The Blinded Man aka Misterioso

20

Gunnar Nyberg was jolted out of the double bed, which was still there, a symbol of hope in his three-room Nacka apartment. Viggo Norlander was wrenched from the more basic cot in his three-room place on Banérgatan. Kerstin Holm was pulled from the mattress on the floor in the little apartment belonging to her ex-husband’s ex-wife in Brandbergen. Jorge Chavez was yanked up from the little drop-leaf table in the kitchen alcove of his rented room at the intersection of Bergsgatan and Scheelegatan, where he had fallen asleep, holding a full wineglass in his hand and resting his face on the remains of his meal. Arto Söderstedt got up from his chair in his apartment on Agnegatan and took off his reading glasses. And Paul Hjelm was hauled out of the unpleasantly empty double bed in his row house in Norsborg.

Jan-Olov Hultin had already been rousted out of bed. He was waiting for them in a kitchen in Rösunda, Saltsjöbaden.

Chavez was the last to arrive, looking unashamedly fresh, a night flower in the pitch-black May darkness.

“What the hell? Did you take a shower?” asked Hjelm, holding a big coffee mug.

“Don’t ask,” said Chavez curtly. “Okay, who is he?”

“Have you had a look inside?”

“It looks the same as usual. Have the techs started working?”

“I called all of you here before I contacted the techs,” said Hultin. “Among other things because I want you to see everything untouched. There were two shots to the head, right?”

A couple of the team members nodded. “The bullets are still in the wall,” said Söderstedt.

Hultin nodded. “All right. We finally have something to go on. A different sort of society big shot. His name is Enar Brandberg. He became a member of parliament in the last election. Before that he was general director of a small government agency.”

“The General Direction Fund,” said Söderstedt. “It’s not really a government agency, but almost. Then he became a member of parliament, representing the Folkeparti.”

Hultin gave him a sidelong glance. “His daughter, Helena Brandberg, eighteen years old, arrived home a few minutes past one A.M., so about forty-five minutes ago. She heard jazz playing in the living room and thought it strange, since her father never listened to any kind of music. She went into the living room and saw the curtains fluttering in front of an open window. Outside a dark, unidentifiable shadow was running full tilt across the lawn and out to the street. In sheer bewilderment, she went over to the stereo and turned it off. Only then did she catch sight of her father lying on the floor. She screamed so loudly that the neighbors were over here in a matter of minutes. A family named Hörnlund. They have a daughter the same age as Helena Brandberg, and the two girls are best friends. Helena was clearly in a state of shock, and it was difficult to get any sort of eyewitness account from her. I mostly had to rely on the secondhand report from the Hörnlund family. Helena’s mother died of cancer this past year. The Hörnlund family accompanied the girl to the hospital. I’ve been out in the yard to take a look around; there seems to be a number of footprints in the grass.”

“So that’s the end of leaving no evidence behind,” said Chavez.

“The Erinyes assume bodily form,” said Hjelm.

Everyone stared at him for a moment. Söderstedt raised his left eyebrow and was just about to say something but changed his mind.

“Okay,” said Hultin, summing up. “This time we have both bullets still in the wall and a good number of footprints. But above all we have the cassette tape.”

“Cassette tape?” said Holm.

“The music. Jazz. In the tape player in the living room there’s a tape that in all likelihood belongs to the murderer. It’s not Brandberg’s at any rate. Neither he nor his daughter listened to jazz, and the tape was playing when Helena came home while the killer was still in the room. Apparently the music is part of our man’s set routine. After the murder he sits down on the sofa to listen to some jazz. Since Helena stopped the tape, we know which tune was playing. Since a couple of unit members here are interested in music, I thought we could try to figure out right now what he was listening to. That was one of the reasons that I waited to contact the crime techs. We probably have about twenty minutes before we’re locked out of the living room.”

“I don’t know much about jazz,” said Gunnar Nyberg.

They went into the room, stepping over the body on the floor. Wearing a latex glove, Hultin rewound the tape to the beginning of the tune.

After the first three or four piano notes, before the melody had even begun to stroll over the keys, two people said in unison, “ ‘Misterioso.’ ” Kerstin Holm and Jorge Chavez looked at each other in surprise.

