The Treacherous Net (15 page)

As usual it
was difficult to find a parking spot in Nedre Johanneberg. After driving around the area for a while Andersson eventually found a space on Lennart Torstenssonsgata. The rain lashed their faces as they struggled along into a strong headwind. All the wet leaves torn down from the imposing trees made the sidewalks treacherous.

They were heading for an apartment block on the slope leading down to the pond known as Näckrosdammen and the park beyond. Some of the plumpest ducks in Göteborg live in the slimy waters of the pond; in the summer its surface is completely covered with pink and white water lilies. During the late spring and summer, students and other residents of the city often sunbathe on the huge lawns between the pond and the university library.

Today the park was deserted, and there were worrying creaking noises from overhead as the wind tugged at the old trees. Andersson and Fryxender hurried down the hill toward Oscar Leutnerwall’s apartment.

Impressive buildings entrenched behind high brick walls lined both sides of the street. Shiny metal plaques by the gates revealed which companies conducted their business behind the walls, although often there was only an uninformative name or a set of initials. A couple of the buildings housed free schools. Even if the interiors were buzzing with the activity of modern life, their showy façades stood as a monument to a bygone age.

Andersson thought back to his own upbringing in Masthugget, in a “governor’s house” so typical of the city of Göteborg. A family of four had lived in a one-bedroom apartment, with an outdoor toilet in the yard. They had no running hot water. The building burned down the year Andersson started school; no one was hurt, so no one was sorry to see the dump disappear. The family relocated to a house on Fjärde Långgatan, where they had two bedrooms and a kitchen, hot and cold running water, and their very own toilet with a hand basin. Andersson remembered his mother weeping with joy when they moved in.

Leif Fryxender stopped in front of a sturdy iron gate set in a high wall made of liver-colored bricks. There was an intercom with three buttons beside the gate. A small brass plaque next to the top button had the initials
o. l.
engraved on it; the middle button clearly belonged to
a. l
., and by the bottom button a large, shiny plaque informed visitors that the law firm Leutnerwall & Leutnerwall resided on the ground floor.

Fryxender pressed the top button. After a few seconds the speaker crackled into life; it was impossible to make out what the person on the other end said, but Fryxender leaned closer and introduced himself and Andersson. There was a buzzing sound, and the lock on the gate clicked. Fryxender pushed it open, the hinges protesting loudly.
A little oil wouldn’t go amiss; on the other hand, nobody’s going to sneak in this way,
Andersson thought.

The courtyard was paved with cobbles in an intricate circular pattern. The lawn was edged with luxuriant rhododendrons, which would no doubt provide a blaze of color when they flowered in the spring. With a stab of envy Andersson noticed that the magnolia at one end of the building must be at least twelve meters tall. His own was no more than two meters, and seemed to be fading away in spite of all the care and attention he lavished on it. When he retired he would be able to devote more time to his garden. He would damn well make sure that magnolia flowered!

The heavy oak door was also locked, with a slightly more modern intercom beside it. Fryxender pressed the button marked
o. leutnerwall
, and the door immediately buzzed. Andersson opened it and they entered the building.

There were three doors on the ground floor, all adorned with huge brass plaques advertising the law firm, which seemed to occupy the whole floor. Next to the stairs leading to the upper floors was a small elevator.

“You take the elevator,” Fryxender said.

Andersson suddenly became aware that he was wheezing slightly, and nodded gratefully. That goddamn wind would be the death of him.

The elevator wouldn’t have been much use to anyone suffering from claustrophobia, but Andersson decided he didn’t have much choice, and bravely stepped inside. He closed both doors and the elevator began to ascend with painful slowness. As Andersson stepped out, Fryxender reached the top of the stairs; he wasn’t even out of breath.

Oscar Leutnerwall’s apartment boasted tall double doors in some kind of dark wood, with beautiful frosted windows with a Jugendstil pattern. The light was on in the hallway, and Andersson could see a shadow through the glass. The door opened before he had time to knock.

A woman was standing there; they couldn’t see her face because the light was behind her, but both men noticed the sheen of her platinum blonde hair that fell softly around her shoulders. She rested one hand on the door frame and struck a pose that reminded Andersson of the film stars of his youth.

