The Golden Calf (12 page)

“This doesn’t mean that they weren’t talking about her house and the bad financial situation the company was in. Perhaps they’d already stopped arguing about the fact that the money wasn’t there. Perhaps they were trying to figure out what they could still save.”

“Stop speculating and go talk to Her Highness,” Andersson barked. “Ask her a direct question. Damn it all, it’s time that woman started giving us some real information!”

“She’s a tough nut to crack,” Tommy said. He looked defeated.

“So? You’ve been talking to her. Don’t give up. She knows much more than she’s letting on.” Andersson turned to Birgitta. “So, what have you found out about Philip Bergman?”

“I’ve talked to his parents. They’re completely overcome with grief. It was not easy to talk to them. Philip was their only
child. I learned that Philip had been living abroad for years. First in London and then two years in Paris. I asked them why he’d moved to Paris, but they didn’t have an answer. All they could say was ‘business’ and ‘bank consulting.’ They’re impressed by his cleverness and very proud of his success as a businessman.”

“Businessman!” Andersson snorted. “He just used other people’s money and made it disappear.”

“You have a point. I was thinking about why he decided to go into business with Joachim Rothstaahl. My instincts tell me they were up to something shady.”

“Did you find anything at the Bergman house?”

“No. His boyhood bedroom hadn’t been changed since he’d left home. I was allowed to search through his room, but there wasn’t much there to begin with. His father told me that Philip had packed a large duffle bag and told them he wouldn’t be home that night. He’d asked to borrow his father’s car. All he said was that he was going to Joachim’s place, but he did not mention meeting a third person. There was no computer in the room, nor any papers. Not a single lead. According to his parents, he’d booked a flight back to Paris for Wednesday. So anything of interest is going to be in Paris.”

“Paris!” Andersson muttered.

Birgitta ignored him and continued, “Philip had almost no resources in Sweden. He was still a Swedish citizen. I found an old complaint from bankruptcy court. He hadn’t bothered to pay off a car loan. That was right before he moved to London.”

“What do his parents do?” asked Irene.

“His father is an optician, and his mother is a nurse. They live in a townhouse in Tuve. Philip grew up there.”

“Sorry for interrupting,” Kajsa said, “but Sanna’s mother moved to Tuve after her divorce. Philip and Sanna met each other in secondary school.”

Andersson looked at Kajsa in surprise before he
remembered he’d given her special duties. “You can tell us more about those two crazies after we’re done with Rothstaahl,” he said.

Kajsa nodded politely.

The superintendent turned to Birgitta. “Anything else?”

“No. He probably took everything that would be of interest to us in that duffle bag, including his laptop. I still think that we should go to Paris as soon as possible to secure any papers or discs. Perhaps he even had a computer in his Paris apartment.”

Fredrik Stridh spoke up. “I agree with Birgitta. We haven’t found a thing that would give us any insight into what Joachim Rothstaahl was up to. There isn’t a single clue in his house. Probably the killer took everything with him. Maybe the killer is headed for Paris, too. Joachim lived at—” Fredrik looked down and began to spell out an address from his notebook—“Boulevard R-a-s-p-a-i-l.”

Birgitta gave a shout. “Bergman has the same address! He’s at 207.”

“Bingo! So is Rothstaahl,” Fredrik said.

Both Birgitta and Fredrik turned toward Andersson. His glum face had acquired more worry lines.

“No,” he said. “It costs too much to go to Paris just to look at an apartment. We can ask our French colleagues for help.”

“We can?” said Birgitta. “We have two Swedish citizens who were killed on Swedish soil. It just so happens that they both live in Paris, but I hardly believe our French colleagues are interested in getting tied up in this investigation.”

Andersson glared at her. She turned away from him pointedly and looked at Fredrik before she asked, “What else do you have on Rothstaahl?”

“The first thing I found out was that the rumor that Rothstaahl was going to move in with his girlfriend is wrong. The woman in question is an old friend from Vänersborg who has a
new job in Göteborg. She was going to sublet his house for at least a year. She was planning to get the keys from him and sign the lease on Tuesday because she knew he was returning to Paris on Wednesday,” Fredrik said.

