“I’ll look into that Danish Hospital Diet. Talk to you tomorrow then? All right. I love you.”
After they hung up, Marianne opened the pantry door. Next to her cigarette carton was a little box containing white-chocolate truffle nougats from Eje’s Chocolate. She took out another cigarette and two of the nougats.
Her computer was on the dining room table, and she took it into the kitchen. As she let Google search for the Danish Hospital Diet, she stood by the stove fan and smoked, enjoying her delightful truffle nougats.
When she saw the recommended food intake on the website, she frowned. This was certainly classifiable as torture in another country. Well, obviously, the diet was supposed to speed up metabolism so the fat would dissolve. Marianne took a deep drag. She decided the diet might be feasible since it lasted only ten days. Surely she could follow any diet for just ten days
She felt tired as she pulled out a pencil and a sheet of paper to write down the allowed staples. She’d have to go to the Ica Banér grocery store again. If she hurried, she’d be done before that Ehn guy showed up.
CHAPTER 12
Torsten read in his reports that the firm where Christopher Turin worked was on Biblioteksgatan. He parked in the elegant department store NK’s garage, and since afternoon traffic was starting to pick up and more cars were leaving the garage than entering, Torsten snagged a spot on the first level. He took the elevator down to the street and exited at Regeringsgatan.
As he walked toward Mäster Samuelsgatan, the sun beat down on his head and he glanced up at the sky. Display windows offered the latest fall fashions of knitted scarves and thick sweaters. Torsten was in no hurry to get into the dark season of winter.
He turned down Jakobsbergsgatan and looked into one of the new Italian coffee bars that was supposed to be pretty good. Inside, men were jostling at the counter to request one of the tables in the sun. A number of them had taken off their ties, which now stuck out of their jacket pockets. Torsten wondered where all the women were. Didn’t women drink coffee in this part of town?
He and a few other men his age reached the building’s entrance at the same time. A bronze sign proclaimed that Carlfors & Malmström was located on the fifth floor. Torsten held open the whining elevator door for the others but didn’t receive any nods of thanks. One of the men was overweight, although he tried to disguise it by wearing a well-tailored, extremely expensive suit. The impression was ruined, however, by the tailor’s tag still hanging on the sleeve. Even Torsten, who hardly ever wore suits—ones much less expensive—wouldn’t have made such a faux pas. Torsten didn’t mind suits, per se, but since he needed them so rarely—and his personal finances didn’t allow for much extravagance—the two suits he owned usually hung in his closet, shabby and worn.
The two men next to him lowered their voices, and Torsten tried to appear as if he wasn’t paying any attention. What were they thinking? Anyone could eavesdrop in an elevator nine feet square.
“You’re absolutely sure? What does his wife say?”
“I heard she was still in Mallorca. The children are on school vacation, and she’s there with them. Still, it sounds strange. Why would anyone have wanted to kill him? This is an unpleasant business.”
Both men fell silent and seemed to imagine themselves right outside their homes, being run over on purpose in the middle of the night.
Torsten understood why these men needed to talk. The subject would be a hot topic at every dinner and cocktail party around here for quite some time.
The men got out on the fourth floor and Torsten continued up to the fifth. His Internet search on Carlfors & Malmström had told him it was a highly respected management-consulting firm. Many news agencies brought in people from this firm for their expertise and long commentaries. Torsten didn’t know exactly what management consulting was, but he understood it had something to do with analyzing companies and giving advice about ways to make their business more effective. Christopher Turin had been a vice president of this firm for five years, and before then, he’d been a project manager. It appeared his position was very solid in the company—he’d spent most of his career here.
Torsten’s appointment had been made with the highest level of administration, but he hoped that a few of the other employees would be around in case he needed to ask more questions. He needn’t have worried. This office appeared fully staffed. Torsten couldn’t see an empty desk. Everywhere, phones were ringing and printers were sliding out papers. There was feverish activity as far as the eye could see. It took a few minutes before a nearsighted receptionist noticed him and asked whether he needed assistance.
“Please excuse us today. It’s pretty chaotic. One of our coworkers has died, and the phones are ringing off the hook.”
“That’s why I’m here. My name is Torsten Ehn, and I’m from the National Police. I have an appointment with Jonas Carlfors. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Please wait a moment. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
The receptionist couldn’t have been older than twenty-two or -three. She disappeared behind a glass partition and came back a few seconds later.
“He’s on the line with Christopher’s wife, but he’s getting off. Can I offer you a cup of coffee or some mineral water?”
“A glass of tap water would be fine.”
“Please take a seat over here, and I’ll be right back. We have some magazines on the table if you’d like to read while you wait.”
Torsten smiled as he sat in one of the armchairs close to the reception desk. The chairs were black leather with chrome edges. Torsten had read about the designer, but he couldn’t remember the name. He was bad with names, but he never forgot a face. According to Olle, that wasn’t unusual. People either remembered names or faces. This fit with Torsten’s theory that no person was perfect, and even the most beautiful coin in the world had another side. Right now his job was to find out the other side of Christopher Turin’s coin. And he knew he’d find it, given enough time and patience.
