The Golden Calf (7 page)

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 heels
were 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 him
years ago, and he’s still missing! How could he be involved in these murders?”

“Sanna Kaegler, Philip Bergman, and Thomas Bonetti were the founders of ph.com. They lost an incredible amount of money when the bubble burst. You remember the headlines,” Tommy said.

So that was the connection. The light bulb lit, and Irene remembered the story of Bergman-Kaegler. They’d been a household name. When she and Tommy were taking a few days to investigate Thomas Bonetti’s disappearance, ph.com had been merely a background issue. The Internet bubble had burst in the spring of 2000. In September, by the time Bonetti disappeared, it was already history. Bonetti had been involved in a number of suspicious business affairs, and any one of them could have provided a good reason for him to lie low. That is, if he was lying low voluntarily. As time went by, and there’d been no sign of life from him, rumors began to circulate: he’d had plastic surgery and was seen by some tourists in Miami; he’d been glimpsed snorkeling in Egypt; he’d been on a luxury Mediterranean cruise, or seen at a sex club in Paris. One tipster said he’d seen him in Copenhagen pushing a twin stroller. None of the tips proved to be true. Thomas Bonetti’s description made it hard for him to hide, even if he’d undergone plastic surgery. He was thirty-one-years old and 155 centimeters tall. He weighed about 100 kilos. He had a pinkish tinge to his skin color. His hairline was receding, and he only had a few tufts of hair where bangs were supposed to be. His hair had natural red highlights, and his eyes were a watery light blue. He had thick round glasses in all the photographs that had been published. The rumor that he’d changed his appearance by wearing tinted contacts had been eliminated when his parents informed the police that Thomas couldn’t wear contacts of any kind. They also did not believe he was hiding in countries that were hot and sunny. Thomas couldn’t stand heat, and his skin couldn’t tolerate the sun.

His bank accounts in both London and Sweden revealed that he’d taken all his money out the day after he disappeared. A sum of five million Swedish kroner had gone via Luxembourg to the Cayman Islands. There, all traces ended.

Five million kroner would last a long time, but it costs money to stay in hiding. If Bonetti had continued to burn through money at the rate he’d done during his heyday, he should have gone broke by now.

“At least a billion kroner went up in smoke in the bankruptcy,” Tommy pointed out.

“They were in good company. A huge number of Internet companies went bust. At the turn of the millennium, the burst of the dot-com bubble affected the economy of the entire world,” Birgitta said.

“That’s right. They weren’t paying any attention to their finances, and the money just went up in smoke. Bonetti wasn’t the only one who took money out of the company right before it went bankrupt. That must have been the money he had in his various bank accounts. However, we still have a lead via the bank account in Sweden, which holds the money he inherited. The day he touches that money, we got him,” Tommy said.

“Who set up the account?” Birgitta asked.

“His father set it up when Thomas inherited money from his paternal grandparents. According to his father, it’s a long-term savings account that doesn’t have a card attached, so if he wants to get the money, he has to contact the bank personally. At that moment, he’d leave a clue as to where he was, and then we’d get him.”

“Or at the very least, we’d have proof he’s still alive,” Irene said.

Tommy nodded.

Birgitta pointed at the picture on the wall and asked, “How are Philip Bergman and Joachim Rothstaahl connected?”

“According to Rothstaahl’s father, the two of them had been pals for a long time,” Jonny replied. “That’s all we know right now.”

“It appears that the death rate around Sanna Kaegler’s closest friends and relatives is particularly high,” Irene commented drily.

“Yep. We need to figure out what really happened with the company. Who else was involved? And we have to check whether can connect Thomas Bonetti and Joachim Rothstaahl.”

“Just a second, let’s back off a bit,” Andersson said, looking around the room. He took a deep breath before he continued. “Let’s go back to the case in question. Two crime scenes and three murders. So far we have nothing concrete to connect the two crime scenes, and we don’t actually know whether all three of them were killed by the same weapon. And what would connect Kjell B:son Kaegler to some damned Internet business?”

“So far we have no connection,” Tommy replied calmly. “However, he was married to one of the founders. One other founder has been killed, and the third disappeared without a trace three years ago. The only thing all three victims have in common is Sanna Kaegler.”

Andersson kept breathing heavily as he thought about all these unexpected complications. There was a whistling noise coming from his windpipe, which made Irene nervous. She thought he might have an asthma attack. Finally, Andersson made up his mind.

“We’re going to sit tight until Philip Bergman’s identity has been confirmed. Once it has, I want Irene and Tommy to head out and have a chat with that prima donna Kaegler. And don’t press too hard until we’re sure that Ceder is not the father of her son. Anything new from the lab?” The last question was directed to Åhlén who seemed to be dozing. Irene gave him a
sharp poke in the ribs with her elbow, and he jerked upright. He got up, walked over to Andersson, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and faced the room. As usual, he looked like a mole coming up to the surface.