“So he was returning on the same day that Philip was,” Birgitta said. “Why did they have to meet in Göteborg? They’re neighbors in Paris!”

“Exactly. Did Bergman’s parents give a reason for his homecoming?” asked Tommy.

“Just that he’d come home to see them and to meet some old friends.”

“Which he didn’t. He met the friend he sees daily in Paris,” Irene stated.

Fredrik nodded. “And Joachim Rothstaahl came home to get his house ready to rent. Both Bergman and Rothstaahl arrived on the same plane Friday night. On Saturday, Rothstaahl was at his house but ate dinner with his parents that evening. On Sunday, the entire Rothstaahl family met at Rothstaahl’s aunt and uncle’s place. According to his parents, he went right home to his house once they left. That was the last time they saw him. His mother had a short phone call with him on Monday during lunchtime. He seemed fine. The family is in shock and has no idea why anyone would want to murder Joachim. They own a number of clothing boutiques all over the country, but Joachim was not involved in the family business.”

Irene took a closer look at the enlarged photograph of Joachim Rothstaahl, which had been pinned to the bulletin board. It was his most recent passport picture. Joachim had a narrow face dominated by dark brown eyes. There was a friendly glint to them. There was also a vague smile on his thin lips. His thick brown hair had been combed back from his high forehead. The living, sympathetic young man looked down at Irene from the wall. Next to it was the photo from the crime
scene. It was almost impossible to recognize Joachim Rothstaahl in that photo.

“They own the Zazza and Escada boutiques,” Birgitta said.

“Oh my, they must be very wealthy. Those are big chains,” Irene said. She had bought a couple pieces of clothing from Escada. Zazza’s clothes were more in line with her daughters’ taste.

“I’ve been going through Rothstaahl’s background and finances as well,” said Jonny. He waited until everyone was ready to pay attention. “Joachim returned to Sweden after the crash in London. He was unemployed for six months until he found a job at a bank here in the city. Going back through his finances, they appear ordinary. He lived in his house without needing to pay rent. Two years ago, he got a job at a foreign bank and moved to Paris.”

“A French bank?” asked Irene.

“No, an American one. It’s called HP Johnson. And—what’s the matter now?” Jonny stopped when he saw Irene’s face.

“HP Johnson is the bank where Edward Fenton is the European Head!”

“So?” Jonny’s expression didn’t change.

“HP Johnson is an investment bank. Kjell B:son Ceder, Sanna Kaegler, Philip Bergman, and now Joachim Rothstaahl have all been connected to this bank. Perhaps Thomas Bonetti was, too, when he was in London. That should be easy enough to find out,” Irene said enthusiastically.

“What is the difference between an investment bank and a normal bank?” asked the superintendent.

Kajsa cleared her throat nervously. “An investment bank holds risky capital and places it in investments where they believe the highest return can be found. It can be enormously profitable. I can tell you that in 1990, risk capital investment banks in the United States were holding $3.5 billion. By the turn of the millennium, they had $104 billion.”

“And what is risky capital?” Andersson asked with irritation.

Kajsa thought a moment before she said, “It’s like money you have versus money you need. You’re able to play with it. You can take big risks. Easy come, easy go.”

Andersson nodded. “So what else have you found out about Rothstaahl?”

Jonny replied, “Not much. Of course, he’s been living in Paris the past two years, just like his pal Bergman. Perhaps there could be something if we went.…”

“So we’re back to that, are we?” growled Andersson. His face turned deep red, and Irene was able to hear the sound of air whistling through his lung pipe again. Andersson sat still, drumming his fingers on the table. No one else wanted to break the silence. Glaring angrily at Birgitta, he said, “And if we did … is there anyone here who can speak French?”

Only Kajsa Birgersdotter raised her hand.

“I see. Well, that’s that,” Andersson said.

“But the French can speak English!” protested Birgitta.

“Not many of them,” growled Andersson.

Irene was convinced that Andersson had never set foot in France.

“All right, Kajsa, it’s your turn. So what have you found out about that computer company and Bergman and Kaegler?”

