The Golden Calf (21 page)

“No. They only played together as children,” he replied firmly.

“So neither one of you have any idea why he wanted to go to Styrsö that last evening?” Irene was too stubborn to let go yet.

“No. We already told you. He said that he wanted to think things over in peace and quiet.”

Antonio Bonetti regathered his superior and collected manner. Irene saw that his hands shook slightly as he set his glass back down, but perhaps this was a side effect of the medicine he’d just taken.

“Do you still have his computer?” Irene asked.

“Computer? What kind of computer?” Antonio said with irritation.

“His personal computer. We think he had a laptop. Do you have it?” Irene asked.

Both Bonettis appeared to think about it. Finally, Antonio shook his head.

“I don’t remember finding a computer among his things. Do you?” He turned to his wife.

“No, there wasn’t one. Neither here nor in London,” she said.

“Any computer discs?” asked Irene.

“No,” they both said.

“When we were thinking of possible suspects in his death, we considered his part in Poundfix. He was with Joachim Rothstaahl on that project. You know that Rothstaahl was murdered just a—”

“That Norwegian, what was his name … Dahl! He was behind that scandal!” Antonio snapped. “Thomas was lured into it! Dahl was found guilty. Poundfix is an old story, one that shouldn’t have been a big deal from the beginning.”

“I’ve looked into Erik Dahl,” Tommy continued calmly. “The Norwegian police got back to me this morning. A fellow prisoner stabbed Dahl to death in December of the same year your son was killed.”

This was news to Irene, too. She sat, silent, as the Bonettis stared at Tommy.

“So there have been many people in this circle who have come to a violent end,” Tommy said.

“Even if businesses go bankrupt, people aren’t usually murdered for it!” Antonio Bonetti exclaimed.

Depends on what kind of business they’re in
, Irene thought.

“You must keep in mind that global financial crises are inevitable and occasional recessions will follow in their wake. It’s part of business,” the lawyer said.

And your son helped bring about one of the worst recessions we’ve seen lately
, Irene thought.
Stock markets crumbled all over the world
.

“We have another question. Did Thomas have a girlfriend?” Tommy asked.

“Thomas had many girlfriends,” Antonio Bonetti said imperiously, emphasizing
many
.

“Do you have any names? Especially in the last year of his life. Winter, spring 2000,” Tommy clarified.

“He never brought any of them home to us,” Marianne Bonetti said. “You must remember that he was living in London, and he traveled all over the world. He was seldom home. His business kept him occupied—I don’t believe he had time for a steady girlfriend.”

The rest of the conversation with the Bonettis revealed little more. It was clear that the couple knew very little about their son’s private life.

As they got up to leave, the lawyer took some business cards from the breast pocket of his jacket and told them, “I want to be informed as soon as the autopsy has been completed. Just call any of the numbers on this card. As his father, I want to know … if he suffered much.” His voice failed him. Irene nodded and looked directly into his eyes. It was difficult to do. And at this point, she could not bring up the missing fingers. It would come out soon enough after the autopsy was done.

“A
GNETA TOLD ME
that you and she were going mushroom hunting,” Tommy said as they were driving back to the center of the city in the afternoon rush hour.

“We planned to go this Sunday. There was no time last weekend. She was busy with something,” Irene said.

Tommy muttered, “She certainly was.”

An odd kind of silence fell over the car. Irene didn’t understand why. It lasted until they parked at the station. Tommy
cut the motor and pulled out the key. He took a deep breath as if he wanted to say something, but then he didn’t.

“No … she’ll have to tell you herself,” Tommy said out loud as he got out of the car and strode toward the building. Irene had a hard time keeping up as they headed into the building.

“S
O
 … you didn’t find out much,” the superintendent stated. He had his elbows on the table and was clenching his fingers together so hard that his knuckles cracked.

“No, we didn’t,” Irene said. “But he had a strong reaction when Styrsö Island was mentioned. Tomorrow morning I should go out there.”

“It’s a Saturday. Do you think you’ll find anything?” Tommy asked.

“Krister is working, and I can take my dog Sammie with me,” Irene thought out loud. “Or no … that won’t work. Annika Hermansson has a cat.”

