The Blinded Man aka Misterioso

8

On the morning of April 2, Paul Hjelm sat at the breakfast table looking at his family with new eyes. Yesterday a destroyed man had consumed breakfast; today a resurrected man was telling them about his new situation. They received his news about being transferred to the city with moderate enthusiasm.

“That’s not really surprising,” said Danne. It seemed to Hjelm that his son was regarding him with the same expression that he himself had displayed at the sight of his wife’s menstrual blood a few days earlier. “You’re the Hallunda hero, after all.”

“Of course, it’s a promotion to get out of this ghetto,” said Tova, leaving the room before Hjelm could recover enough to ask her where she’d heard that word.

From him? Had he been spreading a bunch of shit around without even being aware that he was doing it? Had he corrupted the minds of the next generation, which had more experience than his own in dealing with what was foreign, in becoming familiar with it, in learning not to fear it?

Look deep into your heart, Hjelm.

It had been exposed for a second, but only a second, and now he had to hide the sight behind tons of work. And no one in his family had a clue about how close to the abyss he had come. They saw the hero; he saw the corpse.

He had been saved, but he was also being transferred. Maybe an officer from an immigrant background would take his place in Fittja, and maybe the Huddinge police would benefit immeasurably from his replacement.

The children had left, and just as he was about to discuss it with Cilla, she too disappeared.

When he got up to leave for the city, he felt lonelier than he’d ever felt. But also ready-to become someone else.

Maybe he sensed that this case was going to be different from any he’d previously encountered.

Something foreign.

He picked up the newspaper and glanced at the headline: DOUBLE MURDER OF TOP BUSINESSMEN. ITALIAN MAFIA IN STOCKHOLM?

He sighed heavily and left.

Cool breezes that couldn’t decide whether they belonged to the forces of winter or spring rippled the surface of the water. Slightly stronger swells lapped back and forth, shoving some of the boats a few extra feet. About a dozen small vessels were bobbing up and down on Neptune’s shoulders, making dots of various sizes on the water of Stora Värtan, almost all the way out to the horizon.

“A horrible affair,” repeated the man wearing a captain’s cap. “For both of them. Two of our most outstanding members. What are we going to do when we can’t even feel safe in our own homes? Will every decent citizen have to hire bodyguards?”

Hjelm and the man were standing on one of six long piers that stretched out from shore toward the breakwater. Together they formed the Viggbyholm small-boat marina. Only a few boats were actually in the water next to the piers, but on land a frenzy of activity was under way as boats were readied for the new season. Men garbed in work clothes were rushing around, and the heavy, stifling stink of epoxy and varnish rose up from the roaring electric sanders.

“So this is where Bernhard Strand-Julén’s boat should be docked?” said Hjelm, pointing down at the water.

“Yes, and Daggfeldt’s should be over there, at pier three. It’s still a little too early to launch the boats. I must say that it was a real shock to open the paper this morning.”

“It was for me too,” said Hjelm.

“Such headlines! Is a Sicilian mafia hitman really planning to eradicate all the business leaders in Sweden? Or as the other paper reported-has the Baader-Meinhof terrorist group resurfaced? It seems incredible. And what are the police doing about it?”

“This is what we’re doing about it,” said Hjelm the police officer as he turned back to shore.

“I didn’t mean that as a criticism,” said the man, following with a somewhat swaggering gait. “I just meant, what can the police do against forces like that?”

“This is what we’re doing about it,” repeated Hjelm.

They went inside the imposing building on Hamnvägen that housed the boat club. The man showed Hjelm into his office. He sat down at his desk, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He picked up a letter opener and sliced open an envelope. Hjelm cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” said the man, putting down the letter opener and envelope. “I’m not feeling very well.”

“So did you know them personally?”

“Not really. No more than other members of the club. We talked a bit about boats, about good sailing areas, winds, weather forecasts. Things like that.”

“Did they know each other? Did they spend time together here at the club?”

“I don’t really know. They were very different kinds of skippers, so I’m inclined to think that they didn’t. Daggfeldt was a family sailor; he always took Ninni and his children along when he went sailing in the Maxi. I remember that his older daughter, she must be eighteen or nineteen, was getting a bit tired of it all, and the son, who’s a couple of years younger, wasn’t particularly amused either. And Ninni would get seasick before she even left the pier. But she was always cheerful and enthusiastic. ‘Hearty but seasick,’ Daggfeldt used to say with a laugh.

“But it was important to him to have his whole family along. That was probably the only time they were all together. Though things could get a bit testy out among the skerries. That was my impression, at least.”

Hjelm was surprised at how much this man had been able to learn from a few chats about sailing areas and weather forecasts. “What about Strand-Julén?” he asked, to keep him talking.

