The Golden Calf (31 page)

“Rothstaahl’s apartment in Paris. We found hair from a man who might be Ludwig’s father. Blond hair. The man who shot at me there was also blond. I assume he was Ludwig’s father.”

“Not far-fetched,” conceded Tommy.

“The boy’s father.… That would explain why she couldn’t believe he might really be the murderer,” Birgitta said.

“What a dumb bitch!” exclaimed Andersson. “Irene saw him try to kill her!”

“We women are like that,” Birgitta said with a smile. “Loyal to the man we love until death.”

Andersson glowered but decided not to comment further on the general lack of logic among women. Irene had arranged a gift certificate for Andersson’s sixtieth birthday, a flight to London. He’d met Glen Thompson’s Brazilian mother, and it appeared that the two of them had hit it off. Three nights at Glen’s sister’s hotel in London with lunches and dinners at Donna’s restaurant had left Andersson quite pleased about his trip when he’d returned. He’d been so pleased, in fact, that he returned to London for a week at the end of July. No one in the department knew about it except for Irene. Glen had tattled to her.

Irene’s thoughts were interrupted by her cell phone. She excused herself and went into the hallway to take the call. Coincidently, it was Glen.

“Hope you’re sitting down. Things are moving like crazy around here. We found out that Edward Fenton went to Paris,
confirmed by our Parisian colleagues. They’d found Fenton, all right. He was listening to a bit of trunk music.”

“Trunk music? What’s that?”

“An old mob expression,” Glen said. “It’s when a victim is shot and put in the trunk of a car.”

“What’s that you’re saying? Fenton is dead?” Irene exclaimed. She headed for her office and sat down at her desk. Glen was right. She really had needed to sit down.

“Yes, he’s been dead for a few days at least. They found him the day before yesterday. The rental car had been abandoned in an unused industrial park. A security guard on patrol was alerted by the smell, so he called in the police. Fenton had rented the car, but he’d used a false name. They couldn’t find anyone by the name of Morgan Chesterton, and they had no way to identify him until we called. We sent along a photograph, and they could tell it was him.”

Irene’s head was spinning. If Edward Fenton had been dead for days, he could not have been on the telephone with Sanna. Strange that she’d lied about that. She’d convinced them when she’d told her story about the telephone threat. Obviously he wasn’t the one who tried to shoot her, either. Irene’s thoughts were interrupted as Glen said, “Hello? Are you there?”

“Yes, but I’m a little … shaken up. A lot has happened on this end, too,” she replied.

She swiftly filled him in on the attempt on Sanna’s life and about the supposed telephone threat from Edward Fenton where he warned they had to find all the cut-off fingers from Thomas Bonetti. But that conversation had taken place while Edward Fenton was lying dead in the trunk of a rented car.

“He’d definitely been dead for days,” Glen said. “He was giving off … a smell.”

“I know. It doesn’t make things any clearer. Can you send me as much information you have?”

“There’s not much, but I’ll send you what I have. And as for you.…” He paused for effect. “You Göteborg people have a much more interesting case than you know. More interesting than the one here in London, at any rate!” He chuckled.

Irene didn’t smile.

W
HEN
I
RENE HAD
returned to the conference room and given everyone the latest news, a flurry of speculation burst out among the assembled police officers. Andersson rapped his knuckles on the table and roared, “One at a time! One at a time!”

When the commotion died down, he said, “Irene, where do we stand now?”

“We’re standing up to our knees in shit,” Jonny couldn’t help interrupting.

Irene had to agree with him for once, though she didn’t say that out loud. “My conclusion is that Edward Fenton did receive a finger, just like the others. So Philip Bergman must not have, since only four are missing from Thomas’s body. Still, Philip was also murdered. Something’s not adding up,” she said.

“Perhaps because he was with Rothstaahl? Maybe the killer didn’t want to leave a witness?” Fredrik suggested.

“Philip’s money dwindled just like Joachim’s and Sanna’s during the past three years. They’ve all lost a lot,” Birgitta said. “That indicates that Philip was also the victim of extortion.”

“I’ll call Glen Thompson back,” Irene said. “Fenton lived mostly in London. There must be financial records for him there.”

