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

by Helen Tursten

  She took them and stuffed them into the interdepartmental envelope along with the other pictures she had gotten from the lab earlier that morning.

  AT EIGHT-THIRTY Irene went into the interview room where Jonny sat with Charlotte. Jonny loved the whole setup. He would get to play his favorite role, the bad cop. It would be a shame to bother a great actor during his big scene, so Irene sat passively in a corner and made herself invisible. The time for her entrance would come soon enough. Her role would be determined by the progress of the interview. Nothing must be allowed to go wrong. Charlotte wasn’t exceedingly intelligent, but she was cunning and totally self-centered. Those were dangerous characteristics combined with a beautiful body.

  Charlotte ignored Irene’s entrance and concentrated completely on Jonny. The moist film over her turquoise eyes shimmered, and she ran her tongue over her lips, carefully, so as not to disturb her lipstick. Irritated, Irene noticed that she had taken time to put on her contacts and some makeup. There was a strong scent of Cartier in the room. Charlotte tilted her head and glittered turquoisely at Jonny.

  “My dear man, I want an attorney and I don’t have to answer these horrid questions. I don’t know anything. And I need some breakfast. I’m pregnant,” she said in explanation.

  Jonny showed his teeth in a reptilian smile. “Calm down, little lady, we’ll get to that too, eventually. Of course you’ll have an attorney. Do you have one of your own?”

  “Well . . . no . . . Father-in-law did . . .”

  “But you and Henrik don’t have a family lawyer?”

  “No.”

  “Why do you think that the attorneys at the firm Eiderstam and Sons would have any great desire to take on your defense? There’s reason to suspect you were an accessory in the arson murder on Berzeliigatan and the bombing murder of Bobo Torsson. As well as conspiracy to murder your own husband, Henrik von Knecht. Deeds that were indirectly aimed at one of their biggest clients, Richard von Knecht, who has also been murdered. We’ll come back to that later. If I may give you some advice, ask for a public defender.”

  Charlotte’s lips began to tremble, and for a moment Irene thought she was about to cry. But she crossed her arms firmly under her breasts, making sure to push them up a little at the same time as she paused to think. After about a minute her strategy was decided. With her eyelids lowered and in a soft voice, she cooed, “I’ll follow your advice. I’m sure you know best. I would like to have a public defender.”

  “We’ll arrange that. But until then you have to answer my questions. If you don’t I’ll take it as an indication that you have something to hide. And then there will be a very tough interrogation!”

  Her eyes widened slightly and the hint of a satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  “So . . . this isn’t an interrogation?”

  “No. You just have to answer my questions.”

  Would she bite? Did she really believe that it wasn’t an official interrogation? She might be lulled into feeling safe for the time being, but she would find out otherwise.

  “Let’s begin with the bomb on Berzeliigatan. Why did you never mention to us that Henrik stored a large quantity of explosives in a box in your bedroom at Marstrand?”

  She rolled her eyes so they flashed turquoise lights, and made sure to expand her bust by sighing deeply. “I didn’t know that Henrik had explosives in the box. He always kept it locked.”

  “Didn’t you ever ask him what was in the box?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions. Why didn’t you ever ask him what was in the box?”

  For the first time she looked uncertain before she replied. “I wasn’t interested. He had so many gadgets and so much junk all over the place.”

  “So you never cared about finding out what was in the box?”

  “No.”

  “Then you must understand that the prosecutor has good reason to suspect you of complicity in the bombings. A married couple can’t live together for years without the wife knowing that there are explosives in the bedroom.”

  “But God da . . . I’m almost never there!”

  “Almost never there? At the cabin at Marstrand?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you have keys to it? To the gate and the cabin?”

  A clear glint of fear behind the turquoise film. “Yes . . .”

  “Where are they?”

  She knew it was serious now. The smell of fear broke through the perfume.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t looked.”

  “No, of course not. Shorty had the keys yesterday. He says you gave them to him.”

