Birgitta grimaced with disgust behind Reuter’s inclined back, but when he straightened up she flashed him a dazzling smile, asked him to take a seat in the visitor’s chair, and introduced herself and the superintendent.
Waldemar Reuter blurted out, “Oh, hell, there’s a guy in the room! I didn’t even see you!” He gave Andersson a moist handshake and winked mischievously, casting a roguish glance toward Birgitta.
Was it an advantage that he was drunk? Perhaps. The best tactic would be to let Birgitta handle the interview. Reuter clearly viewed her as a little cutie pie, not as a cop. Andersson tried to make himself invisible in his corner, which was entirely unnecessary. Reuter had already forgotten his existence.
Birgitta asked amiably, “Would you like some coffee, Herr Reuter?”
“Call me Valle, sweetie! Everyone calls me Valle!”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
Andersson was taken by surprise when Birgitta signaled to him to go get the coffee. But that was only proper. She was the one running the interview, after all. Though he did feel rather stupid as he walked over to the coffee vending machine. He bought three cups, which he regretted on his way back. It was hard to carry three at once.
Andersson set two of the cups on the desk. Valle Reuter was sobbing and took no notice of him. He crept back to his corner.
“. . . my oldest friend. We had known each other forty-five years!”
Reuter wiped his nose on the checked lining of his coat. With a well-feigned expression of sympathy Birgitta handed him a tissue.
“We understand that you were at the party last Saturday. Their thirtieth anniversary.”
“But of course! Leila and I served as bridesmaid and groomsman at their wedding.”
“Leila?”
“My ex-wife. We divorced five years ago. She didn’t get a dime!”
Birgitta decided quickly to drop the subject of the ex-wife. Reuter’s voice had turned aggressive and hate-filled. With good humor she asked, “Was it a nice party?”
“Party? What party?”
“At the von Knechts’ last Saturday.”
“Ah, the party! Excellent fun! Wonderful food and superb wines. With the appetizer they served an interesting white from South Africa, of all places! Neil Ellis, Sauvignon Blanc. Dry and peppery, fresh and round. A long finish. Slight aroma of pissant and spice shop. Excellent with the salmon tartare!”
To the superintendent’s ears it sounded like total drivel, but since Birgitta seemed to be following it all right, he didn’t interrupt.
Reuter sank farther into the fog, chattering on. “With the main course they served a fantastic French wine. Thank God that Richard doesn’t subscribe to that boycott nonsense. A red, Bandol Cuvée Special ’ninety-two. A profound nose, concentrated, rich and fruity with a hint of licorice. The saddle of venison landed in good company, I must say.”
Andersson thought it sounded disgusting. Licorice in your red wine! On the other hand, he didn’t like red wine anyway. White once in a while, with shrimp. He preferred beer with a schnapps.
Birgitta asked, “Did you think Richard seemed the same as usual?”
“Absolutely! Happy and in high spirits, as always. We love parties, Richard and I. But now he won’t be going to any more parties. Richard ...”
Again Birgitta had to come to the rescue with a tissue. Reuter blew his nose loudly and stared at her, red-eyed. He took a deep breath before he went on. “My dear, I beg your pardon. I’ve been drinking all night long. In memory of Richard. My friendship with Richard. He’s my best friend.”
“How did you remember you were supposed to come here?”
“Mats Tengman came and got me. I asked him to do it yesterday. After you called, dear . . . what was your . . . oh yes, Birgitta. He’s a fine boy, Mats Tengman. I handpicked him. My successor. My son is a doctor. He’s going to specialize in pharmaceuticals, because he wants to work with people, not for money, as he says. My whole staff is firstrate. If you only knew what fine employees I have.”
Another audible snort underlined his statement.
“When he dropped me off here, he saw how . . . distressed . . . I am, after everything that happened . . . with Richard. And then he said, ‘Valle, I’ll take care of the business. Take the day off and rest.’ That’s what Mats told me.”
Andersson saw Birgitta discreetly jotting something on her notepad. Cautiously, she coaxed Valle to go on.
“Tell me about Tuesday, Valle.”
“What about it?”
“Your lunch last Tuesday.”
