together.”
They were nearing the yellow villa, completely unprepared, when the front door suddenly opened and a figure rushed out, stumbling down the uneven garden path. The door closed quickly. Evidently Charlotte wasn’t going out with him, which was lucky, considering she might have recognized them at once.
With great self-control Irene forced herself to continue walking at Tommy’s side as if nothing had happened. They kept on talking as they discreetly observed the young man walk around the Golf. He was blond, of medium height, about twenty years old, and he was wearing the soft suede jacket and cowboy boots. The glow of the streetlight fell on him for a moment before he turned his back to them to unlock the car. He had a surprisingly young face with regular features, but he looked very grim. Was he angry? Had they had an argument? With an impatient gesture he pushed the hair out of his face. Irene caught herself thinking that he looked really sweet. Charlotte had gotten herself a boytoy. Although judging by his costume, he would probably prefer being called a cowboy. He got into the car and started fumbling in his jacket pockets. Apparently he was thinking of lighting a cigarette. Tommy and Irene passed the Golf and tried to increase their pace without being noticed. As fast as they dared, they hurried toward the Saab. When they opened the car doors, Irene looked back and saw the Golf swinging out onto the street. She let him drive by, hopped in the Saab, and then made one of her usual illegal U-turns.
He drove down toward Skars Alle and then turned south on St. Sigfridsgatan. Before long he turned up Kungsbackaleden. Tommy groaned, half in jest, but said with a serious undertone, “Oh no! Don’t tell me we’re going out to Billdal again!”
But they weren’t. At Molndal the red Golf turned off and headed down Bifrostgatan. He drove a short distance and then parked outside a low apartment house. Irene quickly turned down a side street. They jumped out of the car and saw the young man calmly walk up to the street door and go inside. They jogged up to the door and opened it as cautiously as they could in time to hear a door closing on the floor above. The list of occupants was posted in the foyer.
She saw the name right away and started giggling. She said in a low voice, “R. Skytter. Robert Skytter. She’s screwing her car dealer. And he’s the one who gave her the alibi for the evening of the murder!”
THEY WAITED five minutes before they went upstairs. Tommy rang the doorbell with the nameplate “R. SKYTTER.” They heard footsteps and the door opened. But it wasn’t the cowboy. The man who opened the door had red hair and was taller, but about the same age.
“Hello, we’re from the police. Inspector Irene Huss and Inspector Tommy Persson. We’re looking for Robert Skytter.”
The redhaired youth’s eyes narrowed and he said with feigned nonchalance, “Do you have any ID?”
Both Irene and Tommy pulled out their laminated ID cards and held them up in front of him. He couldn’t hide his disappointment when he said, “These can’t be right. It’s supposed to be a big gold badge.”
Irene sighed loudly. “That’s in the States. You’ve seen too many cop movies. Are you Robert, or is it the guy who came in five minutes ago?”
The redhaired guy looked like he was thinking about answering, but he never got a chance. Behind him the blond young man appeared. He smoothly greeted them, “Hello! What’s this about?”
This was Robert. She recognized his trumpeting voice.
“Hi, Robert. Detective Inspector Irene Huss. We spoke on the telephone last week. May we come in?”
The redhaired guy moved aside reluctantly. Tommy turned to him and said, “And who are you?”
“Daniel Skytter,” he replied sullenly.
Now Irene could see the likeness. They were brothers. In a friendly voice she asked, “Do you live here too?”
“Yes. Temporarily.”
“Temporarily?”
Daniel Skytter showed signs of uneasiness, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I had to move here last week, when my girlfriend threw me out. It was her apartment,” he said morosely.
“So now you live here. What kind of work do you do?”
“Collect unemployment. Out-of-work painter.”
“Well, Daniel, we need to speak to Robert in private. Do you have any objection to taking a little walk?”
Daniel gave a start and then straightened up. His eyes narrowed as he snarled, “I sure do! No witnesses, huh? So you can work him over and make him confess to anything!”
Irene and Tommy sighed at the same time. In an exaggerated pedagogical tone Tommy said, “My dear Daniel, you really ought to stop watching those American movies. We just want to talk to your brother. He’s an important witness in a very serious case that we’re investigating.”
A gleam of curiosity appeared in Daniel’s suspicious gray eyes. Obviously he had no idea what it was all about.
Tommy continued, “Another option is that we take him downtown and question him there.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Yes, we can.”
Uncertainly the brothers looked at each other. Robert nodded and motioned with his head toward the door. Daniel gave up. He took his jacket from the coat hook, put on a cap, stuffed his feet in a pair of heavy jogging shoes, and went out. The look he sent over his shoulders was brimming with distrust.
Irene turned to Robert Skytter.
“How old is your brother?”
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen years old, and already living with a girl?”
“It didn’t even last two months.”
“Why doesn’t he move back home to Mamma, then?”
“He doesn’t get along with Mamma’s new man. So that’s why he moved in with me last week. But I’m trying to find him a small apartment somewhere. Although he probably can’t afford it.”
“So it was because of him that you and Charlotte chose to meet at her house?”
Robert’s gaze wandered, and then he turned abruptly to lead the way down the narrow corridor and into a small living room, furnished with “Balder” the sofa, “Runar” the coffee table, and “Diplomat” the bookshelf. Irene recognized them from her studies in home decorating: the ’96 IKEA catalog.
Robert motioned them to the sofa. He chose “Tobbe,” the armchair, for himself. But he got up just as quickly and asked nervously, “Would you like something to drink? Ramlosa? Light beer? Strong beer?”
“Ramlosa, thanks.”
“A light beer, thanks.”
He vanished down the hallway and into the kitchen. They could hear him clinking bottles and glasses. Through a half-open door Irene glimpsed an unmade bed. Two rooms and a kitchen. And his little brother. That was Robert Skytter’s living situation for the present. Not great for inviting over his married lover from Orgryte. Again the familiar “why” popped up in her mind. Why did Charlotte need this sweet little boytoy? The object in question appeared with bottles and glasses in a precarious grip. Robert set his burden down on the table before he began to speak uncertainly and tentatively.
“So you were the ones at Charlotte’s house this morning?”
Irene nodded. “It was after ten o’clock. Yes, it was us.”
“It’s like you said. There’s not enough room here, and with Daniel … you know.”
“Was it Charlotte who wanted you to come to her house?”
He looked down at the table and then nodded.
“How long have you and Charlotte been together?”
He looked up and seemed genuinely surprised. “We’re not together! Well, okay. Last night.”
“You’ve never slept with each other before?”
Now his hands were shaking and he picked sulkily at the label on his beer. Tommy repeated the question. Finally he said, extremely reluctantly, “I’ve already told you what happened last week when she picked up the car. What is she accused of, anyway?”
“She’s not accused of anything. Possibly suspected of giving incorrect information regarding the murder of Richard von Knecht. We don’t know for sure yet. That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Tommy said in his best police
