Misterioso (18 page)

Hjelm knocked cautiously on the door and went in. Nyberg was gone. Holm was still sitting at her desk, listening to a tape and typing on her laptop. It was quite dark in the room. She looked up and took off the headset.

“Yes?” she said, her tone of voice much the same as when she had said “Let go of the tape recorder, judge,” a few hours earlier. It was late.

Hjelm put the pile of tapes on her desk and shook his head. “Hopeless,” he said. “But Franzén was an unexpected bonus.”

“That might have been stupid.”

“You went there to give him a scare.”

“He’s been supplying that son of his with money for drugs all these years, and he’s bailed him out so many times that it’s become a standing joke down at the jail. He’s never going to let him go through the Passageway of Sighs again.”

Hjelm perched on the edge of the desk. The Passageway of Sighs was the underground tunnel between police headquarters and the courthouse, through which prisoners with bowed heads had passed for almost a century.

“What a hell of a lot of work you’ve done,” he said.

“So did you ever manage to get beyond the clichés?” she asked.

“I’ve never felt so far removed from other people.”

“I know what you mean. New threads keep appearing that you can track down further; new shoots keep growing out of the stalks. But the stalks themselves remain inaccessible. Maybe a human being merely consists of a bunch of threads and external connections. Who knows?”

“In any case, that’s all that’s left.”

Kerstin Holm closed her laptop, stretched, and said into the dark, “You have a zit on your cheek.”

“It’s not a zit,” said Hjelm.

They came from the cellar.

They poured out of a plain gray delivery van and rushed soundlessly toward the stairs. They carried submachine guns.

They opened the door and wound their way up the stone steps in the insulated stairwell. They moved in complete silence.

At every landing the first man barricaded the door leading to the apartments. The elevator started up somewhere outside.

At the seventh landing they stopped for a moment to assemble. The man at the door threw it open, and they spread out among the apartment doors on the eighth floor.

They rang the bell on a door labeled “Nilsson.”

No one opened it. Not a sound was heard.

A rough cement cylinder was brought forward. Affixed to one end was a thick metal plate, and there were two handles on either side. Two men grabbed the handles, and on signal they rammed the cylinder against the door.

It shattered into pieces around the lock.

They forced their way into the apartment, once again without
making a sound. It was dark inside; all the blinds were drawn.

In the closest bed of the small two-room flat lay three little black children who had been awakened by the crash. Lying on mattresses on the floor were four more children. Five of the children had already started to cry.

They continued into the second room. On beds and mattresses lay four black adults, gaping at them. Half of the men stopped there with their guns raised. The rest made their way into the kitchen.

At the kitchen table sat a black man and a white pastor with cups of coffee in front of them. Paralyzed, they stared at the submachine guns, which were all pointed at them.

“What the hell!” said the pastor. Otherwise no one spoke.

Two well-built gentlemen in their forties wearing identical leather jackets came stomping into the kitchen, cast a quick glance at the pastor and the other man, then continued into the bedroom.

“Sonya Shermarke?” said the blonder of the men.

One of the women lying on the mattress on the floor sat up and looked at him in terror.

“Search her for weapons,” said Gillis Döös to his men.

“And drugs,” said Max Grahn.

Hjelm studied his face in the left rearview mirror and saw that the scaly red patch on his cheek had gotten bigger. He thought about skin cancer.

The sun was spreading a thick, illusory layer of summer as
the police car struggled up the steep incline of Liljeholm Bridge. Hornstull Beach and the cottages of the Tanto allotment gardens basked in the spring sunlight, and he wondered for an instant whether the minigolf course was open. In the other direction the little pier of the Liljeholm swimming area stuck out into the bay.

One beach is as good as another
, thought Hjelm nonsensically, flooring the gas pedal in order to make it over the crown of the bridge and head down toward Södermalm. He ended up in a rather chaotic line of cars that was forming down near the intersection. A shimmering metallic Saab 9000 had tried at the last minute to make it through before the light turned red, and ended up in the middle of the intersection while the traffic blared its horns for him to get out of the way.

“I told you we should have stayed on the Essinge road,” Gunnar Nyberg admonished as Hjelm leaned on the car horn.