“Sounds good,” said Andersson, nodding.

It was always a good thing if other departments took on part of the expenses of an investigation. An investigation in London would be prohibitively expensive for the Swedish police force, not to mention all the entangling red tape.

“Who is going to inform Edward Fenton’s Swedish relatives about his death?” asked Birgitta.

Andersson furrowed his brow. Finally he replied, “We’ll wait until we have positive identification. Irene, you coordinate with London and Paris. When everything is settled, you’ll be the one to contact the family.”

Irene said, “Then I’ll have to have Kajsa as a partner. She’s the only one among us who can speak French. That would make talking to Paris easier.”

“All right. But this afternoon I want you and Tommy to go back to the hospital and force some truth from Sanna. I’ve told you over and over! A thousand times already at least! You have to lean on her as hard as you can.”

Tommy sighed. “Easier said than done.”

Andersson gave him a sharp look. “Stop coddling her! Scare her with Fenton’s murder! She’s the only person who is still alive after getting one of those fingers. Our little Miss Ceder. If she doesn’t wake up and smell the coffee, there’ll be no one left. And goddamn, but I’m getting tired of all these corpses piling up!”

I
RENE COULDN’T REACH
Glen Thompson when she called. She left a message that he should get in touch with her again as soon as he could.

She realized she’d also have to get in touch with Inspector Verdier in Paris. He was the only one she knew there who spoke English. If she couldn’t reach him, she’d have to bring in Kajsa. She sighed. Tommy glanced up at her from his place behind a stack of papers, but he let his glance fall back to his work when she didn’t say anything. Irene dug around her desk drawer until she found the business card with Verdier’s name. His direct number was on it. She sighed again as she dialed the number.

I
RENE WAS PLEASANTLY
surprised by how well everything went. Inspector Verdier was in his office. When she explained that the discovery of Edward Fenton’s body was part
of their earlier Paris investigation, he sounded genuinely interested.

“I’m not a part of the team investigating his death, but I will go to my boss and tell him about this connection. Then I’ll probably be put on the case, too. It’s very complicated. An American living in London is killed in Paris and the case is being investigated by the Swedish police,” Verdier said.

“You understand our involvement,” Irene said. “We’re dealing with the murders of Bergman and Rothstaahl, who were living in Paris, as well as the restaurant owner Kjell Ceder. We now have the body of a fourth victim killed three years ago. His name is Thomas Bonetti. Then, yesterday evening, there was an attempt on the life of Sanna Kaegler, who knew all four victims well.”

“She must have been their lover.”

Verdier wasn’t asking; he was making a statement. Irene managed to stop herself from sighing right into his ear.

“No. She was the childhood friend of Bergman, the business partner of Bonetti, knew Rothstaahl in passing, and was married to Ceder. We all agree that Bergman and Rothstaahl were a couple.”

Verdier replied, “Yes, yes. And her relationship with this Edward Fenton?”

“Her sister is married to Fenton’s older brother. The mother of the two brothers is Swedish. The father is English. They probably had dual citizenship, though I haven’t tracked that down yet. We also know that she and Fenton were close during the ph.com years.”

“This is worse than a soap opera. Everyone is connected to her. But it also makes our job easier. The killer is in the same circle.”

True enough. Irene had had the same thought a few times, but no light had dawned. Who gained from the deaths of these people?

Irene gave Inspector Verdier Glen Thompson’s number at
New Scotland Yard. Police in all three countries needed to work together on this case.

Irene’s mouth was dry after all her talking, and she felt a headache forming at her temples. To top it off, her period was due. She closed her eyes to shut out the daylight. Friday afternoon. One entire workweek from hell, and there was still a long way to go before these crimes were solved. Now five murders hung around their necks. Four fingers cut from a corpse. Five murders were more than four fingers.…

“Hey, Irene. Are you falling asleep?”

Irene jumped at the sound of Tommy’s voice.

“No, I have a headache. I was just shutting my eyes for a minute. I need some coffee,” she mumbled as she got up and stumbled toward the machine. She got two cups, just to be on the safe side. She offered one to Tommy.