“That wouldn’t be a wise move,” Andersson agreed. He’d heard the story of Sammie killing the neighbor’s cat with one giant bite and all the repercussions afterward.

“Sammie will have to stay home,” Irene said. “But, yes, I do think there’s something there. I just have a feeling that we’ve overlooked something. I’ve forgotten something important. Or I haven’t understood the weight of a detail I’ve heard. You know the feeling.”

Both Tommy and Andersson nodded.

K
RISTER WAS FREE
Friday evening since he would have to work both Saturday and Sunday. They lit candles. The light reflected on the golden wine in their glasses. They were enjoying one of their favorite dishes, warm stuffed crabs, and the aromas of French mustard, sherry, dill, cheese, and the sea combined to tease their taste buds. Krister lifted his glass and looked into Irene’s eyes.

“Skål, my darling, and thank you for your company this pleasant evening,” he said.

They clinked their glasses together and sipped the chilled wine, letting it slide across their tongues.

“And I have some good news,” Krister said, as he put his glass down.

“Tell me,” said Irene.

“Sis called. Maggan, that is, not Ulla. Neither of them want Pappa’s car. They both have much newer ones. In fact, Maggan’s family has two.”

Krister’s father had passed away unexpectedly just before Midsummer. His mother was eighty-four now and suffered from rheumatism. She had found a two-bedroom ground floor apartment with a small patio, just a few minutes’ walk from his sister Ulla’s house. Both Ulla and Margareta, nicknamed Maggan, still lived in Säffle with their families. So Krister and Irene had been spared much during the past summer. Now his parents’ home in Säffle would be sold. Krister’s brother Stefan lived in Stockholm since his divorce. He was the oldest. He kept to himself, without much contact with the rest of the family. Whenever he did turn up, he always had a brand new sports car. In spite of all the recent crises in the banking and financial world, he, in upper management, still earned a pretty good salary. Now the sisters wanted to get rid of the Volvo in their parents’ garage. They wanted the house ready to sell by December.

“It’s a Volvo 7410. From ’92. Hardly eight thousand kilometers on it. It’s practically just off the lot,” Krister said.

“But it’s eleven-years-old,” Irene said. “That’s only two years newer than our Saab.”

“My father took good care of it,” Krister said. “And it has only a quarter of the mileage on the odometer. They’ll give it to us for twenty-five thousand.”

Irene smiled. “It sounds like a good deal. Let’s take it.
Skål
for our new car!”

“
Skål!
I’ll be off work on Monday. I’ll take the train up to Säffle, and then I’ll drive the car home. And I’ll put an ad in the paper for the Saab. We’ve had it checked not that long ago. If we get five thousand, that’ll be great.”

“What’s the Volvo like?”

“Not sure. But it’s a station wagon, which would be great for Sammie. He’ll be safer in the back. We’ll get a dog gate and partition the baggage area. And it’ll give us more room when we have to pack for our house in Sunne.”

Irene looked at her husband in surprise. “What do you mean ‘pack’ for our summer house? The Saab has always had enough room.”

The summer house on the outskirts of Sunne had been owned by Krister’s parents, who had signed it over to their children years ago. In the beginning, the family had divided the weeks they spent there equally, but during the past few years it hadn’t been necessary. Irene and Krister had been able to go there whenever they wanted. Stefan almost never came over from Stockholm. Maggan’s family had bought a beachfront cabin on Lake Vänern, and Ulla’s family had bought a large boat they sailed all over Sweden during the summer.

“Ulla and Maggan want us to buy them out,” Krister said.

Irene almost choked on her wine. “We can’t afford that!” she choked out.

“Yes, we can, if we sell our townhouse and buy a condo instead.”

“Sell our townhouse!”

“Why not? The girls will leave home soon, and it’ll be just you and me. And Sammie, of course,” he added as he heard the dog’s snoring from underneath the table.

“Condos in town are as expensive as houses out here,” Irene protested.

“Not really. Especially when you consider how much upkeep a house needs. Neither of us like working in the
garden. The outside window shutters will need to be painted soon, and in two years we’ll have to paint the whole thing. Not to mention that the wood on the siding isn’t that good since the house was built in the seventies when there was so much fraud in the construction industry. So that means we’ll have to replace—”

“That’s enough! We’ll sell it! But I must say, this is a bit sudden. I have to get used to the idea,” Irene said. They touched their glasses again and smiled at each other, although Irene felt a pang in her heart. Just the thought of selling the townhouse they’d lived in for fifteen years left her with a sad and heavy feeling.

