Read Online Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1 by Helen Tursten - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen Tursten
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Superintendent Andersson, of course. There are eight of us working on this case. There will always be someone here to talk to you,” Irene concluded in a friendly tone of voice.
She stood up and held out her hand to Henrik. His was ice cold. He only gave Irene’s fingers a light squeeze before he quickly released his grip. Charlotte gracefully offered her well-manicured fingers, but her handshake felt like a moist towelette.
ALONE IN the room again, Irene called the psychiatric ward and got permission to talk to Sylvia von Knecht on her room telephone. Her voice sounded slurred and dull when she answered. There was a slight, barely noticeable trace of a Finnish accent.
“Well, it’s probably best to get it over and done with. But if you ask me why he jumped, I have no answer for you. He seemed completely normal lately. And he was so lively at the party last Saturday . . . oh!” she broke off in the midst of a sob.
It wasn’t ideal to tell Fru von Knecht by telephone that the police suspected murder. But the press conference at which it would be announced was going to be held in an hour. There was a chance that Sylvia might hear it on the radio news before three o’clock. It was probably best to beat the media. Knowing how they usually behaved, Irene wanted Sylvia to be aware of the risk of a bombardment with questions by scandal-mongering reporters. They would be after her the minute she closed the door to the psych ward behind her. A homicide in that milieu had a hundred times more news value than a simple suicide.
Irene cleared her throat and said, “Fru von Knecht. What I’m going to say will no doubt come as a shock to you. We have certain leads indicating that your husband was the victim of a homicide.”
Silence on the line. Finally, an unexpectedly sharp reaction. “You mean murdered? He was murdered?”
“Yes, there are strong indications that—”
“Thank the good Lord! What a relief!”
Whatever Irene had expected, it certainly wasn’t this remark. She tried not to show her surprise, but continued in a neutral tone, “There will be a press conference at one o’clock at police headquarters. Superintendent Sven Andersson will have to notify the press that we are working on a homicide, not a suicide. You need to be prepared because the reporters might get pushy.”
“They always are anyway. Imagine what a bunch of crap they would have written if Richard had committed suicide. And his insurance . . . Well, there won’t be any problem with that now. A murder is horrible, of course, but at least it can’t be blamed on the family. No one can protect themselves from madmen. Was it three o’clock you were going to be here?”
Bewildered, Irene confirmed the time. Not until she hung up did it occur to her that Sylvia von Knecht hadn’t asked why the police were so sure it was murder. Part of her odd behavior could be due to various medicines she may have received in the psych ward. But her reaction was still extraordinary.
EVA KARLSSON, the dachshund lady, sounded considerably more spirited than she had the first time Irene called her that morning.
“Yes, of course, it’s so nice you want to drop by. Two o’clock will be fine, and I’ll have coffee ready,” she chirped happily.
Irene’s protests were kindly but firmly overridden. With a sigh she hung up. It might be tight trying to make it up to Sahlgren by three; she would have to be stern. Elderly ladies who lived alone had an unfortunate tendency to regard the police as their best friends.
Unfortunately, the police were also often their only friends.
It was ten minutes to one, and high time to get hold of the superintendent. Andersson wasn’t in his office. His secretary said that Sven had driven up to Pathology to meet a professor. He had promised to be back by quarter to one but hadn’t shown up yet.
At two minutes past one he came charging through the doors.
Chapter Four
SUPERINTENDENT SVEN ANDERSSON WAS pleased
She stood up and held out her hand to Henrik. His was ice cold. He only gave Irene’s fingers a light squeeze before he quickly released his grip. Charlotte gracefully offered her well-manicured fingers, but her handshake felt like a moist towelette.
ALONE IN the room again, Irene called the psychiatric ward and got permission to talk to Sylvia von Knecht on her room telephone. Her voice sounded slurred and dull when she answered. There was a slight, barely noticeable trace of a Finnish accent.
“Well, it’s probably best to get it over and done with. But if you ask me why he jumped, I have no answer for you. He seemed completely normal lately. And he was so lively at the party last Saturday . . . oh!” she broke off in the midst of a sob.
It wasn’t ideal to tell Fru von Knecht by telephone that the police suspected murder. But the press conference at which it would be announced was going to be held in an hour. There was a chance that Sylvia might hear it on the radio news before three o’clock. It was probably best to beat the media. Knowing how they usually behaved, Irene wanted Sylvia to be aware of the risk of a bombardment with questions by scandal-mongering reporters. They would be after her the minute she closed the door to the psych ward behind her. A homicide in that milieu had a hundred times more news value than a simple suicide.
Irene cleared her throat and said, “Fru von Knecht. What I’m going to say will no doubt come as a shock to you. We have certain leads indicating that your husband was the victim of a homicide.”
Silence on the line. Finally, an unexpectedly sharp reaction. “You mean murdered? He was murdered?”
“Yes, there are strong indications that—”
“Thank the good Lord! What a relief!”
Whatever Irene had expected, it certainly wasn’t this remark. She tried not to show her surprise, but continued in a neutral tone, “There will be a press conference at one o’clock at police headquarters. Superintendent Sven Andersson will have to notify the press that we are working on a homicide, not a suicide. You need to be prepared because the reporters might get pushy.”
“They always are anyway. Imagine what a bunch of crap they would have written if Richard had committed suicide. And his insurance . . . Well, there won’t be any problem with that now. A murder is horrible, of course, but at least it can’t be blamed on the family. No one can protect themselves from madmen. Was it three o’clock you were going to be here?”
Bewildered, Irene confirmed the time. Not until she hung up did it occur to her that Sylvia von Knecht hadn’t asked why the police were so sure it was murder. Part of her odd behavior could be due to various medicines she may have received in the psych ward. But her reaction was still extraordinary.
EVA KARLSSON, the dachshund lady, sounded considerably more spirited than she had the first time Irene called her that morning.
“Yes, of course, it’s so nice you want to drop by. Two o’clock will be fine, and I’ll have coffee ready,” she chirped happily.
Irene’s protests were kindly but firmly overridden. With a sigh she hung up. It might be tight trying to make it up to Sahlgren by three; she would have to be stern. Elderly ladies who lived alone had an unfortunate tendency to regard the police as their best friends.
Unfortunately, the police were also often their only friends.
It was ten minutes to one, and high time to get hold of the superintendent. Andersson wasn’t in his office. His secretary said that Sven had driven up to Pathology to meet a professor. He had promised to be back by quarter to one but hadn’t shown up yet.
At two minutes past one he came charging through the doors.
Chapter Four
SUPERINTENDENT SVEN ANDERSSON WAS pleased
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