Misterioso

13

As far as Paul Hjelm was concerned, his work now entered an entirely new phase. After standing on the front lines, he had now been pushed to the very back of the pack. The investigation was progressing along two flanks: the Russian mafia lead, via Norlander and Nyberg; and the business angle, via Söderstedt, Chavez, Pettersson, and Florén. Holm was carrying on intensive interviews with the relatives and friends of the departed magnates, leaving the secondary interviews to the foot soldiers in NCP and the Stockholm police force.

And Hjelm was spending his days leafing through the pages of the golf association’s guest books. The criminal landscape of the past, he thought bitterly. No one was murdered anymore because of intrigues within fraternal orders or at golf clubs. Nowadays it was kinky sex, drugs, and money laundering that brought people down.

The phone number for the purported pimp with the fitting name of Johan Stake had been disconnected without any forwarding number. And a return visit to Timmermansgatan, together with innumerable phone calls, revealed that the young male prostitute, Jörgen Lindén, had fled the scene.

The autopsy performed by Medical Examiner Qvarfordt on Nils-Emil Carlberger produced nothing other than signs of an incipient brain tumor. Nor had Svenhagen’s crime techs turned up any solid leads. Once again the perp had left no evidence behind-except the damned bullet in the wall.

Hjelm was making his way backward through the golf association’s guest books. The hours dragged along. Among the signatures written in varying degrees of legibility, he soon learned to recognize Daggfeldt’s meticulous handwriting, Strand-Julén’s expansive scrawl, and Carlberger’s backward slant. They appeared frequently in the books but never anywhere near each other. Hjelm had made his way back to 1990 and was getting ready to accept that none of the three corpses had ever played golf with any of the others, when he suddenly saw the meticulous squiggles right next to the scrawl. After a moment he discovered nearby the backward slant.

Daggfeldt, Strand-Julén, and Carlberger had actually once played golf together, just the three of them. That opened up interesting prospects. Hjelm checked with Chavez; apparently the joint golf game had taken place immediately following a MEMAB board meeting on September 7, 1990. It was, oddly, the only golf game that the lodge brothers Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén had ever played together. They had both belonged to the inner circle of the Order of Skidbladnir; they had been members of the same eight boards of directors since the late seventies; and they had belonged to the same golf association. Yet they had played golf together only once. And on that one occasion the third golf partner had been the third murder victim.

It was extremely puzzling.

“Three men play a round of golf in the fall of 1990,” said Hjelm aloud. “It’s the only time they ever play together. Several years later, all three of them end up on ice, put there by the same perp, within a week’s time. What does it mean?”

Chavez continued to type on the computer. “What?” was his inspired reply.

“I’m not going to repeat myself. Your subconscious heard me.”

Chavez stopped typing and turned to look at him.

He ought to have a mustache, Hjelm surprised himself by thinking, sensing the old, deeply buried prejudices stir inside of him.

“It doesn’t mean shit. Maybe just the fact that there are close ties between all sectors of the business world.”

“Or that somebody doesn’t like golf.”

“That’s it,” said Chavez calmly and went back to typing. “The whole mystery is solved. Some golf hater stood there brooding outside Kevinge Golf Course on a fall day in 1990, caught sight of the three arrogant upper-class gentlemen who were boasting about themselves on the fairway, and decided, ‘I’m going to kill those fuckers, those three right there, in one fell swoop.’ He waited several long years before he decided to act. But then he moved quickly.”

“A caddy, perhaps?”

“I was joking,” said Chavez.

“I realize that,” said Hjelm. “But if we make a few changes in your story, it sounds more serious. The three men show up right after a tedious board meeting. They’ve had time to relax and chat a bit on the cab ride over, maybe had a few whiskeys in the bar, and all the usual business bullshit comes pouring out of them. They’re fucking awful. Even the flowers wilt as they pass by. Their tongues are so loose, they flap. Okay? So maybe the caddy is a little late to arrive and starts off by making some mistake, who knows, but they start in on him, badgering him, or her for that matter, and laughing good-naturedly. Then for the rest of the game they treat him like shit, inescapable but revolting. It’s possible that sexual harassment takes place. They casually force him or her so far down that it takes several years for the caddy to recover and start fresh.

