Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1 by Helen Tursten Page B
Authors: Helen Tursten
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start selecting the dancers.”
Irene noticed how Sylvia’s voice changed when she began talking about dance. This was true passion; she could hear it. It was news to her that Sylvia was a choreographer, but it was probably best not to reveal that fact, or that she had never heard of the House of Dance. To change the subject, she asked, “Did you speak with your husband on Monday or Tuesday?”
“Tuesday, around noon. I knew that he was starting to get a cold on Sunday, but he felt really bad on Monday. That’s what he said, anyway. But evidently it was just an ordinary virus, because by Tuesday he was feeling better. He planned to go to his Tuesday lunch with Valle.”
“Valle? Do you mean Waldemar Reuter?”
“Yes, that’s what I said! They’ve eaten lunch together every Tuesday for more than twenty years.”
“At the same restaurant?”
“No, I think it varied. I’m not quite sure.”
“How was his mood when you talked to him?”
“The same as usual. He sounded a little tired and had a stuffy nose.”
“What did he say? Can you remember?”
Sylvia seemed to think for a moment. Finally she shrugged and then said indifferently, “He told me about his cold and that he had stayed indoors all day on Monday. The cleaning woman had been there to clean up after the party. I think she had her daughter with her.”
“What’s the cleaning woman’s name?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“She may have seen or heard something significant. We have to interview everyone who was in contact with your husband on those last few days.”
Sylvia pressed her lips tight, but finally decided to answer. “Her name is Pirjo Larsson. She’s Finnish, married to a Swede, but speaks abominable Swedish. I found her through the recommendation of a friend of mine about two years ago. Only Finnish women can clean properly. Swedes are too lazy and Chileans and those types are too ignorant,” she declared.
“How often does she clean your place?”
“Three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“Where does she live?”
“Don’t know. Out in Angered, I think. I have her phone number at home.”
“Did your husband say anything else?”
“Well, he was supposed to go buy two open-faced submarine sandwiches for us to have the evening I . . . when I came home.”
Again she bowed her head. Her shoulders shook a little, and for a brief moment Irene almost had the feeling that she was trying to stifle a fit of laughter. But the dry, hot sobs indicated grief. Irene decided this was enough for now.
She took a couple of steps toward Sylvia, but sensed that she shouldn’t touch her.
“Thank you for answering my questions. I’ll come by tomorrow. But I’ll call first. If you’d like to talk to any of us involved in the investigation, just call the number on this card,” Irene said.
She handed her a card with the number of her direct line written on it. When Sylvia didn’t seem to take any notice, she stuck it carefully between her clasped hands, which were still resting on her knees.
As she turned to leave the room, Irene thought that a glow appeared in the eyes of the mummylike old woman in the next bed. Hatred. Seething hatred. But it could have been just a reflection from the lights in the corridor, since the door was open and a nurse came in with coffee.
SHE SPENT the time before the five o’clock meeting writing up reports about the day’s inquiries. As yet there had been no formal interviews. Still, she felt pleased with the results. There was already a great deal of information, even though they had only been working on the case for twenty-four hours. This was the advantage of stepping into the investigation quickly. Were the murderer and motive lurking in the material already acquired, even though they couldn’t yet see them? Or were they still light-years from the truth? As long as there weren’t any concrete leads to follow, it was just as well to continue digging and
Irene noticed how Sylvia’s voice changed when she began talking about dance. This was true passion; she could hear it. It was news to her that Sylvia was a choreographer, but it was probably best not to reveal that fact, or that she had never heard of the House of Dance. To change the subject, she asked, “Did you speak with your husband on Monday or Tuesday?”
“Tuesday, around noon. I knew that he was starting to get a cold on Sunday, but he felt really bad on Monday. That’s what he said, anyway. But evidently it was just an ordinary virus, because by Tuesday he was feeling better. He planned to go to his Tuesday lunch with Valle.”
“Valle? Do you mean Waldemar Reuter?”
“Yes, that’s what I said! They’ve eaten lunch together every Tuesday for more than twenty years.”
“At the same restaurant?”
“No, I think it varied. I’m not quite sure.”
“How was his mood when you talked to him?”
“The same as usual. He sounded a little tired and had a stuffy nose.”
“What did he say? Can you remember?”
Sylvia seemed to think for a moment. Finally she shrugged and then said indifferently, “He told me about his cold and that he had stayed indoors all day on Monday. The cleaning woman had been there to clean up after the party. I think she had her daughter with her.”
“What’s the cleaning woman’s name?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“She may have seen or heard something significant. We have to interview everyone who was in contact with your husband on those last few days.”
Sylvia pressed her lips tight, but finally decided to answer. “Her name is Pirjo Larsson. She’s Finnish, married to a Swede, but speaks abominable Swedish. I found her through the recommendation of a friend of mine about two years ago. Only Finnish women can clean properly. Swedes are too lazy and Chileans and those types are too ignorant,” she declared.
“How often does she clean your place?”
“Three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“Where does she live?”
“Don’t know. Out in Angered, I think. I have her phone number at home.”
“Did your husband say anything else?”
“Well, he was supposed to go buy two open-faced submarine sandwiches for us to have the evening I . . . when I came home.”
Again she bowed her head. Her shoulders shook a little, and for a brief moment Irene almost had the feeling that she was trying to stifle a fit of laughter. But the dry, hot sobs indicated grief. Irene decided this was enough for now.
She took a couple of steps toward Sylvia, but sensed that she shouldn’t touch her.
“Thank you for answering my questions. I’ll come by tomorrow. But I’ll call first. If you’d like to talk to any of us involved in the investigation, just call the number on this card,” Irene said.
She handed her a card with the number of her direct line written on it. When Sylvia didn’t seem to take any notice, she stuck it carefully between her clasped hands, which were still resting on her knees.
As she turned to leave the room, Irene thought that a glow appeared in the eyes of the mummylike old woman in the next bed. Hatred. Seething hatred. But it could have been just a reflection from the lights in the corridor, since the door was open and a nurse came in with coffee.
SHE SPENT the time before the five o’clock meeting writing up reports about the day’s inquiries. As yet there had been no formal interviews. Still, she felt pleased with the results. There was already a great deal of information, even though they had only been working on the case for twenty-four hours. This was the advantage of stepping into the investigation quickly. Were the murderer and motive lurking in the material already acquired, even though they couldn’t yet see them? Or were they still light-years from the truth? As long as there weren’t any concrete leads to follow, it was just as well to continue digging and
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