“It sounds like an expensive way to collect antiques,” Irene observed.
Henrik shrugged. “My clients have a lot of money but not much time. And they know what they want and what it should cost.”
“So you never buy with your own money?”
“Not when I’m buying on behalf of my clients. Sometimes I buy things for myself, of course. Like the Tang horse.”
His face had almost returned to its normal color as he talked about his unusual profession. But Irene realized that he didn’t view it as a job. A faint flush had appeared on his cheeks. She remembered his ardent lecture about the Haupt furniture and the carpet and all the rest. This was really a matter of passion and zeal. It would not be easy competition for the beautiful Charlotte. Her value resided in the moment. In fifty years her collector’s value would be zero. The ideal man would be an archaeologist. In his eyes a woman would grow more interesting the older she got. And what about a collector of antiques, who only looks at the patina and future investment value? Irene felt grateful that she and Krister had purchased their household furnishings mostly from the local furniture warehouse, IKEA, in Kållered.
Real curiosity made her finally ask the question, “What in the world is a Tang horse?”
Amazement was reflected in his eyes, and she realized that this was something everyone was expected to know.
“A ceramic horse from the Tang period, of course! The Tang dynasty in China lasted from the beginning of the seventh century A.D. through the early years of the tenth century. The horse followed its owner in death, so we’re talking about grave goods. When he was buried, the deceased was provided with everything he might need in his existence on the other side. Household implements, jewelry, whole staffs of servants, and entire armies have been found. During the Tang period everything was made of ceramics but earlier, humans were sacrificed. There is a clear similarity with-”
“Hold it! Wait!”
Both Irene and Henrik jumped at the unexpected sound of Sylvia’s voice. She came running down the stairs from the upper floor. A little out of breath, she said, “Here are the addresses and phone numbers of the guests last Saturday. I have my whole contact list in the computer. All I had to do was print out the ones you wanted. Very efficient.”
IRENE WENT via Berzeliigatan on her way back to headquarters. It was high time she had lunch. The hot dog stand on Heden was calling to her, with the best mashed potatoes in town. But first she wanted to see the remains of the building that had burned down. She caught sight of Tommy Persson talking to one of the arson technicians. There was a parking place right outside the barricades, and she pulled into it. A handicapped parking place, but it would be a while before anyone who lived here would be able to use it again. Most of the building was no longer habitable.
Apart from the acrid smell of smoke, an air of unreality hovered over the charred skeleton of the building. It didn’t belong here in the prosperous downtown section of Göteborg. Maybe in Chechnya or Sarajevo.
Irene went over to Tommy. He gave her a cheerful greeting and introduced the arson investigator, Pelle, who nodded and raised his hands-encased in thick gloves-in greeting. He excused himself at once and tromped off in his heavy protective gear.
Tommy said somberly, “They found a completely charred body inside. It’s behind the door to von Knecht’s office. Apparently there was steel on the inside of the door, which protected the body from being totally cremated. The door was blown open by the explosion, and the poor guy crawled in behind it when he couldn’t make it down the stairs. The heat must have been horrible.”
Both of them shivered, and not just because of the cold. A pale sun was trying to break through the gray clouds. It would eventually succeed, because it was starting to clear up and turn colder. The temperature would probably fall below freezing later that night. Then the water on the ravaged building would freeze and form an armor of ice around it. There is nothing sorrier or more depressing than the sight of a damaged and mangled building, ruined by fire and water. If you know that a person died in the flames, the sight becomes a brooding threat. Irene felt slightly nauseated, but blamed it on her hunger and the suffocating smell of smoke.
Tommy turned around, nodded toward the corner at the brick building across the street, and said, “Do you see the tobacconist over there?”
Irene saw the little shop with a worn-out sign that stuck straight out from the very corner of the building. She nodded and murmured affir-matively.
“Guess who Fredrik and I found in there when we were going around knocking on doors?”
“No clue.”
“Shorty Johannesson! And he’s the one who runs the store!”
“You’re kidding! I thought he’d been sent up forever and they’d thrown away the key.”
“That would have been too good to be true. We checked. He was released this summer. He served six of his nine years.”
If you live in Göteborg, you know that anyone with the nickname Shorty or Half-Pint is at least the height of an average basketball player. And if you live in Göteborg, you know who Lasse “Shorty” Johannesson is. On the list of the ten most dangerous criminals in recent years, he was right up there between Lars-Inge Svartenbrandt and Clark Olofsson.
Chapter Eight
TIME WAS TIGHT, BUT Irene managed to write down the most important points from her meeting with the von Knecht mother and son. She also called Charlotte von Knecht but got no answer. The Volkswagen Center on Mölndalsvägen was next in line on her phone list. After some paper shuffling the woman at the service desk managed to find the right file. Yes indeed, Charlotte von Knecht had picked up her new Golf last Tuesday, but she didn’t know at what time. The salesman in charge was off on Thursdays and was impossible to reach before ten o’clock Friday morning. The woman grew more cooperative after Irene began to mutter about “interfering with a police investigation of a felony.” With a lot of grumbling she finally gave Irene the salesman’s home phone number. When Irene called she had to deal with a dashing answering machine that trumpeted, “Hello! You’ve reached Rob’s home! I’m either out or doing something else right now, so I can’t take your call. Leave your name and number after the beep and I’ll give you a jingle a little later.” Irene curtly left her name and her direct line to the department. She made a point of emphasizing her title.
THE USUAL procedure for ordering pizza was automatically initiated before the run-through could begin. Then the superintendent took the floor.
“It’s been a hectic day. At the press conference today I announced that a bombing caused the fire on Berzeliigatan. The arson techs found the remnants of an explosive device in the hall of von Knecht’s office apartment. It was practically like I’d set off a bomb under the reporters. They went crazy! Naturally they’re making a connection between von Knecht’s murder and the explosion last night. They’ve been hounding me all afternoon. Newspapers, radio, and all the TV channels in existence! The techs will be stopping by at any moment to report developments on their end. Svante Malm and the new guy, Ljunggren, promised to show up.”
He looked around at his seven inspectors and quietly cleared his throat.
“Let’s go around the table, one by one.”