“Welcome, gentlemen. Oscar told me he was expecting visitors. Do come in.”

Her voice was husky, and didn’t sound young. As she stepped back to let them in, the light struck her face, and Andersson actually heard himself gasp.

She was slim and beautifully attired in a dark blue dress, a short jacket and black high-heeled shoes, with a double rope of pearls around her neck. Her makeup was skillfully applied, if a little too thick. But it couldn’t hide the fact that the face belonged to an old woman.

She held out a slender hand, the crooked fingers laden with sparkling diamonds.

“Astrid Leutnerwall,” she said with a smile.

Her dazzling white teeth shone against the bright red lipstick. So this was Oscar’s sister.
Jeez, she’s ninety!
Andersson was stunned by the thought. A quick glance in the mirror in front of them revealed that Fryxender had been struck by the same realization. Her handshake was surprisingly firm.

She gestured toward a closet door. “You’re welcome to hang up your wet coats. Don’t bother taking off your shoes—it’s a terrible modern habit. Typical of the Swedes. Nobody would expect you to remove your shoes anywhere else in Europe.”

They both took off their wet outdoor clothes and hung them in the closet, which had oval mirrors in gilded frames set in the double doors. Astrid Leutnerwall led the way into a large living room, where wine-red leather sofas and black armchairs were grouped around a smoked glass coffee table, with brightly colored Persian rugs beneath. Two matching leather chairs stood on either side of the open fireplace, and on the carved table between them were two coffee cups and two large brandy glasses, the amber liquid shining in the glow of the fire.

Large oil paintings adorned the walls; Andersson noted with satisfaction that you could tell what they were meant to be: beautiful scenes from nature in strong colors, overlaid with patches of diffuse, shimmering light. Next to the fireplace was a picture of a woman, sitting with her legs crossed, hands intertwined behind her head. Between her naked breasts hung a necklace made of yellow and black pearls. Despite the strong tones, there was an air of great serenity about the composition.

A man was sitting in one of the chairs by the fire. Carefully he picked up the Persian cat on his knee, stood up, and with a practiced hand draped the cat over his left forearm. The animal gazed at the visitors with its sapphire-blue eyes. Oscar Leutnerwall waited until they reached him, then greeted them with a firm handshake each. The cat let out a low growl.

“Quiet, Winston. These gentlemen are friends. I think.”

He gave a charming smile. Andersson noticed that the cat and his owner had the same color eyes.

“I noticed you looking at the pictures; do you like them?” Leutnerwall asked.

The question was directed at Andersson, which worried him deeply. He didn’t know much about art, but he instinctively liked these paintings.

“Er, yes . . . they’re very nice. They make me feel happy,” he ventured.

Oscar Leutnerwall’s face lit up. His blue eyes sparkled and he chuckled.

“Exactly! They make you feel happy. Impressed. Reverent. The Impressionists were utterly brilliant. I’m so grateful and pleased that I own these paintings.”

“
Were
brilliant . . . Does that mean they’re all dead?” Andersson dared to ask.

Oscar Leutnerwall’s eyes flashed, and for a brief moment Andersson thought that he was about to burst out laughing.

“Yes, unfortunately. But their art will live forever,” he said with a kind tone.

He was just as tall and almost as thin as Fryxender. The halo of white hair was cut very short, emphasizing the attractive shape of his head. Like his sister, Oscar looked twenty years younger than he was. The siblings were quite different in appearance, but they did have one thing in common: that sharp, clear blue gaze. Astrid had a small, neat nose, while her brother had a stronger profile.
Then again, she could have had a nose job,
Andersson thought. He had already noticed that all her wrinkles were horizontal and pointed upward when she smiled. And he was beginning to suspect that she was wearing a wig.
Nobody has hair like that at ninety,
he said to himself as he unconsciously ran a hand over his own bald pate.

Oscar Leutnerwall was also very smartly dressed, in a dark brown wool blazer and beige pants. His shirt was a few tones darker than his pants, while his shoes and belt were also dark brown. The deep forest-green silk tie with matching socks and handkerchief were the icing on the cake. And he was over ninety years old! The only possible hint of his age was a very slight stoop, although Andersson had seen plenty of twenty-year-olds with worse posture.

