Articles liés à Detective Inspector Huss
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Prologue
NOBODY SAW HIM FALL through the dense November darkness.
With a dull, heavy thud he hit the rain-wet pavement. Even though
it was still rush hour, there were few people on the street. The pedestrians
huddled beneath umbrellas turned inside out and scrunched their
chins into turned-up collars for a little protection from the icy, whipping
rain. Everyone who could was driving a car or jammed into the
steaming warmth aboard a bus or streetcar.
An elderly woman pulling a stubborn, soaking-wet dachshund on
a leash stood closest. The howls that she and the dog uttered announced
to those people in the vicinity that something serious had happened.
Hurrying pedestrians slowed their pace. Curiosity got the upper
hand, and they were drawn toward the site of the accident.
A white Mercedes was carelessly parked by the curb. A man in a
light-colored overcoat had just rushed around the car and opened the
door on the passenger’s side when the lady with the dachshund started
to scream. The man turned quickly, squinted through the rain, and
caught sight of the heap thirty meters away. He kept his grip on the
open car door, slowly tilted his head back, and looked up at the top
floor of the imposing apartment building. A faint moaning sound rose
from his throat, but he remained catatonically still.
Without putting on her coat, the small woman in the passenger’s
seat jumped nimbly out of the car and ran over to the motionless figure
on the ground. Her slenderness was emphasized by the stylish
Chanel dress she was wearing. She had mastered to perfection the art
of running in high heels. She elbowed her way through the crowd frenetically
and reached the inner circle.
Chapter One
THE PATROL CAR WAS the first to arrive on the scene. The ambulance
came a scant five minutes later. As far as the ambulance medics
could tell, there wasn’t much for them to do. The two police officers
attempted to hold back the sensation-hungry spectators who suddenly
were stoic enough to defy both wind and rain. One of the officers got
into the car and called for backup.
“Send the crime scene team to the corner of Aschebergsgatan and
Molinsgatan. A guy jumped from the fifth floor. Looks like it’s that bigtime
businessman, Knäck-something-or-other. His wife and son are
here, in shock. We need another ambulance for them. Oh, I see . . .
von Knecht.”
DE T E C T I V E SUPERINTENDENT Sven Andersson had just
reached his old Volvo 240 and was putting his key in the lock when
he heard a familiar female voice shouting, “Sven, wait! Case in
progress!”
Annoyed, he turned to her and sighed. “What is it now?”
The detective inspector’s voice revealed a slight hint of titillation
when she said, “Richard von Knecht jumped off his balcony!”
“Richard von Knecht! The Richard von Knecht?”
“Yes. It sounds unbelievable. Was there a stock market crash or
something?”
“Hop in the car. Did you get an address?”
THE RAIN was pouring down, and the superintendent had to put his
windshield wipers on high to be able to see out. Göteborg was really
living up to its nickname of “Soaking-borg.” The week before there
had been total winter chaos with half a meter of snow; the whole city
had been paralyzed for several days. The result would undoubtedly be
a high birth rate the next August. Now it was a few degrees above freezing
with not a snowflake to be seen.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR HUSS 3
Detective Inspector Irene Huss phoned her teenage daughters and
told them that she’d be late. They were used to it by now, after her many
years with the Crime Police. They promised to take the dog for a walk
and feed him, and to let their father know. Krister was no doubt used
to it, too. As was usual, he would make a good dinner for his daughters.
Everything had been organized to run smoothly in the family, even
without her help.
She must have sighed audibly, because Superintendent Andersson
turned to her and asked, “Is something bothering you?”
“No, nothing. It’s depressing weather. Depressing, with scattered suicides.
Depressing. Depressing!”
The superintendent nodded in agreement and stared gloomily at the
black rain being flung against the windshield by the gusty wind. He
broke the silence and asked, “How could Dispatch be so sure that it
was really Richard von Knecht who jumped?”
“According to the officer on duty, the wife and son were down on
the street. Apparently, it was the son who called the police.”
“Do you know what floor he fell from?”
“No, but it seems it was high enough.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. At last the superintendent
cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know anything about Richard
von Knecht?”
“What most people know. Aristocratic family, and wealthy.
