausted, on the comforter. With her eyes closed she whispered in a barely audible voice, “I didn’t mean to hit you. I wasn’t prepared. It’s all been too much for me.”

  Irene didn’t want to let Sylvia off quite yet. It was easy to be seized with sympathy for the small, fragile woman, but Irene had a strong feeling that there was much hidden beneath the surface that needed to be dug out. Why not the truth?

  She decided to proceed more cautiously. In a voice overflowing with empathy she said, “You have to forgive me. I thought you knew that Charlotte is pregnant. They told me about it yesterday at police headquarters.”

  Sylvia kept her eyes shut. It was an effective way to block out Irene and her disagreeable prying.

  Irene was at a loss; how was she going to make any headway? Then she remembered something. “The telephone list, the addresses and phone numbers of the guests last Saturday. Could I have the list?”

  Reluctantly Sylvia raised her eyelids. Her eyes were furious and cold, just as hostile as her tone of voice. “I can’t do it. You made me faint. My head is spinning and it feels like I have cotton in my ears. I feel terrible.” She pressed her thin fingers against her temples and began to massage them.

  To her own amazement Irene felt anger rising from the pit of her stomach, to her throat, to explode in her head. She tried to control herself, but it was no use. In a cold, neutral voice she said, “Now that you’re lying down anyway, I might as well ask my next question. I’ve looked through a bunch of old newspaper clippings. Richard was seen remarkably often with various beautiful young women. How did you react to that?”

  Sylvia stopped massaging her temples. Her eyes again blazed with rage, but her voice revealed nothing when she replied. “Those stupid bimbos were his hobby. He had strong . . . desires. I was always the most important woman in his life. He always came back to me when he began to lose interest in his latest conquest. It usually didn’t take long. He would cower behind me when they started pressuring him, making demands. It’s no use my denying it, because he never made any effort to hide anything. I just had to take it!” Finally, it was out. The bitterness.

  Irene said benignly, “And what about you? I didn’t see any similar photos of you.”

  Sylvia gave a harsh, scornful laugh before she replied. “We gave each other great freedom. Freedom for him, I should say.”

  She made a show of closing her eyes again, pressing her lips into a thin line. With a sigh Irene realized that it was time to change the subject and her tactics. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Her knees almost hit her in the chin when she sank down into the downy softness. “Sylvia,” she entreated, “we’re trying to investigate your husband’s murder. We have no clue as to a motive or a suspect. You have to help us. We have to ask unpleasant questions so we can try to get at the truth.”

  Sylvia’s blue-glazed eyelids twitched. But when she opened her eyes they were completely expressionless. She gazed vacantly at Irene.

  “Who would be served by the truth?”

  Irene was at a loss for words. But she had one question left that
she had to ask. She took a deep breath and steeled herself for whatever might come.

  “We’ve studied Richard’s personal records, which means everything contained in his files. It’s the sort of thing that parish ledgers used to protect in the past. Now the tax authorities use this sort of information and for that reason it’s now in the public record.”

  Irene stopped, because she wasn’t sure that that was completely accurate. But Sylvia’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t want Sylvia to have time to think about it, so she continued quickly, “Did you know that Richard had admitted paternity of a son before you were married?”

  Sylvia shut her eyes instantly. Her nostrils flared and she exhaled audibly before she replied tonelessly, “I’m not entirely surprised. There were some mysterious phone calls in the early days of our marriage. A woman who called and argued with Richard. I managed to overhear some of it. I gathered that it had to do with . . . a child.”

  There were decades of sorrow in those final sentences. Irene felt a tug of sympathy, but she decided to press a bit harder.

  “He never told you anything about the child?”

  “No.”

  “Does Henrik know anything?”

  “Don’t tell Henrik!”

  “Unfortunately, he’s going to find out anyway. If not before, then when it’s time to read the will.”

  It happened like lightning. Sylvia was suddenly sitting, her slender legs hanging over the edge of the bed. Red patches of indignation burned on her cheeks, her eyes flashed with wrath, and the cool elfin features were transformed into those of a shrew.

  “That despicable bastard inherit? Never! Over my dead body! I won’t permit it! I’m going to call Tore right now . . . Never!”

  She fell silent. Irene understood that she was referring to Tore Eiderstam. Unless she was a spiritualist, it would be impossible to contact the attorney. But someone must have taken over the firm, she supposed. She said as much to Sylvia, who looked bewildered.

  “There are several attorneys in Tore’s law office. I presume I’m permitted to call them? Damn it all! It was always Richard who kept track of our financial and legal affairs,” she said helplessly.

  She was interrupted by the doorbell. Irene went down and opened the front door. Henrik looked haggard but resolute. He gave her a curt nod and took the stairs two at a time to the top floor. Irene followed him, lost in thought. Sylvia’s reactions were very odd. What should have evoked happy exclamations and chatter about the anticipated joys of being a grandmother had unleashed instead an absolute explosion of rage. She had responded readily, if bitterly, to the embarrassing topic of the other women in her husband’s life. The other son was not entirely unexpected and provoked no reaction until she realized that he might have a right of inheritance. Maybe it would be a good idea to contact von Knecht’s lawyers, even though they couldn’t say anything before the will was read to the family.

  In the bedroom, mother and son were sitting side by side on the edge of the bed. Sylvia flung her blond hair back with a spiteful snap of her head and said, “Henrik just told me the same thing you did. I must really be off balance, reacting the way I did.”

  It took a moment before Irene realized that this was not only an explanation, but also an apology. She nodded and smiled encouragingly, but got no response, from either mother or son. Henrik looked like he hadn’t slept in several days. Irene began to feel thoroughly sick of the weird behavior of this family. Having to tiptoe around and be so careful when they were trying to investigate both a murder and a homicidal bombing!