“That was a whole different story. A serious-minded skipper. He had one of those Swan boats, not the large kind, so it could still squeeze into the small-boat marina. Always with a crew that seemed very professional, two or three young men with the best equipment, different each time. Fancy new clothes, the best brands.”

“Different each time?”

“The crew. But they always looked well trained. Highly skilled, the type of guys who take part in the Whitbread Round the World Race, just to mention the one that everybody would know. But younger, of course. They had a certain look about them. Like swimmers do-you know how they all have the same body type.”

“In this case very young and blond and tanned? And the equipment was newly purchased each time?”

The man blinked a few times and frowned. Probably at his own loose tongue. But his reaction was a little too strong for that. There’s more going on here, thought Hjelm. Better lay it on thick.

“Okay,” he said, taking a chance. “I don’t give a shit about whether Bernhard Strand-Julén was a pedophile and liked to have thirty-five young boys in-what should we say, the sack?-at the same time. But do you have any idea where I could find any of those boys? The man is beyond the reach of the law now-he’s untouchable.”

“His reputation isn’t untouchable. Standing in judgment over a dead man, and so on. And he does have a wife, you know.”

“It’s possible,” ventured Hjelm again, “that you never actually played the role of pimp. But if you don’t give me a little more information, I’m going to see that every detail of the situation is investigated. Homosexual procurement activities, possibly involving minors, at one of Sweden’s most prestigious boat clubs. So let’s try again. The rumor is enough. You know that, Mr. Lindviken.”

The man chewed on his knuckles. The interview had taken a most unpleasant turn.

Exploit the guy’s confusion, thought Hjelm. Somewhere behind it all there’s some form of guilt.

“Ten seconds. Then I’m going to take you down to headquarters for a proper interrogation.”

“Good Lord, I haven’t done anything wrong! All I’ve done is keep my mouth shut about what I’ve seen. A big part of my job down here is not to see or speak.”

“At the moment, it looks like you personally, Arthur Lindviken, are behind a big pedophile operation in Viggbyholm. The more names and addresses you can produce within the next ten seconds, the greater the chance that you won’t have to see this appalling suspicion reflected in the eyes of every single member here. Not to mention the judge. Seven seconds left. Five.”

“Wait!” shouted Lindviken. “I have to get…”

He stumbled over to a painting that hung on the wall and lifted it off. Then he wildly spun the dial on the combination lock of a wall safe, got it open, took out a thick accordion file, and reached into the pocket labeled S. He pulled out a postcard adorned with a statue of Dionysus that was impressive in every sense of the word. A truly erect god. Written faintly in pencil was the name “Strand-Julén,” and then in ink from a ballpoint pen, “We’re going now. You can always call. 641 12 12. P.S. You’re the biggest Billy-Goat Gruff.”

“He dropped this in my office by chance. I keep all lost items here. And label them, in case the owner wants them back.”

“Lost and found in a wall safe… Do you have any items filed under D?”

“Daggfeldt? No.”

“Take a look.”

Lindviken opened his eyes wide as he stared at Hjelm.

“Don’t you think I know exactly what I have in here?”

He opened the pocket marked D and showed it to Hjelm. It was empty.

Hjelm stood up, waving the Dionysus postcard in his hand. “I’m taking this with me. I’m sure you won’t have any more use for it. But hang on to the rest of the contents in that file. I may need to see it again.”

When he passed by the window, he peered inside and saw Arthur Lindviken still seated at his desk. The accordion file was on his lap, and it was shaking.

For a moment Hjelm wondered if he’d been too hard on the man. He was used to people who’d undergone police interrogations dozens of times and knew the rule book inside and out. People who were familiar with all the tricks and loopholes, who knew when to keep quiet and when to lie.

The wind had picked up considerably. The small sailboats had vanished from Stora Värtan, as if blown away.

It was still before noon when Hjelm parked his unmarked police vehicle, a Mazda, at Kevinge Golf Course. A surprising number of people were there, putting away one bucket of golf balls after another in the early April morning. He took out his cell phone and punched in a number.

“Directory assistance,” replied a woman.

“08 641 12 12, please.”

“One moment,” said the woman. A moment passed and she was back. “Jörgen Lindén, Timmermansgatan thirty-four.”

“Thanks,” said Hjelm, jotting down the information. He wrote down the number 4 in front of the address. It was now the fourth item on his list of things to do. He’d have time to get out there before the unit meeting at three o’clock.

He climbed out of his car and trudged up the stairs to the clubhouse.

A young girl sat behind the front desk. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” He showed her his ID. “Criminal investigation department. It’s about two of your former members.”

“I think I know who you mean,” she said, nodding at the copy of Svenska Dagbladet on the counter.