Talented businessman, stock market speculator, and one of Göteborg’s
biggest celebrities. According to Aftonbladet’s financial section he’s a
business genius, but my husband says he’s just had incredible luck.”
“Is Krister an expert on business and the stock market now, too?”
“No. Although he does own twenty shares of Trygg Hansa, which
he received as a bonus when they reorganized a few years back. He’s
still the chef at Glady’s Corner.”
“That’s supposed to be a great place. Very trendy, I hear.”
“You bet.”
Through the slapping of the windshield wipers they could now see
the flashing blue lights of the emergency vehicles. The crime team was
there and had blocked off a large area. The site of the body’s impact
was illuminated by a soft light streaming from the glass in the front
entrance of an exclusive menswear store. The door was set into the corner
of the building’s granite foundation. Superintendent Andersson had
a vague memory that there had been a pharmacy on this spot when
he was a boy. But he wasn’t quite sure, since he had grown up in
4 Helene Tursten
Masthugget, the neighborhood that was torn down during “urban
renewal” in the sixties.
Above the door the corner extended into an oriel. There was an oriel
on the corner of each floor, whose bay windows faced in three directions,
except for the top floor, which sported a balcony crowned by a
turreted roof. It was from there that Richard von Knecht had plunged
to the street. Superintendent Andersson let his glance pass over the
remains, but he quickly looked away. Inspector Huss also shuddered
when she saw what von Knecht looked like. It was not a pretty way
to die, she thought. One of the crime scene team came over to them.
“The medical examiner will be here any minute.”
“Do you know which one is coming?” asked the superintendent.
A shrug was the reply. With Inspector Huss in his wake, Superintendent
Andersson walked over to the parked patrol car. He bent
down to the officer in the driver’s seat.
“Hi, Superintendent Sven Andersson from Homicide.”
“Hans Stefansson from PO-One. So they’ve already called in you
guys?”
“Yes, it’s unusually quick. We were contacted barely fifteen minutes
afterward, which would mean that he jumped at five forty-five P.M. Is
that right?”
“No, we were the first on the scene, at five thirty-five on the dot.
He must have floated on down max five minutes earlier. My partner
and I were on Korsvägen when the call came in. I would think the correct
time of impact would be five-thirty.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Medical
Examiner Yvonne Stridner. She was a professor of forensic medicine
and undeniably one of the country’s most talented pathologists. But
Superintendent Andersson had a hard time working with her because
Professor Stridner was a woman who demonstrated her expertise gladly
and saw no reason to hide her light under a bushel. Inspector Huss herself
had been involved in several cases in which the hypotheses of the
police were turned completely upside down by Yvonne Stridner’s definite
forensic opinions. And so far she had always been right. But that
wasn’t it as much as the fact that she was authoritarian and pedantic
that made it difficult for Superintendent Andersson to accept her. Huss
had a strong hunch that, deep down, the superintendent did not regard
forensic medicine as a proper job for a woman.
The white Ford Escort with MEDICAL EXAMINER painted on both front
doors had been parked at the outer perimeter of the blocked-off area.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR HUSS 5
Out sailed the professor of forensic medicine. Even those who had no
idea of her profession stood aside in deference to her commanding presence.
Her flaming red hair was exquisitely set off by her soft mustardcolored
woolen coat. She strode up to the body, took off her coat, and
asked an officer to hold it. Underneath she was wearing a clean white
lab coat. She opened the little bag she was carrying, pulled on a pair
of latex gloves, and squatted down next to von Knecht’s remains. The
crime scene technicians had just rigged up a floodlight, giving her a
better view. She hadn’t cast a single glance around her. Professor
Stridner was wearing a pair of plastic protectors over her expensive
leather shoes. There was a good deal of blood around the body, mixed
with a lot of other material and diluted with rainwater. Slushy.
In order to feel that she was being of some use, Inspector Huss decided
to start questioning the police officers present. The commander of the
unit, Håkan Lund, she knew well. Fifteen years earlier they had both
been rookies in what was then the third precinct, today Polisområde
1, Göteborg’s downtown area. Lund wasn’t much taller than she was—
five-nine at most. But his waistline would soon be approaching his
height if he didn’t watch out.
