Misterioso (29 page)

Was that her interpretation of what he wanted? Was this a wish fulfillment? His or hers?

Then she disappeared.

The next day he didn’t know whether it had really happened or not.

When Paul Hjelm woke up the following morning, it wasn’t morning at all. It was noon or even later, and nobody had looked for him. He wasn’t sure whether he should be more surprised than irritated. But the indecision ended abruptly as he found a note that had been slid under his hotel door. It said:

Thanks for yesterday? You were sleeping so sweetly when I left? That didn’t actually answer the question about whether she’d been in his room during the night. Everything could have just as well been played out inside his own imagination. He really couldn’t tell.

“Thanks for yesterday” could be referring to the dinner they’d had in the restaurant, and “You were sleeping so sweetly when I left” could mean that he hadn’t responded when she knocked on the door. And besides, how would she have gotten in? She didn’t have a key to his room. But maybe he hadn’t closed the door properly …

He hated not knowing; that was a solidly imprinted reflex. Yet at the same time there was something appealing about the uncertainty. Something inside him resisted having a definitive answer. And he had to settle for that.

For the time being.

He looked at the map and found himself across the street from Hackat & Malet. And it was open. Presumably the place also served lunch, so perhaps he’d be able to get hold of Hackzell
right away. The restaurant was quite small, and for all practical purposes the lunch rush was over—it was almost two o’clock. The premises contained a jukebox, several rifles hanging on the walls with their barrels crossed, a dartboard, advertising signs for various types of beer, and a couple of Andy Warhol posters. Rather conventional decor. The broad-shouldered man sporting a mustache behind the bar emanated such authority that Hjelm was convinced he had to be one of the owners, either Roger Hackzell or Jari Malinen.

It turned out to be Roger Hackzell himself.

Hjelm asked him about the cassette tape, trying to be as detailed as he could. He missed Kerstin’s and Jorge’s expertise. While Hackzell pondered his answer, Hjelm on impulse asked for a triple vodka, straight up. Hackzell peered in surprise at this police officer who was apparently a serious alcoholic, then poured him a big glass of venerable Swedish Absolut. Then he said, “I’ll go see if I can find that tape. I’ve still got some of those strange recordings that White Jim forced upon me. Just wait a sec.”

Hjelm picked up the glass and sniffed the contents suspiciously. The moment the last customers left the restaurant, he went over to their table, grabbed an empty Ramlösa bottle, and returned to the bar. He poured the vodka into the bottle, took a cork from a little basket on the counter, and stuck it in the mineral-water bottle, which he then slipped into his pocket.

After a moment Hackzell came back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t find it.”

Hjelm nodded, paid for the vodka, and went out into the sunshine.

He went over to the state liquor store and asked the sales clerk, “Is it possible to tell the difference between various types of vodka, or do they all taste the same?”

“I haven’t got a clue,” said the clerk, in a broad Småland accent. She looked puzzled.

“Could I speak to the manager?” He showed her his police ID. That was always the easiest way to avoid fuss.

A serious-looking middle-aged man wearing a suit came out to the counter. Hjelm repeated his question.

“I don’t really know,” said the man. “Vodka is the purest liquor available, with the least flavor. I would think the only thing that would make any difference would be the alcohol content.”

Hjelm thanked the manager and went back out to the street. He was very tired. He sat down on a park bench outside the store and closed his eyes.

Roger Hackzell had looked scared shitless when Hjelm showed his ID and mentioned the NCP; that much he was sure of. When he started talking about the tape, his fear had decidedly diminished.

When Hjelm opened his eyes again, he found sitting next to him on the bench a very young wino, a man that he might almost have mistaken for a buff bodybuilder. He was greedily eyeing Hjelm’s bulging jacket pocket.

“Have you got something there?” said the muscular alcoholic in the purest Småland dialect.

“Yes,” said Hjelm. “One question first. You’re an expert, right? Is it possible to tell the difference between various types of vodka, or do they all taste the same?”

“After I’ve had half a bottle, I can start concentrating on the taste,” said the young alcoholic slyly. “I’m actually a connoisseur of hard liquor.”

“If I buy you half a bottle …”

“Then I’d be happy to undertake a more sophisticated taste test.”

