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

by Helen Tursten

  “A child always has the right to his lawful share of the inheritance, which is half of the estate. And by law Jonas is counted as a stepchild. Stepchildren always have the right to demand their share of the inheritance when their parents die.”

  “Sounds like you’ve read up on the subject.”

  “Of course. I looked it up right away in Everyday Jurisprudence when I read in the papers that Richard was dead. This was bound to come up eventually, but I repressed it. Neither Jonas nor I need his money. In the eyes of the police, though, we must be suspects. I realized this when the papers started talking about murder. But we want nothing to do with his money. He has never shared in our lives, or we in his. Except for the generous support payments. He bought his way out. And for our part that was certainly the best thing that could have happened. We had no financial worries while I finished my studies. Or later, when Jonas was growing up. The salaries of social workers have never been huge, but thanks to Richard’s support my school loans were modest. I paid them off long ago. And I got out of living with Richard. That was my best revenge against Sylvia. And I didn’t have to lift a finger.”

  She gave a curt, joyless laugh. “I had no reason to kill Richard. Besides Jonas, he’s the only man I ever loved, but he has been dead to me for thirty years. And I intend to donate Jonas’s inheritance from Richard to Noah’s Ark, the AIDS support organization.”

  For the rest of the way they sat in silence, each absorbed in her own thoughts.

  ON THE way up in the elevator, Mona told Irene that Jonas was in a special ward for AIDS patients. There were eight beds. Jonas’s condition had declined so drastically that he now had a private room. Unsentimentally she said, “We had decided that he would be allowed to die at home on Fjällgatan. But it didn’t work. Sometimes he’s completely incontinent and can’t hold his urine or excrement. We couldn’t handle things at home. Both of us were thankful that he was allowed to come here. We thought that he’d only have to come in for a few days to be rehydrated a little. But he can no longer keep food or fluids down. He has to be on an IV all the time. That’s not something I can take care of. Thank the good Lord that the national health-care system is still functioning!”

  They went in through the glass doors to the ward. As they approached the door marked STAFF, Mona slowed, smiled wanly, and whispered, “He’s in the first room on the left, just past the staff room.”

  Mona quickened her step and opened a door a few meters down the hall.

  Irene could hear hard-rock music streaming out the door. She recognized the sound; the glam-rock band Kiss, playing “Heaven on Fire.” She entered the staff room and found two nurses, dressed in blue scrubs. One of them was young and blond. When he stood up Irene saw that he was close to two meters tall. His female colleague was middle aged and plump. She said in a friendly voice, “Hello. Are you looking for someone?”

  “Well, yes. I’m a friend of Mona Söder. We’re visiting Jonas. Mona hasn’t arrived yet, has she? Isn’t she always here in the evenings?”

  Good grief! Why was she lying? But she knew she wanted to help exclude Mona from the von Knecht case.

  The nurse nodded and smiled. “Every evening. Why do you ask?”

  Irene managed an apologetic and helpless smile. “I tried to call her Tuesday evening. Here. But no one answered Jonas’s phone. I got the direct number from Mona. So that’s why I thought maybe she wasn’t here last Tuesday?. . .”

  “Oh yes, she was here. We were working Tuesday night. Maybe she pulled out the jack if Jonas was sleeping.”

  “Yes, maybe that’s what happened. I just wanted to mention that Jonas’s phone might not be working right . . . But I suppose it’s fine. Sorry to disturb you.”

  With an apologetic smile Irene backed out into the corridor. The nurses gave her a friendly nod, turned back to each other, and continued their interrupted conversation.

  It was as easy as that. She was without doubt a natural-born liar. Once you start down that path, you might as well keep following it. She quickly slunk out through the glass doors and went over to a pay phone she had seen near the elevator. She fed in some coins and took out the crumpled note with the number of Swedish Data. Maybe there wouldn’t be anyone at the switchboard on a Friday evening just before six o’clock?

  “Swedish Data, good afternoon.”

  Irene sighed with relief before she spoke.

  “Good evening, I’m looking for Personnel Director Mona Söder.”

  “She’s gone for the day.”

  “Will she be in on Monday?”

