Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1 (6 page)

“Well . . . more sort of punk rock, like . . . maybe . . . Punx Not Dead, Pappa!”

With a gleeful grin Katarina bounced out to the hall and the girls took off running to the bus stop.

Irene could hear the weariness in her own voice as she moaned, “Give me strength! White Killers! Will you be home tonight? I don’t know when I’ll be back. This von Knecht case is hot. There’s plenty to indicate that he was murdered, but we’re lying low until the autopsy is done. It seems nothing has leaked out to the press yet. They’re going to tear down police headquarters when they hear this!”

“Home? Probably not before six. But that works out fine, since Katarina has judo tonight. So I can try and talk to Jenny. Hurry up now, let’s get going.”

They took Sammie for a quick walk before they dropped him off with the dog-sitter, a retired widow. She supplemented her pension by taking care of four dogs, for payment under the table. Jenny and Katarina usually picked up Sammie on their way home from school.

 

THE DAY was already in full swing at headquarters when Irene Huss showed up just before eight. The annual flu season was approaching, but so far it was mostly autumn colds that were taking their toll. The Violent Crimes Unit had three inspectors out sick. It wouldn’t be easy, but Superintendent Andersson was going around trying to pry loose some officers from other units.

He was talking with the superintendent of General Investigations, Birger Nilsson, who reluctantly spared an inspector when he realized that von Knecht’s death would soon be the cause of even bigger headlines. Accident or suicide is one thing, but murder is something else entirely. Intrigued, Nilsson began asking for more details, but Andersson, feeling stressed, replied curtly. He knew that his new investigative group was already gathered and waiting for him at their first meeting.

 

“ALL OF us in this room will be working exclusively on the von Knecht case. Any other ongoing investigations will be set aside or turned over to other investigators. Has everyone seen the headlines in the morning papers about von Knecht’s ‘accident’?”

The seven around the table nodded. Andersson took a deep breath and unconsciously rose up on his toes before he continued.

“It was no accident or suicide. It was homicide!”

The effect, naturally, was an astonished murmur. The superintendent called for silence and began to report on what he and Irene had seen the night before. There wasn’t a sound during his entire presentation. He concluded by passing on what the techs had reported about an hour earlier, which was news even to Irene.

He said, “You probably all know Police Technician Svante Malm. You do too, don’t you, Hannu?”

This last was directed at Hannu Rauhala, the inspector on loan from General Investigations. No one in Violent Crimes had met him before. Rauhala nodded.

“He just informed me that there’s blood and hair, probably from von Knecht, on the flat end of the meat cleaver. On the sharp edge they found blood and skin fragments, also apparently from the victim. The length of the cut on the back of the victim’s hand matches the length of the cleaver’s edge. The comparison tests were ready by seven this morning. Svante and Per worked in high gear all night. There were absolutely no prints on the handle. It was carefully wiped off, and from the smell we don’t need any tests to tell us that a dash of Ajax was used.”

He stopped and looked around the table. On his right sat Irene Huss, who only raised one eyebrow slightly at the last piece of information. Next to her sat Tommy Persson, Irene’s fellow student from the academy and one of her closest friends. Then came Hans Borg, who still looked tired and worn out from his wife’s fiftieth birthday party over the weekend. Birgitta Moberg next to him could hardly be accused of looking tired. Her brown squirrel eyes were fixed in fascination on the superintendent. She was cute, blond, and cuddly. Plenty of guys in various departments had tried to make a pass at that little angel, who looked as if she had just left the police academy. But she was actually over thirty and possessed both brains and claws. Most of them made only one attempt. Among those who had tried was Jonny Blom, the man next to her. At an unforgettable Christmas party the year before, his wife and four kids had figuratively been shoved down his throat by Birgitta. The newest inspector in the department was Fredrik Stridh. He had worked with them for a year now and made a very good impression. The last man, sitting to the left of the superintendent, was Hannu Rauhala, who was of Finnish extraction. He looked inscrutable and slightly exotic with his slanted ice-blue eyes, platinum-blond hair, and prominent cheekbones. It was hard to tell how old he was, but probably somewhere around thirty.