The crime team had received their instructions. Håkan Lund turned
to Irene Huss and said easily, “At your service, Huss! Is Violent Crimes
already on site?”
“Hi, how are you doing? Yes, we were called in early this time. When
did you get here?”
“We got the call from Dispatch just after five-thirty. We were inside
the station but left right away. ‘Top priority! Richard von Knecht is
lying dead at the corner of Molinsgatan and Aschebergsgatan!’”
“How did it look here?”
“Chaos! The vultures had gathered. We almost couldn’t get through
the crowd. But we pushed and shoved and got them driven back and
set up barriers. We cordoned off a large area, as you can see. A few people
did try to get under the crime scene tape, but I yelled right in their
faces. Literally!”
Inspector Huss could imagine the scene vividly. Quickly she went
on to ask, “Who identified Richard von Knecht?”
“His wife and son. When we got through the crowd a woman covered
in blood was standing here wailing. Some guy was trying to prop
her up. That was Fru von Knecht and her son. From what I understood,
they happened to be right here on the street when he fell,” said Lund
sympathetically.
6 Helene Tursten
“Where are they now?”
“The ambulance took them off to Sahlgren Hospital. But you won’t
be able to talk to her for a couple of days, and the son was chalk white
in the face. He even threw up before they got into the ambulance.”
Lund looked serious, but suddenly brightened up and exclaimed,
“Hey, I know someone you’ll be interested in meeting. Come on!”
Irene followed him over toward the crime team’s van. With a histrionic
gesture he opened up one of the side doors and said, “This is Fru
Eva Karlsson. Fru Karlsson, this is Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”
He turned to the little old woman in the light-gray trench coat, who
nodded mutely in greeting. On her knees sat a brown dachshund. It
clearly did not suffer from muteness. Over the dog’s frantic yapping Irene
could hear Lund saying, “This is the closest witness we have. She was
standing about seven meters from the point of impact.”
Irene turned to the woman. A trembling, thin white hand was held
out toward her. Cautiously, she took the fragile, ice-cold hand in hers.
In a soothing tone of voice she began, “Fru Karlsson, I’d like to hear
a little about the tragic event you were witness to this evening—”
“Frightful! I’m almost seventy-seven years old, and this is the most
appalling thing that has ever happened to me in my whole life! To
watch a human being smashed right at my feet! He almost fell right
on top of Snoopy!”
A thin white finger pointed accusingly at the remains of Richard
von Knecht. Irene gave up at once. It would be best to drive the old
lady home and try to interview her later.
Over by the body, Stridner had begun packing up her things. With
a practiced motion the professor tore off the rubber gloves, took off her
lab coat, and stuffed all of it into her bag. She had already removed
the plastic protectors from her feet. Without looking at him, Stridner
made a queenly gesture with her arm to the young police sergeant, who
had been patiently holding her coat for more than a quarter of an hour.
She seemed only now to notice all the people standing around her. She
called out, “Is there anyone from Violent Crimes here?”
Superintendent Andersson slumped, sighed, and shambled over to her.
“All right, Andersson. Come and look. Don’t step in the blood,” said
the pathologist.
Inspector Huss stole after her superintendent. Stridner had taken a
pen from the outside pocket of her bag. She pulled briskly on one end
and produced a meter-long lecture pointer. It was perfectly in character
for Yvonne Stridner to go around with a pointer in her bag. She
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR HUSS 7
said urgently, “Look there at the top of the right hand. I’ve turned his
hand forward so that the light falls on it. Look!”
She gestured with her slender pointer. The two detectives looked.
Running across the entire back of the hand was a deep groove. It wasn’t
as incised as a knife wound, but it had clearly been caused by something
relatively sharp.
Andersson ventured to ask, “Couldn’t he have gotten that from the
fall?”
“No. Too distinct. The wound was inflicted by an instrument or
weapon. Since I happen to know . . . knew . . . von Knecht, this death
affects me personally. I’m actually supposed to be teaching graduate students
all morning tomorrow, but I’ll see to the autopsy myself. I’ll start
by eight at the latest and will let you know after eleven.”