Hjelm nodded too. “They were members here, right?”

“Yes. They played here quite regularly. They would always say hello when they came in and stop to chat.”

“Do you know whether they played golf together? Did you ever see them together?”

“Hmm… I don’t think they were regular golf partners. I can’t remember ever seeing them together. But sometimes, afterward they’d join a larger group. Those types of golfers often sit down after a game to discuss other matters.”

“What do you mean by ‘those types of golfers’?”

“Bad golfers.”

Hjelm paused. “So you’re a competitive golfer?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you don’t like the kind of people who come here to, well, hobnob and network and meet up with colleagues? Even though you’re a true Danderyd girl, you have trouble with these ‘bad golfers,’ since they give the sport its persistent image of an indolent rich man’s game.”

“Quite a psychoanalytical interpretation,” said the true Danderyd girl.

“So how do things work here? Do the members just go out and start playing as soon as they arrive, or do they have to register somewhere?”

“We have a guest book, and everyone who wants to play has to sign in first.”

“May I have a look at it?”

“You’re leaning on it. Excuse me, I have to see to the guests who just came in.”

“No, you don’t,” said Hjelm. “While I leaf through the pages for the past few weeks, you can take a quick look in that fancy computer of yours and find out when Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén became members.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said over his shoulder to a couple of gray-haired men wearing classic checkered lamb’s-wool golf sweaters. Hjelm eavesdropped on their conversation as he glanced through the so-called guest book.

“Good Lord,” said the older man. “What’ll it be next? Have you seen today’s Svenska Dagbladet?”

“Yes, by God. Does every decent person have to rely on a security firm nowadays? They were fine, upstanding men, I’ll tell you that, brother, fine men. Both Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén. I knew them personally. Do you think the Communists are behind it?”

Hjelm left the two men to their not entirely unpredictable fate as the girl handed him a handwritten note and then turned with a smile to her guests.

Hjelm stopped her. “I’m not quite done here. Mr. D. joined in ’82,” he said cryptically in order not to attract the attention of the two men. “Mr. S.J. didn’t become a member until ’85. Do you have the guest books from that period?”

The girl again apologized to the guests, who were easily seduced by her dazzling white teeth.

“What a great girl,” Hjelm heard them say behind him. “Ranked number ten in Europe, I’ve heard.”

“Could we go into your office?” said Hjelm. They went into the office. “Ranked number ten in Europe?” he exclaimed.

She smiled. “Nope. Those dear old men have me mixed up with Lotta Neumann. She’s older than me, but ten years give or take doesn’t mean much at their age.”

“So do you still have the old guest books?”

“Yes, they’re in the storeroom. I can get them for you.”

“Good. All of them. Starting with 1982, that is. I’ll need to take them with me, but you’ll get them back. And I’ll need to take the current book that you’ve got out there on the counter, so you’ll have to start a new one. As soon as we’re done with all of them, you can have them back. It’ll just be a matter of a few days, at most.”

“I can’t let you have the one on the counter. We’re using it.”

Hjelm sighed. He had hoped to avoid resorting to the language of intimidation.

“Just listen to me. This has to do with a double murder, and there are likely to be more. Pretty soon your whole clientele could be wiped out. I have powers of authority invested in me that would make even those old guys out there start talking about a police state. Okay?”

She slunk off.

He never ceased to be amazed at how close ordinary speech could come to the language of intimidation. A few minor shifts in the wording, and the deed was done. Quite acceptable when spoken by the right person. Quite horrific if uttered by the wrong one.

Hjelm emerged into suddenly radiant spring sunshine, lugging a big box filled with guest books. There wasn’t a trace of wind. Perfect golf weather, or so he assumed.

The only indication that he’d arrived at the right place was a yellowing old label, handwritten and partially torn away, next to one of the buttons. “Mimiro,” it said. There were nine other buttons in the low entryway, half a flight of stairs down, on Stallgränd in Gamla Stan. He pressed the button. Through a rusty little grating on the building intercom, a stentorian voice bellowed, “Yes?”

“I’m not sure that I’m in the right place. I’m looking for the organization called the Order of Mimir.”

“This is the Order of Mimir. What can I do for you?”

“I’m from the Criminal Police. It has to do with a couple of your members.”

“Come in.”

The lock buzzed, and Hjelm pushed open the worn door. It was so low that he had to stoop to enter. The hall was narrow and dingy, the air dusty and damp. It was a medieval building that looked as if it had never been remodeled. He paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark.

In a doorway appeared a tall, sinewy old man wrapped in a strange, lavender-colored cloak. He held out his hand toward Hjelm. If he hadn’t studied up on the nature of these organizations, he probably would have tried to twist the man’s arm out of its socket and at the same time avoid baring his throat.