This man didn’t seem the usual blabbering alcoholic, so Hjelm went back inside the liquor store and bought a half bottle of Explorer. The bodybuilder-wino downed the entire contents in six minutes and afterward looked extremely alert.

“We’re the A-Unit,” said Hjelm sleepily while the man drank.

“Yes, we certainly are.” The man set down the empty Explorer bottle. “Now let’s see about your taste test.”

Hjelm took the Ramlösa bottle out of his pocket and pulled out the cork. The steroid-pumped wino sniffed at it, shook the bottle, took a gulp, and let it swirl around in his mouth like a professional wine taster.

“Diluted,” he said. “Otherwise the usual strength.”

“Do you mean that a stronger vodka has been watered down?”

“That’s right,” said the man, taking another swallow. “Finer than Explorer, that much is obvious.”

“It came out of an Absolut bottle.”

“No, no. It’s definitely not Absolut. This one has a more direct kick. Not Swedish at all. Or Finnish. And absolutely not that American junk, Smirnoff. No, this is genuine East European vodka with a touch of a chemical factory. Probably 120 proof. Diluted, of course.”

“Do you really know what you’re talking about or are you just blathering until you’ve drunk the whole bottle?”

The dedicated alcoholic looked immensely offended. “We can just drop the whole thing, if you want,” he said morosely.

“Can you tell me anything more?”

“No. Russian or Lithuanian or Estonian, 120 proof. Plus a lot of water.”

Surprised, Hjelm thanked him and went straight over to the police station. It took awhile before he was able to speak with an officer in charge. The man who came to meet him introduced
himself as Detective Inspector Jonas Wrede, and he didn’t look older than twenty. He was blond, well built, and provincial.

And very computer literate, as it turned out.

“NCP,” said Wrede dreamily after they’d sat down in his office. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the Power Murders, does it?”

“With what?”

“The Power Murders. That’s the label that the NCP has assigned to those big-shot murders in Stockholm.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” said Hjelm in surprise.

“It’s in the paper. Today’s press conference with the commissioner, Waldemar Mörner, and Inspector Algot Nylin.”

“Who the hell is Inspector Algot Nylin?” exclaimed Hjelm, realizing that he didn’t know a single thing about the media and the power game surrounding the A-Unit’s investigation. The only thing he paid any attention to was his work. In the power brokers’ plus column, at any rate, was the fact that they’d managed to pull off the feat of largely keeping the A-Unit’s existence out of the media for a month and a half.

“Does this have something to do with that?” Jonas Wrede persisted. “We haven’t had anyone from the NCP here since that incident up at the bank in Algotsmåla. So are you here because of the Power Murders?”

“I’m not authorized to divulge that,” said Hjelm, hoping that the authoritative tone of his voice would help, by indirectly confirming the fact.

And it did. Wrede straightened up.

“What do you know about the gentlemen who own Hackat & Malet here in town?” asked Hjelm. “Roger Hackzell and Jari Malinen.”

“Offhand, I’d say that they’re clean,” replied Wrede pensively. “At least I can’t recall any incidents.”

A favorite word of his, thought Hjelm and let his mind float into a better world while Wrede consulted his computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. In the better world there were women, both fair and dark, who changed places with each other.

“Yup, both clean,” said Wrede, with a certain smugness. “No incidents. Not since they’ve been in Växjö, that is.”

“What about the big national database?” asked Hjelm without letting go the women’s faces he was seeing in his mind.

“Well, that’ll take a little longer …”

“Do I need to keep reminding you of the priorities here?” said Hjelm, even though so far he hadn’t said a thing about priorities. Wrede looked impressed and began typing. Then they waited for a while. Wrede looked as if he wanted to say something; Hjelm looked as if he would never say another word. He was quite simply gone, beyond all hope.

Finally they received a response.

“No,” said Wrede. “Nothing. Both are clean. Although there’s an asterisk next to Malinen’s name. A cross-reference to Finland. A possible incident, perhaps?”

“Is there some way to find out?”

Wrede’s face lit up. A higher-up from the NCP was taking note of his computer expertise.

The higher-up from the NCP yawned loudly.