“We’ve been doing that for more than twenty years. Every Tuesday we’ve had lunch together. It started when Richard sold the shipping company. He was clairvoyant when it came to economic trends. If I’d dared to believe in his . . . then I’d be a very rich man today. But I’ve done all right for myself.” He paused and stared blankly into space.
Birgitta prodded him with another question. “Which shipping company was it that he sold?”
“The one he inherited, of course! The family company! He got a good price. He invested in real estate, together with Peder Wahl. Do you know Peder?”
“I’ve spoken with him on the phone.”
“He’s a great guy. It’s a shame that they live down south in Provence most of the time. I miss Peder. Tell him that next time you talk to him,” Reuter said.
Birgitta glanced at Andersson and rolled her eyes. He made an encouraging gesture. It always helps to interview someone with a loose tongue. Birgitta continued valiantly. “Where did you eat last Tuesday?”
“We took a cab out to Johanneshus. An excellent inn out in Billdal. We wanted to go before the Christmas hysteria sets in. Then it gets too crowded.”
“What time were you there?”
“Where?”
“At Johanneshus out in Billdal. The lunch with Richard.”
“Oh, right, of course. The lunch.”
Valle Reuter tried hard to concentrate.
“I think the cab must have arrived out there by one or one-thirty. Somewhere thereabouts. Ask Peter, the innkeeper.”
Birgitta made another note. She certainly would inquire.
“So what did you have to eat?”
“Oh,
frutti di mare!
The appetizer was ice-cold oysters with lime. A not entirely compatible wine with it, from . . . let me see . . . from the States. Golden Hind Sauvignon Blanc. Not good with oysters. A blunder. An excellent wine with oysters is—”
“The entrée, Valle. Tell us about the entrée.”
“Poached halibut with grated horseradish and melted butter. The potatoes weren’t mashed . . . they were . . . now, what’s it called? . . . Pressed! Pressed potatoes. We decided on the South African wine. Did I mention the wine we drank last Saturday? The white with the appetizer . . . oh yes, of course . . . it was from there too. A splendid wine. Bouchard Finlayson, Chardonnay. It was just fantastic. We ordered two bottles. With dessert, which was an ice cream mousse with Arctic raspberries, we snubbed the sweet wines of the Old World. Ordered a bottle of Mike Mossison Liqueur Muscat. An Australian. Very good choice. Very good.”
Andersson was starting to get royally tired of goofy wines and weird food. Still, when she caught his eye appealing for help, he motioned to Birgitta to continue.
Her sigh was barely audible as she went on. “When did you finish the meal?”
“We rushed a bit. We left at three-thirty. By cab, of course. Sylvia was coming home that night, and Richard wanted to get back and check on things. And he had a slight cold. He was going to have a little whiskey and sit in the sauna. I like to do that too when I feel a cold coming on. But I say to hell with the sauna!”
Valle Reuter found this extraordinarily funny, and he began chuckling and wheezing in amusement. Neither Andersson nor Birgitta Moberg felt like laughing along with him. There was something sad and depressing about the little round man. Birgitta leaned across the desk and shouted, “Valle. Hello? Valle!”
Reuter wiped his eyes with the soggy tissue. But he managed to calm down.
“As you know, Richard was murdered. Who do you think did it? And why?”
Reuter straightened up and gave Birgitta a sharp look, which made her wonder for a moment whether he was more sober than he let on. Caustically he said, “Sylvia! It has to be Sylvia. She inherits the money. She’s crazy about money. Miserly. And spiteful. If you only knew what she said to me.” He put on a deeply injured expression.
“According to several witnesses she was down on the street just as he hit the ground,” Birgitta stated dryly.
This brought back the worried furrows to Reuter’s brow. But he said nothing, merely mumbled inaudibly.
“Is it the inheritance, all that money, that you think is the motive?”
“Sylvia. The money.” He nodded to himself, looking extremely pleased with his own perspicacity.
“Valle, what did you and Richard do after you got out of the taxi?”
“We took the elevator upstairs. I got off on the second floor and Richard continued up to his place.”
“Did you see him, or speak to him later?”
“No. That was the last time I saw Richard.”
Andersson was afraid that Reuter was going to start crying again. But he didn’t. He sat slumped in the chair like a punctured balloon, gave a big yawn, and blinked his red eyes. Andersson realized that he had to hurry up and ask his question. He stood and walked slowly toward Valle, who started and said in surprise, “Are you still here? What was your name again?”
