The Blinded Man (6 page)

‘So, now I’ve produced yet another bigwig at the NCP,’ he said with immeasurable conceit. ‘And you know that once you’re in over there, they’ll never let you out. Except in a casket. Stamped NCP.’

Hjelm removed his ID badge and service weapon from Bruun’s desk and fastened the shoulder holster around his chest.

‘“Another bigwig”?’ he asked.

‘Hultin was here in the late Seventies. Didn’t you know? A hell of a football player. Wooden-leg Hultin. The worst centre-back in the city. Absolutely no sense of the
ball
. Instead he specialised in head-butting and splitting open eyebrows.’

Hjelm felt a faint sensation of warmth creep through his veins. It was not altogether unpleasant. ‘He said he’d read about me in the papers. Lots of goodwill in the media.’

‘Oh yeah, Hultin the newspaper hound.’

‘Are you still in contact with him?’

‘Occasionally I give him a call to remind him of old favours, sure. I think he still plays. On the senior team of the Stockholm police sports league. When he has time, which isn’t often. I can just picture him splitting open the eyebrows of his semi-retired colleagues. That’d be a sight for the gods.’

Hjelm decided to ask him straight out. ‘It didn’t happen to be you who …?’

Bruun dropped the divine mental image of grey eyebrows gushing with blood and gave Hjelm a shrewd look. ‘It was pure luck that they were setting up a new group right now. The top, top secret A-Unit.’

‘There aren’t many ways to get around Internal Affairs.’

‘You have to take what you can get. Wooden-leg is always in the back of my mind.’ Bruun took one last puff on his cigar, his mouth shaped like the hose of a vacuum cleaner. ‘Just do a good job, all right? I don’t want to have to go through this shit again.’

7

THE A-UNIT HAD
its first meeting in one of the smallest conference rooms in the enormous complex of police headquarters, located within the rectangle formed by Kungsholmsgatan, Polhemsgatan, Bergsgatan and Agnegatan. The original headquarters building, constructed in 1903, still boasts dreams of power; its yellowish expanse faces Agnegatan. It is the central hub of the Stockholm police. The opposite side of the rectangle faces Polhemsgatan, mirroring the entirely different but equally absurd architectural ideal of the Seventies. That’s where the offices of the National Police Board are located.

And it was there that Paul Hjelm was headed a few minutes before three
P.M
. He was expected. A guard showed him on a map near the entrance how to find his way to the small conference room. Hjelm wasn’t paying attention, and so he arrived a bit late.

Five people were already in the room, sitting at a table and looking almost as bewildered as he felt. As
unobtrusively
as possible, he slipped into a vacant chair. As if on cue, a blond man in his fifties wearing a serious expression and a custom-tailored suit appeared. He took up position at the head of the table, placing his right hand on the telescope-like arm of the overhead projector. He glanced around, looking for a face that he didn’t see. He left the room again, clearing his throat. Just as he closed the door behind him, the door on the other side of the room opened, and in came Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin. He too glanced around, looking for a face that he didn’t see.

‘Where’s Mörner?’ he asked.

The constituents of what was evidently the proposed A-Unit stared in confusion at one another.

‘Who’s Mörner?’ asked Hjelm, not offering much help.

‘A man was just here,’ said the group’s only female member, a dark-haired woman from Göteborg who was in the process of acquiring the first wrinkles on her face, but clearly didn’t give a damn. ‘But he left.’

‘That sounds like him,’ said Hultin flatly. He sank heavily onto a chair and set a pair of half-moon reading glasses on his big nose. ‘Waldemar Mörner, the commissioner of the National Police Board, and the official boss of this group. He was planning to deliver a little welcome speech. Oh well, maybe he’ll come back.’

Hjelm had a hard time picturing this distinguished and efficient man with the controlled, neutral voice as a vicious soccer player.

‘Okay, you all know what this is about,’ Hultin continued.
‘You
are now members of what, for lack of a better term and for lack of much else, is going to be called the A-Unit. You answer directly to the National Criminal Police, or NCP, but you’ll be working closely with the Stockholm police, primarily with their homicide department, which is housed in the Kungsholmsgatan wing, around the corner from here. Stockholm is the scene of the crime, at least for the moment. All right then.

