The Golden Calf (13 page)

“We’re wrestling,” said Krister. Chuckling, they parted. Irene went out into the hall to hang up her jacket. Krister scrambled to his feet and headed back to the stove.

“What did you make for me?” asked Jenny.

She had been a vegan for several years. At the moment, her hair was jet black with purple highlights, and she was all dressed in black. As a singer in one of Göteborg’s most famous pop bands, she had major investments in hair and fashion. Next week her hairstyle could be a blaze of neon pink, accompanied by a second-hand outfit inspired by ’70s flower power.

“You get vegan moussaka. Made of oat milk. Still in the oven,” said Krister.

He had become quite fond of vegetarian cooking. Jenny’s vegan diet was still sometimes a challenge.

“Great! Did you make dessert?”

“Yes, but unfortunately for you, it’s chocolate mousse. You may make yourself a fruit salad. Add a dash of port wine and.…”

Jenny interrupted him with a loud sigh. “Pappa! You know I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Well, a tiny splash won’t hurt. Enhances the flavor. Think of it as a spice,” suggested her father.

“I’ll take the port, and you get the fruit salad,” Katarina offered generously. She smiled at her sister, who did not look as amused.

“Are you staying home tonight?” asked Irene as Jenny danced out into the hall and up the stairs. “Yes,” said Katarina, following her sister’s exit with her eyes. “But not overnight.”

“Is it still … what’s the name of that new guy again?” teased Krister.

“What do you mean
new
? John and I have been together for six months. Or almost, in any case,” said his daughter. She picked up the wine bottles from the plastic bags and scrutinized them. “Christobal Verdelho. White, so it’s for the fish soup,” she noted. She read the label of one of the red bottles. “Hécula. Spanish. What’s for dinner tomorrow?”

“Pork stew with mushrooms and lingonberries. Mashed potatoes on the side.”

“Sounds good, but I won’t be home. We’re planning to sail to Anholt early tomorrow morning. Sleeping on the boat and getting home on Sunday.”

Katarina’s boyfriend occasionally borrowed his parents’ sailboat. Neither Irene nor Krister had any sailing skills, but they
trusted John. He had sailed since he was in diapers and knew the archipelago like the back of his hand.

“Just the two of you on board?” asked Krister.

“Just us.”

“I hope you’re bringing life jackets? I mean, if you fall in.…”

“We always wear our life jackets when we go into open water,” Katarina assured him.

I wish other experienced sailors would do the same
, thought Irene. Why had Kjell B:son Ceder and his wife Marie not worn their life jackets when they went out on deck that stormy night sixteen years ago? The boat had been in the middle of the North Sea, and it was practically a gale. Tommy was right: there was something fishy about that accident. Could the incident have any connection with the murders that they were investigating now? It seemed unlikely, but.…

“Hello! Earth to Irene!” said Krister. He smiled at her.

“What? Sorry,” said Irene.

“I asked you where the corkscrew is, and Pappa asked if you would like some sherry before dinner,” said Katarina.

“No, thanks. Whiskey. In the top drawer by the stove,” said Irene, still lost in thought.

Krister and Katarina exchanged glances.

“Go ahead and sit down on the couch, Mamma. Pappa will get you your whiskey while I open the bottle of wine. And don’t worry about Sammie. I’ll take him on his walk after dinner.”

There was a scrabbling of paws on the parquet floor in the hall. Sammie had clearly heard his name and the word “walk.” There probably wasn’t much of a problem with his hearing after all.

“Go lie down. You’ll have to wait,” said Katarina.

“Wait” was not the word Sammie wanted to hear. When he
realized his walk had been postponed, he lowered his tail and padded up to Jenny upstairs.

Irene followed her daughter’s instructions and went into the living room. She sank down on the couch and pulled her legs underneath her body. Only now did she realize how tired she was. Her head felt full of wool and her muscles like jelly. Could it be age? No way. As long as she managed to get to the dojo on Sunday to train with her jiujitsu group, her energy would return. Afterward, she and Krister would go vote in the EU elections. She was still unsure how she’d vote. In the morning, she planned to jog five miles, though her right knee was starting to give her trouble. She always had to wear an elastic brace around it when she went running. It was an old injury from her years as a handball player. Maybe she should have surgery soon, instead of waiting. Gloomily, Irene felt that her bodily decline had begun.