  “He’s lying! He must have stolen them!”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But we do know a few things. We know that Shorty drove by Långåsliden on Sunday evening, stayed barely fifteen minutes, and then drove straight up to Marstrand and killed your husband.”

  “How do you know . . .?” She cut herself off and quickly bent her head. Her hair slid forward like a curtain in front of her face, a move she had learned from her mother-in-law. Irene recognized it at once. After a while she looked up and said in a low voice, “He came by to ask if I was planning to come to Bobo’s funeral next week.”

  “Funny. He didn’t tell us that.”

  Basically, Shorty had refused to say anything as soon as they started asking about Henrik’s murder, but Charlotte couldn’t know that. With an audible quaver in her voice she asked, “What did he tell you?”

  “That you gave him the keys and directions to Marstrand.”

  It was a long shot, but Irene could see that it struck home.

  “He said that? He’s lying!”

  “Why would he lie? He’ll be doing hard time for your husband’s murder and has everything to gain from putting you away too. You’ll be sent up for instigation of homicide, and he’ll be sentenced for doing the job at your request. It’ll be a lighter sentence. For him.”

  A person familiar with the law wouldn’t have fallen for it. But Charlotte was both ignorant and scared.

  “That asshole! He threatened me! He wanted to get hold of Henrik, and he forced me to tell him where Henrik was. If I didn’t give him the keys he was going to kill me.”

  “Why didn’t you call Henrik on his cell phone?”

  “I couldn’t remember the number. It’s a new phone.”

  “So why didn’t you call the caretaker and ask him to warn Henrik? Or the police?”

  Now the scent of fear pervaded the room.

  “I did! But the caretaker wasn’t in.”

  “We checked your phone calls from Sunday evening. None were made to Marstrand or the police. On the other hand, one was made to the Brasserie Lipp, to reserve a table. And that’s where you went later that evening. We checked it out. You were a lively bunch, from what I understood from the owner. He wanted to get hold of the guy who pulled down the lamp; it’s going to cost five thousand to replace. All right, one more time. Why didn’t you call Henrik and warn him? Or the police?”

  “I didn’t dare. Shorty said he’d cut the baby out of my belly if I contacted anyone.”

  “But you weren’t so upset that you couldn’t go out and party with your friends later that evening.”

  She had no reply to that. She looked down at the table, under which she was hiding her shaking hands. Neither she nor Shorty had suspected that they were under surveillance. The police wouldn’t have known about his quick visit to Örgryte if they hadn’t been tailing him. She would have had a neat alibi at the restaurant with her pals and plenty of other people all around. Cunning, but not intelligent. Cunning approaching boldness, bordering on recklessness. All the ingredients necessary for successfully murdering Richard von Knecht. Add a little intelligence to the mix and the murder would have been much harder to solve. Maybe impossible.

  Jonny continued pressing her for almost half a
n hour about the bomb on Berzeliigatan. When she protested that she didn’t know a thing about it, Jonny pressed even harder. After a while she turned chalk white, and Irene decided the time was ripe for the entrance of the good cop.

  In a softly admonishing tone she interrupted the interview. “Okay, Jonny, time for you to take a break. Can’t you see that she’s completely worn out? Would you like some breakfast, Charlotte?”

  “Yes, please. Tea and a sandwich. And I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay. But no more than ten minutes.”

  Jonny was in his element as the bad cop. A certain natural talent for the role, Birgitta would probably say, but Irene thought he had conducted himself brilliantly. If he had gone on to study law, he would certainly have been a feared prosecutor.

  After a visit to the toilet and a cup of coffee, Charlotte had plucked up her courage again. But Jonny and Irene had made good use of the break. Tactics had been planned, and she had given Jonny the pictures showing Henrik beaten to a pulp.

  Charlotte said curtly, “Now I’d like to have an attorney. I won’t say any more.”

  “Good idea. But you’ll have to wait in this room. Meanwhile I think you should take a look at these pictures.”

