The Golden Calf (20 page)

They sat next to him in the wheelhouse. The water was rougher as they left the coast of Styrsö Island, and they could feel the entire boat smack when it hit the waves. It was quiet as misty rain wrapped the area in a gray shroud. Although Irene was not an expert on boating, she wasn’t worried by the decreased visibility. She trusted Torbjörn, who knew every nook and cranny of these islands from Nordkoster to Anholt. He didn’t need a compass or a sea chart to find Branteskär.

“My compass is here,” he chortled, pointing to his stomach.

The contours of Branteskär began to jut up before them out of the thick fog. It had steep cliffs, just as its name indicated.

“You can’t land on this side. There’s a small inlet on the other side, which is the only place anyone can land at all,” said Torbjörn.

It took some time for the boat to tie up, since the increasing wind kept blowing it away from the dock.

“I’m going to stay on the boat,” said Torbjörn. “I have to tie up and make sure that we don’t slam into anything.”

Just as she was about to jump onto land, Irene almost lost her foothold on the slippery deck.
That’s all I need, to fall into the water in front of my colleagues! They’d tease me until I retired!
It wasn’t easy to climb up the slope with only one good hand. It was so steep in some parts that they had to move sideways like giant crabs. It was much easier when they made their way down the other side where the stone pile was. There were large round rocks that had been deposited by receding glaciers.

Svante Malm was sitting with other police officers drinking coffee from a thermos. The wind was cold on this side of the island, and the chilling rainwater crept through unexpected crevices in their raincoats. They’d pegged a tarp over the grave for protection.

“Have some coffee,” Svante said. “That guy’s waited under those stones so long already. Five more minutes won’t make much difference.”

Irene gratefully took the mug in her fingers, which were stiffening from the chill.
What kind of person would remember to bring gloves at the end of September?
Not her. The coffee warmed her hands through the thin plastic cup. Her right hand was, of course, already warm and dry, protected in its sling beneath her jacket. She didn’t think she’d need the sling much longer. Her elbow was starting to feel more normal.

“So, do you think it’s Thomas Bonetti?” Tommy asked Malm directly.

“Judging by the length of time the corpse has been here, it could very well be. There’s some tissue, but not much. The insects have done their job. The clothing is still here, though, as well as the hair. Male clothes. The hair is thin and blond with a reddish tint.”

“Sounds like Bonetti,” Tommy nodded.

Svante Malm poured more coffee, lifted his cup to his lips, and peered at the detectives through the steam. “And there’s one more thing. All the fingers on the left hand except the thumb are missing.”

“I
T DIDN’T TAKE
long to locate Bonetti’s dental charts, since his parents had the same dentist,” Tommy said. “The medical examiner studied the corpse’s teeth yesterday evening and compared them to the X-rays. They matched. So it is Thomas Bonetti we’ve found.”

It was Friday morning, and they were all sitting around the conference table trying to analyze the latest developments in the case. Heavy fog hemmed them in through the windows, so they’d turned on the lights.
Autumn has come
, Irene thought morosely.
There’s no turning back
. She comforted herself with the thought that she and Tommy’s wife Agneta would be going mushroom hunting over the weekend. They knew of a secret mushroom patch in Härskogen Forest.

“Svante was also right about the four fingers missing from the left hand. The technicians searched the whole area around the heap of stones and couldn’t find them in or around the grave,” Tommy continued.

The superintendent was breathing roughly, and he coughed up some mucus. His asthma had gotten worse from the damp weather. “Torture. I suspect he’d been tortured,” he said roughly.

“Why?” Fredrik asked.

“Money. Everything in this case has to do with money,” Irene answered.

“But that can’t be right. When Bonetti disappeared, ph.com had already lost all the money,” Birgitta objected.

“That’s right, and who got the blame for taking it?” Irene countered. “Thomas Bonetti.”

Fredrik Stridh asked, “How much money was gone?”

“Several million kroner. Maybe even as much as fifteen to twenty million, according to Sanna Kaegler,” Irene replied.

“Fifteen million,” Birgitta said. “Many folks have lost fingers and lives for much less.”

“But why would they torture him before they killed him? Or were the fingers cut off after he was murdered?” Fredrik wondered.