“How do you do?” said the man, whose voice was no more of this world than he himself seemed to be. “I’m David Clöfwenhielm, Guardian of the Order of Mimir.”

“Paul Hjelm.” As Hjelm expected, the man had a firm handshake, though not exactly like the Freemasons, if a comparison were permitted.

“You haven’t yet seen the inner sanctum.” The words resonated from David Clöfwenhielm’s golden throat. “And you may never see it. How close you come depends on the reason why you’re here.”

“Guardian,” said Hjelm. “Is that something like a Grand Master?”

“We don’t use that sort of outmoded title. We don’t want our order to risk being considered a lesser variant of the Freemasons. By the way, do you happen to know who the Grand Master of the Freemasons is here in Sweden?”

Hjelm shook his head.

“Prince Bertil,” said Clöfwenhielm.

“Is he still alive?” said Hjelm.

Clöfwenhielm emitted a thunderous sound, and only after it had echoed ten times was it possible to identify it as a laugh. Apparently there was some animosity between the two organizations. “Come in, inspector.”

“Thank you,” said Hjelm with no intention of correcting him as to his proper title. Any sort of promotion was undoubtedly useful in this situation.

They slowly descended a long, winding staircase. The massive stone walls were dripping with moisture, and the ceiling was so low that the lanky Clöfwenhielm bent nearly double as he led the way. Here and there a damp-resistant torch was affixed to the wall. Finally they entered a small room with several coats of arms scattered over the walls, thick velvety drapery on the far wall, and an enormous oak desk. On the desk stood two plastic cheese bells; rivulets of moisture formed and dripped off the outside of the misty, opaque surfaces. Clöfwenhielm lifted up one of the cheese bells and took out a small, ultramodern laptop, a miracle of an anachronism. He sat down at the desk.

“I assume that you want to consult our directory for some reason,” he rumbled. His voice, which had seemed so out of place upstairs in the relative light, was now in its proper element. “Please have a seat, superintendent.”

At this rate I’ll be the chief of police in another fifteen minutes, thought Hjelm as he took a small chair facing the Guardian.

“Your assumption is quite correct, Guardian,” he said in an ingratiating tone. “It has to do with two of your members. Both have been murdered within the past few days.”

Clöfwenhielm didn’t look especially shocked, although perhaps a bit wary. He straightened the collar of his lavender cloak.

“The brothers of the Order of Mimir usually hold positions in society where acts of violence are extremely rare. Are you insinuating that it had something to do with the Order of Mimir?”

“Not at all. We’re looking into every possible connection between the two victims, and our primary concern at the moment is to prevent another murder. The fact that they were both members of this organization is one of these connections.”

“I understand. So what is this about?”

“You don’t read the newspapers, Guardian?”

“Very seldom anymore,” said Clöfwenhielm. “Having decided to devote myself to the organization, I retired not only from my job but also from those parts of the outside world that I find repulsive. That’s permissible when you reach a certain age.”

“And a certain financial status.”

“Of course,” said Clöfwenhielm, his tone neutral.

“How many members does the Order of Mimir have?”

“Sixty-three,” and he said, “all very carefully chosen. Well, sixty-one, now,” he corrected himself.

“Of course,” said Hjelm, his tone equally neutral. “Do you know all of them personally?”

“What goes on within the order has very little to do with anything personal. We are preoccupied with what is above and beyond the personal. And besides, during the rituals we usually wear cloaks, rather like the one I’m wearing now, and masks of various types representing the Nordic gods. I seldom see anyone’s face. But now we’re touching on proprietary information.”

“Top, top secret.”

“Precisely,” said Clöfwenhielm, without for a second questioning the odd choice of words.

“There’s one thing I’m curious about,” said Hjelm. “Can you explain to someone who’s a complete outsider what makes these kinds of organizations so attractive to certain groups in society?”

“I could give you an idealistic answer and say that we’re united by a desire to expand our consciousness, to open pathways into the unexplored parts of our souls. But that wouldn’t be entirely in keeping with the truth. Many by-products of the world I’ve left behind follow the brothers here from the outside: prestige, the feeling of being one of the chosen, an attitude of superiority, the desire to make connections, freedom from women, and an often artificial sense of tradition.

“The Order of Mimir can be traced back to Geijer’s Gothicism of the early 1800s, which marked a resurgence of interest in Nordic mythology. But ninety percent of the members have no clue about this. If I required of the brothers the same purity and enthusiasm that I expect of myself, I would be sitting here chanting all alone. And that might not be such a bad idea.” Clöfwenhielm sighed a bit before returning to his usual thunderous tone of voice. “All right, so what are the names of the two departed brothers?”