  She decided to get straight to the point with Henrik. Matter-of-factly she said, “Henrik, I just told your mother . . . Sylvia, that we have discovered information that your father has a son from a prior relationship.”

  Henrik’s face remained expressionless. He blinked a couple of times, but said nothing.

  “Did you know of the existence of your half brother?”

  He shook his head gently, still without replying.

  Sylvia said rancorously, “Apparently he’s supposed to share in the inheritance! Never, I say! Never!”

  Henrik gave her a weary look. “Mamma, there are laws for such things. Leave it to Pappa’s lawyers.”

  No one said a word. Neither Sylvia nor Henrik had any questions about the newly discovered half brother. Wouldn’t it have been natural to ask where he lived, how old he was? But maybe that’s not what people did in a situation like this. Maybe the shock was too great. The silence was becoming embarrassing.

  Irene cleared her throat and said, “Henrik, what do you think about the fire last night?”

  “It might not have any connection with Pappa’s death.”

  She could hear from his voice that he wasn’t convinced himself. Irene continued. “Did either of you ever observe that Richard was being subjected to threats?”

  They looked at each other, then back at Irene; both shook their heads. Irene went on, unperturbed. “Did he ever talk about anyone having hostile or vindictive feelings toward him? Perhaps related to business?”

  Sylvia looked away, uninterested, and pretended to study a Chinese artwork above the bedstead. Irene had also noticed the risqué silk scroll painting. Her thought was that if a woman could twist her hips into the position assumed by the one in the picture, it would be like having sex with a female contortionist. Impulsively she stretched out her hand, pointed at the painting, and exclaimed, “Why did he collect sex pictures?”

  Henrik gave her a cool look and replied haughtily, “Sex pictures? This is the finest collection of erotica in Sweden.”

  Sylvia jumped up from the bed. She waved a thin finger in front of Henrik’s face and shouted, “No! She’s right. Sex pictures are precisely what they are. They have to go. Get rid of them! I’m sick to death of them!”

  She stopped and looked around the room, at all the pictures of naked or copulating people. Again the tears began quietly flowing down her cheeks. Softly she sobbed, “He was so proud of his collection. I hate them. Hate them all.”

  Henrik stood up and put his arm around his mother’s shoulders.

  “Mamma, I’ll handle the sale. There’s a big market in Europe. Especially in England. I imagine Christie’s would be very interested. This collection is worth several million kronor, you know.”

  She nodded and sobbed aloud. “Yes, I know. I don’t want to look at them anymore.”

  “I’ll help you take them all down. We’ll put them in my old room. Do you want to take down the Zorn, too?”

  “All of them.”

  Irene felt a bit desperate. It was hard to get a grip on everything simmering beneath the surface. Clearly there was a lot of tension in the von Knecht family. But was it the reason for Richard’s death? Or the bombing of his office? Since the friction seemed to be old and ingrown, it could hardly have anything to do with the events of the past few days. But it would be worth remembering what had been said and what had transpired today in the apartment. When one began to stir up the mud, clouds of old swamp gas arose. She had to keep at it, for the time being. Eventually something she could use would turn up. She moved on to her last questions.

  “There are a few more details before I go. First of all, does Pirjo have a key to this apartment?”

  Sylvia shook her head when she answered. “No. Either Richard or I would let her in.”

  “How many keys are there?”

  “Three sets.”

  “So there are three different key rings?”

  “Yes. Besides the door keys there are the keys to the seven deadbolt locks. The insurance company requires it. They also said we couldn’t have handles on the outsides of the French doors. Or the balcony door upstairs.”

  “Do you know where all three key rings are right now?”

  “Of course. I have my own keys in my handbag. The extra keys are in my desk drawer. I saw them this morning. Richard’s key ring is where I found it yesterday, on his nightstand.”

  She pointed to the other s
ide of the bed. A smaller key ring lay there, apparently holding car and garage keys. Next to it was a black leather key case. Irene unsnapped the case and counted six keys. She had a fleeting image of the tongue twister “Six shiny sardines stuffed in a shiny sardine can.”

  “How many of these keys are for the apartment?” asked Irene.

  “Two. One to the Yale lock and one to the deadbolt.”

  “What are the other keys for?”

  “Two are for the house on Kärringnäset, our house outside Marstrand. The other two must be for Richard’s office.”

  “Are there any spare keys to the office?”

  “Yes. They’re on the spare-key ring in my desk drawer.”

  “There are no other sets of keys?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “No. But speaking of keys, I remember that Richard was looking for his spare keys to the car and garage. Like the ones lying there on his nightstand,” she said.

  “When was that?”

  “It must have been at least a week ago.”

  “Did he find them?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Irene made a note in her notebook. In order to clarify, she asked again, “The car keys here on the table are his regular set? Not the spare set?”

  “Exactly.”

  Irene jotted down more notes. Evidently the spare keys to the car and garage were still missing. She quickly asked another question.

  “Who cleaned Richard’s office?”

  “Pirjo did it sometimes. She would agree on a time with Richard, and he would let her in. Most often on Tuesdays or Thursdays. Those are the days she’s not cleaning here. Occasionally she takes on other cleaning jobs, I understand.”

  A thought occurred to Irene. It was a long shot, but no idea could be ignored.

  “What does Pirjo look like?”

  “Rather chubby, and short. She must be a little over thirty, but looks like she’s well over forty. Her hair is thin and blond, usually put up in a ponytail. She looks sloppy, but she’s actually the best cleaning woman I’ve ever had. Alice, my friend who recommended her, said so too. But she smokes. If she quit she’d have more money for herself. I’m not paying her too little—she’s smoking it all up!”