‘The point is that all of you, regardless of rank, are in a position of higher authority than those who will be assisting you, whether it’s the Stockholm police or the NCP. This case has top priority, as they say on TV. Since you’ve been hand-picked from districts all over the country, I don’t think you know each other, so let’s start by introducing ourselves. As you know, my name is—’

The door was flung open, and the man they’d seen before entered again, out of breath and ill tempered.

‘There you are, Hultin. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

‘Is that so?’ said Hultin. ‘Well, here you have your A-Unit.’

‘Good, very good,’ Waldemar Mörner said impatiently. He took up the same position as before, standing at the head of the table and leaning one hand on the raised section of the overhead projector. ‘So, gentlemen. And madam. You are a hand-picked unit consisting of six individuals – five men and one woman – and I assume that Detective Superintendent Hultin has already informed you of your assignment. So now you’ve got to
get
busy. It’s of the utmost importance to the security of this nation that you stop this insane serial killer before Sweden loses all of its leading citizens. You, and you alone, can end this rampage through the country’s streets. Yes, that’s right. Yes, indeed. I can see that you are all young and ambitious, fully aware of what’s at stake, and raring to take on this task. So let the game begin. May the guardian angel of police officers offer you protection.’

He left the room at the same whirlwind pace as he had arrived. Several jaws that had dropped open during his speech were now firmly back in place.

Jan-Olov Hultin closed his eyes and reached over his glasses to rub the corners of his eyes. ‘All right, so now everybody knows what this is about,’ he said calmly. It took a second before smiles began to appear around the table. It would take much longer before they fully understood Hultin’s subtle sense of humour. ‘Let’s continue from where we left off. My name is Jan-Olov Hultin, and I’ve worked here for a number of years, often directly under the former, nationally known boss, whose name we no longer mention. They’re just about to appoint a successor, with the new title of National Criminal Director, a title that carries the status of director-general. Gone are the police titles of the past. So why don’t you introduce yourselves now? Moving clockwise.’

This abrupt transition caused more confusion. Finally a balding, rather stout man in his early fifties spoke up. He was sitting on the far right in the small, bare conference room. He tapped his pen lightly as he spoke.

‘Yes, well, my name is Viggo Norlander, and I’m the only one here who has worked on this case from the very beginning. So I’ve been transferred directly from the Stockholm police criminal division around the corner. You might say that I’m the one who has travelled the shortest route to get here. I also see that I’m presumably the oldest one present, except for Mr Jan-Olov, of course.’

Hultin nodded slightly, without changing expression. They clearly knew each other well.

Next to Norlander sat the woman.

‘I’m Kerstin Holm. As you can no doubt already hear, I’ve been imported directly from the North Sea coast. I’ve worked in the Göteborg criminal division all my adult life, and even before that.’

Then came the youngest and shortest member of the team, a dark-haired young man who couldn’t be much over thirty. He spoke with great clarity.

‘My name is Jorge Chavez, and until yesterday I was the only “black-head” cop in the entire Sundsvall police district. I’m leaving behind a real void, believe me. Apparently all the minorities have to be represented here. Including heroes, I see.’

He cast a meaningful glance at Hjelm, who sat next to him. Hjelm blinked a few times before attempting to speak. Off in the background he saw the shadow of a smile cross Hultin’s lips.

‘I’m here because of a foolhardy act and not because of some heroic deed, and we’ll just have to see whether this assignment is meant to be a punishment or a reward.
My
name is Paul Hjelm, and I’m from the Huddinge police. I’m sure you haven’t missed the charming photograph from my youth that’s been plastered all over the media the past few days.’

Quite a decent response, considering the circumstances
, he thought, though he was sweating so much afterwards that he missed part of the next introduction.

The man on his left looked very Finnish. He appeared to be several years older than Hjelm, who immediately thought about Martti Vainio, the famed long-distance runner from Finland who had ended up testing positive for drugs and then became a conservative politician. The man’s accent was minimal, but still noticeable, compared to Chavez’s complete lack of accent.