“Kuno Daggfeldt and Bernhard Strand-Julén.”

The Guardian of the Order of Mimir let his fingers wander over the computer keyboard. “I see,” he said hesitantly. “Once again we have taken a small step across the magical border into secrecy.”

“Do you mean that we’re touching on confidential matters?”

“We’re bordering on that, in any case. Allow me to think for a moment.”

David Clöfwenhielm was allowed time to think.

“All right,” he said at last. “Assisting the authorities in a murder investigation concerning two of our brothers must be given priority. Come over here, Hjelm.”

Hjelm looked at the screen over Clöfwenhielm’s shoulder.

“As you can see, I’m scrolling through the names relatively quickly so that you won’t be tempted to memorize too many of them. Sometimes you’ll notice an asterisk flashing past in front of a name. There’s one in front of both the ones you mentioned. Here we have Daggfeldt, and here’s Strand-Julén. An asterisk next to each. There are ten of them altogether. You can sit down again, Hjelm.”

Hjelm did as he was told. He felt like a schoolboy. All the elevations in title had apparently collapsed.

“The asterisk indicates, to put it simply, that they’re no longer members of the Order of Mimir.”

“Do you mean that they’ve forgotten to pay their annual dues?”

Once again the Guardian uttered an ear-splitting bellow of laughter. “This is a fraternal order, my boy, not a country club. No, I put the asterisk there myself for quite another reason. The men in question have chosen to establish a subgroup within the Order of Mimir, the so-called Order of Skidbladnir. In lay terms, their group functions as a subsidiary, independent but at the same time always answerable to the parent company. They wanted to develop certain ritualistic ideas that were not found acceptable by the Order of Mimir, meaning by me, but they didn’t want to leave entirely. And let me emphasize that there was no real conflict behind the formation of the Order of Skidbladnir.”

“No grumbling in the corridors?”

“There are no corridors here, nor any grumbling. Any antagonisms that have arisen have been on a more personal level, and as I mentioned, that sort of thing doesn’t interest me.”

“Do you recall who or what was the driving force behind the secession?”

“When the matter was presented to me, and this was about six months ago, we were all wearing our masks after an intense ceremony here. I have no idea who or what prompted the whole thing. But I accepted their proposal; I’m not running a reformatory here, you know. The administrative arrangements seemed quite acceptable. But I was expecting to receive certain reports regarding their progress, et cetera, and so far nothing has been forthcoming.”

“What are the differences between the Order of Mimir and the Order of Skidbladnir? What did the other men want to develop?”

“You won’t be able to entice me any further into our secret domains, officer. It’s a matter of specific details in the rituals. Nothing radical. A desire to develop certain ceremonial aspects a bit further.”

“I’m sure you’d be willing to give me a list of the names with an asterisk,” said Hjelm, aware that he’d now been drastically demoted to the rank of officer.

Two taps of the keys, a rustling sound under cheese bell number two, and then David Clöfwenhielm, Guardian of the Order of Mimir, lifted off the lid and let a microscopic inkjet printer pump out two pages of A-4 paper.

“I assume that the same tact and finesse that you have demonstrated here today, Hjelm, will be shown regarding these pages. I would be very upset to hear that the media had gotten hold of them.”

“I would too,” said Hjelm.

They both stood and shook hands.

“I’d like to thank you for all your help, Guardian,” said Hjelm. “Just one little question. What is it that this organization actually does?”

“Does?” said Clöfwenhielm in surprise. Then he really let loose.

The periodic bursts of laughter moved like shock waves, seeming to propel Hjelm up the stairs and out onto Stallgränd.

April weather, thought Hjelm, peering through the rain trickling down the windows of the café. As capricious as fate. Occasionally someone crossed Västerlånggatan with the collar of his coat or jacket turned up, dashing along the wall of the building, vainly seeking shelter under balconies that didn’t exist. The rain lashed against the big windows of Café Gråmunken, and light was noticeably absent. He squinted his eyes, staring at the Order of Mimir printouts. A flash of lightning abruptly lit up the café, leaving behind a lavender light that blocked his vision for a moment.

“Shit. Thanks a lot,” said Hjelm to the lightning.

“Shit yourself, and here you are,” said the girl with the white apron as she poured him another cup of coffee. He looked up at her in surprise. She was nothing but a lavender silhouette.

When his vision returned to normal, he went back to skimming the list. It included the home and business addresses of all the brothers in the strange separatist faction called the Order of Skidbladnir. He found two addresses in Gamla Stan: one residential address on Prästgatan, and one business address. Since it was only a few minutes past noon, he chose the work address, a computer company on Österlånggatan. Not waiting for the rain to let up, he gulped down the rest of his coffee and rushed out.