Andersson clapped his hands together and said energetically, “We have to work fast because the media don’t know it’s a homicide yet. The press conference is set for one o’clock. We’ve been promised a preliminary autopsy report by eleven.”

The superintendent paused and thoughtfully surveyed his inspectors.

“Von Knecht was, after all, a real big shot throughout Sweden. Offhand, the only thing I recall is his sixtieth birthday party a few months ago,” he said, hesitating.

Everyone around the table nodded. It had been a celebration that echoed all the way up to the Stockholm tabloids. Everyone who was anyone in the financial and jet-set worlds had gathered at von Knecht’s fashionable country estate.

Andersson went on, “Irene and I were impressed by the apartment, but his shack outside Marstrand is at least three times as big. It’s located on a peninsula, and von Knecht owns the whole area. He’s got a private harbor too. The acreage must be several hectares. My sister has a summerhouse at Åstol. I’ve seen his place from the lake, when I was out fishing with my brother-in-law. Anything else we know? Irene?”

“His wife’s name is Sylvia. His son is named Henrik and he’s married. I only know the names, no personal data yet. Oh yes, Henrik said that his parents celebrated their thirtieth anniversary last Saturday. And of course you all know that this is one of the richest families in Sweden. Richard von Knecht had unbelievable success on the stock market during the go-go eighties. I don’t know much else. Maybe we should get some help from one of my old pals who’s a reporter at the
Swedish Ladies’ Journal.
I’m sure she could help us dig up some old gossip.”

Andersson didn’t look too thrilled at the thought, but finally shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, the main thing is to work fast. Maybe that will get results. In the meantime I want you to handle the interview with Henrik von Knecht and his wife this morning and try to get hold of the old lady with the dog. Those of you who can, meet me here ten minutes before the press conference. Tommy, Hans, and Fredrik will drive out and start interviewing the other tenants in the neighborhood, in case they saw or heard anything. Birgitta, you stay here for a while so you and Irene can dig up a little more on the residents of von Knecht’s building. Henrik von Knecht should know who they are. Then go out and try to get hold of them. Either at work or wherever these people spend their days. They have to be somewhere!”

He took a deep breath and tried to determine who didn’t have an assignment yet. When he figured it out he said, “Hannu, you collect all the statistical data from various databases; General Investigations is good at that. Complete background checks on all family members. When we know the names of the other residents I want their backgrounds too. Jonny, get in touch with the Financial Crimes Unit and find out what they know about von Knecht. As for newspapers, we should probably contact the
Göteborg Post.
They must have a pile of material. Anyone here have any contacts at
GP
? Ah, Hannu—okay, you take care of that too. Have I forgotten anything?”

“What are you going to do yourself?”

Of course it was Jonny who asked that question, in his smug way. Actually, he was probably quite pleased with his relatively simple assignment. The superintendent slumped a bit and sighed, apparently without noticing it. “I’ve been called before the chief. He wants a report. Then I’m going up to Pathology to meet with Madame Professor.”

Irene couldn’t help being annoyed for Yvonne Stridner’s sake. “As a matter of fact, she’s a professor in her own right; she didn’t marry into the title,” she said sharply.

If Andersson heard her he didn’t let on. He made a point of looking at the clock above the door. Everyone could see that it was getting close to ten o’clock, so they had to get busy.

 

IRENE HUSS started by calling the
Swedish Ladies’ Journal
in Stockholm. Finally Sofie’s rough, smoky voice came on the line.

“Yeah, Sofie Ahl here.”

She was surprised and happy to hear it was Irene on the other end. After a little general gossiping and banter, Irene mentioned that she’d like some old clippings on the von Knecht family. The news of the sensational death had been the lead story even for the major Stockholm papers. Sofie turned professionally inquisitive, but Irene wriggled out of it by telling her that “the autopsy isn’t done yet, but we’re trying to work up the background . . . looking for a possible basis for suicide . . .

“Go as far back as you can,” she went on. “Though I’m sure that starting with the midfifties should be plenty. Maybe I could call you this afternoon and get a summary?” Irene suggested.