“No, thanks,” he said. “You’re the one with the headache. Drink them both,” he said in his friendly way.

Irene searched through her desk drawer until she found some pain pills. She had no idea how long they’d been there, but the bubble was unbroken and the foil was intact. She opened it and swallowed the pills with a sip of coffee.

“I’m not sure you’re in shape to come with me to Östra Hospital and ‘lean on that Kaegler-Ceder woman,’ ” Tommy said in a perfect imitation of their boss.

The only mistake he made was that Andersson had just appeared at the door. He gave Tommy a sour look. “I thought you two had already left. What are you waiting for?”

Andersson turned on his heel and headed back to his office, happy he’d gotten in the last word. He had actually wanted to know what Irene had found out from Paris and if there were developments about Edward Fenton. Still, that could wait. Paris would need at least a weekend to come up with anything, like the caliber of the bullet that had killed Fenton.

“S
HE’S SLEEPING,” THE
gray-haired nurse warned them, coming out of Sanna’s room just as Tommy was about to open the door. The nurse closed the door firmly behind her, adding, “She must not be disturbed.”

The officers on watch in front of Sanna’s room had changed shifts. A young female officer now sat by the door. She informed them that Sanna’s sister and mother had been by to visit around eleven
A.M
., but otherwise the situation was the same.

“Let’s go have something to eat,” Tommy suggested.

They took the elevator down to the hospital cafeteria. It was crowded, but they managed to find a seat by the large glass windows facing the inner courtyard. They each ordered the same thing: ham quiche, salad, milk, and coffee. Not a culinary adventure, but it filled the stomach. As they sat and started to drink the lukewarm coffee, Irene worked up her courage and asked, “Will you and the children be with your parents all weekend?”

“No. Martin wants to be home by Saturday night. His girlfriend is having a party. But Agneta should have her things out by then. She’s already packed everything up.”

His last words sounded a bit peevish as he stared hard into his coffee cup. Irene couldn’t take it any longer.

“Good Lord! You seem so restrained and … self-disciplined! No tears, no accusations—nothing at all!”

He glared straight at Irene. “What the hell do you know?”

Irene tried to calm herself, glancing around the cafeteria to see if anyone had noticed them.

“I know nothing at all, of course, because you’ve told me nothing! I really don’t understand how you could hide all of this … keep up a strong front … and suddenly, I’m confronted with a done deal that you’re getting divorced!”

Tommy took a deep breath. “It’s actually my fault.”

He seemed to mean what he said, but Irene objected immediately. “You shouldn’t take all the blame! Agneta was the one who started the affair with that doctor and wanted a div—”

Tommy interrupted her. “That’s not the whole story.”

Irene was confused and didn’t know what to say, so she kept her mouth shut. Tommy looked through the windows to the courtyard, where the greenery had taken on the shades of autumn. As he spoke, he kept his face turned away from Irene. She had to lean closer over the table to hear what he was saying. “I had an affair with another woman a few years back. We were neighbors. She was extremely attractive and had a certain … reputation. We hit it off at an August crayfish party. Things between us just went on until her husband and Agneta both found out. A few months later, they moved, and Agneta and I went to marriage counseling.”

He sighed heavily and drank the last dregs of coffee. Irene found herself staring at her oldest friend. Neither she nor Krister had ever imagined their friends had been through such troubles.

“We managed to fix things for a while. But … it happened again. You remember when I went to that course in Stockholm two years ago. I met a colleague from Gävle. She was also married, and we just thought we’d have a little fun. Or so
I
thought, at least. As things turned out, she and her old man were in the process of divorcing, and she had set out to find someone new. She’d decided that was going to be me. When she realized that I wasn’t interested, she got angry and called
Agneta. Things went ballistic, to say the least. Only the thought of the children made us decide to stay together and try again, but it wasn’t ever the same. Last summer we gave up. Agneta decided that she and her doctor friend were truly in love, and she wanted a divorce. They had trouble finding a place to live that would have enough room. But now they have, and she’s moving out. That’s all, folks!” He waved his hands in a gesture from the cartoon, which appeared carefree, but his eyes told another story.

Irene finally was able to stammer out, “But you—why—why were you unfaithful in the first place?”