Misterioso (19 page)

Hultin was just about to make his “time’s up” sign when Söderstedt stopped talking of his own accord.

Chavez then took the floor. “There are three boards of directors that included all three victims during the late eighties and early nineties. I’m checking up on everyone who was a board
member at Ericsson, Sydbanken, and MEMAB during the same period. It’s quite a list. Right now I’m leaning toward MEMAB, partly because it had and still has the smallest board of directors, a purely mathematical-statistical distinction; partly because Paul’s golf lead is connected to MEMAB, which is a more gut-level distinction; and partly because membership on that particular board seems to have aroused a bit of competition, not to mention hostility. So to put it simply, I’m looking for enemies among the board members. So far nothing concrete, but a few nibbles at MEMAB.”

Chavex delivered the last two statements at breakneck speed since he was looking at Hultin’s hands in a
T
as he spoke.

“Let’s get busy, then.” Hultin removed his glasses and left the room through his special door.

On his way out, Hjelm stopped Kerstin Holm. “If you want to take Sir George, go ahead. I was out of line bringing that up. I guess I’m just obsessed with the Order of Mimir.”

“Fine,” she said curtly, then disappeared into room 303 just as Nyberg came out with his jacket in hand and gave Hjelm a wave. Like Laurel and Hardy, they trudged down the hallway and out into the sunshine.

It turned out to be a long and tiresome day. Hjelm drove Nyberg around, following a list of names in Nyberg’s notebook, which soon filled up with check marks. The names checked off consisted partly of a bunch of well-informed snitches, partly of shady characters with possible Russian contacts for access to cheap booze and drugs: pub owners who slept in the daytime, notorious pushers, steroid-popping gym owners, less-than-honest art dealers, owners of illegal gambling clubs. All of them well known to the police but impossible to catch.

Nyberg’s personality changed before Hjelm’s eyes. From one
second to the next the bass singer in the Nacka Church choir switched from a good-natured teddy bear to a furious grizzly, then back again when it was time to check off another name.

“How the hell do you do that?” asked Hjelm after check number eight, just as fruitless as the previous seven.

Gunnar Nyberg chuckled. “It’s all a matter of harnessing the steroids,” he said. He stopped laughing and stared out the car window with a faraway look in his eyes. After a moment he went on quietly.

“I was Mr. Sweden in 1973. I was twenty-three and tossed down all the pills that anyone handed to me, as long as they would increase my muscle mass. While I was on the Norrmalm police force from 1975 to ’77, I was charged three times for police brutality but managed, with the proper help, to wriggle my way out of it each time. The reports just disappeared, so to speak, in the bureaucratic process. I stopped doing serious bodybuilding, meaning with drugs, in 1977 after the last charge of assault and battery, which was a really close call. Even I could see that. I’m never going to get over it. For a time I struggled with sudden outbursts of anger. I left my wife and lost custody rights to my kids. But I conquered that angry shit. At least I think I did. But I still don’t know whether I pretend to be enraged, or whether it actually takes over for a moment. I don’t know. But it seems very controlled, don’t you think?”

Hjelm would never again hear Gunnar Nyberg say so much all at one time.

“Very,” he said. Nyberg never crossed the line. His violence was indirect. With almost three hundred pounds of potential assault and battery looming over them, most small-time thugs quickly turned submissive.

They continued all day long and even into the evening, traversing Stockholm and its environs. Hjelm’s main role was to drive, but he usually slipped his brief questions regarding pimps
into Nyberg’s interrogations. Just before three in the afternoon Hjelm had a brief phone conversation with Hultin, who had decided to skip the three o’clock meeting; there wasn’t anything new to discuss. Hjelm reported on the duo’s meager results:

The owner of a gym in Bandhagen had bought a large supply of anabolic steroids from a couple of “ferocious Russians” who called themselves Peter Ustinov and John Malkovich.

One of the more prominent drug pushers at Sergelplattan had once received a load of first-rate stuff, sent in plastic bags that had Russian letters printed on them. That was all they could get out of him before he started spitting up blood.