“We don’t know. The autopsy won’t be able to answer that question, either. It’s been much too long since the death, and the body was pretty decomposed,” Irene said.

An image forced itself to the forefront of Irene’s memory: a grinning skull protruding from the remains of a Peak Performance jacket. The jacket had been tough nylon and well preserved. The shoes and suit trousers had also lasted.
Buying quality really does pay off
, thought Irene. She grimaced.

“There is, however, no question how he died. Two shots in the right temple. There was a bullet still in the cranium. The technicians haven’t determined what type, but I’ll put my money on a .25,” Irene continued.

“So he was killed three years ago. But why were Ceder, Bergman, and Rothstaahl killed recently?” Birgitta asked.

“When we have answers to those questions, we’ve solved the case,” Tommy said.

M
ADAME
B
ONETTI APPEARED
calm and in control as she opened her heavy oak door for the police officers. Her eyes behind her glasses, however, were swollen and red. The older woman was hefty but camouflaged in a finely tailored, dark blue dress suit. Beneath her jacket, she wore a cream silk blouse and large rose pearls. She’d dyed her thick hair black and wore it in an intricate knot at the top of her head, but the dark dye was garish against her over-powdered, flabby face. Irene had trouble breathing from her overpowering perfume.

Diamonds flashed on her hands as she gestured for them to come inside. She waddled as she led them to a large, airy room furnished with elegantly cool Nordic furniture. This woman did not fit the décor of her living room. She must have had an interior designer.

“Please sit down. My husband will be here shortly,” she said.

Her voice was as high as a girl’s and was startling coming from her large body. She gestured to two armchairs covered in beige- and white-striped linen.

Irene had called ahead a few hours before and had reached the mother. She’d requested that the Bonettis come to the police station for a conversation, but Marianne Bonetti had refused. She was too upset to drive after learning her son was really gone, so she requested that the meeting happen at her house in Långedrag instead.

Now, Marianne Bonnetti sank into one of the other armchairs. Irene saw that she was nervously fiddling with a handkerchief in one of her hands. Tommy used his most sympathetic voice, “We’re sorry for your—”

“It’s better this way. To know for sure,” Marianne Bonetti interrupted him.

“I understand. The uncertainty must have been very difficult,” Tommy said.

She nodded and swallowed. “How could anyone … Thomas … he was so kind.” Her voice dwindled away. In the silence, they heard the front door open and shut and quick steps head toward them. Antonio Bonetti walked into the living room. Both Irene and Tommy stood up to shake hands. His grip was firm, but Irene noticed his palm was damp from sweat. The famous lawyer was half a foot shorter than his wife. He was almost completely bald, and he’d combed what few strands remained over his freckled scalp. He was wearing an elegant suit, but the expensive tailoring could not hide a growing belly. A bright, fat signet ring flashed from his ring
finger. It fit the style of the Rolex watch on his wrist. Antonio Bonetti was more than sixty-years-old, but he was still one of the most sought-after lawyers for criminal cases in Sweden. These days, he took only cases that promised both maximum media coverage and a guaranteed win. Through the years, he’d been interviewed many times on television, where he’d proclaim his version of the case’s facts—always to his client’s advantage, of course.

“So, you’ve begun already?” he asked, shooting a quick glance at his wife. His eyes were colorless pools framed by white brows and lashes.

“They’ve just arrived.… We’ve only had time to sit down,” Marianne Bonetti said hastily.

Irene understood the lawyer wanted to make sure they had not started to question his wife without his presence. Antonio Bonetti sat down on the sofa. He crossed one well-pressed trouser leg over the other, and Irene saw he wore extra high-heeled shoes.

“So, do you have any information?” the lawyer asked as he stared at Tommy.

“No. We know as much as we did three years ago, except for the fact that he’s been found murdered. We have no idea why. Do you?” Tommy used a friendly tone.

“No. Thomas had no arguments with anyone. Many lies went around after he disappeared—but they were groundless rumors.” The lawyer emphasized the last word.

