Misterioso (5 page)

But they hadn’t. They were still cloaked in darkness.

A silhouette.

“Look deep into your heart, Hjelm.”

He is sitting motionless in the darkness, which isn’t truly dark. Through the balcony door light is seeping in from the streetlights below the luxury apartment. If he turned his head, he would see both of the big museum buildings resting quietly in the faint light issuing from inside. But he doesn’t turn his head. The silence is absolute. His gaze is directed unwaveringly across the floor of the large living room toward the half-open double doors leading to the hallway. He has already surveyed the space. A tiled stove and a fireplace in the same room. Next to the fireplace a dull-black big-screen TV and the stacked units of a VCR and stereo. On the floor are three artistically hand-woven
rya
rugs, a dining table with two place settings, and a five-piece oxblood leather sofa group. On the walls hang genuine examples of modern Swedish art, three paintings by Peter Dahl, two by Bengt Lindström, two by Ola Billgren. Enthroned on the mantelpiece above the fireplace is one of Ernst Billgren’s big mosaic ducks. A total of seven tile stoves on both floors of the apartment. If the previous living room was ostentatious, this one is thoroughly stylish.

He sits in the same position for over an hour.

Then he hears the front door open. There is a fumbling with keys. He knows that the man is alone. The man swears softly out in the hallway, a noticeable but not extreme intoxication. More like the inebriation of a man who knows exactly where to find the point of greatest possible enjoyment and how to keep himself there all evening. He hears the man take off his shoes and methodically put on his slippers; he even thinks he can hear how the man unknots his tie so that it hangs loose, draped down the front of his silk shirt. The man unbuttons his jacket.

The man pulls open one side of the double doors, already ajar and almost ten feet tall. He enters the living room, stumbles out of one slipper, swears, bends down, and manages to put it back on, then straightens up again and catches sight of him through the pleasurable haze. He tries to get a fix on him.

“What in holy purple perdition!” says the man pompously.

Famous last words.

He raises the gun from his lap and fires two rapid, silent shots.

The man stands still for a moment, stock still.

Then he sinks to his knees and leans forward.

He stays there for ten seconds, then topples over sideways.

He places the gun on the glass table and takes a deep breath.

In his mind he sees a list. Mentally he checks off a name.

Then he goes over to the stereo and turns it on. He lets the cassette door open and the tape slide down and the door close again, and the first piano notes glide through the room. The fingers wander up and down, the hands move up and down. Then the saxophone comes in and wanders alongside the piano. The same steps, the same little promenade. When the sax cuts loose and dances and leaps, and the piano starts to spread out the gentle chords in the background, the tweezers pull the first bullet out of the wall. He drops it into his pocket, then lifts the tweezers to the second hole—and waits. A couple of small drum rolls, and then that strange little Arabian-sounding twitter from the sax, a couple of seconds of Oriental digression. The piano vanishes. Sax and bass and drums now. He can see the pianist swaying as he waits. Yeah, u-hoo. He’s waiting too. The tweezers are raised.

The saxophone keeps climbing toward the heights, faster and faster. Ai. Is the sax player himself producing those little cries that punctuate the crescendo?

And at that moment, with the applause, the audience murmuring,
the transition from sax to piano—at that moment he yanks out the second bullet. At that very moment. Splinters fall out of the wall. The flattened lump drops into his pocket to join the first one.

The piano replaces the sax, starting off with a few meandering intervals, apparently fumbling. Then it cuts loose from the established structures. The flights are freer and freer, more and more beautiful. Now he can hear the beauty. Inside himself. Not just as … a memory.

The bass disappears. The piano is meandering again, just like at the beginning. He should really be able to teach himself to understand this. The sax is now following.

The last repetition.

The applause, whistling.

He takes a small bow.

He will never grow tired of listening to it.

On the first day of April, Paul Hjelm was sitting in the interrogation room, ceaselessly rubbing his hands together. The clock on the wall showed 10:34. Were they going to let him sweat for a while? Or was the whole thing an April Fool’s joke?

