Chapter 84
The exterior lighting at the Villa creates a welcoming and almost festive atmosphere as Hanna drives up the incline to Copperhill. The snowy landscape enhances the effect of the lights, and the huge windows glow invitingly.
She isn’t really in the mood for this kind of excess.
All she wants is to get information from Henry that will move them forward in the hunt for the murderer.
She has no intention of spending any more than thirty minutes here; then she will go home, have something to eat, and curl up in bed with Morris pressed close by her side.
She parks next to what she assumes is Henry’s rental car, an ordinary Kia. To be honest she had expected something else, maybe a Porsche or Mercedes SUV. More in keeping with his image.
Although by now she ought to know better than to allow her prejudices to take over.
She undoes her seatbelt. Wonders whether to send a quick text to Daniel so that someone knows where she is, but it feels over the top. Henry hardly constitutes a threat, even if they have considered the possibility that he might be involved in the murders.
That theory is seeming more and more unlikely. He has an alibi, and it has been established that there were other ways for him to withdraw from the Storlien project if he wanted to. In addition, his combined resources are such that the project constitutes only a small part of his portfolio.
He is also Filip’s godfather, and genuinely seems to care about the boy.
She decides to trust him.
Henry opens the door almost as soon as she rings the bell. He is wearing a simple black polo shirt with black jeans; he reminds her a little of Steve Jobs, but with silver-gray hair.
He smiles warmly. “Good to see you—welcome!”
His tone makes it sound as if she has shown up for a date.
Hanna tries to shake off the feeling that there is something more in the air. She is suddenly conscious of her own clothing—scruffy jeans and a thick blue sweater. Her hair is tied back in a messy ponytail.
Doesn’t matter, she tells herself. Her appearance is totally irrelevant in the context.
“How’s Filip?” she asks over her shoulder as she takes off her boots in the hallway. “That article was terrible.”
“It was.” Henry leans against the wall with his arms folded. “I called the editor and demanded that they take it down from the net, but I doubt it will happen.”
Hanna doubts it too—the newspapers know their rights. She notices how Henry’s voice is filled with sympathy when he talks about Filip. He seems a lot nicer this evening than during the interview the other day. She’s glad she messaged him about the article.
“Come on in,” he says, leading the way into the living room, where the main lighting is subdued and lots of candles in different holders are arranged in the corners.
An inviting open fire is crackling away, and blues music is playing softly in the background.
Hanna thinks she recognizes Dorothy Moore’s melodic voice.
Over the past year she has gone along to listen to Anton’s band in local venues.
To her surprise she has discovered that she enjoys jazz and blues, even though in the past she was skeptical about those genres.
“I was just about to open a bottle of champagne,” Henry adds, pointing to the coffee table, where an ice bucket is waiting with the neck of the bottle sticking out. “May I offer you a glass?”
Hanna shakes her head. “Not when I’m on duty, I’m afraid.”
“That’s a shame. It’s a particularly fine year.”
He picks up the bottle and shows her the label with its golden lettering. Hanna knows it is one of the best producers in the world.
And one of the most expensive.
“How about this?” Henry proposes. “I’ll pour two glasses; then you can decide what you want to do.”
He sits down on the sofa and fills the tall glasses two-thirds of the way. Hanna can see right away that the vintage wine is perfect. The bubbles are tiny, the color pale yellow and tempting.
She can almost smell the aroma of apples and nougat, bread and a hint of lemon.
During her years as a bartender, she developed an interest in wine, and went on several courses.
She knows that a bottle of champagne contains forty-nine million bubbles, while a bottle of prosecco has only around five million.
Champagne is in fact her favorite drink, but Henry couldn’t possibly know that.
He picks up his glass, holds it in the air to toast her, then takes a sip. It is clear that he is a connoisseur; he rolls the drink around on his tongue, allowing the flavors to bloom on his palate.
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you?” His tone is teasing.
He is looking at her the way he did toward the end of the interview, when she thought she was on the brink of getting him to reveal something big. They are in desperate need of help to move forward in the investigation, and she really hopes this visit will pay dividends.
His expression is enigmatic. The atmosphere has changed; there is a tension between them. He pushes the second glass toward her. Hanna hesitates; surely a sip or two wouldn’t do any harm? Then she shakes her head again.
“You said you had something to tell me about Charlotte and her business affairs?”
Her tone is demonstratively clear—she doesn’t want Henry to forget that she is here because of work.
He leans back, stretches out his left arm so that it rests on the decorative velvet cushions. Once again Hanna gets the feeling that he isn’t taking this particularly seriously.
“I said that mainly to get you here.” He gives her a disarming smile. “You’re an attractive woman. Single, I believe. Just like me.”
Hanna frowns. Has he lured her here under false pretenses? And had the nerve to check out her marital status?
She slams her notebook shut. There is no point in staying—this is a waste of time. He is toying with her, even though he knows she is in the middle of a case involving horrific crimes.