“No, that won’t work. I’ve got to go out on a job. But let’s do this: Give me your fax number and I’ll put one of our interns on it. We’ll call it a research project. She’ll fax down what she finds to you, and then you can go through it. I’m sure it won’t be necessary to send it all, but she can certainly pick out what might be useful.”

“You’re an angel, Sofie.”

The next name on her list was the dachshund lady, Fru Eva Karlsson at Kapellgatan 3. Irene took a deep breath before she dialed. The phone rang ten times before the receiver was lifted on the other end. A thick mumble was heard, but Irene took a chance that she had reached the right person.

“Is this Fru Eva Karlsson?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Detective Inspector Irene Huss. We met yesterday evening after the terrible . . . accident.”

“Oh, don’t talk about it! I was asleep when you called. I had to take a sleeping pill last night.”

Fru Karlsson went on at length about her many years of insomnia and the various types of tablets she had tried over the years. Irene had a feeling that it was a good idea to listen. If nothing else, it would give the woman time to wake up.

At last she interrupted, “And how’s your dog?”

“Thanks for asking, Snoopy is lying right here and feeling so goody-woody, aren’t you, Snoopy-Woopy?”

Resolutely Irene asked the next question before Fru Karlsson wandered off again into doggy world. “You’re the closest witness we have. Are you still sure that you didn’t hear any scream before—or during—his fall?”

There was a long silence.

“No, I’m sure I didn’t hear any scream. He just plopped right down in front of me. Oh, now I can see it all again!”

“Fru Karlsson, could I come up and have a chat with you this afternoon?”

“Dear girl, of course, that would be fine. But call first.”

“I promise I will. Thanks again.”

SHE HAD to grab a quick cup of coffee before eleven o’clock. She rounded the corner of the corridor at full speed. The ensuing collision between the superintendent and herself was forceful, but she hoped it wouldn’t leave any lingering marks. And the bright red color of his face would probably fade eventually.

Testily he cried, “Watch where you’re going! Oh, it’s you. Good. Now we’ll get to the bottom of things!”

She had seen him angry many times before, but never like this. With all the outer signs of an incipient stroke he fumed, “The telephone just rang. When I answered, it was a reporter from the
Göteborg Times
calling, that Kurt Höök guy. You know what that jerk said? ‘How can you be sure that von Knecht was murdered?’ At first I was completely thrown off guard, but then I said, ‘Who told you he was murdered?’ You know what he said then? ‘An informed source.’ What do you say to that? I’m going to make sure that source dries up, once and for all!”

“Do you know who it is?”

“I have my suspicions. Who said they knew someone at
GP
? If someone has one contact in the newspaper world he could have more,” fumed Andersson.

“Sven, come with me and have a cup of coffee. What if it isn’t Hannu? Just because he knows somebody at
GP
doesn’t mean he knows anyone at
GT.”

The superintendent protested vehemently but finally admitted that Irene might be right.

Muttering and swearing to himself, he followed her reluctantly to the staff lounge. They greeted two other inspectors who weren’t involved in the von Knecht case. Otherwise they were alone. They sat down at a table some distance from their two colleagues. Irene had just bitten into her roll when the chief of General Investigations, Superintendent Birger Nilsson, came into the room. He caught sight of Irene and Sven, broke into a big smile, and headed for their table by the window.

“So you’re sitting here drinking coffee,” he said cheerfully. “You can take it easy for a while. I think the von Knecht investigation is going to be tough. Keep Rauhala as long as you need him. By the way, you never told me . . . Sven. How can you be sure that von Knecht was murdered?”

Word for word, it was the exact phrase that Kurt Höök at
GT
had used. Superintendent Nilsson leaned nonchalantly on the table, with one hand in his pants pocket, and exuded an amiable interest. Irene didn’t dare turn her head to look at Andersson, but she could sense the throbbing vibrations of suppressed rage emanating from him. That’s why the neutral tone of the beginning of his sentence was a surprise, but the rest of it certainly wasn’t.

“Well, you see, my dear colleague—I plugged up a leak in his ass from which he’d bled to death, and I’m ready to do the same for you. This source is now dried up for good.”