“Isn’t there a chance you could take a look at him tonight?” Superintendent
Andersson gazed at the professor without much hope. She
fluffed her red tresses with her fingertips. Her hairdo had been thoroughly
soaked while she was doing her preliminary investigation. “Not
necessary, Andersson,” she replied curtly. “It’s almost certain that this
is a homicide.”
Irene Huss stared incredulously at the pathologist. Rage began to
rise inside her: being condescended to stimulates the release of adrenaline
in most people. She interrupted the conversation acerbically.
“Wait just a minute! What are you basing this on? And how did you
know von Knecht?”
The pathologist gave her a surprised look, as if only now noticing
that another person was present. Sven Andersson muttered Irene Huss’s
name and title in explanation. Before Professor Stridner managed to
reply, some ambulance men came over and asked whether it was all
right to take the body to Pathology. The ME nodded. She...
Présentation de l'éditeur :
NOBODY SAW HIM FALL through the dense November darkness.
With a dull, heavy thud he hit the rain-wet pavement. Even though
it was still rush hour, there were few people on the street. The pedestrians
huddled beneath umbrellas turned inside out and scrunched their
chins into turned-up collars for a little protection from the icy, whipping
rain. Everyone who could was driving a car or jammed into the
steaming warmth aboard a bus or streetcar.
An elderly woman pulling a stubborn, soaking-wet dachshund on
a leash stood closest. The howls that she and the dog uttered announced
to those people in the vicinity that something serious had happened.
Hurrying pedestrians slowed their pace. Curiosity got the upper
hand, and they were drawn toward the site of the accident.
A white Mercedes was carelessly parked by the curb. A man in a
light-colored overcoat had just rushed around the car and opened the
door on the passenger’s side when the lady with the dachshund started
to scream. The man turned quickly, squinted through the rain, and
caught sight of the heap thirty meters away. He kept his grip on the
open car door, slowly tilted his head back, and looked up at the top
floor of the imposing apartment building. A faint moaning sound rose
from his throat, but he remained catatonically still.
Without putting on her coat, the small woman in the passenger’s
seat jumped nimbly out of the car and ran over to the motionless figure
on the ground. Her slenderness was emphasized by the stylish
Chanel dress she was wearing. She had mastered to perfection the art
of running in high heels. She elbowed her way through the crowd frenetically
and reached the inner circle.
Chapter One
THE PATROL CAR WAS the first to arrive on the scene. The ambulance
came a scant five minutes later. As far as the ambulance medics
could tell, there wasn’t much for them to do. The two police officers
attempted to hold back the sensation-hungry spectators who suddenly
were stoic enough to defy both wind and rain. One of the officers got
into the car and called for backup.
“Send the crime scene team to the corner of Aschebergsgatan and
Molinsgatan. A guy jumped from the fifth floor. Looks like it’s that bigtime
businessman, Knäck-something-or-other. His wife and son are
here, in shock. We need another ambulance for them. Oh, I see . . .
von Knecht.”
DE T E C T I V E SUPERINTENDENT Sven Andersson had just
reached his old Volvo 240 and was putting his key in the lock when
he heard a familiar female voice shouting, “Sven, wait! Case in
progress!”
Annoyed, he turned to her and sighed. “What is it now?”
The detective inspector’s voice revealed a slight hint of titillation
when she said, “Richard von Knecht jumped off his balcony!”
“Richard von Knecht! The Richard von Knecht?”
“Yes. It sounds unbelievable. Was there a stock market crash or
something?”
“Hop in the car. Did you get an address?”
THE RAIN was pouring down, and the superintendent had to put his
windshield wipers on high to be able to see out. Göteborg was really
living up to its nickname of “Soaking-borg.” The week before there
had been total winter chaos with half a meter of snow; the whole city
had been paralyzed for several days. The result would undoubtedly be
a high birth rate the next August. Now it was a few degrees above freezing
with not a snowflake to be seen.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR HUSS 3
Detective Inspector Irene Huss phoned her teenage daughters and
told them that she’d be late. They were used to it by now, after her many
years with the Crime Police. They promised to take the dog for a walk
and feed him, and to let their father know. Krister was no doubt used
to it, too. As was usual, he would make a good dinner for his daughters.
Everything had been organized to run smoothly in the family, even
without her help.