  Jonny shoved the photos across the tabletop with a flick of his wrist. Purely out of reflex, Charlotte caught the pictures and then glanced at them. Her eyes widened and her breathing grew heavier. She seemed unable to tear her gaze away.

  Jonny said in a low voice, “Was he really such a pig that he deserved this?”

  She didn’t seem to have heard the question. He slammed his fist hard on the table and screamed, “Answer me! Did he deserve this? Was he a pig?”

  She seemed to wake up and looked at him in bewilderment. Her eyes narrowed and she had to clear her throat before she replied. “Not a pig. A . . . sawhorse. A wooden sawhorse is what he was!”

  “And now you’re free of him. Does it feel good? Look at the pictures! Does it feel good?”

  No reply. She stared straight ahead, into the wall. But Irene could see her hands twisting under the table. Soon, soon . . .

  Jonny was merciless. For the next half hour he went over all the events of Sunday night and the early hours of Monday morning once more. She had no explanation for Shorty’s visit to her before the murder, no explanation for how he got hold of her keys, no explanation for why she went out to eat with her friends instead of warning Henrik. Charlotte was in the frying pan, and she knew it. She lamely tried to prevaricate, but there were no more lies for her to tell.

  The time was ripe. Irene got up and walked across the room. In wordless agreement Jonny stepped aside and left the room. Birgitta slipped in and took over the listener role.

  Irene began. “Charlotte. I’ve been working on the investigation of the murders of Richard von Knecht and Bobo Torsson, the two arson fire victims on Berzeliigatan, and now Henrik’s death. A lot has come out in the course of the investigation, strange connections and relationships. As you no doubt know, we have arrested both Shorty and one of the Hell’s Angels gang. And they’re telling us everything now. Both of them!”

  Charlotte started and terror danced in her eyes. Irene calculated coldly that she didn’t know Shorty very well and consequently didn’t realize he had a reputation for always keeping his mouth shut. She had apparently never met Paul Svensson. The Hell’s Angels were Bobo’s contact. She also didn’t know about Hoffa’s fate, since she couldn’t have had time to read the morning paper or listen to a news program. If she ever did. Still in a friendly tone, Irene began to run down the facts for the terrified Charlotte.

  “We know that Bobo and Shorty planned a major narcotics purchase, via Bobo’s old friend Glenn ‘Hoffa’ Strömberg, vice president of the Hell’s Angels Göteborg chapter. The guys from Holland were supposed to deliver it. Everything was arranged and ready, when suddenly Bobo had trouble raising the cash. We now know why. Richard refused to pay.”

  Charlotte was pale gray beneath her makeup, but her eyes were fixed on Irene. Slowly Irene continued. “Five hundred thousand. Half a million. For pictures in which Richard’s face can’t be seen. No wonder he refused to pay!”

  With these words Irene whipped out the sex pictures, in which there was no doubt who the female participant was. For a moment it looked as though Charlotte was going to faint. Irene declared, “We know that it’s Richard you’re having sex with in these pictures.”

  “No! It’s . . . someone else!”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “So . . . you don’t remember. Are you accustomed to having sex with men whose names you can’t remember afterward?”

  Charlotte raised her head defiantly. “It happens!”

  “And this man isn’t Richard?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can tell you that his face is actually in the picture. And it is Richard.”

  “No. His face can’t be seen.”

  “Yes, it can. Do you see the big painting in the background of the picture? Yes, that one. One of Bengt Lindström’s famous ‘monster heads.’ I had our technician blow it up and make a copy. Then I took it to Valle Reuter last night. He identified the painting as the portrait of Richard von Knecht that he gave to Richard for his sixtieth birthday! Since Sylvia thought they already had plenty of Bengt Lindström’s paintings on the walls, Richard hung the painting in his office apartment. How do we know that? Because the pictures are of Richard von Knecht’s office apartment, taken with a telephoto lens. Where from? From across the street. Who lives there? Why, Shorty Johannesson, cousin of your pal Bobo Torsson! Who took the pictures? Bobo, obviously! Don’t try to tell us that the man you’re fucking is anyone other than Richard von Knecht!”

