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

by Helen Tursten

  Hannu asked, “CIC?”

  “Cardiac intensive care. I’m keeping in touch with the retired couple, because I suspect they may have heard or seen something that has to do with the bomb. To make a bomb that big, a lot of equipment would have had to be dragged in. The gasoline containers in particular should have been noticed.”

  Andersson cleared his throat. “Are there any witnesses who noticed anything suspicious in recent days?”

  “No, and that’s strange. Nobody can think of any mysterious person or remember hearing anything odd. There’s only one statement that sounds interesting. An elderly man in the building next door to von Knecht’s, address on Sten Sturegatan, has his bedroom window on the second floor facing the courtyard. Outside the window there are some rented parking places, one of which is von Knecht’s. According to this gentleman, von Knecht parked his Porsche in that parking space just before one in the morning on Saturday.”

  “On Friday night, you mean?”

  “Right. And he’s positive. It was the Porsche. There aren’t that many Porsche Targas around, now that the happy-go-lucky eighties are over for most people. I called up Sylvia von Knecht yesterday afternoon and asked if that could be right. According to her it’s absolutely impossible. Apparently there was a preanniversary get-together on Friday night. Nobody went to bed before one-thirty in the morning, except Sylvia’s old mother. Even if she didn’t like her son-in-law, I don’t think the old lady would take the Porsche and zip down to Berzeliigatan to rig up a bomb. And clearly no one else from the preparty did either. Sylvia got mad as hell at me when I asked if Richard was drunk on Friday night. Finally it came out that he was obviously plastered.”

  Andersson remembered what Stridner had told him at yesterday’s meeting. It seemed that von Knecht drank a good deal toward the end of his life. To establish the chronology he asked, “He was with the others until one-thirty?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long silence as all four of them tried to figure out some angle. Anyway, it was obvious. Irene was the one who took it up for discussion.

  “The car. The Porsche. How could it be on Berzeliigatan that night? Where was it parked earlier in the evening?”

  “I asked Sylvia where the car was now. According to her, it’s in a locked garage on Molinsgatan. Just like her own car, a BMW,” Tommy replied.

  “So it hasn’t been stolen, but was put back in its garage. Is it certain that it was von Knecht’s Porsche and not someone else’s?”

  Tommy shrugged his shoulders. “The old guy on Sten Sturegatan claimed it was von Knecht’s,” he said curtly.

  Again a thoughtful silence descended over the meeting. Finally the superintendent slapped the palm of his hand on the table, which put another coffee stain on Irene’s report, and exclaimed, “It’s some damned phantom sneaking around, going through locked doors, and taking locked cars. And putting them back! Without leaving a trace. Up in smoke!”

  Hannu caught his eye. “More keys.”

  Andersson fell silent and took on an absentminded look of concentration. The others also realized that it was the only explanation. Irene said enthusiastically, “Of course that’s it! There has to be an extra key to the car and the garage. By the way, Sylvia said that Richard had been searching for the spare key to the Porsche the week before he died. On the same key ring there’s a key to the garage. There must also be another set of keys to the doors in von Knecht’s building on Molinsgatan and the building on Berzeliigatan. But Sylvia told me that there were only three sets of keys to the two apartments. I saw them myself; she has all three key rings at home in her apartment.”

  Andersson looked at Irene after her input. Thoughtfully he said, “Sylvia certainly didn’t know about any more keys. He had a whole bunch of secrets, our fine Herr von Knecht. There must be another set of keys. Which the killer is now walking around with. Plus the spare keys to the Porsche and the garage.”

  As the words sank in, Irene understood the threat. “That means that Sylvia shouldn’t be staying in the apartment before the locks are changed,” she said.

  “Precisely.” Andersson made a calming gesture. “But we can lie low over the weekend. She’s at Marstrand with Henrik, after all. As long as the murderer doesn’t have keys to that house too.”

  Irene gave a start and exclaimed, “Wait a minute. There were keys to the Marstrand house on the key rings! We can’t lie low. We have to warn her.”