She must have sighed audibly, because Superintendent Andersson
turned to her and asked, “Is something bothering you?”
“No, nothing. It’s depressing weather. Depressing, with scattered suicides.
Depressing. Depressing!”
The superintendent nodded in agreement and stared gloomily at the
black rain being flung against the windshield by the gusty wind. He
broke the silence and asked, “How could Dispatch be so sure that it
was really Richard von Knecht who jumped?”
“According to the officer on duty, the wife and son were down on
the street. Apparently, it was the son who called the police.”
“Do you know what floor he fell from?”
“No, but it seems it was high enough.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. At last the superintendent
cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know anything about Richard
von Knecht?”
“What most people know. Aristocratic family, and wealthy.
Talented businessman, stock market speculator, and one of Göteborg’s
biggest celebrities. According to Aftonbladet’s financial section he’s a
business genius, but my husband says he’s just had incredible luck.”
“Is Krister an expert on business and the stock market now, too?”
“No. Although he does own twenty shares of Trygg Hansa, which
he received as a bonus when they reorganized a few years back. He’s
still the chef at Glady’s Corner.”
“That’s supposed to be a great place. Very trendy, I hear.”
“You bet.”
Through the slapping of the windshield wipers they could now see
the flashing blue lights of the emergency vehicles. The crime team was
there and had blocked off a large area. The site of the body’s impact
was illuminated by a soft light streaming from the glass in the front
entrance of an exclusive menswear store. The door was set into the corner
of the building’s granite foundation. Superintendent Andersson had
a vague memory that there had been a pharmacy on this spot when
he was a boy. But he wasn’t quite sure, since he had grown up in
4 Helene Tursten
Masthugget, the neighborhood that was torn down during “urban
renewal” in the sixties.
Above the door the corner extended into an oriel. There was an oriel
on the corner of each floor, whose bay windows faced in three directions,
except for the top floor, which sported a balcony crowned by a
turreted roof. It was from there that Richard von Knecht had plunged
to the street. Superintendent Andersson let his glance pass over the
remains, but he quickly looked away. Inspector Huss also shuddered
when she saw what von Knecht looked like. It was not a pretty way
to die, she thought. One of the crime scene team came over to them.
“The medical examiner will be here any minute.”
“Do you know which one is coming?” asked the superintendent.
A shrug was the reply. With Inspector Huss in his wake, Superintendent
Andersson walked over to the parked patrol car. He bent
down to the officer in the driver’s seat.
“Hi, Superintendent Sven Andersson from Homicide.”
“Hans Stefansson from PO-One. So they’ve already called in you
guys?”
“Yes, it’s unusually quick. We were contacted barely fifteen minutes
afterward, which would mean that he jumped at five forty-five P.M. Is
that right?”
“No, we were the first on the scene, at five thirty-five on the dot.
He must have floated on down max five minutes earlier. My partner
and I were on Korsvägen when the call came in. I would think the correct
time of impact would be five-thirty.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Medical
Examiner Yvonne Stridner. She was a professor of forensic medicine
and undeniably one of the country’s most talented pathologists. But
Superintendent Andersson had a hard time working with her because
Professor Stridner was a woman who demonstrated her expertise gladly
and saw no reason to hide her light under a bushel. Inspector Huss herself
had been involved in several cases in which the hypotheses of the
police were turned completely upside down by Yvonne Stridner’s definite
forensic opinions. And so far she had always been right. But that
wasn’t it as much as the fact that she was authoritarian and pedantic
that made it difficult for Superintendent Andersson to accept her. Huss
had a strong hunch that, deep down, the superintendent did not regard
forensic medicine as a proper job for a woman.
The white Ford Escort with MEDICAL EXAMINER painted on both front
doors had been parked at the outer perimeter of the blocked-off area.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR HUSS 5
Out sailed the professor of forensic medicine. Even those who had no
idea of her profession stood aside in deference to her commanding presence.
Her flaming red hair was exquisitely set off by her soft mustardcolored
woolen coat. She strode up to the body, took off her coat, and
asked an officer to hold it. Underneath she was wearing a clean white
lab coat. She opened the little bag she was carrying, pulled on a pair
of latex gloves, and squatted down next to von Knecht’s remains. The
crime scene technicians had just rigged up a floodlight, giving her a
better view. She hadn’t cast a single glance around her. Professor
Stridner was wearing a pair of plastic protectors over her expensive
leather shoes. There was a good deal of blood around the body, mixed
with a lot of other material and diluted with rainwater. Slushy.
