couldn’t take the long anesthesia. Emphysema. He had to be put on a respirator.”
Doris sniffed. Her deep grief seemed real, but Irene had seen a number of good performances during her police career. She changed direction again.
“Your son, Goran—when did he get home?”
Doris Peterzen blew her nose discreetly into a tissue she made appear from nowhere. She pulled her voice and her face together. “He arrived on Thursday. I faxed a message to him on Tuesday.”
They were interrupted by a metallic knock on the front door. Doris got up and swept out of the room. The word that came to Irene’s mind as a good description of Doris was “regal.”
Irene took the break to stand up and stretch her legs. She saw that the ocean now shimmered bottle green, the peaks of the waves reflecting silver light.
Doris Peterzen’s pleasant voice brought her back from her reverie. “This is Detective Inspector Irene Huss. Irene, this is Goran.”
Irene swung around and looked right into a pair of friendly blue eyes.
“Nice to meet you,” Goran said as he offered his hand.
He was tall and muscular. Irene’s brain short-circuited for a second. The son was older than the mother. It took Irene a moment to realize that Goran must be Nils Peterzen’s son from his first marriage. Her eyes were drawn to the oil portrait hanging on the wall. The resemblance was striking. Nils Peterzen had a stricter mouth, however, and his gaze was sharp and hard. The son’s expression was jovial, happy, and almost carefree. His elegant dark gray suit was strained across his back and rear but still had the look of expensive English tailoring.
Irene took his hand, which was dry and warm. Once they shook, Goran clapped his hands together and looked at his stepmother with playful horror.
“But, my dear Doris. We’re letting the inspector die of thirst. Let’s have a small aperitif before we all have to go.”
He said the last sentence with his head cocked. His tone was easy, but Doris was not deceived.
“No. You have to drive. I’m still taking sleeping pills, and they affect me until the afternoon. It’s probably time to start weaning myself.…”
Doris hadn’t seemed medicated to Irene, but perhaps only Doris could feel the effects.
Goran’s face reflected his disappointment, but he quickly overcame it and gestured to a white leather seating group. It looked much more comfortable than the one in red.
“Please, sit down,” he said.
Irene sat on one of the armchairs. It was as comfortable as it appeared. Doris went to find a pack of cigarettes. When she came back, she draped herself in one corner of the sofa and lit one of the long cigarettes. Goran sat down in the other armchair. He crossed one heavy leg over the other until his tailored seams seemed to creak.
He watched Irene steadily as he reached out and took Doris’s lit cigarette. She lit another one immediately. Goran drew the smoke in greedily and let it flow from his nostrils. When he spoke, small puffs exited from his mouth and nose.
“Why do you need to talk to us?”
“As Doris has probably told you, or perhaps you read it in the paper, a murder was committed in the hospital the same night your father died. The killer sabotaged the electricity, and your father’s respirator quit working. We have a number of different leads we have to investigate. One possibility might be that the sabotage was directed at your father.”
The smoke production came to a standstill; both Doris and Goran seemed to be holding their breath. Before either of them could compose themselves, Irene continued. This is not our first line of inquiry, but all eventualities must be ruled out. Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt your father?
Goran let out a great puff of smoke and shook his head forcefully. “I hear what you’re telling me, but I can’t believe my ears. That anyone could consider murdering Papa? Never! He was too old to have enemies. Anyone who might have been one is already dead or decrepit. He and Doris have had a good life these past few years. Traveled. Played golf. Right, Doris?”
Doris sat up straight. “Indeed we did. Goran took over the business many years ago, but Nils still had a hand in. He had difficulty stepping back and just being retired.”
Doris gave a suggestion of a smile to Goran, who grimaced and rolled his eyes. “That’s the truth. Business was his life. Actually, it’ll be tough to get along without him. He was a clever fox. He knew a lot and had a lot of important contacts.” He looked worried. He stubbed out his cigarette with force. “Well, Doris, I think we’d better get going so we won’t be late.”
The three of them stood up and went to the door. Chivalrously, Goran took Irene’s leather jacket from the hanger and held it for her. As she pulled up the zippers on her old boots, she keenly felt her lack of fashion sense.
MICROWAVED LEFTOVER SHRIMP stew was not the worst possible lunch. Irene was seldom able to have lunch at home when she was working, but today she’d managed, since it wasn’t far between Hovas and Fiskeback. She quickly heated a mug of water in the microwave as she sorted the mail. Ads for miracle diets and rebates for gym memberships to prepare for the coming bikini season were predominant.
Absentmindedly, Irene scooped three heaping spoons of instant coffee into the hot water. As the coffee cooled, she went to the hall mirror and took a good look at her reflection. Her hair was passable. Reddish brown and shoulder length with some wave and a touch of gray. It needed to be cut, but she had an appointment tomorrow for that, she reminded herself. Her face was oval, and her wide mouth had good teeth. A bit baggy under the eyes, though. She tried lifting the edges of her eyes with her fingertips on her forehead. Her eyebrows rose and the bags disappeared, but she acquired an expression of chronic surprise. Not a good look for a criminal inspector. You probably shouldn’t go around with a face that said, “Really? You don’t say!” every time you visit the scene of a crime or bring a suspect in for questioning. That rationalization was easier than admitting she didn’t have twenty thousand crowns for a face lift. Sighing, she let go of her forehead and looked at the clock. Time to head to Lowander Hospital.
• • •
AS SHE NEARED the exit for the hospital, she spotted a gang of boys busy on the bridge over the stream. Curious, she slowed and saw that the stream had swollen from the torrential rains during the weekend. On an impulse she parked at the side of the road and strolled over. The boys were about middle-school age. A muscular boy in a muddy snowboarding jacket dangled dangerously from the railing while he scrabbled industriously in the culvert underneath the bridge. He had a broken Christmas-tree branch to help him.
One of the smaller boys saw Irene and said, “He’s only trying to get rid of what’s blocking it.”
Now Irene was able to realize that the creek had risen only on the upstream side. Farther down, the stream was flowing normally on its way to Molndal River.
The boy with the stick was groaning from his effort. “There’s something … here.… I feel it.… Damn! It’s stuck! Now it’s coming loo—”
The boy almost lost his grip on the bridge fence when the branch came unstuck with a jerk. It took Irene’s brain a few seconds to register what her eyes saw. A soaking-wet pink beanie was dangling on the end of the stick.
THE FIRE STATION’S divers helped recover the body. Irene had immediately called Superintendent Andersson and Tommy Persson, who were now at the scene. The three police officers stared unhappily at the mangled corpse of Gunnela Hagg. Life had certainly been hard on Mama Bird, but her death had not been more merciful. Small animals had gnawed off her nose and lips. While waiting for the forensic doctor, they decided to place a gray tarp over her. The body was so emaciated that there were hardly any contours under the stiff plastic.