The ever-smiling receptionist served Torsten a glass of ice water. He drank it while flipping through a copy of Dagens Industri. In his mind he tried to form a picture of the personnel structure in this environment. Young men in dark suits and well-pressed shirts dominated the place. By now a few of them had removed their ties, but most had barely loosened theirs. There were a few women, all wearing dresses in somber colors. They sat at their desks with serious expressions on their faces, holding phones to their ears. Torsten noticed how different this workplace was from his, where everyone had his own office and the dress code was anything but strict. Still, the energy was similar. Perhaps that’s how it was at most offices. Everyone was doing the same job, and it was only different on the surface. Every person was assigned a problem and had to find the best solution.
A man of about forty was heading toward him and was already holding out his hand in greeting. “Hello, I’m Jonas Carlfors,” he said in a low voice.
Carlfors was average height and had short blond hair with bangs that fell in front of his light-blue eyes. He had a deep tan, and the wrinkles around his eyes were white in contrast. His muscular body was fitted with a tailor-made suit. Torsten imagined he was good at skiing, tennis, and golf—the three sports that demanded professional competence and social contacts. Torsten thought it would be depressing to have to live like that. But at any rate, he could never fit into such a regimen.
He took Carlfors’s hand and clasped it firmly—but not too firmly—giving the man a warm smile at the same time.
“I’m Torsten Ehn.”
“Do you need any coffee? Or more water?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Is there a place where we can speak undisturbed?”
“Absolutely.”
Jonas Carlfors showed him to a corner room. Torsten noticed it was at least four hundred fifty square feet. The large, deep windows faced Biblioteks
gatan, but not a bit of traffic could be heard. A gigantic desk sat throne-like between the windows, with overwhelming heaps of paper and folders.
“Excuse the mess. I’ve just had all the papers from Christopher’s desk brought in, so things are a bit chaotic. I have to go through it all, and it’s a huge amount of paperwork. I was the only one who knew what he was doing, so I guess I have only myself to blame. Please take a seat.”
He pointed to a sofa and two armchairs, both made of light-beige suede. A cerise silk pillow was the lone occupant of the sofa. Torsten sat down in one of the armchairs and hoped that his clothes were clean enough not to leave a stain. He took out his notepad and pen from the inner pocket of his jacket.
“I should start by making sure you know this is by no means a formal interrogation. We aren’t even sure what happened yet. All I need now is a description of the kind of person Christopher was.”
“I understand. Of course, I’ll do my best to be helpful.”
Torsten knew that Jonas Carlfors had been through a difficult day. In spite of that, he seemed willing to help, and even grateful that Torsten had come. Torsten flipped to an empty page in his notepad and clicked his pen.
“So, Christopher Turin was a vice president here at Carlfors & Malmström?”
Jonas Carlfors replied, “That’s correct. I founded the company along with my brother-in-law almost fifteen years ago. Christopher was with us from the very start. We studied together at Handels School of Business, and his wife is a good friend of my sister.”
“So he’s almost family, one could say.”
“As good as family.”
“Was he a part owner?”
“No. Just my brother-in-law and I own the company.”
“Why is that?”
“We decided to keep control of the firm between the two of us. Christopher was well aware of this when we started. It’s never been a problem. We made sure to pay him very well instead, and I believe he was happy with that. Last year we gave him a bonus of five million crowns—before taxes, that is. We’ve always understood that a guy like Christopher receives offers from other companies. Just a month ago, a competitor in London tried to lure him away.”
“He told you that?”
“We always kept our cards face-up.”
“So some places still give bonuses in these hard times? I thought the recession had taken away all that. Didn’t our finance minister, Anders Borg, make new regulations?”
“That’s not entirely true. It’s a myth. No one in this field has ever taken those suggestions seriously. You’d hardly find any friends of Anders Borg here, ha, ha! It’s almost comical how many of us are going to vote for the Socialists in the next election. Of course, we still have our bonus system, but we call it something else now—a commission. If you’ve done well, you’re given your piece of the pie. Bad eggs try to get more than their share, of course, but all sorts of companies have those, even during economic growth. You have to realize that we’re different from a bank. They’re the ones who were speculating with other people’s money. Anders Borg didn’t intend to punish our field—we have nothing to do with the banks.”
Torsten wanted to debate this but thought better of it. He wasn’t about to argue. He simply thought extravagant bonuses were wrong, no matter what business the company was in.
“Did you see Christopher as a friend or a coworker?”
“He was an extremely close coworker. We hung out when we were still at college, but once we began working together, we actually saw each other less often. Perhaps because we both started families and had different social circles. Christopher and his wife stayed in the city, while we moved to the suburbs. We bought a summer house in Torekov, and they decided to keep theirs in the archipelago. We lived different lives, you might say.”
“You live where?”
“In Djursholm.”
“Wife and kids?”