He’d picked up Nyberg at his small, three-room bachelor apartment near Nacka Church.
Carpooling
, he thought as he squeezed the Mazda past the stranded Saab. It’d been a long time since anyone had used that term.

“This is a nicer route,” said Hjelm, swearing loudly at a bicyclist wobbling past.

“A nicer traffic jam, you mean,” said Nyberg. “They’re not exactly the same thing.”

The line was at a standstill nearly all the way to Långholmsgatan, and only close to Västerbron did the traffic ease a bit. Then they rolled past the square where the new Swedish jet had crashed one summer not so long ago, during the infamous air show for which no one was willing to take responsibility. Hjelm had actually been in attendance, along with his entire family; even Danne had enjoyed it. They were standing in the fourth row, almost directly across from City Hall, and saw the plane bank sharply to the left, watched as the pilot ejected, saw the
plane slowly tilt toward the ground, saw the cloud of smoke rising up, and listened as the absolute, dead silence morphed into a shocked and aggressive but liberating chatter. Yet another blow to the national self-confidence, he thought afterward, but during the entire episode he had remained utterly passive, devoid of all thought. After a moment Danne pulled away from his father’s arm, which Hjelm, out of a primeval but futile protective instinct, had placed around his son’s shoulders.

“Cool,” Danne had said.

“Cool,” said Gunnar Nyberg. He was looking first at the waters of Riddarfjärden to the right and then at the channel of Mariebergsfjärden to the left.

One bay is as good as another
, thought Hjelm nonsensically, and agreed with his colleague. It was a sight for the gods, as Erik Bruun would have said. Stockholm’s waters glittered faintly in the morning sun. Not a cloud in the sky, the building facades were brilliantly colored in the almost horizontal rays of light, and a few dazzling white excursion boats chugged between the flashes of sun on Lake Mälaren. Two sailboats were out early, with rainbow spinnakers. City Hall self-consciously swaggered with its three gleaming crowns. The vegetation already was starting to sprout at the bridge abutment on the Kungsholmen side, in Rålambshov Park, at Smedsuddsbadet, in Marieberg Park. The promenade down by Norr Mälarstrand was filling up with people out for a stroll.

Neither of them was upset when the traffic came to a complete halt on the very crest of the bridge.

Life was returning to the city, coming out of hibernation. With death in tow, thought Hjelm melodramatically.

“I have to go out and pick up some small-time thugs today,” said Nyberg. “Want to come along?”

Hjelm shifted into neutral and set the parking brake. He
glanced over at the gigantic figure sitting next to him who was making the Mazda tilt precariously to the right.

“Informants?” he asked.

“Partly. The police districts have gone through their files on snitches and other loose-lipped individuals and come up with several likely candidates.”

“With knowledge of the mafia?”

“About mafia murders in general and the Russians in particular. They’re possible candidates, but real long shots. And most likely it will be deeply and sincerely pointless.”

The traffic jam abruptly cleared. Västerbron swerved sharply, and the Mazda did as well. Together they passed over Rålambshov Park. Small clusters of people, for some reason not at work, were spread out over the grass, which was not yet particularly green.

“My leads have kind of dried up lately,” said Hjelm. “Maybe I can tag along with you. I need to track down something that thrives in the undergrowth. A Stake, actually.”

“Oi,” said Nyberg. “When’d you lose it?”

“Johan is his name. Johan Stake. And he’s not mine.”

They fought their way across the numerous intersecting streets and took the right-hand route around Kronoberg Park, and turned onto Polhemsgatan. Ahead of them loomed police headquarters. Hjelm parked the car a block away and walked alongside his giant of a colleague toward Stockholm’s version of the Taj Mahal, glittering harshly in the sunlight.

Hultin sat and stared at them, peering like an owl through his half-moon glasses.

“News from the higher-ups,” he said. “The cleaning woman who reported Carlberger’s death has been found. Sonya Shermarke,
a Somali who was due to be deported. She and her family were hiding with some relatives in Tensta, under the protection of the church. She was making a living by cleaning houses in Djursholm and getting paid under the table. Early this morning a unit from another law enforcement department located her and arrested everybody they found in the apartment, including seven children, six adults, and a pastor from Spånga Church. All of them have been held in custody for the past three hours, being strenuously interrogated by our colleagues.”