  An anxious furrow creased Andersson’s brow. “Irene, try to get hold of her right away.”

  She nodded and felt a slight uneasiness inside. Sylvia might be in danger. An obvious question popped up, demanding an answer. “But who would have access to a whole set of keys to von Knecht’s various houses and cars?” she wondered.

  All of them tried to figure out an answer. Finally Hannu said, “Richard von Knecht.”

  At first Andersson was visibly irritated, but he had to admit the logic of Hannu’s conclusion. “And who would he give the keys to?”

  Nobody had a good answer, and they dropped the subject after a while.

  Irene reported on her trip to Stockholm. Her colleagues had plenty of comments about her excursion: Was it really necessary to spend a lot of taxpayers’ money going up to Stockholm? Did Mona Söder stand to inherit? Why couldn’t she have said all that on the phone? Could Mona have flown down to Göteborg on Tuesday afternoon and back the same evening? Or driven it in her fast new car?

  With a dismissive gesture Irene tried to answer the questions one by one. “It was actually not so dumb of her to demand that I come up and see Jonas with my own eyes. Jonas is dying, and she has been by his side every evening. Now she’s on vacation, so she can stay with him around the clock. I’ve checked with the hospital staff and they say she was there on Tuesday evening. According to the switchboard at her job she was there all day Tuesday. The Audi has only gone thirty-two hundred kilometers. I’m actually quite convinced of her innocence. We don’t have to waste more resources by checking up on her and Jonas. They just want to be left in peace. To your question, Hannu: Yes, Mona will inherit Jonas’s share of Richard von Knecht’s estate, that’s the law. But she doesn’t need his money and doesn’t want anything to do with the von Knecht family. Can we keep her and Jonas out of the official reports to the media?”

  She addressed this question to Andersson in an almost entreating tone of voice. He looked at her, surprised, but then nodded briefly.

  “We’ll have to trust your intuition for the time being, until something turns up. From what I understand, Jonas isn’t going anywhere. And his mother isn’t either,” he said crassly.

  Energetically he slapped his palm on the table again, so that his cup fell over and the last drops of coffee trickled across Irene’s report. With a sigh she acknowledged that she would have to print out a whole new one. Andersson didn’t notice, but turned to Tommy.

  “Tommy, what have you found out about Shorty?”

  “Fredrik and I split up the job. I concentrated on the buildings around Berzeliigatan. Fredrik took Shorty. I didn’t see a trace of him all afternoon. But if I know Fredrik, there will be a complete report. First thing Monday morning, if not sooner.”

  Andersson suddenly looked like he had an idea and interrupted Tommy. “There’s an interesting thing that Birgitta ferreted out yesterday during her interview with Bobo Torsson.”

  He stopped, recalling the heated exchange between Jonny and Birgitta the day before. He decided not to tell the others about it. Instead he gave a lively account of Birgitta’s interview of Torsson. The attack on Birgitta’s more intimate body parts made those present especially indignant. But when the superintendent fired off his final remark, they gave him an almost distrustful look. As if he must be lying.

  “. . . and finally it came out that Torsson is living with Shorty right now. He and Shorty are cousins!”

  He was pleased with the effect of his words. At the same time he had to admit that it didn’t simplify matters in the least that
the chic doper fashion photographer and the notorious hoodlum were close relatives. He sighed heavily and said for the thousandth time in the past few days, “What a mess! Does any of it make sense, or are we running around chasing our phantom along a bunch of unrelated sidetracks?”

  “I think it seems normal for a homicide investigation. We spend ninety percent of our time on leads that don’t have a thing to do with the case. Routine jobs, following a lot of leads, checking witnesses’ statements, verifying times and the like. No, I think it’s the same as always,” said Tommy.

  He rolled his eyes to heaven and the others laughed. They all knew very well that this was no routine case.

  Andersson turned to Hannu. “What have you found out about Pirjo?”

  “Dental X rays. She was in emergency at the community dental clinic in Angered six months ago, had a toothache. They pulled it. She didn’t want a root canal.”