“Sven Andersson. One last question before we call you a cab. Where were you last Tuesday evening and night? We knocked on your door, but you weren’t home.”
Valle pressed his lips together firmly. It was obvious that he had no intention of answering.
Patiently the superintendent continued, “It would be good if you would answer the question. You’d save us a lot of work. You were the last one to see Richard von Knecht alive. Besides the murderer.” He put special emphasis on the last word.
Valle was on the same page, and he leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “The murderess! Sylvia.”
“Don’t you understand? You’re a prime suspect!” Andersson exclaimed.
Valle looked deeply wounded. “Me? Kill my best friend? Never!”
“Then where were you?”
Birgitta had an idea. She played along with the conspiratorial mood by leaning over the desk and saying, in a slightly teasing tone, “Tell the truth, Valle—there’s a woman involved, right?”
The little man fairly shone with joviality. “But of course, my dear. A woman’s honor.”
“You’ve known each other a long time, isn’t that so?”
“Absolutely, three years . . . If you already know about her, why are you asking me?”
“I don’t know her name.” Again Valle looked displeased. He stared at Birgitta gloomily.
She challenged him. “Valle, you have to have an alibi.”
“She doesn’t want me to tell. She’ll get mad at me.”
“I’m sure she’ll understand that since you have become involved in a homicide investigation through no fault of your own, you need an alibi. And she’s the only one who can give you one.”
Valle slumped down a bit more. After a long silence he muttered, “Gunnel . . . Gunnel Forsell.”
“Where does she live?”
“Now listen, my dear, she doesn’t want cops running around her place. Don’t tell her I said anything or I’ll never be able to go there again.”
His tone of voice, along with the anxiety in his wide eyes, said it all. In his loneliness he’d found comfort with a prostitute.
Quietly Birgitta asked, “When did you leave for her place?”
“The usual time.” He stopped and gave Birgitta an apologetic look. “I usually go visit her on Tuesday. At five-thirty. But I was a little early ... she had a guest . . . but he left after a while, and then I could go in.”
“At five-thirty?”
“A little before that, I think.”
“How did you get there?”
“Taxi.”
“When did you get home?”
Again he hesitated with his reply. “I usually spend the whole night.” He gave Birgitta a defiant look.
“Where does she live?”
“On Stampgatan.”
“When did you get back home?”
“Around ten. In the morning. Then I went down to the office.”
A hooker who fixed breakfast. Neither of the officers had ever heard of such a thing. This had to be a very special arrangement. Something told Andersson that it was costing Reuter a small fortune. With great effort the stockbroker tried to get up. Finally he was on his feet, wobbling unsteadily. He gave a big yawn and said, “All right, now I want to go home. Thanks for the pleasant company, my dear. Don’t forget to try Neil Ellis sometime. Perhaps we could . . . ?”
Birgitta smiled sweetly and picked up the phone to call a cab.
“BIRGITTA, CAN you go to the Johanneshus restaurant to verify the times? And to our pretty chicken on Stampgatan? Check if she’s got a rap sheet,” said Andersson.
“Hardly. I can smell a high-priced call girl a mile away. Fixing breakfast after a whole night’s sleep! Small, loyal, wealthy clientele. No walking the streets. I’ll try to get hold of her this morning; there’s a better chance she won’t be with a john so early,” replied Birgitta.
“Ask her if she knew Richard von Knecht. Who knows? Maybe they were both clients of hers.”
Reluctantly he went into the corridor. He had two meetings set up. The first was with Police Commissioner Bengt Bergström. The second was with the people assigned to take measurements for the new police uniforms. Everyone in the building had already been there, except Andersson. Would Reuter have babbled just as openly if he and Birgitta had been in uniform? Doubtful. After working plainclothes for thirty years, he was going to be forced to sign up for a uniform in his final years of service despite the fact that he had no intention of putting it on. But it wouldn’t do any good, no matter what he said. Orders from on high. “The public must know that they are talking to a police officer”—that was the argument. No dispensations had been granted. His only means of protesting had been to avoid going to the fittings. But there was no longer any excuse.