In order to feel that she was being of some use, Inspector Huss decided
to start questioning the police officers present. The commander of the
unit, Håkan Lund, she knew well. Fifteen years earlier they had both
been rookies in what was then the third precinct, today Polisområde
1, Göteborg’s downtown area. Lund wasn’t much taller than she was—
five-nine at most. But his waistline would soon be approaching his
height if he didn’t watch out.
The crime team had received their instructions. Håkan Lund turned
to Irene Huss and said easily, “At your service, Huss! Is Violent Crimes
already on site?”
“Hi, how are you doing? Yes, we were called in early this time. When
did you get here?”
“We got the call from Dispatch just after five-thirty. We were inside
the station but left right away. ‘Top priority! Richard von Knecht is
lying dead at the corner of Molinsgatan and Aschebergsgatan!’”
“How did it look here?”
“Chaos! The vultures had gathered. We almost couldn’t get through
the crowd. But we pushed and shoved and got them driven back and
set up barriers. We cordoned off a large area, as you can see. A few people
did try to get under the crime scene tape, but I yelled right in their
faces. Literally!”
Inspector Huss could imagine the scene vividly. Quickly she went
on to ask, “Who identified Richard von Knecht?”
“His wife and son. When we got through the crowd a woman covered
in blood was standing here wailing. Some guy was trying to prop
her up. That was Fru von Knecht and her son. From what I understood,
they happened to be right here on the street when he fell,” said Lund
sympathetically.
6 Helene Tursten
“Where are they now?”
“The ambulance took them off to Sahlgren Hospital. But you won’t
be able to talk to her for a couple of days, and the son was chalk white
in the face. He even threw up before they got into the ambulance.”
Lund looked serious, but suddenly brightened up and exclaimed,
“Hey, I know someone you’ll be interested in meeting. Come on!”
Irene followed him over toward the crime team’s van. With a histrionic
gesture he opened up one of the side doors and said, “This is Fru
Eva Karlsson. Fru Karlsson, this is Detective Inspector Irene Huss.”
He turned to the little old woman in the light-gray trench coat, who
nodded mutely in greeting. On her knees sat a brown dachshund. It
clearly did not suffer from muteness. Over the dog’s frantic yapping Irene
could hear Lund saying, “This is the closest witness we have. She was
standing about seven meters from the point of impact.”
Irene turned to the woman. A trembling, thin white hand was held
out toward her. Cautiously, she took the fragile, ice-cold hand in hers.
In a soothing tone of voice she began, “Fru Karlsson, I’d like to hear
a little about the tragic event you were witness to this evening—”
“Frightful! I’m almost seventy-seven years old, and this is the most
appalling thing that has ever happened to me in my whole life! To
watch a human being smashed right at my feet! He almost fell right
on top of Snoopy!”
A thin white finger pointed accusingly at the remains of Richard
von Knecht. Irene gave up at once. It would be best to drive the old
lady home and try to interview her later.
Over by the body, Stridner had begun packing up her things. With
a practiced motion the professor tore off the rubber gloves, took off her
lab coat, and stuffed all of it into her bag. She had already removed
the plastic protectors from her feet. Without looking at him, Stridner
made a queenly gesture with her arm to the young police sergeant, who
had been patiently holding her coat for more than a quarter of an hour.
She seemed only now to notice all the people standing around her. She
called out, “Is there anyone from Violent Crimes here?”
Superintendent Andersson slumped, sighed, and shambled over to her.
“All right, Andersson. Come and look. Don’t step in the blood,” said
the pathologist.
Inspector Huss stole after her superintendent. Stridner had taken a
pen from the outside pocket of her bag. She pulled briskly on one end
and produced a meter-long lecture pointer. It was perfectly in character
for Yvonne Stridner to go around with a pointer in her bag. She
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR HUSS 7
said urgently, “Look there at the top of the right hand. I’ve turned his
hand forward so that the light falls on it. Look!”