“Sweetheart, there’s just a bit of the whiskey left. Do you want to drink it up or have something else?” Krister’s voice came from the kitchen.

“Go ahead and pour it for me. I’ll buy a new duty-free bottle when I go to Paris,” said Irene absently.

There was silence from the kitchen area. Irene heard Krister and Katarina rush toward the living room. They stared at her. Irene made a dismissive gesture.

“All right, I’ll tell you all about it. Just hand me my little bit of whiskey first,” she said.

A
NDERSSON CALLED AT
nine o’clock that evening and confirmed Irene and Kajsa would go to Paris. Birgitta had obtained a key to the Paris apartment from Joachim Rothstaahl’s parents. They’d seemed reluctant at first to give it to her, and it took all of Birgitta’s patience to coax it from them. She’d also found out that Joachim Rothstaahl and Philip Bergman lived in the same apartment. None of their
parents had mentioned it during the initial interrogation. Birgitta had called Philip’s mother and asked whether it was true that her son shared an apartment with Joachim. His mother had said it was, but she hastened to add that it was only temporary. Philip had been looking for a place to live, but it was both difficult and expensive to find anything in central Paris.

“You can stop by the police station tomorrow. The key is at the reception desk. You are booked for the eight-twenty
A.M
. flight Monday morning from Landvetter, and you’ll return on the flight that leaves at eight
P.M
. from Paris,” said Andersson.

Irene felt slightly dazed. “I’ll make sure to pick it up. And thanks for all the trouble of booking and—”

“Don’t thank me. Birgitta did all the work,” the superintendent said.

Irene realized that this made more sense.

“By the way, there’s a stack of papers I’m leaving for you, too. Kajsa found them. You’ll have something to read on the plane.”

“Stack of papers?” echoed Irene. By the time Andersson called, the small shot of whiskey had been joined by two glasses of wine, so Irene was not as clear-headed as she wished. Especially when her fatigue was added to the equation.

“Kajsa was sent the chapter from that journalist’s book. Apparently, he writes about all these computer companies and the money that disappeared after the crash. And he gave her the section that dealt with the Bergman, Kaegler, and Bonetti company,” said Andersson.

“Ph.com,” Irene said.

“Right. This investigation is so extensive I can’t keep all the details clear. But it’s probably good if you and Kajsa know the background behind those three and their past cons.”

Irene knew her boss was not interested in anything having to do with computers. Or any white-collar crime, actually,
because that often required good computer skills. It was with ill-concealed relief that he left the high-tech and financial questions to her and Kajsa.

Irene wondered about that journalist’s chapter.

I
T WAS AS
if a surge of electricity swept through the nightclub as the young man entered. The guests might have noticed the two people following right behind, but all eyes were on him. He walked down the stairs with practiced elegance, well aware of the impression he was making
.

At the bar he ordered three vodka martinis. His friends laughed at something he said, obviously no longer sober. With nonchalance, he handed the bartender his Visa card, which stayed there the rest of the evening. It took just a few minutes before the first beautiful young woman came up to him, soon joined by many more. He knew many of them from his previous visits. He invited all of them to a round of champagne. Naturally, it was the most expensive brand in the house
.

All of the women were younger than twenty-five
.

The woman who had entered the bar with him was beautiful in the classically Nordic way. She had light blue eyes and platinum blonde hair swept up on the top of her head. She used very little makeup, but her clothes signaled direct purchase from London’s top designers. Although she was tipsy, it was clear she was bored. After only a few sips of her martini, she stood up abruptly and gave the young blond man a light kiss on the cheek. She spun around on her stilettos and disappeared up the stairs. The blond man did not notice
.

The lighting by the bar was stronger than other parts of the room, and it made the young man’s hair shimmer. He wore it slightly longer than was fashionable, but his features were attractive—high
cheekbones and a strong chin. He frequently fired off a blazing smile. He was in good shape and wore elegant clothes of the best brands. His appearance embodied success
.

