The Blinded Man (29 page)

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 off-licence and asked the sales assistant, ‘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 assistant, 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 flavour. 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 shop 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 muscular 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 off-licence and bought a half-bottle of Explorer. The bodybuilder-wino downed the entire contents in six minutes and afterwards 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 a while 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, realising 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 authorised 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 favourite 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 of 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, 13–6–52. 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 12 February 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; defence lawyer, A. Söderstedt; prosecutors, N. Niskanpää, H. Viiljanen; witness for the defence—’

‘What?’ Hjelm dived into the ice-cold water of this world. ‘What was the name of the defence lawyer?’

‘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 somewhere like that.’ Wrede looked like a fourteen-year-old hacker who’d just got into the Pentagon.

Another period of waiting. Then a liberating little ping.

‘Arto Söderstedt, 12–1–53, 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 lawyers.’

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

Wrede looked at him sceptically. 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 towards Hackat & Malet. His face was shining with unrealised ambitions.

There was a mirror in a display window on the main walking street that cut through Växjö’s central 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.

‘Do you know anything more about them?’

‘No, they just show up. For safety’s sake, they don’t have any schedule or specific delivery dates.’

‘Haven’t you seen the sketches of Alexander Bryusov and Valery Treplyov in the newspapers? They’ve been on all the news-stand placards too.’

Roger Hackzell blinked in surprise. ‘They were? In that case, the sketches must not look much like them.’

‘The caption clearly states their names, Igor and Igor.’

‘I didn’t read anything about them, just saw the placards. It was all about the Power Murders in Stockholm, you know. That didn’t have anything to do with them. I didn’t know there was any sort of connection. I swear it.’

‘All right. But now at least you realise how important this is. You’re already mixed up in it. There are police officers who would lock you up for good just because of the link between you and Igor and Igor. You get me?’

‘Oh, dear God,’ said Roger Hackzell, sounding like a real native of Göteborg.

‘So now let’s talk about the important thing. The cassette tape.’

‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ Hackzell blurted out with a wild look in his eyes. ‘Damn it to hell! That’s right! The last
time
they were here, they took some of my old tapes. Partial payment, they said. Real tough customers. I gave Jari hell for dragging us into their fucking mafia deals. Are they the ones who did it? It wouldn’t surprise me at all.’

‘And you don’t know anything else about their Swedish or Russian or Baltic connections?’

‘For me they’re just a couple of ruthless fucks who show up once a month or so and more or less force us to buy their booze. I’m telling you, I don’t know anything else.’

‘When were they last here?’

‘It was quite a while ago, thank God. In February. I thought that I was finally rid of them. And now this—’

‘And it was back then, in February, that they took the tapes?’

‘Yes.’ Hackzell leafed feverishly through a book that he took out of a drawer. ‘It was on February the fifteenth. Early in the morning.’

‘Where’s Jari Malinen now?’

‘In Finland. His mother just died.’

Hjelm took the cassette tape out of his pocket and handed it to Hackzell. ‘Is this it?’

Hackzell studied it closely. ‘It looks like it. White Jim copied a whole bunch at the same time back in ’87 and ’88. It was a Maxell tape.’

‘Okay, do you have a cassette player? I want you to listen carefully to a tune and try to recall if you can associate it with anything in particular. Anything at all.
Maybe
something that happened here in the bar. Calm yourself, listen and try to think.’

The introductory ascending piano figure of ‘Misterioso’ glided out into the restaurant. Hackzell tried to concentrate, but seemed mostly to be in shock, as if his world were crumbling. Hjelm watched him intently, trying to picture him as the ice-cold murderer in the living rooms of the financiers. He couldn’t.