Hultin stopped the tape. “One at a time.” How unlikely was it that two of the seven members of the A-Unit were jazz fanatics?

“It’s a standard,” Chavez said, after Holm nodded to him. “The Thelonious Monk Quartet. Monk on piano, Johnny Griffin on tenor sax, Ahmed Abdul-Malik on bass. And what’s the name of the guy on drums again?”

“Roy Haynes,” said Kerstin.

“Exactly,” said Jorge. “It’s the title track on the album Misterioso. If I remember right, it’s the sixth and last track on the original. Ten or eleven minutes long. Amazing sax playing by Griffin, and Monk is in top form. Of course Monk wrote the piece, as usual. What else can I tell you?”

Kerstin Holm picked up where he left off. “All the tracks on the album were recorded on a magical summer evening in 1958 at the classic jazz club, the Five Spot Café, in New York. On the CD, a couple of other tracks were added from an earlier recording made during the same summer. One of them is also a standard, ‘ ’Round Midnight.’ We can tell whether it’s the CD or the original album that our man put on tape. If it’s from the CD, ‘ ’Round Midnight’ will come right after ‘Misterioso.’ Otherwise, there won’t be any other tunes.”

She fast-forwarded to the final piano and sax promenade in “Misterioso.” After the applause and the whistling, a new tune started up, significantly more chaotic, free, and ecstatic, as if born of that very moment of inspiration. Not like a tune at all, thought Hjelm, feeling ignorant. The sax and the piano inciting each other to something that was either a great achievement or sheer chaos. He couldn’t decide which.

“No, no, no,” said Chavez. “That wasn’t ‘ ’Round Midnight.’ ”

“I’ve never heard that piece before,” said Holm. “How odd.”

“What does it mean?” said Hultin.

“He could have taped something entirely different right afterward,” said Chavez dubiously.

“Although that’s certainly Monk playing,” said Holm. “Those blue notes with even bluer notes on top. That’s him. His hands are lying practically flat on the keys.”

“It sounds like a direct continuation,” said Hjelm, expecting to hear sighs and groans from the experts. “I didn’t hear a real space in between.”

“Actually, there wasn’t,” Chavez surprisingly agreed. “Either our man is a damned good mixer-”

“Or else,” Holm finished, “this is a one-of-a-kind recording.”

“How the hell do the two of you know so much about all this?” asked Hjelm.

“Haven’t you ever heard what jazz musicians say?” asked Kerstin Holm. “ ‘Those who talk don’t know, those who know don’t talk.’ ”

“I know somebody, a fellow Chilean.” Chavez mentioned his country of origin for the first time. “He’s a real experto on unusual jazz recordings. He has a little record shop in Rinkeby. We can go over there in the morning.”

Hultin had already worked out a plan, as usual. “Okay, since this is our best lead so far, I want all three of you on it. Holm, Chavez, and Hjelm. But after you’ve heard what your Chilean friend has to say, Jorge, I want you back on the board of directors angle. That still could provide the best leads. But this murder may put an end to the business angle,” he said to Söderstedt, who didn’t look the least disappointed. “We may send Pettersson and Florén back to the finance division. We’ll see. Arto, I want you to find out, of course, whether there are any business connections between these four men, but I think that this time we’re dealing with a different type of victim. We’re going to keep working in the same way. Nyberg will drag his notorious nets through the sea of snitches again and generally keep bottom-fishing. Norlander, if you’re ready to get back to work, I want you to stay on the mafia lead, as if nothing had happened.”

Norlander nodded emphatically.

“The more important question is obvious,” Hultin added. “Why has he started up again? After waiting more than a month?”

“What about the tape?” Hjelm asked, instead of answering the question. “We can’t let the techs sit on it for weeks. And leak it to the press.”

Hultin ejected the tape from the player. He held it in his hand for a moment, weighing the possibilities and risks. Then he tossed it to Kerstin Holm.

“If we know our man correctly, then there won’t be any fingerprints. It looks like an ordinary Maxell tape, of a slightly older type. Probably untraceable. Am I right?”

Hjelm, Chavez, and Holm all looked at the tape.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Chavez.

“Okay,” said Hultin, with a little sigh. “Take good care of it.”