Kajsa stood up and turned toward her colleagues. Without lifting her gaze from the paper in her hand, she began to read aloud, “Sanna and Philip were classmates during secondary school. They were inseparable for many years. People assumed they were a couple, but no one was really sure. They both studied economics in college, but they both seemed bored. They borrowed money from a bank and bought into a clothing company. Both Philip and Sanna were extremely aware of fashion. They were able to increase the store’s sales within a year or two. This company was called—” She stopped in surprise before she continued, “Zazza Boutiques.”

“So, there’s an early connection between Bergman, Rothstaahl, and Kaegler. It’s totally obvious, but I can’t get the pattern,” said Irene. She sighed.

Kajsa nodded and looked back down at her sheet of paper.

“After a few successful years, Sanna and Philip sold their Zazza shares to the Rothstaahl family, who then became sole owners of the chain. Rumor has it that there were issues between Bergman and Kaegler and the older generation of Rothstaahls, which is why Sanna and Philip sold out. But they got a lot of money from the sale. They met Thomas Bonetti after that. Thomas Bonetti was incredibly rich after his time in London. They decided to invest in the new business of Internet shopping. According to Philip, Internet shopping was the future. In a few years, everyone would be doing their shopping on the Internet, and Bergman, Kaegler, and Rothstaahl wanted to get ahead of the curve. So in 1998, they founded ph.com.”

Kajsa stopped to take a breath. Before she had the chance to start reading again, Andersson said, “So you’re telling me that Bergman and Kaegler had already been in business with Rothstaahl before they even started their computer company?”

“Their dot-com company,” Kajsa corrected. “Yes, they’d been in business together before. At any rate, we know for sure that Rothstaahl’s uncles owned shares in Zazza. They’ve retired now, and Joachim’s two cousins are running the chain.”

The superintendent looked glumly at Irene. “And now it appears that Bergman and Rothstaahl were putting together something new. Irene, you and Kajsa better go to Paris as soon as possible. I’ll talk to the higher-ups. If we’re ever going to solve this case, we have to know what these two gentlemen were plotting to do.”

Both Irene and Kajsa jerked to attention as if struck by lightning.

D
ELICIOUS SCENTS MET
Irene when she opened the door to her townhouse. Krister had called her earlier that afternoon and asked what she wanted for dinner. She knew exactly what she craved. “Your fish soup. With plenty of garlic and saffron, please. And afterward, a little chocolate mousse would be perfect.” Bouillabaisse à la Glady’s was one of the prime attractions at the restaurant where Krister was the head chef. They couldn’t take it off the menu, just like their famous chocolate mousse. The recipe for the mousse was a closely guarded secret, but Irene knew that Krister had a little trick that involved a dash of good cognac.

This was one of their sacred Third Weekends. Every third weekend, Irene and Krister were off work at the same time on both Friday and Saturday. That’s when they would try to gather the whole family and enjoy a good dinner. The twins were happy to join the meal if they didn’t have other plans, but they often disappeared after dinner. Krister used to look displeased, saying, “Why does everything start at the time we used to go home for the evening?”

Krister had given Irene the product codes for a white and a red wine that he wanted to serve this weekend. He never bothered to give her the names for any wine because he knew she couldn’t pronounce them. The recently introduced self-service option in the state-run liquor stores were perfect for her.

As usual, Sammie was the first to welcome her home. His
tail wagged like the rotor blade of a helicopter, and he was skipping around her eagerly. Although he was the ripe old age of ten, he was still happy and healthy. His sight and hearing had declined noticeably in recent years, but Irene suspected that he had started doing what all older people do: he heard only what he wanted to hear.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Krister called over the exhaust fan. “Did you find the wine?”

“Yes, I did. Two bottles of each,” said Irene.

She broke away from Sammie and carried the green plastic bags into the kitchen. The bottles clanked as she set the bags on the table. Without taking off her jacket, she walked up to Krister, grabbed his shoulders, swung him into a tango position, placed him on one of her bent knees, and gave him a kiss on the lips.

When she released him, he ended up laughing on the floor. “You’re crazy. But that’s what happens when you marry a former jujitsu world champion. I have only myself to blame.”

Before Irene got away, he pulled her to him and enveloped her in a bear hug. His kiss sent hot waves through her body.

“What are you doing?”

Irene and Krister stopped and looked toward the kitchen door. Their daughters looked back at them, aghast.