The owner of a small basement pub in Söder had made several purchases of Estonian vodka via a strange Russian pair calling themselves Igor and Igor.

A self-proclaimed art dealer in Järfälla had been offered big money from a “Russian-speaking gangster type” for a Picasso, then in the possession of the financier Anders Wall. He had declined the offer.

An amphetamine-babbling proprietor of a video store with private viewing booths in Norrmalm had cheerfully offered them some child porn films with Russian subtitles, even though they had shown him their police ID. He was arrested. He spoke Swedish with a Russian accent, but he wasn’t Russian. With thirty confiscated child porn movies, it wasn’t going to be difficult to get him arraigned quickly. They would be talking to him again later.

That was all they had come up with just before three
P.M
. on April 4.

Their search continued until seven. By then every name and address on Nyberg’s list had been checked off.

The latter half of their search was depressing in terms of the Russian mafia lead, since it brought in no results whatsoever. But after an utterly absurd marathon chase all the way from Tessin
Park to Värtahamn, they had caught up with a terrified dealer. They learned from him that the man who went by the name of Johan Stake had actually been baptized Johan Stake, and one of his many enterprises was a phone sex company with an 071 pay-by-the-minute number. The company was called JSHB, for Johan Stake Handelsbolag, and it was located in Bromma. They had big ads on the phone sex pages in all the tabloids.

When Hjelm and Nyberg drove back across the Liljeholm Bridge, the lights of the city were already turned on. Everything had settled into an eerie silence; they both noticed it, although it might have existed only in their own minds. They both knew that they would sleep badly.

They knew when and how, but not who or where.

That night another person was going to be murdered.

All during breakfast Paul Hjelm’s attention was focused on the cell phone that lay like a defective slab of cheese among the others on the kitchen table. Even though he didn’t take his eyes off it even once, he could feel the annoyed glances that Cilla directed at him, only to be dismissed over and over again. Finally her gaze grew so sharp that he was forced to look up.

“Maybe he hasn’t been found yet,” he said, his thoughts still on the cell phone.

But the look on her face wasn’t her usual give-me-some-attention-too expression. It had been transformed into something else, something he’d never seen before. A strangely lonely expression, a look of final surrender. So desolate. He was totally bewildered. A feeling rushed through him, the same one that
had stunned him as he listened to Kerstin Holm’s cassette tapes: the dreadful, unbearable feeling that we can never really reach anyone else. Never ever, not even those closest to us.

The horrifying sensation of absolute existential loneliness.

And now he saw this same emotion in Cilla’s eyes.

For a brief second they were paradoxically united by this overwhelming emotion.

When they finally managed to speak, they were both fully aware that what they said had nothing to do with what they really wanted to say. For
that
there were no words.

There at the kitchen table, on that ordinary morning, they shared, while being unable to communicate it in any way, an almost mystical experience that their very language was assigning them roles that they would never be able to escape.

Did those few minutes in the kitchen draw them closer together? Or had a final chasm opened up between them? It was impossible to say, but something decisive had taken place; they had looked right into each other’s naked loneliness.

And perhaps that was the most shocking development during that whole eventful week.

Nothing else happened. His cell phone didn’t ring once during the drive over to police headquarters, but Hjelm didn’t care. For the other members of the A-Unit, the day passed in an intensity of waiting, but the murder victim remained conspicuously absent, and Hjelm still didn’t care. The investigation seemed paralyzed by the broken pattern, and Hjelm was paralyzed too, in his utterly personal, utterly lonely way. Toward the end of the day Hultin tried to normalize the group’s mood as they all gathered around the table in Supreme Central Command.

“All right then,” he said calmly. “If there’s no undiscovered victim lying in some monumental living room somewhere in
the city, then we have to accept that we’re faced with two possibilities. One: for some reason the perp has changed his M.O.; or two: it’s over.”

Paul Hjelm didn’t hear what he said. He stayed sitting there until the others had gone home. All alone in Supreme Central Command, he wondered what
he
was going to find when he arrived home.

