Free The Golden Calf by Helene Tursten Page B

denim jacket. “Hi, Birgitta,” he said.
    Tommy listened for a while and then turned to Irene. He gave her the thumbs-up, and Irene knew what Birgitta must have found: the third victim was indeed Philip Bergman.
    T OMMY AND I RENE arrived at the apartment, but only Elsy Kaegler was there. She was watching Ludwig while her daughter ran errands. Sanna had a lot of things to do, Elsy informed Irene. She had to contact the funeral home, which would be taking care of her husband’s burial, for starters. Elsy didn’t believe that Sanna would be back until later that afternoon. Irene asked Elsy to tell Sanna that she should expect a visit from the police later, at four thirty P.M .
    •   •   •
    S VANTE M ALM, THE technician, had acquired at least a thousand new freckles during his vacation in Greece. Irene thought of her fair-haired husband Krister’s freckles after their vacation in Crete a month earlier. He could have given Svante a run for his money. In her opinion, pinkish people shouldn’t go tanning. They just ended up looking like boiled tomatoes. After some time, their skin peeled off, and they were just as pale as before. Irene had been telling her husband this for at least twenty years now, but it didn’t change a thing. Krister burned every year. Svante, on the other hand, looked rested and rejuvenated, and he waved happily to Irene and Tommy when they slipped into the room and took a seat in the back. From the front row, Kajsa turned and smiled at them, but Irene didn’t smile back. She knew Kajsa’s smile wasn’t meant for her.
    Andersson cleared his throat. “I just want to say a few words before Svante takes over. The two victims have been identified as Joachim Rothstaahl, thirty-two, and Philip Bergman, thirty. Bergman’s parents identified him earlier today. His father last saw him when he was heading off on Monday evening to meet with Rothstaahl. He also pointed out that his son was missing a brand new jacket and a briefcase. The jacket is made of light-colored leather. Bergman’s car is also missing. He’d borrowed his father’s car, a black Saab 93 Aero. Bergman doesn’t live in Sweden any longer. According to his parents, he’s been living in Paris. Honestly, why do all these guys have to live abroad? Can’t they swindle people while living at home?”
    There were widespread chuckles among his listeners. Svante Malm’s horse-like face lit up in a smile. “Did you lose a lot of money when these so-called ‘fund managers’ speculated with your stocks?” he teased.
    “Never had stocks and never going to get them, either,” replied Andersson.
    “Smart of you, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. It’s tougher for those of us who are young enough to be in the new pension system. We had no choice in the matter, and that was our pension money that disappeared in tech and communications stocks. Not to mention that a great deal of the old pension system’s stocks were transferred there as well. My brothers and sisters, our golden years are going to be rough.”
    “So you’re going into politics?” Jonny asked sarcastically.
    “Oh, no, but believe me, our pensions are blown.”
    “Stop bitching about your pension and start working for your wages instead,” Jonny said.
    Andersson looked irritated, but nodded in agreement.
    “All right,” Svante said. “So we have the double murder in Långedrag. I have some pictures to show you of the house and the surrounding area.”
    Svante turned on the projector and turned to face the photographs. As the screen still hadn’t been fixed, he was projecting them directly onto the wall.
    “The property is pretty remote, though not far from Käringberg Hill. The house is a summer cabin, which has been remodeled into a year-round, eighty-five-square-meter residence with three bedrooms. The car port was added later.”
    The house was built of wood and had been recently painted light blue with dark blue trim. It didn’t seem all that large or