When he found the address, he pressed the intercom for ComData. A secretary answered, then reluctantly buzzed him in. He walked up two flights of stairs and entered a five-room apartment that had been converted for office use. The secretary was a woman with too much makeup, her hair pulled into a bun. When he showed her his ID, it dripped rain onto her neatly stacked papers, curling the edges.

“Put that away,” she said indignantly.

“Criminal Police. I want to talk to Axel Strandelius.”

“The director is unavailable at the moment. I assume that you don’t have an appointment?”

“You have thirty seconds to tell him that I’m here. After that I’ll just barge in on my own.”

It had worked earlier in the day, and it worked now. A door opened, and an impeccably dressed man in his fifties whose demeanor practically screamed “CEO” showed Hjelm into his office without a word.

“Sara said you’re from the police,” the man said as he sat down behind the desk. “How can I be of service?”

“Are you Axel Strandelius?” asked Hjelm.

“Yes,” said the man, “that’s precisely who I am.”

“Are you a member of the group known as the Order of Skidbladnir?”

Strandelius was silent for a moment. “Now we’re touching on proprietary information.”

Hjelm recognized his choice of words. “I know the rules. The only proprietary information has to do with the rituals. Membership is public information.”

“Except that the group in question is not yet public.”

“You know why I’m here. I see there a copy of Dagens Nyheter, over there Svenska Dagbladet, and here Dagens Industri. All three have the story on the front page. This isn’t some kind of game or police harassment; it’s a matter of life and death. Your life and your death. Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén were part of the little separatist group that about six months ago broke away from the Order of Mimir. That means that you too are at risk.”

Strandelius clearly hadn’t thought that far and shrank a couple of inches in his chair. “Good God. But the Order of Mimir is the most innocuous organization you could imagine. There couldn’t possibly be anyone who-”

“The strongest link we have between the two men who were murdered two days apart and in the exact same way is this little Order of Skidbladnir. Both of them belonged to the group, which has a total membership of twelve. Or had. That goes a long way in my book. There are two questions I want you to answer. One: What were the driving forces behind the secession? Two: Which members were most fiercely opposed to the secession?”

Strandelius paused to think. He was a data guy. He spent a couple of minutes organizing and analyzing. When he replied, he used the enumeration that Hjelm had used.

“One: Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén were the driving forces, but the idea actually came from Rickard Franzén. He was probably also the strongest advocate in getting the idea pushed through. At about the same level as Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén was Johannes Norrvik. First and foremost Franzén, then Daggfeldt, Strand-Julén, and Norrvik. The rest of us just thought it sounded exciting and joined in. Two: I’m afraid I can’t help you much in that area. There was a general undercurrent of opposition, which the otherworldly Clöfwenhielm never even noticed. But I think it was Franzén who took the brunt of it. He would at least know who most opposed the whole idea. If, and I say if, this has something to do with the murders, then Franzén would most likely be the next victim.”

“Very nicely summarized,” said Hjelm and then said goodbye.

The rain was now gone. It didn’t just seem to be gone; it was in fact gone. The violent spring weather had sculpted whitecaps on the surface of Saltsjön.

April weather, thought Hjelm.

He was stopped at the red light up near Södermalmstorg, looking across Slussen toward the shape of the Gondolen Restaurant hovering overhead, more like a subway car on the rack rather than an actual gondola.

The hanging gardens of Babylon, thought Paul Hjelm as the light changed to green.

He moved into the left lane, no doubt unable to avoid the red light at the next intersection, and turned onto Timmermansgatan.

The locked door had a number code. Annoyed, he punched in a bunch of random numbers. He stood there for two minutes, pressing hundreds of made-up codes. Nothing happened. He took a step back and found himself standing next to a young girl with straggly black hair wearing a leather jacket. She gave him a suspicious look.

“Police,” he said.

“Is that how you solve your cases?” said the girl.

He glared after her as she walked away.

“Yes,” said Hjelm, and went back to wildly punching in numbers. Finally the little red LED lit up, and the lock emitted a faint clicking sound. My day in a nutshell, he thought as he stepped inside, found the name on the board posted just inside the door, and went up four flights of stairs.

It said “Lindén” on the mail slot. He rang the bell. Once. Twice. Three times. After the fourth time, a thudding sound was audible from inside, and a blond youth about eighteen opened the door and peered out. A sloppy Champion jogging suit more or less covered his body, and his hair was standing on end.

“Did I get you out of bed?” said Hjelm, holding up his ID. “You’re Jörgen Lindén, right?”

The guy nodded, trying in vain to focus on the ID, which kept flapping back and forth before his eyes. “What’s this about?” Lindén’s voice was groggy with sleep.