T
HE SEA’S FLINT-GRAY
waves lashed against the stony beach. The whole morning, the rain clouds had hung heavy and given regular bursts of showers. Irene pushed ahead, bent over in the strong wind. She knew the way to Annika Hermansson’s house fairly well by now. Having learned from her previous visits to Styrsö, she wore thick clothing, and she had even put on a pair of mittens.

It felt as if a neutron bomb had exploded over the island. Only the scattered houses gave any sign of habitation, and the only living thing she encountered was a lone seagull, which stared at her from a perch on a stone. It took off with a cry when she approached. She saw nothing else moving until she came to Annika Hermansson’s front porch. The tuxedo cat sat on the stairs and watched her approach. Its eyes glittered with ill will.

“Hello, kitty cat. Do you remember me?” Irene asked and bent toward it.

In reply, the cat folded back its ears and hissed. Irene pulled back her hand immediately.
You can’t win over everybody. Cats must know by instinct that they’re meeting a dog person
.

Irene knocked loudly and then opened the door when she heard someone’s voice. The same suffocating odor as last time hit her nose when she entered. She took a deep breath before she stepped into the still-cluttered hallway.

“Hello, Annika! It’s Irene Huss. I called yesterday, and you told me I could come on over.”

She headed toward the kitchen as she talked. She heard a muttering voice from that direction, as if someone were muzzled. She stopped in the doorway when she saw the sorry-looking shape on the floor. For a second, she thought that Annika was unconscious or even near death, but to her great relief, the muffled sounds still came from her. She was alive, just stone-cold drunk.

Irene knelt beside Annika and tried to determine her condition. Annika had vomited, and the stench was incredible. She was trying to say something, but an incoherent mumble mixed with bits of vomit and alcohol was all that came out. She was lying on her side, which probably saved her from choking on her vomit. Blood was on the floor around her head. As Irene looked more closely, she saw a large cut on Annika’s left temple—not from a Parisian attacker, as Irene’s memory immediately conjured up, but from the corner of the kitchen table. Annika’s left arm jutted out at an odd angle from beneath her. When Irene tried to feel it, Annika screamed.
Probably broken
.

Irene stood up and got her cell phone out. She called 112 and requested an ambulance. She attempted to describe where Styrsö was.

“We’ll send out an ambulance boat. Will you be there to meet it?” asked the female operator.

“Of course,” Irene assured her. “The house is close to the water. I’ll stand right outside the door.”

“Great. I’ll relay your cell phone number,” she said. “They’ll call as they get close, so you don’t have to remain outside in this weather longer than necessary.”

“Thanks.” There wasn’t much more she could do for Annika, who was already lying in a good position and she had enough alcohol to dull the pain. Irene found a dirty blanket in the mess on the kitchen bench and spread it over her.

She might as well use the time to look around before the
ambulance arrived. She slowly walked through the dilapidated house. She wasn’t afraid of disturbing anything; she moved slowly to make sure she wouldn’t step into anything smelly. She decided to start on the upper floor and headed up the creaky staircase.

The bedroom’s large gable window opened to the southwest for a fantastic view of the ocean. Irene opened it so that she could endure being in the room at all. The wind rushed in, shaking the window, but the window hook held.

There were a few framed photographs on the green-lacquered dresser. Irene walked over to get a better look.

The first photograph she picked up showed a teenage girl with a baby on her lap. It took Irene a few seconds to realize she was looking at Annika and Billy. Irene saw that Annika had once had long, reddish-brown hair. She was smiling slightly, and she looked directly, defiantly, into the camera. The baby was only a few months old and was totally bald. Irene was surprised to see how cute Annika had been as a young woman. No one who saw her today would ever guess.

The next photograph showed a skinny boy of seven or eight. He was standing shirtless on the dock, holding a fishing pole in one hand and the small fish he’d caught in the other. He was smiling, and Irene could see the gap in his teeth. His towheaded hair blew in the wind. A fishing hut stood in the background.