What a jerk.
And so is she, falling for the sentimental crap about taking care of his godson.
But something holds her back.
She really does want to hear more about Charlotte’s background. Henry is their best source, and she trusts her intuition—she believes he has valuable information. So instead of getting up to leave, she gives him a casual smile. He isn’t the only one who can play this game.
“You can think what you like. I’m here to work. And given that I’ve come all the way here, the least you can do is offer some information about your business partner.”
“I wanted to offer you champagne,” he says, elegantly turning her words back on her. His tone is amused, almost intimate. All his attention is focused on her. Hanna shuffles uncomfortably—it’s been a long time since anyone looked at her like that.
Henry’s gaze is kind of hypnotic.
“Maybe you can do both.” She attempts to sound worldly wise. “Let’s talk about Charlotte; then we’ll see.”
“Ask away. I am at your disposal.”
Henry winks at her. She ought to be annoyed, but his indisputable charm is winning her over. She forces herself not to smile as she opens her notebook at a clean page and picks up her pen.
“Why do you think Charlotte was murdered?”
Henry’s face closes down. “Trust me, I really wish I knew the answer. What’s your theory?”
He has no idea that he has touched a sore point. The problem is that they don’t have a credible hypothesis at the moment, just a whole lot of loose strands leading in different directions.
Hanna is pretty sure that Charlotte overstepped the mark in her determination to push through the Storlien project. The question is whether that was the reason for her death.
Bengt Hedin seems to have had a motive to get rid of her, but the circumstances suggest that two people were involved—one instigator and one killer.
Hanna thinks Hedin might have been the brains behind the crime, perhaps in collaboration with Paul Lehto. But they can’t exclude the possibility that Lehto acted alone, that Charlotte’s murder was an impulsive act that had nothing to do with Hedin.
Lehto also has a history of harassing his ex-wife, which means he has a past that indicates violent tendencies.
On the other hand, the threatening text message exchange between Hedin and Charlotte is incriminating.
She can’t make the pieces fit together.
“Hanna?”
She realizes she was lost in her own thoughts. Henry is waiting for an answer.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a clear idea,” she admits. “That’s why I’m asking.”
Henry puts down his glass. She notices that he has beautiful hands. One is resting on his right thigh; he has long fingers with well-manicured nails.
Christian, her ex, had short, stubby fingers. She never learned to like them in the five years she and Christian lived together.
“Charlotte was a complicated person,” Henry begins. “As I’m sure you’ve realized. She didn’t always make herself popular; she often came across as extremely goal oriented when she wanted something.”
This matches the impression Hanna has formed of the dead woman.
Charlotte wasn’t especially likable. Then again, driven women who work in the top echelons of the business world are often painted as ice-cold bitches.
It is no secret that women are judged more harshly than men in public contexts.
Hanna isn’t surprised that Charlotte has been described as someone who would stick at nothing to achieve her goals.
That doesn’t mean she deserved to die.
And she was struck by the fact that Filip defended her; he insisted that his mother loved him deeply. He is devastated by her death.
Which is important to bear in mind.
“I’ve lain awake going over and over it all for the past few nights,” Henry continues. “And I do believe the murder is connected to business.”
The nonchalant attitude is gone. He is serious now, with sorrow and melancholy in his eyes. But there is something else too.
Fear?
“The level of violence . . . It makes me think of the Russian Mafia, if you know what I mean? Charlotte was prepared to push through the hotel project at any price. I hope she wasn’t so desperate that she turned to organized crime . . . but what if she did?”
Hanna looks up. Is he suggesting that Charlotte sought help from criminal networks to bring the project to fruition?
“And now she’s dead,” Henry adds. “In such a terrible way.”
There is no mistaking his sincerity. He and Charlotte had known each other for over fifty years, since they were children. Her business depended on him. It’s not surprising that her death has made him think about his own fate—is he worried that he too could be a target?
No one is immortal. The gods take whoever they want.
Her sympathy begins to return.
Henry empties his glass and clears his throat. His voice is quiet and sad when he speaks.
“I’m pretty sure that Charlotte paid out large sums of money in bribes, to smooth the passage of her application for planning permission.
I’d decided to bring the matter up with her when I arrived here.
That’s why I’m wondering if the Mafia could be involved, or similar players.
If she got into bed with criminals, metaphorically speaking, and something went wrong, could she have been subjected to blackmail?
I should have mentioned this the first time we spoke, but it felt .
. . awkward. I’ve been afraid to follow the idea through. ”
Hanna is thinking feverishly. A couple of pieces of the puzzle are falling into place. Henry is worried that the money Charlotte has paid out is linked to organized crime, but this also shines a light on something the police already suspect: that illegal money has been used to bribe Bengt Hedin.
Henry’s information strengthens the hypothesis about Hedin’s involvement. And his motive for homicide.
Hanna gives him a grateful smile. It was worth her coming here—her intuition was correct.
Henry did have something important to tell her.