He no longer knew what to say. He had shut down. Maybe Grundström was right. Maybe they really did need to set an example. He knew the attitudes that prevailed in the station; he was part of them, they were part of him.

The door opened quietly. He pictured the apologetic expression that Grundström would have on his face. He couldn’t tell whether it would be sincere.

“I’m sorry, Hjelm,”
Grundström would say.
“We made the decision earlier this morning. Your letter of resignation has to be on Superintendent Bruun’s desk no later than three this afternoon. Since you’re leaving the force voluntarily, there naturally won’t be any question of severance pay or unemployment compensation.”

Instead the face of a stranger appeared in the doorway.

The man studied him for a few seconds. He was in his late fifties, quite ordinary looking, well dressed, clean shaven, and bald. His nose was enormous. He looked at Hjelm awhile longer, his gaze searching, neutral.

Then he stretched out his hand. “I’m Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin. I understand that you’ve been waiting for someone else.”

“Paul Hjelm,” said Paul numbly.

So that’s how it was done. Their boss had to do it. The top brass, the appropriate chain of command. It was hard to imagine anyone higher up than Grundström. So this was what he looked like, the more or less secret boss of Internal Affairs.

“Where’s Grundström?” Hjelm managed to say. He didn’t recognize his own voice.

“Ah,” said Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin. “Nothing but a memory.”

He pulled copies of Stockholm’s two morning papers out of his briefcase and held them up, one in each hand. The ten-year-old photo adorned the front page of both. The headline in
Dagens Nyheter
said,
HOSTAGE DRAMA IN HALLUNDA
, with the subhead
POLICE OFFICER RESCUES THREE
.
Svenska Dagbladet
wrote,
THE HERO OF NORSBORG
, and underneath,
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR PAUL HJELM SAVES THE DAY
.

It was a terrible mockery, staged by a seriously sadistic director.

“Have you seen these?” asked Hultin.

“No.” His response was meant to be brief and concise, but instead it came across as … curt.

Hultin folded up the newspapers: “These headlines should never have occurred. Don’t get me wrong, I’m
pleased
that they read the way they do. It means that we still don’t have any leaks. The fact is that something much, much bigger is going on in the city.”

At the moment confusion felt like Paul Hjelm’s middle name.

Hultin set a pair of half-moon reading glasses on his capacious schnozz and leafed through a dossier with Hjelm’s name clearly visible on the brown cover.

“How were you able to spend so many years in this tough district without leaving any traces behind? No complaints filed against you, no commendations, nothing. I’ve seldom seen such a blank sheet in a file this old. What have you been doing here, anyway?”

Hjelm sat as if frozen. Hultin gave him an inquisitive look. He probably wasn’t expecting an answer. But he got one.

“During these years I’ve raised and supported a family. Not all cops could say the same.”

The man with the big nose bellowed, directing the laugh both at Hjelm and at himself. Then he laid his cards on the table.

“Early this morning an entirely new unit was created within the National Criminal Police. For the moment it has been assigned a ridiculous name: the A-Unit. You might say it’s structured to be the antithesis of the Palme Assassination Investigation Squad. No big names, no constant changing of bosses, no fussing around with hierarchies. It’s going to be a completely new type of unit—small, compact, composed of people from the outside; it will broaden the scope of the Criminal Police while at the same time compressing it a bit. Young officers, experienced and highly skilled, from all over Sweden will form its core.

“I’m in charge of the group, and I want you to join. When the media gets hold of the story, we’re going to need the goodwill of the press that your actions attracted. I also happen to think that you did a damned good job. I’ve taken some of the material from Internal Affairs—liberated it, so to speak. This has been given top priority, and since the National Police Board is involved, even Internal Affairs has to kiss the ring.”

“I was about to get fired just a few seconds ago.”

Hultin gave him a searching glance. “Forget about that. It’s ancient history. The question now is whether you’re up to joining this well-oiled machine. Overtime hours are going to be far more extensive than the normal work schedule. You’re looking a little worn out.”

