A glance at the dashboard told her that it was almost seven. Time to go up and write a report on yesterday’s trip to Stockholm. It was not going to be easy.
THE REPORT was as good as done when Tommy Persson and Hannu Rauhala arrived simultaneously. They each took a cup of coffee and sat down for a run-through of yesterday’s events. Before they started the superintendent showed up. He looked worn out, with red eyes and a grayish complexion, but no one commented on his appearance. They had been awaiting his arrival, with plastic cup, from the coffee vending machine. It was crowded around Irene’s desk. Naturally there was a big coffee stain on the first page of the report, but she could print out another one later. Everything was saved on the diskette marked VON KNECHT.
Andersson started by telling them about his suspicion that the charred body at Pathology belonged to Pirjo. After a dejected silence Irene asked, “But what about the body of that guy?”
It was Tommy who answered. “Evidently he’s on one of the upper floors. The arson techs haven’t dared search up there yet, but they’ll get to it this weekend. Pelle said it’s quite certain that it was a ‘devil bomb.’ Whoever built it wanted to make sure it was done right. There wasn’t anything left undamaged in the whole building. Except von Knecht’s safe, which is cemented inside the wall and awkward to get at. Pelle mentioned taking a skylift over there. By the way, I haven’t been able to interview the elderly couple on the second floor. They were bandaged up at Mölndal Hospital on Wednesday, stayed overnight, and then were released to stay with their daughter. But on Thursday morning the man had to be admitted again. Heart attack. He’s in CIC in very serious condition. His wife has collapsed. The daughter is very upset and asked me to wait to talk to her mother until Monday.”
Hannu asked, “CIC?”
“Cardiac intensive care. I’m keeping in touch with the retired couple, because I suspect they may have heard or seen something that has to do with the bomb. To make a bomb that big, a lot of equipment would have had to be dragged in. The gasoline containers in particular should have been noticed.”
Andersson cleared his throat. “Are there any witnesses who noticed anything suspicious in recent days?”
“No, and that’s strange. Nobody can think of any mysterious person or remember hearing anything odd. There’s only one statement that sounds interesting. An elderly man in the building next door to von Knecht’s, address on Sten Sturegatan, has his bedroom window on the second floor facing the courtyard. Outside the window there are some rented parking places, one of which is von Knecht’s. According to this gentleman, von Knecht parked his Porsche in that parking space just before one in the morning on Saturday.”
“On Friday night, you mean?”
“Right. And he’s positive. It was the Porsche. There aren’t that many Porsche Targas around, now that the happy-go-lucky eighties are over for most people. I called up Sylvia von Knecht yesterday afternoon and asked if that could be right. According to her it’s absolutely impossible. Apparently there was a preanniversary get-together on Friday night. Nobody went to bed before one-thirty in the morning, except Sylvia’s old mother. Even if she didn’t like her son-in-law, I don’t think the old lady would take the Porsche and zip down to Berzeliigatan to rig up a bomb. And clearly no one else from the preparty did either. Sylvia got mad as hell at me when I asked if Richard was drunk on Friday night. Finally it came out that he was obviously plastered.”
Andersson remembered what Stridner had told him at yesterday’s meeting. It seemed that von Knecht drank a good deal toward the end of his life. To establish the chronology he asked, “He was with the others until one-thirty?”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence as all four of them tried to figure out some angle. Anyway, it was obvious. Irene was the one who took it up for discussion.
“The car. The Porsche. How could it be on Berzeliigatan that night? Where was it parked earlier in the evening?”
“I asked Sylvia where the car was now. According to her, it’s in a locked garage on Molinsgatan. Just like her own car, a BMW,” Tommy replied.
“So it hasn’t been stolen, but was put back in its garage. Is it certain that it was von Knecht’s Porsche and not someone else’s?”
Tommy shrugged his shoulders. “The old guy on Sten Sturegatan claimed it was von Knecht’s,” he said curtly.
Again a thoughtful silence descended over the meeting. Finally the superintendent slapped the palm of his hand on the table, which put another coffee stain on Irene’s report, and exclaimed, “It’s some damned phantom sneaking around, going through locked doors, and taking locked cars. And putting them back! Without leaving a trace. Up in smoke!”
Hannu caught his eye. “More keys.”
Andersson fell silent and took on an absentminded look of concentration. The others also realized that it was the only explanation. Irene said enthusiastically, “Of course that’s it! There has to be an extra key to the car and the garage. By the way, Sylvia said that Richard had been searching for the spare key to the Porsche the week before he died. On the same key ring there’s a key to the garage. There must also be another set of keys to the doors in von Knecht’s building on Molinsgatan and the building on Berzeliigatan. But Sylvia told me that there were only three sets of keys to the two apartments. I saw them myself; she has all three key rings at home in her apartment.”
Andersson looked at Irene after her input. Thoughtfully he said, “Sylvia certainly didn’t know about any more keys. He had a whole bunch of secrets, our fine Herr von Knecht. There must be another set of keys. Which the killer is now walking around with. Plus the spare keys to the Porsche and the garage.”
As the words sank in, Irene understood the threat. “That means that Sylvia shouldn’t be staying in the apartment before the locks are changed,” she said.
“Precisely.” Andersson made a calming gesture. “But we can lie low over the weekend. She’s at Marstrand with Henrik, after all. As long as the murderer doesn’t have keys to that house too.”
Irene gave a start and exclaimed, “Wait a minute. There were keys to the Marstrand house on the key rings! We can’t lie low. We have to warn her.”
An anxious furrow creased Andersson’s brow. “Irene, try to get hold of her right away.”
She nodded and felt a slight uneasiness inside. Sylvia might be in danger. An obvious question popped up, demanding an answer. “But who would have access to a whole set of keys to von Knecht’s various houses and cars?” she wondered.
All of them tried to figure out an answer. Finally Hannu said, “Richard von Knecht.”
At first Andersson was visibly irritated, but he had to admit the logic of Hannu’s conclusion. “And who would he give the keys to?”
Nobody had a good answer, and they dropped the subject after a while.
Irene reported on her trip to Stockholm. Her colleagues had plenty of comments about her excursion: Was it really necessary to spend a lot of taxpayers’ money going up to Stockholm? Did Mona Söder stand to inherit? Why couldn’t she have said all that on the phone? Could Mona have flown down to Göteborg on Tuesday afternoon and back the same evening? Or driven it in her fast new car?