  Andersson leaned toward him excitedly and asked, “Where are the X rays now?”

  “Pathology.”

  “Good! Then we’ll find out soon whether it’s really Pirjo lying there. Although it most likely is her. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I got word from Helsinki. She was arrested for illegal distilling and bootlegging along with her ex-husband. The boys’ father. He was sentenced to one year. In prison he was stabbed by another inmate after a fight over a gambling debt. He died. There’s nothing about Marjatta except ‘father unknown.’”

  “Did Pirjo do time?”

  “No. She got a suspended sentence, because of the kids. Less than a year later she married Göte Larsson and moved to Sweden.”

  “So that was three years ago?”

  “Yep.”

  “And now he’s in Malmö living with a Polish woman.”

  “Right.”

  They remained seated and continued to discuss things without getting much further. Just as Andersson stood up to go to his office, the door opened and a uniformed officer stuck in his head. It was Hans Stefansson from PO1. He greeted them cheerfully. “Hi! Just wanted to tell you, Andersson, that we haven’t found Bobo Torsson. Shorty told us to go to hell when we wanted to enter his apartment and look for him. Should we get a search warrant?”

  Involuntarily Andersson’s whole face took on a disapproving expression. Irene knew why. Then he would have to contact the prosecutor in charge, Inez Collin. But he had to relinquish his personal distaste. He nodded.

  “Okay. Hang on a minute, and I’ll try to fix one,” he said.

  Tommy looked surprised and asked, “Why does Torsson have to be brought in so soon?”

  “Assault and battery on a civil servant. He voiced a serious threat to Birgitta. I would feel better if I had some hold over little Bobo. And for him to know it. Remember, Shorty is his cousin. There’s a risk he’ll send some of his friends. There’s always some creep who owes a guy like that a favor. Why not take on the pleasure of beating up a cop? Especially a female one!”

  His facial color had risen and he looked very serious. He gazed meditatively at his inspectors and went on, “One of you has to go on the patrol that picks up Torsson. Even if you don’t find him at the apartment, you can always get a sense of the lay of the land. Tommy, will you take it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Remember to proceed cautiously. Shorty has shot at cops before.”

  Irene couldn’t help asking, “Why is one of society’s worst enemies set up in a little tobacco shop?”

  “A legitimate question; unfortunately, I don’t have a good answer. But mark my words: If he’s on the scene, something fishy is going on!”

  The superintendent looked very stern and determined. No one contradicted him.

  WHEN THE others had left the room, Irene started to look for the phone number to Marstrand. She managed to find the number of the caretaker, just as Jonny Blom had.

  A female voice answered. “Svensson.”

  “Good day, this is Detective Inspector Irene Huss. I’m actually looking for Sylvia von Knecht. Can you connect me?”

  “I can take a message. She and my husband are out exercising the horses right now. They won’t be back for at least an hour.”

  “Would it be possible to talk to Henrik von Knecht?”

  “Unfortunately, I can only switch the call to the big house. The smaller houses don’t have phone lines.”

  “Do you happen to have his cell phone number?”

  “No, sorry.”

  In a friendly voice the caretaker’s wife promised to give the message to Fru von Knecht.

  Annoyed, Irene slammed down the receiver. Strangely enough, Henrik’s cell phone number wasn’t in the phone book either. Lacking anything better to do, she got started on all the material lying on her desk. She zealously sorted, wrote reports, and filed various witness statements. She jumped in her chair when the phone rang. With a quick glance at the clock, she saw that almost two hours had passed since she started looking for Sylvia.

  “Inspector Irene Huss.”

  “Sylvia von Knecht. Anita Svensson said you had asked for me. What is it regarding?”

  Irene could hear from her voice that it would be fine to skip the pleasantries and chitchat. She assumed an authoritative tone. “We have indications that there seems to have been a fourth set of keys. Do you know anything about this?”

  “No, I already told you! There are no other sets of keys except for the three I showed you.”

  Irene chose her words with some care before she went on. “We have reason to believe that there are. And that the murderer has access to these keys. Plus the spare keys to the garage and the Porsche.”