Hjelm cleared his throat. For a moment he thought he actually understood what it felt like to be happy. “These past few days haven’t exactly been a piece of cake. But give me the job, and damn it, I’ll work my butt off. Literally.”

“Not too literally, I hope,” said Hultin, pausing a moment. “We need some of that initiative that you demonstrated at the immigration office. But not too much of it. Above all, it’s important to create a functioning group made up of individuals with imagination and conscience. Grundström’s notes and tapes indicate that you have just such a personality hidden somewhere behind the blank pages that have filled your dossier all these years. I think this is an opportunity for you to allow it to blossom. There’s also a chance that you’ll get totally burned out.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Serial murders. But not the usual kind, with little boys or girls or prostitutes or foreign campers. No, this is a whole new type, and by all indications, we’ve only seen the beginning.”

“Politicians?”

Hultin smiled faintly and shook his head. “No. Good guess, though. No, this has to do with what we call the titans of business.

On the night before you so heroically stormed into the immigration office, a man by the name of Kuno Daggfeldt was shot to death at his home in Danderyd. Even then, there were signs that this wasn’t going to be the end of it. By all indications a cold-blooded killing that was either a professional hit or committed by someone beyond desperate, so to speak. We now have two situations that exhibit a remarkable number of similarities. Daggfeldt leaves behind two large corporations, a wife, two children, and six homes both in Sweden and abroad. Late last night it happened again. This time on Strandvägen, in one of the slightly smaller luxury apartments, with a mere eight rooms, plus balcony. There Director Bernhard Strand-Julén was killed in precisely the same fashion. Two shots to the head. As with Daggfeldt’s killing, the bullets were dug out of the wall with pliers or large tweezers. Not a single trace of evidence left behind. An ordinary nine-millimeter handgun. It’s impossible to be more specific, except that we’re talking about real firepower: all four bullets passed straight through the skulls of the victims. So far we know nothing about how the perpetrator managed to get in or out. Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén have countless personal connections, and every single one will need to be followed up. They moved in the same social circles, were members of many of the same associations, sailed with the same sailing club, played golf at the same clubs, were members of the same fraternal order, sat on many of the same boards, et cetera, et cetera. On the surface nothing odd or abnormal.”

“Forming a special group is a rather extreme measure. How does the Stockholm police department feel about being pushed aside?”

“We don’t know yet. We’ll continue to cooperate with them. And of course it’s an extreme measure. But the key players in the Swedish business world are being decimated. And we have some nasty indications that organized crime might be involved.
An utter professionalism that I’ve never seen the likes of before in Sweden. If we’re smart, we’ll jump on this right away. For a change.” Hultin paused. “Of course it’s a bit unfortunate to start up a new special unit on the first of April.”

“Better than on Friday the thirteenth, I assume.”

Hultin smiled faintly and then cast a quick glance at his watch. Hjelm could tell that the man was under a great deal of pressure, but he showed little sign of it. Hultin stood and shook hands with Hjelm.

“First meeting this afternoon at three o’clock, at police headquarters, the new building. Entrance at Polhemsgatan thirty. What do you say?”

“I’ll see you there,” said Hjelm.

“All right then,” said Hultin. “Now I’ve got to head over to Gamla Värmdövägen to pick up a certain Gunnar Nyberg from the Nacka district. Do you know him? Damned fine officer. Like you.”

Hjelm shook his head. He knew almost no one outside the Huddinge police force.

On his way out the door, Hultin said, “So you’ve got less than four hours to say goodbye to your colleagues for the foreseeable future and collect all your things. That ought to be enough time, shouldn’t it?”

He disappeared but came back just as Hjelm had sat down and taken a deep breath.

“I assume you realize that for the moment this is all top, top secret.”

“Of course,” said Paul Hjelm. “I realize that.”

His first thought was to call Cilla to tell her what was happening, but he changed his mind. He thought about all the overtime hours and about the summer and his vacation, which would
most likely be canceled, and about the Dalarö cabin that they had rented at such a good price for the whole summer. But first he wanted to enjoy the moment.