“Maybe their behavior was some sort of-what’s it called?-catalyst that ignited a bigger reaction already in process. Maybe this caddy had previously spent a few years in a mental hospital or something like that. And then he was let out with the rest of the lunatics during the general wave of cutbacks and release legislation. Finally he’s got hold of his life and figured out what triggered his persecution mania. Okay? He’s beyond desperate, everything seems clear, and then he takes them out, one by one, simply, quickly, elegantly. Sweet revenge.”

“Very imaginative,” said Chavez. He had stopped typing. “And not without a certain interest.”

“I’m going to make a call,” said Hjelm, and quickly punched in the number.

“But if you’re right, then the killing is over now. And it doesn’t explain the Russian bullet. Plus it eliminates the whole financial angle.”

“Hello, this is Paul Hjelm from the NCP. Who am I speaking to?”

“Axel Widstrand,” said the voice on the phone. “Secretary of the Stockholm Golf Association. Are you the one who took all of our guest books? Lena doesn’t have the authority to release them. Are you going to be done with them soon?”

“I gave her the authority. Do the golfers normally use a caddy when they play a round at the club?”

“I’d like to have those books back.”

“Three of your members have been murdered in less than a week, and you want to have the books back? What kind of world are you living in?”

“Oops,” said Chavez. “Breach of confidentiality.”

Hjelm took the noon edition of Aftonbladet out of his top desk drawer and placed it in front of Chavez. The headline screamed: EXTRA. EXTRA. THE POWER MURDERER STRIKES AGAIN. THREE CEOS KILLED. DIRECTOR NILS-EMIL CARLBERGER’S BODY FOUND BY MYSTERIOUS WOMAN.

“ ‘The Power Murderer’?” Chavez held up the tabloid by one corner, as if it had been steeped in day-old vomit. “Newborn yet already baptized.”

“Might as well start using the name. Everybody else is going to,” said Hjelm grimly, and went back to his phone call.

“Just answer the question.”

“Caddies?” the secretary of the Stockholm Golf Association echoed on the other end of the line. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“It’s rare that anyone would use a caddy for an ordinary round of golf. But it does happen.”

“How do the players get hold of one?”

“We usually provide them. But you have to make the request in advance.”

“So if three men are going to play a round of golf, then you find a caddy for them. Is that right?”

“As I said: if they make the request in advance. It takes a few hours to set it up. And in the case you mentioned, there would be three caddies. One for each of them. One caddy can’t carry clubs for three people, of course.”

Hjelm suddenly had an idea. It was a long shot, but he had to try.

“Is Lena a caddy?”

“Lena Hansson? She used to be. But now she works inside.”

“Was she active as a caddy in September 1990?”

Axel Widstrand, secretary of the Stockholm Golf Association, was silent for a moment. Hjelm could hear a murmuring, as if the man had covered the receiver and was talking to somebody nearby.

“Yes, she was. She didn’t stop until last season.”

“If you’ve got her there on your lap, could you ask her if she remembers caddying for Kuno Daggfeldt, Bernhard Strand-Julén, and Nils-Emil Carlberger when they played a round on the afternoon of September 7, 1990?”

“I must say that I don’t appreciate your attempt at a joke. If that’s what it was.”

“Ask her.”

Again a muted murmuring on the line.

“No,” said Widstrand.

“Her memory is that good?”

“Is there anything else?”

“Is there any marking in the guest books that would indicate whether the players used a caddy?”

“No. The players sign their names, and that’s all. Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment,” said Hjelm, hanging up the phone and writing the name Lena Hansson in his notebook.

For future use.

The theory about a lone, persecuted caddy vanished as quickly as it had appeared. It was rare to use a caddy at all, and if the men, contrary to custom, had decided to do so, then there would have been three caddies, not just one. He drew a line through Lena Hansson’s name. If the murders stopped, he would return to the idea.