  There was a long pause. Irene could hear that Sylvia was breathing fast on the other end of the line. Finally she said, still in a dismissive tone, “What makes you think there are more keys?”

  Irene referred to the statement that the Porsche had been seen on Berzeliigatan on Friday night. Sylvia herself had stated that it couldn’t possibly have been Richard who was driving. So someone had keys to both the garage on Molinsgatan and to the car. This someone also had access to keys to the locked street doors, both on Molinsgatan and Berzeliigatan. The garbage room doors and the doors onto the courtyard were locked in both neighborhoods. Despite this the murderer had passed unhindered through these doors and stairways. So there had to be additional keys. In conclusion Irene said, “I want to remind you that you said there were keys on your own and Richard’s key rings that fit the house outside Marstrand. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice sounded thin and afraid. She had grasped what Irene was getting at. Shakily Sylvia said, “You mean that the murderer might be able to come here! And would be able to get in, because he has the keys?”

  Now the panic in her voice was blatant. Irene assumed a soothing tone when she replied, “From what we can tell, there is some risk of that. It can’t be ruled out. Are you alone in the big house?”

  “Yes. Henrik is down in his cabin.”

  “Can you ask him to sleep in the house with you tonight? Or can you stay down there with him?”

  There was a long silence. Finally she heard Sylvia’s voice, sounding much steadier and stronger. “I’ll take care of the horses up here. Then I’ll drive to a friend’s house. Henrik can drive home to his own place; the murderer wouldn’t have any of his keys, would he?”

  “Probably not. Can you tell me where you’re going?”

  “I can’t see that it’s any of your business!”

  The familiar feeling that arose whenever Irene talked to Sylvia now reappeared. Her patience ran out and the adrenaline started pumping in her arteries. Softly and pedagogically, as if she were dealing with an unruly child, she said, “Sylvia, we suspect a dangerous killer is behind the events of the past few days. Try to understand that we’re not snooping into your private life. We’re trying to protect you.”

  “Then catch the murderer!”

  Click!

  Astonishment changed to anger as Irene sat staring
stupidly at the receiver. God damned bitch, didn’t she realize! Irene stopped her angry torrent of words. An idea popped up in the back of her mind. She picked it out, scrutinized it, and gave it her approval. Decisively she stood up and went in to see the superintendent.

  “IT’S ACTUALLY not such a dumb idea. Go ahead. If anything comes of it, call me. I’ll probably be here until six. Otherwise I’ll be home all evening. Tomorrow I thought I’d try to get home a little earlier. I’m going to dinner at my niece’s place—Marianne, you know.”

  Irene nodded. She was well aware of Marianne and her two small boys, even though they had never met.

  “Have they found Torsson yet?”

  “No. He’s gone underground; he must know that things are getting hot. You can’t just bite a police officer with impunity on the ti . . . on the breast!”

  Irene managed to conceal her smile in a light cough. The superintendent, struck by newly acquired respect for the fair sex, was amusing.

  It was just before noon, no time to lose. Her lunch would have to be a hot dog on the way.

  HIGHWAY E6 is almost ten kilometers longer, but it’s faster than driving on narrow city streets. The wind was blowing; gray clouds had drawn the damp hems of their skirts low over Hisingen. Traffic was heavy. Apparently all the residents of the suburbs were headed for Göteborg to shop, look at the Christmas displays, and eat hamburgers with their kids at McDonald’s. Suddenly Irene realized how hungry she was. She braked quickly at the first gas station that had a hot dog stand. But it wasn’t easy to eat while she was driving. The last bit of sausage slipped out of the bun and landed in her lap. The mustard showed up well on black jeans. She borrowed some words from her boss’s vocabulary. She almost missed the exit north of Kungälv, but at the last moment saw it and turned off.

  The road out toward Marstrand is extremely beautiful, and she usually gave it the attention it deserved. On this gray November day, though, she was focused on driving as fast as she could while she kept an eye out for her colleagues from the Traffic Division.