“Are you still there, Penny?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“There’s a woman here looking for you.”
“Looking for me?” Penelope wets her lips. “All right, Mamma, hand over the phone.”
There’s a crackle on the line and then an unfamiliar voice.
“Penelope Fernandez?”
“I’m here,” Penelope says.
“I have to see you.”
“Who are you?” Penelope asks.
“I sent you the photograph.”
“I don’t know anything about a photograph,” Penelope says abruptly. “Good answer,” the woman says. “We don’t know each other, but I am the person who sent that photograph to you.”
Penelope says nothing.
“We must get together as soon as possible,” the woman says. There is tremendous tension in her voice. “I sent you the photograph of four people in a private box at the theater. I took the photograph secretly on November 13, 2009. One of the four people in the box is Pontus Salman. He’s my husband.”
89
Pontus Salman’s house is on Roskullsvagen on the island of Lidingo, a Stockholm suburb. A single-family house built in the sixties, it has begun to look its age, although it still shows the craftsmanship so typical of the time period. They park the car on the stone pavement leading to the garage and get out of the car. Someone has drawn graffiti on the garage door with chalk: a childish picture of a penis.
They agree that Joona will wait with Penelope in the car while Saga goes to the front door. It’s open, but Saga rings the doorbell, which is in the form of a lion’s head. Three pleasant chimes sound, but then nothing more happens. Saga takes out her Glock and checks her magazine, takes off the safety, and walks into the house.
Much of the house was actually built below ground level. Beyond the entryway, the house opens into a spacious room encompassing both kitchen and dining room. Its tall windows overlook the breathtaking view of the inlet flowing past Lidingo.
Saga prowls through the kitchen to look into empty bedrooms before she makes her way back to a flight of stairs going down. Music comes from a room with a brass label marked R amp;R. She opens the door and can hear the music more clearly. It’s Verdi’s La Traviata with Joan Sutherland.
At the end of the tiled hallway shines the blue glimmer of a lighted pool.
Saga steps softly toward the pool, listening for anything else besides music. She thinks she can hear the padding of bare feet.
She keeps her weapon close to her body and continues on. There is comfortable-looking wicker furniture and some potted palm trees. The air is warm and humid. The odor of chlorine mixed with jasmine gets stronger. She comes up to a huge swimming pool made of light blue tiles and with a glass partition facing a garden and the waterway outside. A slim woman of about fifty is next to a bar with a glass of white wine in her hand. She’s wearing a golden swimsuit. She puts her glass down when she sees Saga approach and comes to greet her.
“Hi, I’m Saga Bauer.”
“Which agency?”
“Sapo.”
The woman laughs and leans forward to kiss Saga on each cheek. She then introduces herself as Marie- Louise Salman.
“Have you brought your swimsuit?” Marie-Louise asks on her way back to the bar.
Her long, narrow feet leave prints on the terra-cotta tiles. Her body is trim, and it appears she works to take good care of it. The way she walks is artificial, as if she is used to having people admire her.
Marie-Louise Salman picks up her glass and turns. She gives Saga a close once-over as if to make sure that Saga is really concentrating on her.
“A glass of Sancerre?” she asks, with her cool, modulated voice.
“No, thank you,” Saga says.
“I swim to keep my body in shape, although I don’t accept as many modeling jobs as I once did. It’s so easy to become ego-fixated in my field. Yes, I’m sure you know all about it. It feels like shit when no one remembers to hurry to light your cigarette any longer.”
Marie-Louise leans forward and whispers theatrically, “I had an affair with that youngest Chippendale dancer. Do you know him? Doesn’t matter, all those guys are gay anyway.”
“I came here to talk about a photograph that you sent-”
“Oh! I knew he couldn’t keep his mouth shut!” she exclaims with exaggerated indignation.
“Who?”
“Jean-Paul Gaultier.”
“The designer?” Saga asks.
“He’s the one, the designer who always wore striped shirts; he had deliciously golden beard stubble and a pouty little mouth. He still hates me. I knew it!”
Saga smiles patiently. She picks up a bathrobe and hands it to Marie-Louise as she notices Marie-Louise is covered in goose bumps.
“I love to freeze,” Marie-Louise says. “It makes me more desirable. At least, that’s what Depardieu said to me last spring… or… I don’t really remember, it might have been that sweetie pie Renaud who said that. Doesn’t matter.”
They hear new footsteps coming along the hall toward the pool. Marie-Louise looks nervous and seems to glance around for a way out.
“Hello?” a woman calls out.
“Saga?” It’s Joona’s voice.
Saga takes a step toward the hallway where she sees Joona and Penelope entering, escorting a woman with dark brown hair expensively cut into a pageboy.
“Marie-Louise,” the woman says with an exasperated smile. “What are you doing here?”
“I just thought I’d come for a swim,” Marie-Louise answers lightly. “Cool off between my legs, you know.”
“You know I wish you’d call ahead.”
“Oh, yes, sorry, I forgot.”
“Marie-Louise is Pontus’s sister, my sister-in-law,” the woman explains. Then she turns to Saga and introduces herself. “Veronique Salman.”
“Saga Bauer from Sapo.”
“Let’s go into the library,” Veronique says, and starts to walk back.
“Can I still swim, as long as I’m already here?” Marie-Louise calls behind them.
“Just not nude!” Veronique replies without looking back.
90
Saga, Joona, and Penelope follow Veronique through several rooms on this lower level and into the library. It’s a small room with tiny windowpanes of yellow, sienna, and rose. Books are lined up behind glass in bookcases,