“It’s possible that we can get in via the Nordic cooperative database,” said Wrede enthusiastically. “Not many people know how to do that,” he added.

Hjelm thought he should offer some words of encouragement, but he didn’t. He hadn’t really returned to the real world yet.

Wrede began typing again. If his eminent colleague was daydreaming, Wrede was definitely in his element.

“Malinen, Jari, 6–13–52. Oh yes, there’s an incident, all right:
smuggling. Let’s see now: yes, 1979 in Vasa, Finland. Convicted of smuggling goods. I’ll see if I can find any more details.”

“Fucking great,” said Hjelm.

“All right, here’s something that looks like records of a trial. Malinen was found guilty of smuggling on February 12, 1979, along with Vladimir Ragin: they had smuggled booze from Leningrad, as it was then called. Both got eighteen months in a minimum-security prison; Malinen was released after twelve months, while Ragin served the full sentence. Then there’s a list of names: the judge, K. Lahtinen; lay assessors, L. Hälminen, R. Lindfors, B. Palo; defense attorney, A. Söderstedt; prosecutors, N. Niskanpää, H. Viiljanen; witness for the defense—”

“What?” Hjelm dived into the ice-cold water of this world. “What was the name of the defense attorney?”

“A. Söderstedt,” repeated Wrede.

“Can you look up more about him?”

“I’ll see if I can find anything in the legal society’s registry, or someplace like that.” Wrede looked like a fourteen-year-old hacker who’d just gotten into the Pentagon.

Another period of waiting. Then a liberating little ping.

“Arto Söderstedt, 1–12–53, law student at Åbo University 1972 to ’75; finished a five-year degree in three; hired by Vasa’s most respected law firm of Koivonen & Krantz right after graduating in 1975, at the age of twenty-two. For several months in 1980, the firm was actually called Koivonen, Krantz & Söderstedt. He became a partner at the age of twenty-seven. By the end of 1980, the firm was again known as Koivonen & Krantz. After 1980 there is no Söderstedt in any list of attorneys.”

Hjelm laughed long and loud. Scandinavia was such a small world.

Wrede looked at him skeptically. Was this man really what he purported to be? The Hallunda hero? The Power Murders investigator?

“Okay.” Hjelm wiped away tears of laughter. He was back. “Damn it if I’m not thinking of recommending you to my bosses. You really know your way around a computer. I’m very grateful.”

Detective Inspector Jonas Wrede stood at the window and watched as Hjelm headed off toward Hackat & Malet. His face was shining with unrealized ambitions.

There was a mirror in a display window on the main walking street that cut through Växjö’s downtown area. Hjelm caught sight of himself and stopped. The scaly, red blemish had grown even bigger. It now almost covered his cheek. It looked like a question mark.

Hackat & Malet had closed for the night, but Roger Hackzell was still there, drying glasses like a traditional bartender. Hjelm tapped lightly on the windowpane. The space around Hackzell seemed to freeze, but he managed to skate over to the door and open it.

“A triple vodka,” said Hjelm when he came inside.

Hackzell stared at him, returned to the bar, and poured another glass from the Absolut bottle.

Hjelm sniffed at the clear liquid. “No,” he said simply. “This isn’t Absolut Vodka from Vin & Sprit. I’d guess that it’s diluted 120 proof Estonian from the Liviko distillery.”

Hackzell’s face fell. It seemed to be lying on the counter, gasping for breath, as Hjelm completed his attack.

“You’re a first-time offender and presumably basically clean. That’s why you’re reacting so strongly. Malinen would probably have been significantly more cool-headed, with that record of his. But I’m not here to get you or Malinen. Answer my questions correctly, and you won’t lose the restaurant and end up in jail. Think carefully before you answer, because I know a lot more than you thought, and if I discover even the smallest lie in
what you tell me, I’ll arrest you and take you back to Stockholm for a proper interrogation. Is that understood?”

The man with no face nodded mutely.

“Where did the vodka come from?”

“There are a couple of vendors who show up now and then. Russians. They call themselves Igor and Igor.”

A peculiar calm came over Hjelm. He’d guessed right. He could even allow himself to daydream a bit during the rest of the interrogation.