But what he came home to was a reasonably normal family life. The looks that he and Cilla exchanged would never be the same, and he never stopped wondering whether the return to normal was artificial, whether it might contain a ticking time bomb. Nevertheless, he regained a foothold on life after that strange day spent teetering on the edge of the void, even though he continued to wonder what sort of ground he was actually standing on, and his interest in the case rose back to normal levels.

But nothing new came to light. The case returned to normal, just as his life did. But in neither instance did the ground feel entirely trustworthy.

Almost a week after the first murder, Paul Hjelm, for once, was having lunch in the cafeteria at police headquarters. He was notorious for skipping lunch. But for once the whole core group was present at the same time: Söderstedt, Chavez, Norlander, Holm, Nyberg. The six of them formed a closed unit at one long table, and if they’d had the slightest tendency toward paranoia, they would have thought they were surrounded by hostile faces.

They did think they were surrounded by hostile faces.

“So here’s the thing,” said Söderstedt resolutely, rubbing his white cheek that showed almost no sign of stubble. In one hand
he held a forkful of gristly and fatty beef stew, dripping with gravy. “The Stockholm detectives hate us because we took the case away from them. The national cops hate us because Hultin chose a bunch of low-ranking outsiders for one of the most important investigations in the history of Swedish crime. And they all hate us because we’re deviants: a pale Finn, a blackhead, a west coaster, a fifth columnist, a Goliath meat mountain, and a media hero.”

“Fifth columnist?” said Viggo Norlander sullenly.

“So you recognized your place in the terrarium?”

“I’ve never betrayed the Stockholm detectives, and I never will.”

“You know what they say,” said Hjelm, hating the bite of stew that he had just put in his mouth. “Once you become part of the NCP, you never get out. Except in an appropriate casket.”

“Who the hell said that?” said Chavez.

“I don’t remember,” said Hjelm, surreptitiously spitting a lump of fat into his napkin.

Chavez turned to Söderstedt. “How’s it going with the apartment, Ärtan?”

Ärtan? A nickname?
Hjelm suddenly realized that he had missed out on a lot. When the hell did they have time for personal conversations?

He looked around. The time they’d spent together had been strictly of a professional nature. Who were these people really, with whom he was spending such obscenely long workdays? Again a chill rushed through him, from the cassette tapes and from his own kitchen in Norsborg: no one could ever understand anyone else. Way off in the distance he caught a glimpse, for the briefest moment, of Grundström.

He gave himself a shake.

So how was the camaraderie now? The work pace had
slacked off a bit, and he could see the members of the A-Unit as something other than cogs in the machine.

Jorge Chavez was a pleasant colleague; they worked well together. An ultraprofessional, modern police officer, well dressed in a sporty sort of way, solid, and above all young. If time allowed, Hjelm should be able to establish strong teamwork with him. Although from a personal point of view, they might be too different. Hjelm knew only that Jorge was single and that he’d recently moved out of one of the apartments available for temporary lodgings at police headquarters. He’d said nothing about his tenure with the Sundsvall police force. All Hjelm’s attempts to find anything out had fallen flat. He got the feeling that it had been a nightmarish period that Chavez preferred to forget. Sometimes Chavez seemed to think he’d landed in paradise.

Who else? Gunnar Nyberg, the former Mr. Sweden and bass singer in the Nacka Church choir, had almost become a friend. At any rate, they
carpooled
together. Hjelm liked that word; it made him happy. But when it came right down to it, he really didn’t know Nyberg either. Divorced after abusing his wife while taking steroids—wasn’t that how all the hints could be interpreted? And he hadn’t seen his children since they were very young. In reality, Nyberg lived for his singing. But in his own way he was also an exceptionally effective police officer, a model of potential assault and battery.

Viggo Norlander was someone Hjelm couldn’t get a handle on. A real stickler for detail, very old school. An arch-Stock-holmer. Seemed to like rules and regulations. Believed in the law books the way religious people believed in the Bible. Wore suits that had been elegant twenty years earlier but now merely smelled of dust and sweat. Tall but with a slightly sluggish body. Unattached. Getting a bit paunchy. Hard to get to know. Maybe there wasn’t anything inside to know.