“Sanna Kaegler’s hands had no trace of powder or soot residue. On the other hand, there was a considerable amount on the victim around the entrance wound and the face, which indicates he was shot at close range. We have estimated the distance at half a meter. There are no signs of forced entry to the house, but we found some muddy footprints with clay residue inside by the door at the rear of the house. There’s a lot of clay outside the doorway, and on the inside doormat, there are blurred footprints of size forty-four jogging shoes. There are also signs of dried moisture beneath a clothes hanger. The theory is that the murderer could have entered through the back door, hung up his wet coat, and changed to dry shoes. Neither the outer nor inner back doors have any sign of forced entry. Either the murderer had a key to the house or else the door had been left open.”

“There are no other footprints on the floor?” asked Tommy.

“No, only the ones on the mat. He could have also put on plastic foot coverings over his muddy shoes.”

“He could hardly have gone unnoticed by Ceder in that case,” Irene said. “Those plastic coverings make a lot of noise when you’re walking in them. Not only that, they’re slippery on tile floors.”

Tommy nodded in agreement. “True. I believe he was already inside the house and waiting for Ceder.”

Irene reflected on the smell of whiskey in the house. She quickly put together a possible scenario.

“Ceder was up in his lighthouse room, drinking a glass of whiskey. He was carrying the glass in his hand as he walked down the stairs. The killer was at the foot of the stairs waiting for him.”

“Maybe he was hiding below the spiral staircase,” Åhlén said, unperturbed by the interruption. “That’s where we found this.” He pulled out a plastic bag from the pocked of his lab coat. “This is an elastic reflective band a lot of joggers use. They put it on their right upper arm when they’re jogging at night along roads with vehicle traffic. We have found half of a thumb print on it.”

“Wonderful! Now we just have to find a guy with half a thumb!” Jonny laughed at his own joke.

No one else in the room was laughing. They were all used to his lame jokes by now and didn’t bother reacting. Åhlén had given them a good clue. If they were able to find a suspect, there was a chance they could tie him to the crime scene by the thumbprint. It would be much easier to prove the case.

“As far as Långedrag goes, Malm says that the preliminary report will be available this afternoon at three,” Åhlén said.

“You haven’t told us anything about the bullets!” protested Andersson.

“No, because there’s not much to say. A .25-caliber pistol. Not mantled. Massively deformed after ricocheting around the brain. Ballistic examination will be difficult.” Unaffected by Andersson’s critical tone, Åhlén stuffed the bag back into his pocket and drifted out of the room.

There was silence after he left. Finally, Andersson took a deep breath and said, with the whistling sound coming out at the same time as his voice, “Jonny and Fredrik are to continue searching for possible witnesses to the Långedrag case. Question Rothstaahl’s father and girlfriend to see if they can try to remember if he mentioned a specific person he was planning to meet. Birgitta will contact the relatives of that Bergman guy to get a positive identification. Once that’s done, Irene and Tommy will question Sanna Kaegler. Be tough on that woman. I can smell the shit stinking from here, as far as she’s concerned.”

Good thing that Sanna Kaegler isn’t around to hear that
, Irene thought.
She’d be more offended by being accused of stinking of shit than being connected to a murder
.

“And what’s my job?” asked Kajsa.

At first, he looked shocked that she’d spoken to him that way, but after an awkward pause, he said, “You’re going to have a special assignment. Since you’re already interested in those clowns who built up a company that was worth a billion before bankruptcy, I think you should dig up all the facts you can on them. Find every single piece of info that’s out there.”

Kajsa turned momentarily pale and then brightened up. “Okay, I’ll dig.”

T
OMMY DECIDED TO
deepen his knowledge of Kjell B:son Ceder. The circumstances concerning the death of Ceder’s first wife were especially interesting.

“As Andersson likes to say, this smells like shit!” Tommy said to Irene, smiling.

“You think?”

“Yep. I’m going to follow my investigator instincts.”

“Then I’ll follow mine and dig up what I can on Thomas Bonetti. Remember when we were poking our noses into that case? By the way, lunch at twelve?”

“Sounds good. Then I think we should hear what Svante Malm has to say at three o’clock regarding the results from Långedrag. I agree with you that these murders are connected.”

“Your investigator instinct again?”

“Nope. Common sense and pure logic.”

W
HEN
T
OMMY AND
Irene had gone to Styrsö that cold December day three years ago, neither of them had any idea what industry Thomas Bonetti worked in. They’d thought of him as a rich techie who’d gone missing with a lot of money. As they had headed back on the ferry, Tommy had theorized that Bonetti was lying on a beach in the Bahamas, holding a drink with an umbrella in one hand and a buxom blonde in the other, while poor police officers froze to the bone searching for him.