of the fire! Fredrik and Tommy, get over there. Try to sum up the situation. Report back to the rest of us at seven- thirty tomorrow morning. You can take off right now. Here’s the note with the name and address of the retired couple’s daughter.”
The other six stayed for the better part of an hour but got nowhere. Finally Andersson said, “Okay, let’s wind it up for tonight. See you at seven-thirty on the dot.”
KRISTER WAS still up when Irene got home. It was almost eleven o’clock. Sammie was bouncing around, claiming that no human had paid attention to him all day. But his light, wheat-colored coat was glossy and newly brushed, and his food dish was washed and on the drainboard. He had nothing to complain about. As Irene flopped down in the easy chair in front of the TV, he tried to climb onto her lap. But eighteen kilos of soft-coated wheaten Irish terrier was too much to hold when she was trying to relax; he had to stay on the floor and sulk. A scratch behind the ears had to suffice.
Krister told her about his conversation with Jenny. It seemed to be her dream to play in a real band. And a used electric guitar would make it happen. The leader of the band could arrange to get a good one for a thousand kronor. They decided to think about it for a few more days. Maybe it would be a suitable Christmas present.
“But too expensive! We ought to have a fortune like von Knecht-more than a hundred and sixty million! He must have plenty of pensions and golden parachutes and that sort of thing too,” Irene said glumly.
“Hey, old lady. What good did all his millions do him yesterday when he fell without any parachute?”
Sometimes Krister’s Varmland earthiness was quite refreshing. As was his profession, which asserted itself now as he asked, “Would you like something to eat?”
“No thanks. The pizza feels like concrete in my stomach.”
“What would milady prefer, then?”
“Whiskey. A big one.”
“But of course, my darling. Chivas Regal, Jack Daniel’s, or Famous Grouse?”
“Chivas.”
With a laugh Krister got up and went out to the kitchen. He returned with two glasses and a can of Pripps pilsner. Irene looked disappointed.
“For once I feel the need for a good shot of booze to unwind. Not much. An ordinary whiskey will do,” she complained.
“We could make punch in this can: five centiliters of O. P. Andersson and one deciliter of Amontillado. That’s all we’ve got in the house. I’ll go to the liquor store tomorrow and pick up a few bottles of wine for the holidays. I’m working late on Friday, but I can go early on Saturday. Of course, I know something else that might make you unwind. Just come with uncle, and you’ll get some goodies. .”
Sammie realized what was going on, lowered his tail, and slunk up the stairs to Jenny’s room. He understood that a paltry scratch behind the ears was all he was going to get that evening.
THEY WERE all in place in the conference room at seven-thirty. Tommy Persson sat yawning, while Fredrik looked like he’d slept for eight hours instead of his usual four. And he was the one who had to give the report on the fire.
“Tommy and I were there by nine-thirty. We went around and questioned the people in the building across the street. They confirmed what Hakan had told us. The explosion came at precisely six-twenty P.M. The fire blazed up instantly, and it seems that it spread explosively. Could they have poured gasoline all over the apartment?”
“The neighbors should have smelled it,” Jonny put in.
“Yes, you’re right. But the firefighters are leaning that way. This morning they’re going to go inside because that guy who was asleep in the apartment on the fifth floor is missing. Apparently he moved in with the woman the week before. I guess she hadn’t gotten used to having him there. That’s probably why she didn’t remember him until it was too late. His name is Mattias Larsson, twenty-two years old. A student at the teachers’ college.”
Fredrik looked upset and started leafing through his papers before he went on. “Here it is! The photographer in the apartment above von Knecht’s called Dispatch; they then contacted us. He saw the report on the fire on the late news. What a shock! Imagine, getting comfortable in an easy chair with a beer, turning on the hotel TV, and finding out that your home is burning down! He’s working on an assignment up in Stockholm, he said. But he’s going to come down today and will be in touch with us. His name is Bo-Ivar ‘Bobo’ Torsson. We thought we’d continue with our follow-up on the fire and see if it produces any connections to the murder.”
The superintendent nodded. “Okay. You should also contact the retired couple when they’re released from the hospital. They’re going to be staying with their daughter in Molndal. Of course there is a connection between von Knecht’s murder and the bomb in his office. The question is why they had to blow up his office too. Did he have any employees, maybe a secretary?”
“I’ll be talking to Sylvia von Knecht this morning. She should know,” said Irene.
“Then why don’t you take on Henrik von Knecht too? Tommy and Fredrik will follow up on the fire. Birgitta is supposed to meet Waldemar Reuter, the stockbroker, today.”
“Yes, first thing this morning,” Birgitta confirmed.
“I want to be with you at that interview. He must have been among the last to see von Knecht alive. Jonny, can you try to get hold of the opera singer, Ivan Viktors? We haven’t heard back from him, despite the notes we’ve left and messages on his answering machine. Wait a minute, I have the note here somewhere. .”
The superintendent rummaged around in his papers on the table. Finally, he exclaimed: “Here it is! Take it. And Hannu, keep digging up information on the illegitimate son in Stockholm. Although the most important thing right now is to get hold of Pirjo Larsson.”
Hannu nodded and to everyone’s surprise actually spoke. “She’s not in the phone book.”
“Okay, well. . you’ll figure it out somehow.”
Andersson still wasn’t quite sure that he wanted to know about Hannu’s methods of gathering information. But they were effective.
Irene turned to Hannu and said, “Sylvia von Knecht said that she has Pirjo Larsson’s phone number. I’ll call her right after the meeting and set a time to meet, ask her for Pirjo’s number, and give it to you right away.”
Hannu nodded again. Andersson turned to Hans Borg, who was dozing in his chair, as usual. To wake him up, Andersson raised his voice and addressed his oldest inspector, “Hans, you’ll have to drive back to the von Knecht neighborhood. Whatever hasn’t burned down, that is. Find out if anybody saw anything on Kapellgatan, around twenty to six on the night of the murder. There’s a parking garage across the street. Even if it was dark and crappy weather, somebody might have seen the killer if he went out through the street door.”
Andersson paused, preparing to close the meeting. “We’ll get together here this afternoon around five.”
A knock on the door interrupted him. The secretary came in with a fax in her hand.
“Fresh fax from the pathologist,” she said briskly.
Andersson took it from her. The others could see his bushy eyebrows arch up to his nonexistent hairline when he exclaimed, “Von Knecht had a blood alcohol level of point-one-one! He wasn’t dead drunk, but clearly feeling no pain. That would have made it easier for the murderer.”
BACK IN her office, Irene called Sylvia von Knecht. Hannu, who came sauntering after her, sat on a chair by the door.
Sylvia answered at once. When Irene identified herself, Sylvia flew into a rage, denouncing the entire Goteborg police force for turning her apartment upside down. She got a good head of steam going. From where he was sitting, Hannu could hear her saying shrilly, “And I can’t get hold of Pirjo either! I’ve been calling her since seven o’clock. She has to come in today and help me clean up!”
Irene held the receiver a little way from her ear and gave Hannu a knowing glance before she put the receiver back and said in a friendly tone of voice, “So good of you to mention Pirjo. We would like to talk to her too. Could I get her phone number? Or perhaps the number of the cleaning firm, her employer?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally Sylvia snapped, “It’s not a crime to pay your cleaning woman under the table.”