“Yes, two kids. Three and five.”
“I see. You must be pretty busy these days.”
They laughed for a moment. Torsten let his notepad rest on his knee.
“How would you describe Christopher’s relationship with his wife? Were they thinking of separating?”
“No, not at all.”
The answer was just a bit too quick, and Torsten blinked.
“So. No problems between them?”
“Not more than other people.”
“How is his wife doing? I understand that you just spoke to her on the phone.”
It was Jonas Carlfors’s turn to blink. He looked away nervously, and Torsten knew that he was about to lie. Lying almost never worked. Torsten could read the body language of most people. He knew when they were lying, even when it was just a small white lie. Torsten pricked his ears in interest.
“She…seemed calm enough. Sad, of course, but also calm. The children had a restless night. Eventually they fell asleep. Isa is a woman with a strong family behind her. She’s going through a rough time now, but she’ll come out all right in the end.”
“What does she do?”
“She does interior design.”
“And you said she was a close friend of your sister?”
“Yes,” Jonas said, “they call each other every day. There’s only one year between me and my sister, so I’ve known her since we were small.”
“Were you the one who brought the couple together?”
“You mean Isa and Christopher? No, actually not. They met in France one summer. It was all by chance. We were completely taken by surprise when we found out.”
Torsten saw a darkness in Jonas’s eyes, before Jonas blinked it away into a polite smile.
“Yes, Christopher was quite a stud at Handels. He had his choice of girls, if you know what I mean.”
“So, he wasn’t exactly the kind of man you’d have chosen for your sister’s best friend?”
Jonas turned away for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“No, perhaps not. Still, he came around once they got together. Perhaps he was just sowing his wild oats. Isa got him in line, so it worked out all right in the end. They had three wonderful daughters who get the best grades and are good at sports. The middle one played the piano so beautifully at the end of the last school year that people were openly weeping. Christopher was proud of his girls.”
Torsten took a deep breath and blew the air out slowly.
“How was he as a boss?”
“Great. Instinctive. Good at finding new talent and letting them shine. A real A boss.”
“What is that?”
“An A boss employs A-caliber employees. B bosses employ C employees, because they’re afraid of being outdone. Christopher wasn’t one of those.”
“And he didn’t have anything going on here at the company? An affair, perhaps?”
“An affair?”
“Well?”
“No, no, hell no. He wasn’t like that. He kept his nose clean here at work.”
Here at work. Torsten took note of the slip and wondered how clean Christopher kept his nose outside of work.
“I think I have enough to go on for now. Can I call you if I need to ask any follow-up questions?”
“Of course,” Carlfors replied. “Here’s my card. My cell phone number is at the bottom. Call whenever you need to.”
Torsten thanked him for his time, they shook hands, and then Jonas touched his forehead.
“Jesus Christ, what a mess. This whole day has been one big circus. And in the middle of all this, I’m grieving the loss of a friend. Damn it all, we’ve known each other for over twenty years.”
For the first time since Torsten had met him, Jonas revealed his sorrow. Torsten said, “I understand. Call me if you think of anything else. You never know what might be important.”
“I will. And call me if you find out anyth
ing more about the guy who did this. I can’t imagine anyone doing such a thing.”
“Well, that will be our job—solving that puzzle. But you’ll know it when we do. Do you mind if I take a look around his office?”
“Of course, but it’s kind of a mess, since we were in and out all day looking for paperwork. We’ve also tried to close down Christopher’s Facebook page, but we couldn’t. We can’t find his password, and it seems impossible to shut down the page without it. The person is dead—isn’t that absurd?”
“Did you try to contact Facebook?”
“We did but had no luck.”
“Strange. Unpleasant, too.”
Jonas Carlfors opened the office door two doors down the hall from his own.
“This is Christopher’s office. Please pardon the mess.”
“Don’t worry. I just want to look around a minute. I’ll let you know if I find something I need to take. Our people may want to look at his computer, but the prosecutor will send a warrant if we need to do that.”
“You can just take it now. I don’t have a problem with that.”
Torsten looked at Jonas Carlfors, searching for a sign of deception in his face. He didn’t see one. He seemed to honestly be trying to help.
Jonas Carlfors left him as Torsten stepped inside. The room was disorganized, with heaps of paper and file folders all over the place. Books were randomly stuffed into the bookcase.
Two framed photographs were on the desk. One showed three smiling girls—they had to be the daughters. The other showed a woman with a huge head of blonde hair surrounding her pretty face. The woman was quite young and resembled a doll. The shot appeared to have been taken abroad. Torsten thought it must be Isa Turin, and he realized why Jonas Carlfors was dismayed when his college friend managed to whisk away his sister’s sweet-looking friend. He put the photos back in their spots and left Christopher Turin’s office.
Torsten headed for the exit, waving good-bye to the still-smiling young receptionist. He’d gotten some insight into Jonas Carlfors and wondered why he had made that slip about his friend. Something had obviously been bothering that man.
A Small Indiscretion Page 6