“He was indicted for embezzlement.…”

“Lies!” Bonetti cut him off. His foot was jiggling with irritation in its elegant shoe. His feet were unusually small for a man. “It was those other two. Sanna Kaegler and Philip Bergman. They conspired against Thomas and blamed him for ph.com’s bankruptcy. But you notice they certainly took care of themselves before the crash.” Antonio became calmer as he spoke.

“Do you have any proof?” asked Tommy.

“No. Just what Thomas was saying that last summer. He accused Philip and Sanna of taking kickbacks. I never bothered to follow up any of this after Thomas disappeared and the indictment was dropped. There was so much we had to do. We had to deal with Thomas’s disappearance at the same time I was involved in a rather large pharmaceutical lawsuit—the biggest one ever seen in Sweden. It was rough, but we won.”

He seemed unaware of the contented smile that spread across his face. They had come to talk about his dead son, and he was smiling about a long-ago trial. Irene shuddered and wrote
kickbacks
? in her notebook.

“Do you remember if Thomas was ever threatened?” Tommy continued.

Both parents shook their heads.

“Never,” said Antonio.

“Did he have any enemies?”

“Not a single one,” said Marianne Bonetti.

Irene remembered Annika Hermansson saying:
He had no friends. No one ever wanted to play with him. Not even Billy
.

She asked, “Who were Thomas’s friends?”

The parents turned their heads to look at her, but neither one answered the question. The silence was painful. Finally, Marianne Bonetti said, “Thomas had many acquaintances in business. He lived in London.… We didn’t know all his friends.”

“Did he have any acquaintances here in Sweden?” Irene asked.

“Maybe … but he wasn’t home much,” Marianne said doubtfully.

“Joachim Rothstaahl was murdered just a few kilometers away. He grew up here in Långedrag, too. Did they know each other when they were children?”

“No, the age difference was too great,” said Masianne
Bonetti. “They were four or five years apart. That’s a lot, especially in the teenage years. They first really got to know each other in London.”

“Did he have any friends on Styrsö?”

“Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”

“Thomas went to Styrsö on the last evening of his life. Perhaps he planned to meet someone. Did he still see Billy Hermansson?”

“No, I don’t—” Marianne Bonetti stopped abruptly as her husband suddenly stood up. She looked at him nervously as he held his hand to his chest. His signet ring shone against the dark cloth of his suit.

“My medicine.…” he mumbled. He hurried away from the room, and they could hear the clatter of his heels on the wooden floor.

“Antonio has heart trouble. He takes medicine for it,” Marianne Bonetti explained. “As you can imagine, this has hit him fairly hard. He doesn’t show his emotions.… He keeps his sorrows to himself.”

“We understand that this must be extremely difficult for you both,” Tommy said soothingly.

She nodded and dried her eyes with the handkerchief she’d been clutching during their entire conversation.

Styrsö. Why did Antonio react so strongly when the island was mentioned? Up to that moment, he seemed in complete control of the situation. Does he know something that he doesn’t want to talk about?
Irene decided this was something she wouldn’t let go.

“I’ll fetch us some mineral water,” Marianne Bonetti said as she pushed herself with difficulty up out of the soft, cushioned armchair.

Before the police officers could decline, she marched off in the same direction as her husband.

Irene bent over as if she were going to adjust her sock.

“Don’t let go of Styrsö,” she whispered to Tommy. “There’s something there.”

“Mmm,” he replied, barely audible.

They could hear the flushing of a toilet. After a while, the Bonetti couple returned to the room. Antonio Bonetti was carrying three bottles of mineral water, and his wife held a silver tray with four crystal glasses. A few ice cubes were in each glass. She set four golden coasters on the coffee table and placed a glass on each. The ice cubes clinked as her husband filled the glasses with the mineral water. The couple returned to their seats, and Antonio drank some water.

“I have angina,” he explained. “I’m supposed to have an operation this winter.”

Both Irene and Tommy nodded to show they understood his situation. Tommy also drank some water before he said, “Getting back to Styrsö. Was there anyone on the island that Thomas might have wanted to meet?”

“Absolutely not.” Antonio Bonetti banged down his glass onto the golden coaster.

“So he and Billy Hermansson no longer …?” Irene let the question hang in the air.

The lawyer’s face had no expression when he looked at her. And yet—there was something there, but before she could put her finger on it, he’d looked away again.