“Listen to this,” said Chavez, deeply immersed in the evening paper, which was no longer published in the evening. “ ‘There should be no doubt whatsoever that we’re dealing with the first real terrorist action to occur in Sweden in a very long time. Not even during the heyday of the Red Army Faction did we see anything like this. Now top Swedish businessmen are being executed one after the other by this “Power Murderer.” We may be facing the worst crime ever to take place in Sweden. The only thing we know for sure is that the police are clueless.’ Which is their way of saying,” Chavez added, as he put down the paper, “that since they’re not being told anything, there’s nothing to know.”

“They forgot to mention the West German ambassador,” said Hjelm. “But you’re too young to remember all that.”

Jorge Chavez stared at Hjelm. “Paul. If you persist in concocting old-fashioned intrigues and fiddling around with equally old-fashioned detective work-meaning if you refuse to accept that this has to do with moving money via global computer networks and professional hit men, probably hired via the same computer networks-then you need to find out more about the people involved. Instead of relying on clichés about business bullshit and flowers that wilt as the potentates pass by. This is about real individuals, after all, not cartoon characters.”

“A very touching speech. What sort of suggestions are you hiding behind your concern for the lost honor of these gentlemen?”

“You don’t know enough about them. Go see Kerstin. Borrow her tapes. Learn about them.”

Chavez returned to the computer screen. For a moment Hjelm watched him working diligently. He saw the new breed of policeman, and for the first time he realized what a gulf existed between him and his officemate; it really had nothing to do with their backgrounds. Chavez, computer literate, international, rational, without prejudices, able to maintain a certain distance, enthusiastic. If it was true that Hjelm was looking at the future of the police force, then it was not exactly a bad thing. When he thought it was possible that there might be a certain lack of heart and soul, he realized at the same instant that he was once again working from a cliché. For a moment he thought that his whole world consisted of nothing else. What the hell could he say about his own heart and soul? He felt old. What he saw in front of him was quite simply a man who was a better police officer than he was. With black hair and a Spanish surname.

Look deep into your heart, Hjelm.

One of his tasks was to purge Grundström from his thoughts.

He went down the hall to the bathroom. He had a zit on his cheek. He tried squeezing it but nothing came out. Instead, the skin around it split and began to flake off. He put a little water on his finger and dabbed the flakes of skin away. Then he went back out to the corridor, walked past his office, and stopped outside room 303. He knocked and went in.

Gunnar Nyberg was tapping away on the computer keyboard, a woolly mammoth jabbing at a spaceship. The giant of a man looked as if he’d landed on the wrong planet.

Kerstin Holm was wearing a headset and typing on a small laptop. She turned off the Walkman lying next to her computer and turned to face Hjelm. Nyberg kept on typing, slowly, doggedly, reluctantly-but with great tenacity. Hjelm thought he was witnessing a basic personality trait.

“A visitor,” said Holm. “How unusual.”

“What’s that?” asked Hjelm, pointing at her laptop.

“Haven’t you ever seen one of these?” she asked in surprise, seeing his expression darken. Then she gave him a slightly ironic smile. He’d never thought of her as beautiful before.

“I brought in my own,” she said. “It’s faster.”

For three more seconds he thought how beautiful she was: the loose-fitting black clothes, the tousled brown hair, her alert eyes an even darker brown, the charming wrinkles that she didn’t try to hide, the perpetually ironic smile, the textbook-pure Göteborg accent. Then he blinked all these thoughts away. “I’d like to listen to your tapes,” he said.

“Is there anything in particular you want to hear?”

“Not really. I want to see if I can get to know them better. Avoid clichés, if that’s possible.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Holm, pointing to a skyscraper of cassette tapes in front of her. “Maybe a lot of clichés actually apply.”

“What’s your own opinion?”

“We can talk about that afterward,” she said, pushing the unsteady tower of tapes across the desk.

The tapes weren’t labeled, so Hjelm chose one at random and stuck it into his newly purchased Walkman.

Kerstin Holm’s voice said, “All right. Interview on April 3 with Willy Eriksson, born William Carlberger, 8-14-63. So you’re the son of Nils-Emil and Carlotta Carlberger?”

“Yes. Although her last name is now Eriksson. Carla Eriksson. That was her maiden name.”