  One look at Charlotte was enough. Her face was a clay mask. It was inconceivable that it could ever have been considered beautiful. Her features were distorted with loathing. Half choking she said, “I was forced to do it. I didn’t have any choice. I owed Bobo money. A lot of money.”

  “Drug debts?”

  “Yes. I thought I could get a little money over at the car dealership, but Henrik managed it all through his account. I was desperate. I didn’t have a cent.”

  “Didn’t you get money from Henrik? For the household, I mean.”

  “Sure. Ten thousand kronor a month. But it wasn’t enough. At first I had my own money, from my modeling days. But that ran out. Henrik took care of all the payments for the house and the cars and that was all.”

  “How much did you owe Bobo?”

  “Eighty-five thousand.”

  “Cocaine and amphetamines, I suppose.”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “How did Bobo find out about your relationship with Richard?”

  “He met me a few times on the stairs, on the way to or from Richard’s apartment. And at a models’ party in September he asked me straight out. And I was dumb enough to tell him. I’d snorted a lot and was babbling.”

  “And so he got the bright idea to blackmail Richard by taking pictures of the two of you.”

  “I didn’t want to. He forced me. And I owed him money.”

  “But you did it. Tell us.”

  “I actually liked Richard. At first. He was cool and loved sex. Henrik didn’t at all. The past year we’ve hardly touched each other. He’s . . . was abnormal, I think. And boring. Boring in bed.”

  “But Richard wasn’t?”

  “No.”

  “How and when did your relationship with Richard start?”

  “Last summer. At the end of July. Sylvia had gone to Finland to visit her mother and sister. Henrik was at Marstrand, of course. Richard called and asked me out to dinner. There was nothing strange about it. But it turned into something more. We suited each other, in some way.”

  “How did you manage to get the pictures taken?”

  “We used to meet in Richard’s office apartment. But we usually did it in the bedroom. It was a great room for . . . that. The only time I ma
naged to lure him into the living room, he had to put on that damned hood! Or ‘Roman helmet’ as he called it. He called himself ‘the Roman commander’ when he had it on. Ha!”

  “And that’s why he refused to pay when he saw the photos?”

  “Yes. He said that Bobo could never prove who the man in the pictures was. Laughed right in his face. Although it was over the phone, of course.”

  “And then you two got the brilliant idea of blackmailing your husband for the money instead?”

  “I didn’t know anything about it. It was all Bobo’s idea. He didn’t mention anything to me.”

  “When did you find out that Henrik had seen the pictures?”

  She put her hands to her face and whimpered. When she took them away there were no tears. Tonelessly she said, “The Thursday before Richard and Sylvia’s anniversary party. The Thirty Years’ War, you know. All the men said that in their dinner speeches. It was the worst thing I’ve ever been to. Henrik knew that Richard and I . . . and then to sit there and pretend that nothing was going on.”

  “What happened on Friday?”

  “Henrik drove up to Marstrand. In the morning.”

  “And you went to the gynecologist, to get confirmation of your pregnancy?”

  “No. I knew that I was pregnant two weeks earlier. But I didn’t know what to do about it.”

  “Whether you should keep the child?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Let’s return to Henrik and Friday. When did you see him again?”

  “On Saturday afternoon. We were supposed to go to the party that evening.”

  “Had he taken the keys from you on Friday?”

  “The keys?”

  “The keys you took from Richard, after his sixtieth birthday party at Marstrand. Arja stated that she saw you coming out of his bedroom, with his key case in your hand.”

  “That fucking dyke!”

  She slumped down in her chair and said, resigned, “Richard didn’t want to give me any keys of my own, but I saw them lying on the nightstand that morning. I figured it might be good to have them.”

  “Did Henrik take the keys from you on Friday?”

  “Yes, I discovered that the keys were missing on Friday. I usually kept them in my handbag, but they were gone on Friday evening. I immediately suspected it was Henrik who took them. On Sunday I found them again.”