The Golden Calf by Helene Tursten Page B

the outermost dock at Långedrag onedrizzling evening in September 2000, at about eight. Although there weren’t many people at the harbor at that time, the ones who were there couldn’t miss seeing the luxury motor yacht back out of its mooring. The ship was not built to be overlooked. That was three years ago, almost to the day, and it was the last time anyone had ever seen Bonetti alive.
    Bonetti had told his parents that he was heading over to the family’s summer cabin on Styrsö. He told them he had a few things he had to think through in peace and quiet.
    Neither Bonetti nor the boat had ever been found.
    Bonetti’s passport was still at his parents’ house, along with the clothes and personal belongings he’d brought with him. Since he also had an apartment in London, his parents thought he might have gone there to wait for the worst of the uproar around the bankruptcy to die down. However, they could not explain how he could have gotten to London without a passport. Only when an eviction notice for nonpayment of rent arrived did his parents realize that something was wrong. The apartment was in central London and extremely expensive. Thomas had been extraordinarily proud when he’d managed to snag it and never would have willingly risked losing it. Apparently, only then was his father, a celebrated lawyer, convinced that this was not one of his son’s usual episodes of minor mischief. The parents filed a missing person’s report, but by then, Interpol had already issued a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of serious white-collar criminal activity.
    Irene and Tommy had taken the ferry to Styrsö Island during a cold and windy day in December. Although it had been barely a few degrees below freezing, they felt frozen the minute they left the warm ferry. The biting, cold wind blew through their clothing, and snow whipped them in the face with small, hard pellets. It felt like they were fighting their way through polar regions—only the wolves nipping at their heelswere missing. Irene had a wrinkled sheet of paper with the directions Thomas Bonetti’s mother had written.
    Head south past the bridge to Dansö Island. Go past Solvik Inlet. Continue to a yellow house with a glass veranda. The path divides; take the left. Follow the path along the shore, about 100 meters. Big dock with a boat house. Stone stairs to the right. There’s a low, red house with a sign saying Västerro, and that’s the one
. The mother’s handwriting was elegant and clear. A key to the house was taped to the paper. When Bonnetti’s mother had handed it to them, she explained that no one had been to the cabin since Thomas had gone missing, not even Thomas’s older sister.
    By the time Irene and Tommy finally reached the house, they were numb with cold. It wasn’t much warmer inside, since the place wasn’t heated, but at least there was no wind. The cabin had low ceilings but was fairly spread out. It had been built high on a hill, nestled among rocks, and even on a day like this, the view was astonishing. The wind whipped the black water of the sea to froth as it hit rocks and reefs. They could get a glimpse through the driving snow of the other islands in the archipelago to the south and southeast.
    They had gone through the entire house meticulously, and there had been no sign that Thomas Bonetti had even been there, whether alone or with someone else. There were no signs of violence, and everything was in good order.
    They locked the door behind them and begrudgingly headed back out into the cold. The ferry home left from Styrsö Bratten, which meant that they had to walk even farther, this time against the wind. Coffee had never tasted as good as the cup they had when they finally reached the ferry café. Irene would have gladly ordered a barrel of it—not to drink, but to use as a warm bath for her feet.
    “Bonetti!” Andersson growled. “We checked up on himyears ago, and he’s still missing! How could he be involved