“Oscar and I have been out shopping. He came along as my adviser; he has such good taste. I’ve bought a new skirt suit to wear at my birthday party in three weeks’ time,” Astrid chirruped.

Oscar smiled, his expression tender as he looked at his sister.

“We thought we’d warm ourselves up as the weather is so terrible,” he said. “Can I offer you gentlemen a coffee and a drop of Cognac?”

Before Andersson had the chance to speak, Fryxender replied. “Just coffee, thanks.”

“Let’s sit down,” Astrid suggested.

She seemed determined to stay around while they spoke to her brother—although perhaps that wasn’t so surprising, bearing in mind that Carl-Johan Adelskiöld had been her cousin too.

The siblings sat down on a sofa with Winston between them, while the two detectives took an armchair each. The cat rolled over on his back and allowed Oscar to rub his tummy; the sound of contented purring filled the room.

There was a plate of small cookies on the table, and the coffee cups were tiny, so delicate they were almost transparent. Andersson was terrified of snapping the thin handle. Clumsily he grasped it with his chubby fingers, and noticed to his annoyance that his pinkie was sticking out.

“You must be pleased that the law firm is still in business,” Fryxender began. “It was started by your father, wasn’t it?”

Astrid merely nodded in response.

“Was it a close relative . . . or perhaps one of your children who took over for their grandfather?” Fryxender continued in the same polite vein.

“Unfortunately I don’t have children, despite the fact that I’ve been married three times. I’m the lawyer; I specialize in company law. And I still have a significant number of clients; a couple of them have been with me for over sixty years.”

Astrid raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows and smiled, clearly amused as she contemplated Fryxender’s embarrassment. Suddenly Andersson realized why she had stayed; it was very simple. Oscar Leutnerwall had his lawyer with him.

“You’re right, our father started the firm and he built this house,” Oscar said. “It happened around the time our parents got married, in 1913.”

“Oscar took over their apartment when our mother died in 1978. She was ninety-seven, so I guess Oscar and I take after her,” Astrid said.

Andersson seized the opportunity. “Your cousin Carl-Johan lived to a good age as well. Ninety . . . such a tragedy that he lost his life in that fire.”

Both Oscar and Astrid stiffened. After a moment Oscar cleared his throat.

“Terrible . . . It was just . . . terrible. Poor Calle.” His eyes shone with tears, and he removed the meticulously folded handkerchief from his breast pocket.

“Oscar and Calle were very close. They were more like brothers than cousins,” Astrid explained, glancing anxiously at her brother.

“Did you grow up together?” Andersson asked.

“You could say that. He really was like a younger brother, and he was my best friend.” Oscar dabbed at the corners of his eyes. Astrid grimaced and took over:

“Calle’s father lost everything in the Kreuger crash in 1932, when the whole stock market went under. For once Uncle Henric made a sensible decision: he shot himself in the head. He was our uncle by marriage. Our father signed the house on Korsvägen over to Aunt Vera, and she immediately reverted to her maiden name, Adelskiöld, which was also our mother’s maiden name of course. She and Calle lived there for free, and the rent from the other tenants provided her with an income. She also had Henric’s pension, so she was reasonably well off, and Calle was able to finish his studies,” she said without a trace of sentimentality.

Fryxender nodded and turned back to Oscar.

“It seems as if you and your cousin followed the same path—you both studied law, then you both worked for the Foreign Office. And you both served in Moscow . . .” He left the sentence hanging in the air.

Astrid started to chuckle, and exchanged an amused glance with her brother.

“Uncle Leopold!”

Oscar smiled. “Calle had an uncle who was one of the highest-ranking officials in the Foreign Office. He put in a good word for me when I applied as soon as I graduated from the university, although I would probably have got the job anyway; I had a first-class degree. Calle, on the other hand . . . Uncle Leopold had to pull a few more strings on his behalf. But Europe was at war, and there was a shortage of embassy staff. And of course Moscow was exciting for two greenhorns, with a certain amount of danger in the air.”