  “Just a moment . . . No, she has three weeks’ vacation.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad! I was looking for her on Tuesday, but didn’t get hold of her. Was she off that day too?”

  “Off? No, you must be mistaken. She was here all day on Tuesday. She hasn’t had any time off all week. May I tell her who is calling?”

  “Birgitta Andersson. I’ll call her again in three weeks. It’s not urgent. Have a nice weekend!”

  SHE OPENED the door to Jonas’s room. The volume of the music had been turned down. She recognized this artist and song too: Freddie Mercury, “Mr. Bad Guy.” Impulsively she said to Jonas, “This isn’t really one of his best songs. Or albums either, for that matter.”

  He seemed not to hear, but after a moment he opened his eyelids a bit. “No, this album was never a big hit,” he replied weakly. He coughed violently, and his whole torso shook.

  Irene had steeled herself for the sight of Jonas. She was afraid she would see a trembling skeleton, stinking of his own excrement, bald, and covered with pustules and sores. But he was a handsome man. Thin, but indisputably like the pictures she had seen of Richard von Knecht as a young man. His dark blond hair was cropped short. He had opened his eyes now, and she could see that they were a bright, intense blue, despite the spiderweb of morphine overlaying his consciousness. He fixed his gaze on her and the smile he gave her was amazingly alert.

  “You must be Irene. Mamma told me about you.”

  A mild coughing fit interrupted him again. Irene took care to raise an inquisitive eyebrow at Mona. She shook her head. So she hadn’t told him that Irene was a cop. What had she said? Mona picked up on her query and said in a natural tone of voice, “Yes, it was a good thing you came to work at Swedish Data. I wound up with both a skilled colleague and a good friend.”

  Another born liar, apparently. Wanting to signal reassurance, Irene replied, “I’m sorry to be late. But I checked with the staff. Evidently there was nothing wrong with the phone on Tuesday when I tried to call you here. You must have pulled out the jack while Jonas was asleep.”

  Mona looked extremely relieved. But her voice betrayed nothing when she answered, “Yes, I must have.”

  “It didn’t matter anyway. We took care of things and found a temp.”

  Irene turned to Jonas as she spoke but he didn’t seem in the least interested. He was looking up at the IV. The yellow fluid in the little bottle was almost gone. The big bag hanging next to it was filled with a clear liquid. There was a lot of text printed on it. Apparently it contained a great number of important and useful components. With a deft hand Mona turned off the drip from the little bottle by pulling out the red plastic wheel in the drip regulator. The tubes went down to a drip tap that was fastened by adhesive tape to Jonas’s collarbone. Irene shuddered when she realized that the catheter went directly through the skin on his neck. The insertion point was covered with a thick compress.

  Jonas looked at her again and asked, “Do you like Freddie Mercury?”

  “Not so much as a solo artist. He was best when he was with Queen.”

  Jonas nodded. He gave Irene a mocking look. “We have a lot in common, Freddie and I. We’re gay. On our death certificates posterity will be able to read the cause of our death. AIDS. And that we died too young.”

  He was seized by a powerful fit of coughing. When he again tried to fix his gaze on her, Irene saw that his eyes were glazing over. He had probab
ly just received a dose of morphine, which was beginning to take effect. He breathed with difficulty and tried to speak carefully to avoid coughing.

  “Mamma, help me with the oxygen,” he managed to say.

  The oxygen hose was hanging over the bedpost. Mona slipped it expertly and carefully over his head. It looked like a transparent halter. Mona placed a cannula with two tips under his nostrils. Without hesitation she turned on the regulator on the wall. The oxygen meter on the wall came to life as a faint rushing sound came from the hose.

  Then Irene noticed the painting. Two big yellow butterflies with black markings on their wings hovered over a vast landscape, a shimmering stream in the valley and blue-tinged mountains in the distance. In the foreground there were beautiful meadow blossoms. The blue of the forget-me-nots was dominant, but there were also splashes of white and pink flowers that she recognized but couldn’t name. They came so close to the observer that it felt as if she were lying on her stomach among the meadow flowers and peeking over the edge down into the long valley, up toward the two gaudy butterflies. The sky was not blue, but a silvery white circle above the mountains dispersed a strong light that became a warm pink at the outer edges. It was not the sun and not the moon. It was the Light.