“And you’ve taken the same name? And officially changed your first name too?”

“Yes.”

“But your brother is still named Carlberger, Andreas Carlberger. What’s the reason behind the name change?”

“Hmm. I don’t know. I guess I just feel closer to my mother.”

“You’re a doctoral candidate in sociology in Lund. Are you a Marxist?”

Willy Eriksson chuckled. “If I was, you wouldn’t have to ask the question.”

“Was there some sort of ideological conflict between you and your father?”

“I suppose you could call it ideological, even though I’d be a bit cautious about using that term. What you’re trying to get at, and I might as well make it easier for you, is the question of whether I hated that sweetheart of a man, Nils-Emil Carlberger. The answer is no. No hatred involved.”

“No hatred and no sorrow?”

“Exactly.”

“Tell me about him. What was he like? Was he the classic capitalist? From a purely sociological perspective?”

“An elegant way to steer the conversation into my own field of interest. Touché. Get the guy to talk.”

“That’s enough. If you really want to make things easier for me, then help me out here. Otherwise we’re just going to waste a lot of time that neither of us can spare.”

“If such a thing as a ‘classic capitalist’ exists, from a ‘purely sociological perspective,’ then I think that’s what he was. A materialistic and disciplined childhood with sporadic visits by the authoritarian father figure. Nothing new under the sun. No hugs, but no visible violence, either. Everything had to do with money and its shiny display. Andreas and Mama and I were all part of the shiny display. Andreas a bit more than I, and I a bit more than Mama. She was always a little too gray and plain to shine, no matter how much he tried to polish her up. And no matter how much I try to find redeeming features, or even any individual traits, I can’t find any. I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry. Did he have any special interests or something that might present an alternative picture?”

“I’ve really searched for something. When I was ten or eleven, when the inferno was raging at home the year before their divorce, I once asked him what exactly they made in his factory. He laughed and said, ‘Money.’ I was hoping for something slightly ridiculous, and redemptive, behind all that accumulation of wealth: condoms or teddy bears or back-scratchers or nose-hair clippers or whatever the hell it might be. But of course it was a purely financial enterprise, from beginning to end. There’s not much comedy in money.”

Hjelm was getting bored, so he fast-forwarded. A crackling female voice said:

“But Kuno, he was a real family man. He was.”

Hjelm rewound to the start of the interview: “Madame Hummelstrand, s’il vous plaît,” said Kerstin Holm.

There was a rustling sound, and off in the background an angry female voice could be faintly heard: “Touche pas le téléphone! Jamais plus! Touche seulement moi-même!” Finally an emphatic voice spoke into the receiver:

“Allô!”

“Is this Anna-Clara Hummelstrand, wife of George Hummelstrand, vice president of Nimco France?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Kerstin Holm, National Criminal Police in Stockholm. It has to do with the murders of Kuno Daggfeldt and Bernhard Strand-Julén.”

“Oh, I see. Une agentinne, n’est-ce pas?”

“C’est peut-être le mot juste, madame,” said Holm, her voice ice cold. “I want to point out that this conversation is being recorded. Let me begin: phone conversation with Anna-Clara Hummelstrand in Nice on April 2 at 1702.”

“Tally ho!” said Anna-Clara Hummelstrand. Only now was it clear how drunk she was. “On dit peut-être agentesse…”

“Maybe I should get back to you after the fog has cleared,” said Holm.

“After what?”

“After the haze has lifted.”

“Croyez-moi, une agentesse humoriste!” shouted Anna-Clara Hummelstrand. “Tirée! Tirée, ma amie! Immédiatement!”

“Okay. Let’s give it a try. Is it correct to say that you are close friends with both Ninni Daggfeldt and Lilian Strand-Julén?”

“As close as anyone can get. We exchange information about our gynecological exams. That’s the definition of a deep female friendship. Tout à fait.”

“Do they know each other?”

“Ninni and Lilian? Not directly. I try to keep my girlfriends separate, à ma honté. Then they can’t gang up on me. But of course they know about each other through gossip.”

“And their husbands?”

