Within fifteen minutes the detective inspector was asleep under her newspaper.
THERE WAS a desert in her mouth. That wasn’t the only thing that proved she had been snoring. The woman in the suit across from her was smirking maliciously. Irene decided that the two of them were enemies, so she fired off another smile. The gray-toned woman pursed her lips and lost herself deeper in her three-ring binder. It was almost one o’clock. Irene needed a cup of coffee and some food. She opened her newly purchased can of Coca-Cola and ate a Heath bar. The important thing was to save room for lunch. It was beginning to feel quite exhilarating to be taking the train up to the capital like this, unexpectedly. At the same time she had to admit that she was starting to feel a little curious. What was it that Mona Söder wanted to show her that was supposed to be so important to the investigation? Could the solution to the von Knecht case be in Stockholm? She just hoped that she would be able to make it back on the next X2000 train at eight-thirty that evening.
IT WAS no problem getting to Old Town on the subway. Despite the biting cold wind, a pale winter sun peeked through the clouds now and then. After wandering through the narrow lanes and stopping in a few small boutiques, she headed for Nygränd and Five Small Houses. Funny name for a restaurant, since it unquestionably was located in only one house. But a careful look would reveal that there were actually five different house façades next to each other. They varied somewhat in design and were painted different colors.
The lovely warmth of the restaurant enveloped her when she walked in through the heavy old wooden door. A middle-aged hostess gave her a friendly nod. On a sudden impulse Irene asked why the restaurant was called Five Small Houses. The hostess didn’t seem surprised at the question; many people had probably wondered the same thing over the years.
In a friendly voice she recited, “The restaurant extends, as the name indicates, through five small houses. It includes the ground floor and basement of all of them and even the second floor of some. As you can see over there, the archway and stairs mark the transition between the houses. There have been small inns in these houses ever since the seventeenth century. Even illegal pubs. Sometimes the premises were used as coal cellars. At the beginning of the nineteenth century the houses were converted to small apartments. Actors and ballerinas once lived here. They’re all retired now, but several of them have been back to look at their old place, which is now a restaurant again, and has been for many years.”
“How interesting. Thank you so much for taking the time to tell me about it. I can practically feel the poet Bellman breathing down my neck.”
The pleasant hostess laughed. “Let’s hope you’re spared Carl Michael Bellman’s breath. Something tells me it might spoil your appetite. Where would you like to sit?”
“I’m supposed to meet Mona Söder here at three o’clock.”
“She’s already arrived. Please follow me.”
She guided Irene between the tables with blinding white tablecloths down the stairs and through small archways. Irene was soon quite lost. And she usually had such a good sense of direction! In the far corner of a room at the very back of the house a woman was sitting alone. Irene’s eyes had adjusted to the scant light in the vaulted room, but it was still hard to see what the woman in the dim corner looked like. When Irene approached she slowly rose to her feet. Mona Söder was only a few centimeters shorter than Irene. She was stocky but not at all fat. Power, that was the word that came to mind as Irene shook hands with Mona and said hello. She didn’t have a sparkling, vital energy of the type that took your breath away, but rather a calm, sure, authoritative power. Irene did not doubt for a second that Mona must be an extraordinary boss.
Mona Söder gestured graciously toward the chair across the table. “Please have a seat, Irene. I hope you forgive me, but I’ve already ordered for us. Is grilled Baltic herring all right, followed by plum cake with vanilla ice cream for dessert?”
“That sounds fantastic.”
Irene had only eaten grilled Baltic herring once before. Burned herring with mashed potatoes was what she would call it.
Mona turned to the waiter who had soundlessly materialized at their table. “We’d like two large porters and two shots of Aalborg Aquavit.”
Irene gave a start. That was enough of someone else making decisions for her. “No thanks. I’d like a large pilsner, no schnapps for me,” she said quickly.
A little furrow appeared on Mona’s brow, but she only shrugged and waved away the young man with their orders. She gave a hard, curt laugh.
“Don’t think I sit and drink schnapps every day for lunch. But sometimes it seems like a good buzz is the only thing that keeps me on my feet. Today’s one of those days. You’ll soon find out why. But let’s eat first, before we get down to business.”
The herring was heavenly. Irene found herself practically shoveling in the excellent food. They drank a skål to Old Town, with Aalborg and Pripps pilsner, respectively. Mona was easygoing and unpretentious in her conversation. There were no embarrassing moments, although there were long pauses.
They had just polished off the fabulous plum cake and were drinking a second cup of coffee. Mona had ordered a cognac, but Irene declined. Mona could really hold her liquor. The slight tension across her shoulders may have relaxed a bit, but there was no change in her speech or gestures. Irene concluded that she was used to drinking a good deal. Mona took out a pack of cigarillos from her fashionable handbag, which perfectly matched her light gray jacket of soft wool. Under it she wore a white silk blouse with a straight black skirt. Comfortable gray pumps with a low heel completed the picture of a woman with style, power, and money. The heavy gold chains around her neck further emphasized this impression. She wore no rings.
Mona offered the cigarillo pack to Irene, who declined, and then carefully lit hers, exhaling with pleasure and sending a cloud up toward the ceiling. Squinting slightly through the smoke, she looked around. They were alone in the room. Voices could be heard from the rooms in front as well as the vaulted room, but in here there were none. Pensively, she began her story.
“We met in the spring of ’sixty-four, Richard and I. He blew in like a whirlwind one April evening, as Strindberg writes in The People of Hemsö. I was twenty-two and he was twenty-eight. I had been attending social work college for a year but I didn’t feel at home in Stockholm. If you’re born and raised up north in Härnösand, Stockholm is a real culture shock. Some people thrive and have a blast. Others just get homesick. Like I did.”
Only now did Irene notice the slight lilt of the Ångermanland accent in Mona’s speech. At first she had just heard a nicely enunciated, cultivated Swedish, but the hint of Norrland was there like a pleasant undertone.
“But I had nothing to go back to. Pappa died in a sawmill accident when I was fifteen. Mamma met another man. They got married and she moved to Umeå with him and my two younger sisters. I stayed behind in Härnösand, paying for room and board with Mamma’s cousin and her husband while I finished up high school. In a fit of boldness I answered a classified ad: ‘Young lady with a talent for languages wanted for office position.’ In Stockholm. I almost fainted when they called and told me I could start in August. I found a room in a boardinghouse run by an old lady on Birger Jarlsgatan. A sad little room in back off the courtyard. But it was cheap and suited my modest salary.”
Mona broke off for a coughing fit. She took a sip of lukewarm coffee to clear her throat. After a deep, greedy drag on her cigarillo, she went on. “The job was pure shit work. After a year I had had enough, and I applied to the social work college. Everybody was going there in those days! With my grades it was no problem, I got in. After just one semester I realized that sitting in a welfare office was not what I wanted to do either. Bringing salvation to tattered lives would have to be left to others. I didn’t feel I was the type who could really get involved. I had enough problems of my own.”