“Mass murder,” said Hjelm, pushing past him into the apartment.

“What the hell did you say?” Lindén followed him, stuffing his shirt into his pants. On the sofa was a rumpled blanket. In the other room the bed was meticulously made up. Two sides of the same coin, thought Hjelm, resorting to cliché, and opened the window to let in some fresh air from the tidy back courtyard with small trees and wooden benches.

“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon,” he said. “Do you always sleep this long?”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘this long.’ I was out late last night.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

Lindén scrupulously folded up the blanket and sat down on the sofa. “I’m unemployed.”

“You seem to be getting by quite nicely on your unemployment checks.”

“What is it you want?”

“I assume that you haven’t read today’s paper?”

“No.”

“Bernhard Strand-Julén was murdered.”

In spite of his youth, Jörgen Lindén was the most experienced of all of the people Hjelm had interviewed that day in terms of dealing with the police. He managed to maintain an expression of vague, innocent confusion, although perhaps his eyes were a shade brighter. The wheels had started to spin in his brain.

“Who?”

“Director Bernhard Strand-Julén. You know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

Hjelm took the postcard showing the highly virile Dionysus out of his jeans pocket and held it up. “Quite a hard-on, don’t you think?”

Lindén looked at the picture without saying a word.

Hjelm went on, “Is this your advertising trademark, or what? Marketing? Do you hand these cards out in the subway?”

Lindén still didn’t speak. He was looking out the window. The storm was making the low-lying cumulus clouds practically race past.

Hjelm stubbornly continued. “So if we flip over the steak, what do we find? Here it says: ‘We’re going now. You can always call.’ And then a phone number that happens to be the same as that one.” Hjelm pointed at the cordless phone next to the window. “But what’s this? There’s more. A little P.S. ‘You’re the biggest Billy-Goat Gruff.’ I think a comparison of this handwriting with that notepad on the phone table will prove very interesting.”

Hjelm sat down in the armchair facing Lindén.

“ ‘And then the big Billy-Goat Gruff rushed at the troll, lifted him on his horns, and flung him in a big arc through the air, hurling him so far that the troll was never seen again. Then the goat ran up to the mountain pasture. There was so much good grass, and the goats grew so fat that they didn’t have the energy to go back home. And if they haven’t lost that fat, then no doubt they’re still up there today.’ ”

Jörgen Lindén still didn’t utter a word.

Hjelm went on: “The land of childhood. I read that story to my children almost ten years ago, every night. I remember every word of it. What sort of troll was it that flew in a big arc through the air and disappeared for good out there on the Swan boat? The troll of poverty? The troll of abstinence? Are you still up there in the mountain pasture?”

Lindén closed his eyes but remained silent.

“My son is only a few years younger than you. At least I hope he is. Answer me right now, or I’m taking you in. What sort of troll was it that the big Billy-Goat Gruff Strand-Julén chased away?”

“Not the troll of poverty, at any rate,” said Lindén glumly. “He didn’t want a repeat. Never wanted to see us again. The cash lasted me a couple of months, no more than that. And drugs are out of the question. I’m clean.”

“No rave parties, no Ecstasy? Like last night?”

“That’s a different story. It’s not addictive.”

“Of course not.” Hjelm leaned back in his chair. “But if you keep working as a prostitute, pretty soon you’re going to need something that is addictive. Okay, I don’t have time for this right now. Here’s my most important question: Have you ever performed any services for an executive by the name of Kuno Daggfeldt in Danderyd?”

“I don’t always know their names.”

“Here’s what he looks like,” said Hjelm, holding out a photograph of an imposing man who was struggling to carry his fifty years with dignity, a battle that a couple of days ago had horribly failed. Nothing exposes vanity more clearly than death, thought Hjelm, convinced that he was quoting somebody.

“No,” said Lindén. “I don’t recognize him.”

“And you’re a hundred percent sure about that? Take a good look through your internal files.”

“I remember them, believe me. I remember them all.”

“The whole herd of Billy-Goats Gruff? Okay, give me the name of your pimp.”

“Come on-”

“Under other circumstances I would probably have picked you up off the street, lifted you up by the scruff of your neck like a little kitten… and tossed you home to your parents-”

“That would be difficult.”

“-but right now the situation is different. All I’m after is as much information as you can give me about Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén. So I need the name of your little pimp. And I need it now.”

“Do you know what he’ll do to me if he finds out that I’ve squealed?”

“He’ll never find out from me, I can guarantee it.”

“Johan Stake. I don’t know if that’s his real name, and I don’t have any address. Just a phone number.”

Lindén wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to Hjelm.

“One last thing: Strand-Julén’s sexual preferences. And be as specific as possible.”