His male friend was his opposite: short and fat. He looked forty-years-old, but had just turned thirty. His reddish-blond hair had already begun to thin, and he sweated profusely. His suit, obviously not tailor made, stretched over his portly body. He couldn’t care less. He had enough money to buy a new one—in fact, he had enough money to buy anything he wanted
.

The party lasted until the early hours of the morning. The two men and the young girls were the only ones left at the bar, which wouldn’t close until its wealthy guests decided to leave. The employees knew they’d receive generous tips for their trouble, which included ignoring the white powder the young man snorted from a line off the counter. Or when the fat man brought one of the young girls into the men’s restroom, forced her to lean over the sink, and then raped her. One of the security guards peeked in, but hastily drew back. Keeping silent about what he’d seen would certainly be worth a bill with a high number on it
.

These employees were used to this particular gang coming in to party. This evening’s escapades were not out of the ordinary. A typical after-work evening for the owners of ph.com. The facts behind the above are true. The girl reported the rape to the police, but then decided to retract it
.

The bar is Zodiac, and I’ve been there myself to interview the employees, many of whom saw the owners of ph.com often, as this was the favorite haunt of the famous threesome whenever they were in Göteborg. The bosses of this company were certainly good at one thing—partying all night
.

Ph.com is an example of the many dot-com companies that grew like mushrooms toward the end of the nineties. I won’t address their finances in this chapter; greater detail can be found in Chapter Six: The Advisors—Investment Banks and Bankers. Instead, I would like to paint a complete picture of what happened and why. The
incredible saga of ph.com’s success and fall began in 1998 when Philip Bergman and Sanna Kaegler met Thomas Bonetti at a party in Göteborg. They’ve told the tale of how they decided to become an Internet company in various interviews.

All three of these young people believed strongly in the new trade that had started to take off on the Internet. In the United States, there were already successful Internet companies such as Netscape and Amazon (see Chapter Four: The First Internet Companies in the United States), in addition to others like Intel, Apple, Computer, and Compaq. The quick returns tempted institutional investors to place investment capital into these kinds of companies—even those not yet on the stock market. American retirement fund managers were very particular about investing in the new high-tech companies. According to an American journalist, during the nineties, up to 40 percent of venture capital firms’ money came from retirement funds
.

Between the summer of 1998 and 1999, Internet stocks rose by 400 percent. Interest in the new companies was enormous, and it seemed the stream of money would never end. New Internet companies of this era rarely lacked investors
.

In hindsight, it is shocking how careless investors were. The new Internet companies weren’t making profits and, in fact, many of them were racking up huge losses. The value of stock was based on popular opinion that the Internet revolution was going to change everything. No one wanted to miss a thing. During that party in 1998, the trio came up with their grand plan: create an international Internet company and get it listed on the stock market as soon as possible. There weren’t any discussions on what they wanted to sell, just that it would be sold via the Internet. They wanted to become one of the leading Internet companies worldwide
.

Philip Bergman and Sanna Kaegler had just sold their shares of the clothing boutique Zazza. Rumor has it that they were forced out by the other owners, the brothers Gillis and Walther Rothstaahl, because of difficulties working together. Bergman and Kaegler
insisted that they’d tired of Zazza and were looking for something more trendy. “We took Zazza from the backwaters to the absolute top, and now it’s time to move on,” said Philip Bergman to a
Göteborg Post
financial reporter. Zazza bought them out at seven million kroner apiece, a good return since they’d only brought one million to the table
.

Philip was a visionary and had the gift of gab. He was incredibly charming and charismatic. To put it bluntly, he had everything he needed to become a successful Internet entrepreneur
.

Sanna was highly aware of the latest trends and had a nose for the future of fashion. She’d been successful as PR and Marketing Manager for Zazza. Although she could also be quite charming, she was more introverted than Philip. She never opposed any of Philip’s ideas. They complemented each other and were each other’s best defense whenever things got rough
.