Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1 by Helen Tursten Page A
Authors: Helen Tursten
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into a big smile, and headed for their table by the window.
“So you’re sitting here drinking coffee,” he said cheerfully. “You can take it easy for a while. I think the von Knecht investigation is going to be tough. Keep Rauhala as long as you need him. By the way, you never told me . . . Sven. How can you be sure that von Knecht was murdered?”
Word for word, it was the exact phrase that Kurt Höök at GT had used. Superintendent Nilsson leaned nonchalantly on the table, with one hand in his pants pocket, and exuded an amiable interest. Irene didn’t dare turn her head to look at Andersson, but she could sense the throbbing vibrations of suppressed rage emanating from him. That’s why the neutral tone of the beginning of his sentence was a surprise, but the rest of it certainly wasn’t.
“Well, you see, my dear colleague—I plugged up a leak in his ass from which he’d bled to death, and I’m ready to do the same for you. This source is now dried up for good.”
It was a daring shot in the dark, based on pure instinct, but it hit the bull’s-eye. Nilsson’s face looked as if he had been stripped naked; the embarrassment of guilt was obvious. All trace of easy confidence had vanished. Without a word he disappeared through the door.
The two inspectors at the other table looked as though lightning had struck their coffee mugs. Andersson made a dismissive gesture to them and tried to explain his behavior. “Okay, this is how it is. Early leads are gold for the evening press. They pay a hell of a lot for a scoop. You know as well as I do that some of our colleagues like to make some extra dough by tipping off the press. The press conference on the von Knecht case is set for one o’clock, a little too late for the evening papers. I went and borrowed a guy from General Investigations this morning. At that time Birger Nilsson couldn’t even remember my name.”
It would be a mistake to claim that the two inspectors looked as if they were any wiser, but they did their best. The color of Andersson’s face slowly started to return to normal. He stretched.
“Since you both heard Nilsson’s question, I hope you keep your lips sealed for another two hours,” he said sternly.
They muttered, “Of course” and “Sure, absolutely,” but still looked extremely confused. Irene wasn’t sure they understood what they had to keep their lips sealed about.
She quickly finished off her coffee and hurried back to work.
HENRIK VON Knecht and his wife were waiting in Irene’s office. Henrik looked hollow-eyed and horrible. He had changed into black slacks and a navy-blue cardigan. Even though his shirt was white and fresh, the overall impression was reminiscent of a newly risen vampire. The woman on the chair next to him was stunningly beautiful. Irene vaguely recognized her, but couldn’t place her. She was also dressed in navy blue. In her case it was a suit made of soft Napa leather, with a short straight skirt and big gold buttons on the jacket. Her black boots alone, with their stiletto heels, would cost Irene a month’s salary. Her hair was shoulder length and colored a deep mahogany; her eyes shimmered like the ocean, an incredible shade of turquoise blue. The shimmer came from the tears filling her eyes, but only the tears revealed that anything was amiss. Otherwise she was utterly composed and sat with her hands calmly resting on her knee. Discreet makeup emphasized her beauty. It may have been skillfully applied foundation that gave her skin its silky luster. A touch of rouge heightened the glow high up on her sculpted cheekbones.
Suddenly the crisis of turning forty came roaring down on Irene like an express train. No matter what she did, she would never be able to look that captivating after staying up all night. It wouldn’t even matter if it was a night of red-hot love that had kept her awake; she would still look like a wreck. As Sofie Ahl once told her, “You know that your fortieth
“So you’re sitting here drinking coffee,” he said cheerfully. “You can take it easy for a while. I think the von Knecht investigation is going to be tough. Keep Rauhala as long as you need him. By the way, you never told me . . . Sven. How can you be sure that von Knecht was murdered?”
Word for word, it was the exact phrase that Kurt Höök at GT had used. Superintendent Nilsson leaned nonchalantly on the table, with one hand in his pants pocket, and exuded an amiable interest. Irene didn’t dare turn her head to look at Andersson, but she could sense the throbbing vibrations of suppressed rage emanating from him. That’s why the neutral tone of the beginning of his sentence was a surprise, but the rest of it certainly wasn’t.
“Well, you see, my dear colleague—I plugged up a leak in his ass from which he’d bled to death, and I’m ready to do the same for you. This source is now dried up for good.”
It was a daring shot in the dark, based on pure instinct, but it hit the bull’s-eye. Nilsson’s face looked as if he had been stripped naked; the embarrassment of guilt was obvious. All trace of easy confidence had vanished. Without a word he disappeared through the door.
The two inspectors at the other table looked as though lightning had struck their coffee mugs. Andersson made a dismissive gesture to them and tried to explain his behavior. “Okay, this is how it is. Early leads are gold for the evening press. They pay a hell of a lot for a scoop. You know as well as I do that some of our colleagues like to make some extra dough by tipping off the press. The press conference on the von Knecht case is set for one o’clock, a little too late for the evening papers. I went and borrowed a guy from General Investigations this morning. At that time Birger Nilsson couldn’t even remember my name.”
It would be a mistake to claim that the two inspectors looked as if they were any wiser, but they did their best. The color of Andersson’s face slowly started to return to normal. He stretched.
“Since you both heard Nilsson’s question, I hope you keep your lips sealed for another two hours,” he said sternly.
They muttered, “Of course” and “Sure, absolutely,” but still looked extremely confused. Irene wasn’t sure they understood what they had to keep their lips sealed about.
She quickly finished off her coffee and hurried back to work.
HENRIK VON Knecht and his wife were waiting in Irene’s office. Henrik looked hollow-eyed and horrible. He had changed into black slacks and a navy-blue cardigan. Even though his shirt was white and fresh, the overall impression was reminiscent of a newly risen vampire. The woman on the chair next to him was stunningly beautiful. Irene vaguely recognized her, but couldn’t place her. She was also dressed in navy blue. In her case it was a suit made of soft Napa leather, with a short straight skirt and big gold buttons on the jacket. Her black boots alone, with their stiletto heels, would cost Irene a month’s salary. Her hair was shoulder length and colored a deep mahogany; her eyes shimmered like the ocean, an incredible shade of turquoise blue. The shimmer came from the tears filling her eyes, but only the tears revealed that anything was amiss. Otherwise she was utterly composed and sat with her hands calmly resting on her knee. Discreet makeup emphasized her beauty. It may have been skillfully applied foundation that gave her skin its silky luster. A touch of rouge heightened the glow high up on her sculpted cheekbones.
Suddenly the crisis of turning forty came roaring down on Irene like an express train. No matter what she did, she would never be able to look that captivating after staying up all night. It wouldn’t even matter if it was a night of red-hot love that had kept her awake; she would still look like a wreck. As Sofie Ahl once told her, “You know that your fortieth
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