  “What do you see?”

  Jonas’s question made her jump.

  “The painting . . . it’s wonderful!”

  She smiled at Jonas and her gaze was pulled down into his. Down there she saw the contrasting picture. Darkness, despair, dread, and loneliness. But also a great calm. The knowledge that everything is one. If he hadn’t possessed the contrasting image, he never would have been able to depict the Light.

  “It’s me and Chester. The swallowtail butterflies. I painted it the week after he died. I finished it in twenty-four hours, but then I collapsed. It was blood poisoning,” he said in a clear voice. He looked at her with eyes wide open. All haziness seemed to have vanished.

  “The top butterfly is Chester. He’s already in the tunnel of light. On the beach by the river of Life lies his congealed blood.”

  Only then did Irene notice that the beach had a pale pinkish brown tone. Closest to the waterline there was a sharper bloodred line. In the left corner the bloodred color was repeated until the flowers took over.

  “In the left corner you see my blood. It’s running out. Running out ... of the picture.” He coughed and breathed more heavily.

  “The butterfly flying below is me. I’m still tied to the earth, which is symbolized by the flowers. But I’m on my way. Upward.”

  He was silent for a long time. Irene was fascinated by the painting. It was big, surely two square meters. Despite the fact that the interpretation he had given her should have made her sad, the picture prompted no feelings of sorrow whatsoever. On the contrary, she felt a joy of life and a sense of optimism flowing toward her.

  “You have to understand, Irene, that I look forward to dying. Not because I want an end to my suffering, because I don’t have much pain anymore. But I have no dignity left. I shit myself and have to use a catheter and diaper. I can’t even jerk off. I feel anxious when I have shortness of breath and because I can’t walk anymore. But I don’t want to end it. Life is a gift. All the way to whatever you are given.”

  It was much too long a speech. The coughing fit that followed seemed as if it would never end. The shaking of his emaciated body made Irene felt powerless. Mona put her arm around his shoulders to support him. She spoke softly and soothingly, as all mothers do when they comfort a sick child. Although this child was a grown man. Who was dying.

  Jonas nodded off for a while. Mona and Irene looked at the other painting that was in the room. It hung on the wall facing Jonas’s bed so that he could easily see it. It was a portrait of a dark-skinned man. In the background was a saxophone, music scores, and notes. There was a gold sheen over the entire picture, from the saxophone to a faint misty gold over the man’s mouth and eyes. Irene turned to Mona and asked, “Who is the man in the picture?”

  “Chester. Chester Johnson, jazz musician. He became my son-in-law in April. They were married at home, because Chester was too sick to go to the city hall. Jonas was going through a slightly better period just then. But since Chester passed away he just hasn’t wanted to go on. Except when he painted the butterflies.”

  Jonas woke up and cleared his throat. He started talking again in a weak, slightly slurred voice.

  “I’m curious. It’s a journey we all have to make. But not alone. Just as in the painting, Chester will be with me. He’s leading me and holding my hand if I get scared. He’s been with me several times the past few days. But he did the right thing. It’s better to die in the summertime. It’s warmer and more beautiful, with all the flowers. People won’t have to freeze their feet off at the cemetery the way they will at my funeral. Poor planning on my part. On the other hand, there might be a lot of snow and then it would be beautiful with the flowers against the snow. Although it will be cold in the grave.”

  His chest heaved violently, rattling ominously. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. His strength was gone and soon he fell asleep. Mona signaled that they should go out into the corridor.

  “It’s almost seven o’clock. Can you catch the train back to Göteborg? Otherwise you’re welcome to stay with me.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll make it. The train goes at eight-thirty.”

  “Shall I drive you?”

  “No thanks, I’ll call a cab.”

  There was a brief silence between them. Simultaneously they both took a step toward each other and exchanged a quick and awkward hug. Embarrassed, they muttered “I’ll be talking to you” and “Call if something happens.” Irene hurried off to the elevator. A painful lump sat in her throat, and her eyes were blurred with tears.