Lindén gave him a pleading look and then started to cry.

The language of intimidation, thought Hjelm, not sure what he himself was feeling.

A hailstorm pounded the windowpanes for ten long seconds. Then it was gone.

April weather, thought Hjelm and sneezed loudly.

It was two o’clock by the time he rang the bell of the Nockeby villa. He listened to the first five notes of “Ode to Joy” play three times inside, hating Beethoven’s deafness. Immediately behind the villa, the property dropped down toward Lake Mälaren, at the spot where it was most beautiful. This particular villa was not the most palatial in Nockeby, but it still deserved inclusion in this oasis of a western suburb, upon which the April sun had chosen to cast its fickle light.

The door was finally opened by an old woman, whom Hjelm assumed was the housekeeper.

“Criminal Police,” he said, starting to feel sick and tired of the words. “I’m looking for Rickard Franzén.”

“He’s taking a nap,” said the woman. “What’s this about?”

“It’s extremely important. If it’s not too much trouble, I really must ask you to wake him.”

“It’s up to you,” said the woman cryptically.

“What?”

“It’s up to you to decide whether it’s too much trouble to ask me to wake him. But maybe you’ve already indirectly answered the indirect question and just as indirectly asked me to wake him up.”

Hjelm stared at her, his mouth agape.

She invited him in with a wave of her hand, smiling up her sleeve, as it were. “Don’t mind me. I’ll always be a language teacher, to the end of my days. Sit down and I’ll go get my husband.” She disappeared up the stairs, moving with surprising agility.

Hjelm remained standing in the enormous vestibule, trying to make sense of what had just ensued. “If it’s not too much trouble, I really must ask you to wake him.” Surely that was an acceptable way to say it?

There went his language of intimidation.

After only a couple of minutes, the woman came back down the stairs, followed by an obese elderly man wearing a bathrobe and slippers. The man held out his hand.

“Rickard Franzén,” he said. “Ninety percent of my afternoon nap involves trying to fall asleep and ten percent trying to accept that I won’t be able to. So I wasn’t asleep. It’s hard to get used to being retired after a whole lifetime of working. And I assume that you’ve already noticed that the same is true of my wife.”

“Paul Hjelm,” said Hjelm. “From the Criminal Police.”

“The Stockholm police?”

“No, NCP.” Hjelm had forgotten that the man used to be a judge.

“Some sort of new special unit?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. And I also think I know why you’re here. Fast work.”

“Thanks. So what’s your view on the matter?”

“I think it’s entirely possible that I’m potentially the third victim. We talked about that this morning, my wife and I. Birgitta thought I should call the police. I was more reluctant. And I won the argument. That’s not always the case, let me tell you.”

“Do you think that someone in the Order of Mimir is behind these murders?”

“I wouldn’t venture to speculate about that, but I can understand that, in your eyes, there must be a connection.”

Franzén’s amenable attitude allowed Hjelm to get right to the point. He opted for blunt language instead of the language of intimidation.

“We have an important investigative meeting at three. Might I request that you accompany me to police headquarters so that we can ask you a number of questions about the Order of Skidbladnir and also decide on the surveillance measures for tonight?”

Franzén paused to consider it. Then he said, “Of course. The pattern. You think that the spatial symmetry indicates a temporal similarity as well, and that the third murder is going to take place tonight. Forty-eight hours between each of them. You could be right. Just give me a few minutes.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. Without a doubt, the Swedish judicial branch had suffered a major loss. In Hjelm’s eyes, Rickard Franzén had clearly been a very good judge.

Birgitta Franzén came over to Hjelm. “Do you think his life is actually in danger?”

“I don’t really know, but it’s quite possible. Will you be home tonight?”

“I rarely go out.”

“What about your husband?”

“He’s going to visit an old colleague. They usually get together once a month.”

Hjelm nodded. “Does it usually go late?”

She gave a little laugh. “Very” was all she said.

“And your bedroom is on the next floor up?”

“Two floors up.”

“What about the living room? Is it on the ground floor?”

“You’re practically standing in it. The vestibule narrows to form a corridor over there on the right and then opens onto the living room.”

Hjelm headed to the right. A short distance away the vestibule formed a sort of funnel shape, then widened to become the living room. It was a very unusual floor plan that a murderer would have to know about in advance in order to act. Against the window on the opposite wall in the living room stood a long, sectional leather sofa.

Hjelm returned to the vestibule and found Rickard Franzén fully dressed. He looked resolute, practically enthusiastic.

“Have you taken a look at the proposed murder scene?” he asked with a smile.

He gave his wife a hug and then led the way out to Hjelm’s car, ready for a temporary but much-longed-for comeback in the machinery of justice.

The sun was still shining.