Irene didn’t protest because she was longing for a cup of coffee. As she sank down on the pink sofa she noticed that the coffee cups had already been set out. She had never had a chance to decline.
The little woman came flying out of the kitchen with a coffee pot made of glass in one hand and a plate of Marie biscuits in the other.
“I don’t have any coffee cake in the house. This was a bit unexpected,” Gretta Svensson apologized.
Irene nodded understandingly and inhaled the scent of coffee. The biscuits weren’t important as far as she was concerned; the main thing was that she got some caffeine.
“Please start by answering a few routine questions that we always ask people in cases like these,” Irene said.
“That’s fine.”
“Your full name?”
“Anna Gretta Svensson.”
“Thanks. Your date of birth?”
“October 19, 1921.”
Irene quickly did the math and determined that the woman sitting in front of her was seventy-eight years old. Before she was able to ask another question, Gretta continued. “I was born a few houses down on this street, though that building was torn down many years ago. This house hadn’t been built yet. Pappa was a baker and Mamma sometimes helped in the bakery where he worked. It was them and the six of us kids in a two-room apartment. I’m the only sibling left of the bunch. I guess I was what you would call a late surprise.”
“Have you always lived on this street?”
“All my life. I’ve lived in this apartment for thirty-two years because it suits me so well. Before that I had a studio apartment in the house next door for many years.”
“What did you work as?” It had nothing to do with the investigation, but Irene was curious.
“A seamstress. The last few years I worked at Gillblad’s.”
Gretta sat up straight in the little chintz-covered Emma recliner and kept her light blue eyes focused steadily on Irene as she slowly brushed a white wisp of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “But this isn’t about me. Where is Marcus?” she asked.
“If we only knew,” Irene sighed.
Gretta looked as though she was preparing to ask another question, but Irene quickly prevented her. “How long has Marcus been your neighbor?”
“Ten and a half years. We celebrated our ten-year anniversary during Saint Lucia. He came over with a bottle of wine and I made some delicious sandwiches. We sat talking and had a wonderful time. That’s when he told me about Copenhagen and I promised to look after his apartment.”
“Do you often get together over a bottle of wine?”
“Sometimes. He comes over when he thinks I’m feeling lonely. That’s the way he is. Very sweet and thoughtful.”
Gretta smiled unconsciously when she spoke about Marcus.
“I know that Marcus moved to Copenhagen around New Year’s. How often did he call you from Copenhagen?”
“Not very often. He had so much to do. There were always new jobs and. .” She stopped herself and compressed her lips. Finally she said dully, “He called me twice.”
“When was the last time?”
“Wait.”
Gretta rose surprisingly quickly and disappeared into the bedroom. After a while she came back with a small blue pocket diary. She nervously skimmed back and forth, then triumphantly she announced, “Here. February 18.”
She held out the page. “Marcus has called,” it said. The other days were blank.
“I always write down important things.”
“Do you remember what he said?”
Gretta’s brow wrinkled as she concentrated. “He said that he was getting on very well in Copenhagen and he might come home at the beginning of March, but he would call me beforehand. He didn’t. But he may have called when I was in the hospital.”
“When were you in the hospital?”
“I was admitted the night of February 27 and came home on March 5. I’d had some intestinal bleeding and it turned out to be a large polyp, which they removed immediately. But I lost a lot of blood so they had to give me transfusions. I got seven bags of blood! Then there were a bunch of tests with-”
“Could Marcus have been home during that time?” Irene brusquely interrupted the health story.
“Yes. Because there was something. .” Gretta fell silent and looked uncertain. “I went to the emergency room on Sunday night. I had gone in and watered the plants at Marcus’s on Friday. As soon as I got home, I went into his apartment because I expected that the flowers would be droopy, but they weren’t. They looked healthy. As if someone had watered them.”
“Did they look like they had been watered recently? Was there water on the dishes? Was the soil moist?”
“They hadn’t been watered that recently. Maybe three or four days earlier.”
This was very interesting. If they could prove that Marcus had been home the first week in March, they might be able to pinpoint when he died.
Irene chose her words carefully. “Do you know if Marcus had a girlfriend or another friend whom he often saw?”
“Marcus lived such an active life. There wasn’t room for a girlfriend. He used to say that he didn’t need one because he had me.”
What kind of man had this effect? Tom Tanaka and Gretta Svensson both seemed to feel specially chosen by Marcus.
“Did he have a lot of buddies?”
“Not all that many. Sometimes he would have small parties in his apartment. But never any rowdiness! All of the boys were polite and well behaved.”
“Do you know any of their names?”
“No.”
Irene couldn’t come up with any more questions for the moment. She got up and said, “I’d like to thank you for your help. Is it all right for me to return if I come up with any more questions?”
“It’s perfectly fine.”
The little woman followed her out into the hall. When she had closed the door, Irene heard the lock rattling as the key was turned.
Jonny had found a box that he carried down from the attic.
“Magazines and films. Gay porn,” he announced.
There was only an old bike in the basement. Hannu had returned to the apartment and was looking through the albums they were planning to take back to the station.
“Names,” he said and pointed.
A wedding invitation was glued to the top of one of the pages. It was a double card with two gold rings on the outside. On the inside it read:
You are cordially invited to the wedding of Anders Gunnarsson and Hans Pahliss in the Göteborg City Hall on 5/29 1998 12:30. Wedding lunch at Fiskekrogen, 1:30. There will be a party in the evening at our home. Looking forward to seeing you!
“Pahliss. A name that should be easy to look up,” said Irene.
“A wedding. But, damn, it’s two guys,” Jonny said. The distaste was evident in his voice.
There were several photos next to the invitation, which had evidently been taken during the partnership ceremony and at the lunch.
The two men appeared to be in their thirties. One of them was tall and blond and the other was shorter and had dark hair. It was possible that he was a few years older than his blond partner. Both wore dark suits with bright red bow ties. The roses in their buttonholes were also red. They looked serious in the first picture, in which they were listening carefully to the officiator. Marcus’s handsome face could be seen behind the blond man. The next picture was taken from the side, and Marcus could be seen from behind. His light linen suit fit perfectly. The last picture from the City Hall ceremony showed the couple standing outside on the steps and being showered with rice by lots of people. Irene quickly counted forty-three, plus the photographer. She could see Marcus’s light-colored suit in the crowd.
The pictures that followed were from the lunch: happy people, toasting and laughing. The newly wedded couple beamed at each other and their guests. Irene noticed that there seemed to be an equal number of men and women in the pictures. There were no photos from the party that evening.