She gestured with her slender pointer. The two detectives looked.
Running across the entire back of the hand was a deep groove. It wasn’t
as incised as a knife wound, but it had clearly been caused by something
relatively sharp.
Andersson ventured to ask, “Couldn’t he have gotten that from the
fall?”
“No. Too distinct. The wound was inflicted by an instrument or
weapon. Since I happen to know . . . knew . . . von Knecht, this death
affects me personally. I’m actually supposed to be teaching graduate students
all morning tomorrow, but I’ll see to the autopsy myself. I’ll start
by eight at the latest and will let you know after eleven.”
“Isn’t there a chance you could take a look at him tonight?” Superintendent
Andersson gazed at the professor without much hope. She
fluffed her red tresses with her fingertips. Her hairdo had been thoroughly
soaked while she was doing her preliminary investigation. “Not
necessary, Andersson,” she replied curtly. “It’s almost certain that this
is a homicide.”
Irene Huss stared incredulously at the pathologist. Rage began to
rise inside her: being condescended to stimulates the release of adrenaline
in most people. She interrupted the conversation acerbically.
“Wait just a minute! What are you basing this on? And how did you
know von Knecht?”
The pathologist gave her a surprised look, as if only now noticing
that another person was present. Sven Andersson muttered Irene Huss’s
name and title in explanation. Before Professor Stridner managed to
reply, some ambulance men came over and asked whether it was all
right to take the body to Pathology. The ME nodded. She...
"Add the voice of Helen Tursten to the list of mystery writers who know how to craft a truly satisfying police procedural."— Philadelphia Inquirer
"An absorbing, intelligent mystery that holds its own alongside the best feminine hardboiled novels currently being written by Englishwomen Val McDermid and Liza Cody, and our own Sara Paretsky."—Maureen Corrigan, NPR, "Fresh Air," Washington Post Book World
"The picture Tursten provides of Sweden’s growing anti-immigrant resentment—embodied in Huss’ skinhead daughter—imbues this novel with a cold chill of dread that can’t be attributed only to the subfreezing temperatures of Göteborg in winter."— Chicago Sun-Times
Inspector Irene Huss, stationed in Göteborg, is called through the rain-drenched wintry streets to the scene of an apparent suicide. The dead man landed on the sidewalk in front of his luxurious duplex apartment. He was a wealthy financier connected, through an old-boys’ network, with the first families of Sweden. But the "Society Suicide" turns out to have been a carefully plotted murder. As more murders ensue, she tangles with street gang members, skinheads, immigrants and neo-Nazis—a cross-section of Sweden’s disaffected—in order to catch the killer.
Helene Tursten has been compared to P.D. James in her native Sweden. Her three subsequent Irene Huss mysteries have been highly praised. She was born in Göteborg in 1954 where she now lives.
"An absorbing, intelligent mystery that holds its own alongside the best feminine hardboiled novels currently being written by Englishwomen Val McDermid and Liza Cody, and our own Sara Paretsky."—Maureen Corrigan, NPR, "Fresh Air," Washington Post Book World
"The picture Tursten provides of Sweden’s growing anti-immigrant resentment—embodied in Huss’ skinhead daughter—imbues this novel with a cold chill of dread that can’t be attributed only to the subfreezing temperatures of Göteborg in winter."— Chicago Sun-Times
Inspector Irene Huss, stationed in Göteborg, is called through the rain-drenched wintry streets to the scene of an apparent suicide. The dead man landed on the sidewalk in front of his luxurious duplex apartment. He was a wealthy financier connected, through an old-boys’ network, with the first families of Sweden. But the "Society Suicide" turns out to have been a carefully plotted murder. As more murders ensue, she tangles with street gang members, skinheads, immigrants and neo-Nazis—a cross-section of Sweden’s disaffected—in order to catch the killer.
Helene Tursten has been compared to P.D. James in her native Sweden. Her three subsequent Irene Huss mysteries have been highly praised. She was born in Göteborg in 1954 where she now lives.
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- ÉditeurSoho Crime
- Date d'édition2004
- ISBN 10 1569473706
- ISBN 13 9781569473702
- ReliureBroché
- Nombre de pages320
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