‘Arto Söderstedt, your typical Finnish buffoon,’ he said laconically. ‘Flown here from Västerås early this morning in the NCP boss’s private jet.’

Then there was only one man remaining, a huge guy wearing slovenly clothes, muscular, but also with the rolls of fat often left by anabolic steroids when not combined with regular workouts. Hjelm tried not to draw any conclusions based on this initial observation.

‘I’m Gunnar Nyberg from the Nacka police,’ he said. They waited to hear something more, but nothing came.

Hultin took the floor again. ‘We have five offices at your disposal: my office, this – what should we call it? – conference room, where we’ll have our meetings. And three other offices. That means you’ll have to share rooms, so you’re going to be working in teams of two for a while.
That’s
nothing new. I suggest the following pairs: Norlander and Söderstedt in room 302; Holm and Nyberg in room 303; Hjelm and Chavez in room 304. In each office you’ll find two desks, two phones, an intercom, two mobile phones and a fully equipped computer system. You’ll find me hunkered down in room 301, and this is of course room 300. On each desk you’ll find a file folder with a complete rundown of the case. With these administrative details now out of the way, I’ll ask Norlander to present a summary of what’s far more important, meaning the details relating to the police investigation. I’ll hand out your work assignments afterwards. It’s all yours, Viggo.’

Norlander got up and perched on the edge of the table next to Hultin. He took a coloured marker from the whiteboard behind him and fidgeted with it as he talked.

‘There won’t be a scrap of technical evidence to go on. The perp didn’t leave a single clue, not even a strand of hair. The very lack of evidence has led us to believe that we’re dealing with some sort of professional. So we can leave the technical reports until later. An ordinary nine-millimetre weapon. But big firepower. The bullets passed right through the skulls of the victims and were afterwards plucked out with some type of pliers. In both cases, the perp was sitting in the living room when the victim arrived home, and he fired the shots from that position. Even though in both instances the victim had a wife, it seems as if the perp
knew
that the victim would be coming home alone and also that he would arrive late
in
the evening. I’ll make a sketch of both living rooms so you can get an idea of the similarity of the modus operandi.’

Norlander drew two blue rectangles on the whiteboard and then filled them in with a number of smaller squares and rectangles. Then he drew a short line that stretched diagonally from the same side of both rectangles.

‘That’s the living-room door,’ he explained. ‘As you can see, both rooms are basically square-shaped. The arrangement of the furniture and the layout are practically identical. It was here, on the sofa along this wall farthest from the door, that the perp was sitting. He waited until the victim moved slightly to one side so that the slugs would end up in the wall and not go flying off to some unknown fate outside the door. Then he fired two shots through the victim’s head.’

Norlander drew a diagonal line through each square, indicating the path of the shots from the sofa positioned directly opposite the doorway.

‘The similarity may have two functions. Either it indicates a ritual, meaning that we’re dealing with a highly specific method of execution, and the intention could be for someone to recognise this method and feel threatened by it. Or else it’s a trick, directed at us, to make us anticipate the same pattern the next time; if the symmetry is broken, we might then think that the crime isn’t part of the series. But I think someone should do some checking on this MO with Interpol and the rest of the international contact network, to see if this is a recurring
execution
method used by any existing terror groups or mafia organisations.

‘But right now our most important job is to predict who the next victim will be. It’s not going to be easy. As I’m sure you can imagine, there are scores of connections between Kuno Daggfeldt in Danderyd and Bernhard Strand-Julén in Östermalm. We can divide them up into five parts: common enemies, common circles of friends, common leisure activities, common business interests and common board memberships. These areas will probably overlap somewhat, so they should just be taken as general guidelines.’

Norlander went back to his place at the table and sat down. Hultin nodded and took the floor.

‘Okay, if we assume that this pattern also applies to time, then nothing is going to happen tonight. The first murder took place in the very early morning hours of March the thirtieth; the second sometime after midnight on April the first, today. I think Commissioner Mörner stated it quite clearly. If the pattern holds, though I grant you it’s based on premises that are still much too vague, then murder number three will take place tomorrow night.