For the first time in their whole conversation, the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Henrik’s mouth.
“Peder and Pappa sold one of the biggest construction and real estate companies in Sweden when the market was at its hottest. With more than a hundred million kronor in hand, Peder decided it was time to take life a little easier. He has three daughters, and none of them had the least interest in going into real estate.”
“You didn’t either,” Charlotte interrupted.
Henrik pressed his lips together but continued as if he hadn’t heard his wife’s comment. “The apartment below Mamma and Pappa’s is empty. Tore Eiderstam, the attorney, used to live there.”
Tore. . Tore, the attorney. . Irene had a fleeting recollection of Yvonne Stridner’s ex-husband. She said casually, “Wasn’t he married to pathology professor Yvonne Stridner?”
“Ha, Tore’s been married several times! But now that you mention it, you’re probably right. I remember a discussion Mamma and Pappa had once. Mamma said something about how disgusting she thought it was that someone in their circle of friends carved up corpses all day. That was the first time I ever heard the word
Irene realized with a dash of sympathy that Yvonne Stridner must have had a rough time in this social circle. Now she noticed that Birgitta Moberg had quietly entered the room. Irene introduced her to Charlotte and Henrik.
Quickly she summed up for Birgitta what Henrik had told her about the occupants of the second and third floors.
“And we were just talking about the fourth floor. The attorney Tore Eiderstam used to live there, an old friend of Richard von Knecht. ‘Used to,’ you said-where did he move to?”
“Eastern Cemetery, the Eiderstam family plot.”
Neither Irene nor Birgitta could think of anything to say. Henrik went on after a short pause. “He dropped dead of a heart attack in September. The final divorce papers from his last wife had just arrived. He had two children from previous marriages, and they were clearly his heirs. It took a long time, but now the apartment is empty. Someone new is moving in on December first.”
“Do you know who?”
“I do. Ivan Viktors, the opera singer. He’s also one of Mamma and Pappa’s old friends.”
“Have you heard how your mother’s doing?”
“She’s starting to recover. I promised to drive her home this afternoon.”
Irene nodded and gave the matter some thought. This afternoon the techs would be pretty much finished with the apartment. The little she’d heard about Sylvia von Knecht told her that the woman would certainly be upset over “trespassing” by the police. Not a very suitable atmosphere for gathering information.
To feel them out she said, “When are you going to pick her up? Which hospital ward is she in?”
“She wants to be picked up at three-thirty, because then she’ll be home in time for her afternoon coffee. She’s in Ward Five.”
“If I were to go over and talk to her around three, would that be all right with you?”
Henrik just shrugged. Irene made a little note on the pad in front of her: “Call PS ward 5. Sylvia v. K. 1500?” Then maybe she’d have time to drop by and see the little dachshund lady Eva Karlsson beforehand. It was right on the way to Sahlgren Hospital. New note: “Call Eva K. 1400?”
She looked up from her notepad and turned to Charlotte. “Did you hear from your father-in-law again on Monday?”
“No.”
“Did you meet him or speak with him on Tuesday?”
“No.”
“Do you know the cleaning woman’s name, Charlotte? The one who was at the apartment when you arrived?”
Both of them shook their heads. That was one thing they agreed on, at least.
“Thank you both for being kind enough to come down here. We’ll be talking to you again during the course of the investigation. If you think of anything, just call me or any of the other inspectors. Or Superintendent Andersson, of course. There are eight of us working on this case. There will always be someone here to talk to you,” Irene concluded in a friendly tone of voice.
She stood up and held out her hand to Henrik. His was ice cold. He only gave Irene’s fingers a light squeeze before he quickly released his grip. Charlotte gracefully offered her well-manicured fingers, but her handshake felt like a moist towelette.
ALONE IN the room again, Irene called the psychiatric ward and got permission to talk to Sylvia von Knecht on her room telephone. Her voice sounded slurred and dull when she answered. There was a slight, barely noticeable trace of a Finnish accent.
“Well, it’s probably best to get it over and done with. But if you ask me why he jumped, I have no answer for you. He seemed completely normal lately. And he was so lively at the party last Saturday. . oh!” she broke off in the midst of a sob.
It wasn’t ideal to tell Fru von Knecht by telephone that the police suspected murder. But the press conference at which it would be announced was going to be held in an hour. There was a chance that Sylvia might hear it on the radio news before three o’clock. It was probably best to beat the media. Knowing how they usually behaved, Irene wanted Sylvia to be aware of the risk of a bombardment with questions by scandal-mongering reporters. They would be after her the minute she closed the door to the psych ward behind her. A homicide in that milieu had a hundred times more news value than a simple suicide.
Irene cleared her throat and said, “Fru von Knecht. What I’m going to say will no doubt come as a shock to you. We have certain leads indicating that your husband was the victim of a homicide.”
Silence on the line. Finally, an unexpectedly sharp reaction. “You mean murdered? He was murdered?”
“Yes, there are strong indications that-”
“Thank the good Lord! What a relief!”
Whatever Irene had expected, it certainly wasn’t this remark. She tried not to show her surprise, but continued in a neutral tone, “There will be a press conference at one o’clock at police headquarters. Superintendent Sven Andersson will have to notify the press that we are working on a homicide, not a suicide. You need to be prepared because the reporters might get pushy.”
“They always are anyway. Imagine what a bunch of crap they would have written if Richard had committed suicide. And his insurance. . Well, there won’t be any problem with that now. A murder is horrible, of course, but at least it can’t be blamed on the family. No one can protect themselves from madmen. Was it three o’clock you were going to be here?”
Bewildered, Irene confirmed the time. Not until she hung up did it occur to her that Sylvia von Knecht hadn’t asked why the police were so sure it was murder. Part of her odd behavior could be due to various medicines she may have received in the psych ward. But her reaction was still extraordinary.
EVA KARLSSON, the dachshund lady, sounded considerably more spirited than she had the first time Irene called her that morning.
“Yes, of course, it’s so nice you want to drop by. Two o’clock will be fine, and I’ll have coffee ready,” she chirped happily.
Irene’s protests were kindly but firmly overridden. With a sigh she hung up. It might be tight trying to make it up to Sahlgren by three; she would have to be stern. Elderly ladies who lived alone had an unfortunate tendency to regard the police as their best friends.
Unfortunately, the police were also often their only friends.
It was ten minutes to one, and high time to get hold of the superintendent. Andersson wasn’t in his office. His secretary said that Sven had driven up to Pathology to meet a professor. He had promised to be back by quarter to one but hadn’t shown up yet.
At two minutes past one he came charging through the doors.