“Should I guess which other department we’re talking about here?” asked Söderstedt.

“No, you should not,” said Hultin calmly. “All right. I just had a talk with Sonya Shermarke. She speaks decent Swedish, so we managed without an interpreter. She arrived at the villa, as usual, around nine o’clock, took a quick look at the living room to see what needed to be done, and discovered Carlberger lying in a pool of blood. She called the police without identifying herself other than to say that she was the ‘cleaning woman.’ Then she panicked and immediately returned to her hiding place. Our colleagues are still trying to pump her relatives for information about where the Russian gun was hidden.”

He paused for a fraction of a second then continued.

“Right now we’ll take time only for a very, very brief summing up. In all likelihood a fourth victim is going to end up in a pool of blood in his living room, so we have a lot to do. Don’t forget that we have access to plenty of assistants, as a matter of fact the entire Stockholm police force. I shouldn’t have to remind you that you now have much greater powers than your rank would normally permit, but don’t try to do all the shitwork yourself. Make use of the foot soldiers as much as possible. And by the way, Mörner and his superiors will keep the press away from the unit, at least for the time being. First, does anyone have a likely victim for tonight?”

No one in Supreme Central Command stirred.

“Okay. If you exceed fifty words, I’m going to give you the ‘time’s up’ signal. Holm?”

“Tons of interviews, nothing serious. Minor leads to follow up on.”

“Exceptionally concise. Hjelm?”

Hjelm glanced down at his notebook. There he read a number of names: Lena Hansson, George Hummelstrand, Oscar Bjellerfeldt, Nils-Åke Svärdh, Bengt Klinth, Jakob Ringman, Johan Stake, Sonya X. He crossed out the last name. “Not a damned thing.”

“A little more detail, please.”

“Our three victims played golf together once, just the three of them, in the fall of 1990. If the killing spree does
not
continue, then that’s a lead. If Kerstin isn’t going to take on George Hummelstrand, the husband of Anna-Clara, who is friends with the widows, then I’d like to have a go at him.”

Holm shrugged ambivalently. Hjelm tried to understand what she meant by that.

“He’s one of the remaining links to the Mimir lead,” he went on, “along with a few others. Then there’s Strand-Julén’s pimp, Johan Stake. I was thinking of tagging along with Nyberg on his foray into the underworld in order to locate him. How many words?”

“Close to a hundred. But okay, go along with Nyberg. And now, Nyberg?”

“Spent all day yesterday working with the Stockholm police. We cross-checked various gray-zone files and came up with some potential Russian contacts, aside from those already convicted. I talked to several of those serving time in various prisons yesterday, but they weren’t very communicative. Hjelm and I will tackle the others today. Pubs, gyms, video stores, and so on.”

“That’s good. Norlander?”

The finicky Viggo Norlander gently rubbed his balding pate. “I’ve been in regular contact with customs about hits on post-Soviet smuggled goods but have essentially drawn a blank. It seems that it’s never possible to track down the sender, but I do have several addresses that I’m going to check out. I’ve also talked to the police in Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Tallinn regarding the mafia in general and the Russian-Estonian Viktor X gang in particular. It hasn’t been easy to find out anything, but all indications are that we’re dealing with a branch of the larger mafia, and that it’s already here in some form, in Stockholm. The most cooperative was an Inspector Kalju Laikmaa in Tallinn. I’ll be getting in touch with him again today, and I hope that—”

Hultin had put the palm of one hand perpendicular to the other to form a
T
.

Norlander fell silent.

“The economists?” said Hultin.

“Chief economist Söderstedt reporting,” said Söderstedt. “I’ll speak for Pettersson, Florén, and myself. Chavez can make his own report. We’ve located a number of interesting things in the terrible corporate mess that the three gentlemen have left behind. The lawyers should be rubbing their hands together: there’s enough to keep them busy for years to come. But the occasional irregularities that we’ve come across are of a different nature than crimes of violence. We’ll get back to you when we know more. All we can say now is that there are more connections among the empires of the three men than we originally thought.”