  NATURALLY SHE was there. Just as grayly correct as on the trip to Stockholm. She sat a few rows farther back, with the same binder on her knee. Irene had a quick vision of the gray woman spending her days sitting on X2000, traveling back and forth, back and forth, back and ... Irene couldn’t stop herself. Just before she sat down she flashed a movie-star smile at the Gray Lady. In return she received a wildly startled look, filled with naked terror. A look that revealed recognition that she was locked in an Intercity train with a total madwoman, with no possibility of getting off!

  After fifteen minutes the detective inspector fell into a restless and dream-filled sleep. Somewhere in the dark the terror was approaching. Before her she saw Jenny and Katarina. Unfazed, they walked straight toward the threatening darkness. She tried to call out and warn them, but found herself completely mute. Since no sound came out when she screamed, she tried to run and catch them. But something was holding on to her feet. Behind the girls’ backs, darkness closed in and soon hid them completely.

  With sobs of fear pounding in her chest, she woke up with a start, only to find that she had gotten her right foot stuck between the seats in front of her.

  Chapter Ten

  A S SUPERINTENDENT ANDERSSON EMERGED from the commissioner’s room he just caught a glimpse of Irene disappearing into the elevator, on her way to Central Station and Stockholm. He had a sudden impulse to call her back. It would have been nice to have a chance to go in her place. Bengt Bergström’s order to “keep him continuously informed” was aggravating. No, a trip to Stockholm would have done him good. Speaking of doing him good . . . with a sigh he realized that Irene couldn’t try on pants in his place. He would just have to stay where he was.

  To cheer himself up a little he decided to go and visit Ivan Viktors. It’s not every day you meet your idols on the job, so you should take advantage of the opportunity. He knocked on the door and was greeted by Jonny’s annoyed voice.

  “Now what is it? Can’t you see I’m busy . . . Oh, pardon me! This is the superintendent.” He addressed the latter remark to a man with silver-gray hair and a distinguished appearance. When he stood up to shake hands, he was almost a head taller than Andersson.

&n
bsp; “Superintendent Sven Andersson, how do you do?”

  “How do you do? Ivan Viktors.”

  His voice was deep and well modulated, naturally. His smile was warm and genuine. Andersson made an apologetic gesture.

  “I was just passing by and thought I’d say hello.”

  Ivan Viktors leaned toward the superintendent and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, “Inspector Blom is about to narrow in on my mysterious activities.”

  Jonny’s ears turned red, and he quickly read aloud from his notes: “‘Took the afternoon train up to Stockholm last Sunday. Visited an older brother at the Caroline Hospital.’ What’s he in for?”

  “Compound fracture of the femur and concussion. He was operated on a week ago. Old men shouldn’t run across the street after the light turns red and think they can make it!”

  Viktors tried to sound easy going, but Andersson heard an undertone of anxiety. He quickly asked, “Is it serious?”

  “Not anymore. He’s recovering, thank you.”

  Jonny again looked down at his papers and went on reading aloud: “ ‘Monday morning at nine o’clock V. met a pupil. They practiced until four P.M. Broke off only for lunch at noon.’”

  “V? Is that me?” Ivan Viktors gave an effervescent laugh that to Andersson’s ears sounded like a pitch-perfect A major.

  Jonny grew peevish and gave the opera singer a gritted-teeth look. “I always abbreviate names in my reports! The name of the pupil is Claes Winer. I’ve got his phone number and address and will call and check later.”

  Andersson nodded and saw Ivan Viktors watching Jonny with a smile. Nothing in the man’s behavior seemed tense or uncertain. On the contrary, with his self-confident elegance he did not seem a bit perturbed by the dreariness of police headquarters; he seemed to fit right in and feel at home, which he no doubt did everywhere. Andersson reminded himself that skilled opera singers are also good actors.

  Viktors turned directly to Andersson. “That’s how far Inspector Blom and I had gotten before you came in. On Tuesday morning I flew directly from Stockholm to Copenhagen. I had a delicious lunch with some old friends from the Royal Theater. They had contacted me regarding their production of Wagner’s Flying Dutchman. The young man who’s going to sing my old starring role is having problems finding his way in the songs, so to speak. And it is very difficult to sing. I can recall—”