“Well, neither of the poor dears had it easy, I can tell you that. They didn’t know how to handle their little boys the way I do. Lilian’s situation was well known, of course. Saint Bernhard’s little puppies. If she was the one who got rid of him, she has my full support. She had moved out, with his full support, but divorce was out of the question, as she always said. We all know how things went for little Johanna. Besides, it was an arrangement that suited Bernhard. But Kuno, he was a real family man. He was. No escapades that I know of, and what I don’t know about isn’t worth knowing, let me assure you, ma petite. On the other hand, he worked way too much. More than Bernhard, I’m positive about that. Never home.”

“Yet he had time to play golf and attend meetings of a fraternal order.”

“Right. The Order of Hugin or Munin, or whatever it’s called. So cute. George is a member too. He’s told me about the little rituals, how they put on Nordic god masks and strange robes, or whatever they’re called, and engage in sheer bacchanalia. It’s been a long time since he engaged in sheer bacchanalia with me, that’s the truth. I have to arrange my own. Pas vrai, Philippe? He’s nodding. But in general I think they regarded both golf and the order as work. I think the good Sir George, my own little dragon-slayer, also considers them part of his work time.”

“Have you ever heard George talk about something called the Order of Skidbladnir?”

“Dear God, no. That sounds ghastly.”

“How did you hear about Daggfeldt’s and Strand-Julén’s deaths?”

“My husband called me last night. He sounded a bit shaken, mon grand chevalier.”

“Was he involved in business deals with them?”

“I’ve never been interested in George’s business affairs. As long as there’s plenty of money in the bank account, I’m happy. Terrible, right? I must be the classic object of hatred for feminist advocates like yourself, Miss Holm. Oh, whoops, I see that little Philippe is preparing for other activities. Have you, Miss Holm, ever seen a magnificent, olive-brown Gallic pole rise up from an absolutely slack condition to an absolutely stiff one? A marvelously prolonged moment of slow, slow, economical expansion? I guarantee that it affects a person’s ability to carry on a sensible conversation with a female Swedish police officer. Mais Philippe! Calmons!”

The conversation was cut off. Hjelm heard Kerstin Holm sigh. Then the same crackling telephone sounds behind Holm’s voice.

“Part two, Nice, April 3, 10:52 A.M.”

“Encore,” said a tremendously lackluster Anna-Clara Hummelstrand.

“Do you know a Nancy Carlberger?”

“Nancy? A wonderful little town in Lorraine-”

“Are you awake, Mrs. Hummelstrand?”

“Peu à peu. Nancy Carlberger? Nils-Emil’s little trophy wife? I’ve met her a couple of times. Didn’t much care for her. What is it now? Has Nils-Emil kicked the bucket too?”

“He was murdered last night. I’d like to point out that until further notice this information is to be considered confidential.”

“Mon dieu! This is starting to feel like that Agatha Christie story And Then There Were None. Have you talked to the servants? The butler?”

“As a matter of fact, we’re trying to locate his house cleaner.”

“That must be little Sonya, the poor thing. She takes care of most of the houses in Djursholm. Was she the one who found him? She didn’t murder him, that much I can guarantee. I’ve never met anyone so timid since I saved the life of a wagtail in my sadly so-distant childhood. Åke was his name, Åke Wagtail.”

“Does Sonya clean your home?”

“No, we have a different little woman, a Turk who’s been with us for years now. Iraz. Iraz Effendi. No, Sonya is black. From Somalia, I think. I’m not entirely sure that she has all her documents in order. Although officially you didn’t hear me say that.”

“Did she clean the Daggfeldt home, or the Strand-Juléns’?”

“No, she works only in Djursholm. You know how quickly word spreads through an area if there’s a nice, cheap, reliable cleaning woman. Don’t try to tell me that you don’t know that.”

“And you have no idea what Sonya’s last name is? Or where she lives?”

“No, but Nancy would know, of course. Why do you keep calling me, by the way? I do hope George isn’t in the danger zone… Speaking of which, I think I must have said a lot of nonsense yesterday. I hope you can erase whatever doesn’t have a direct bearing on the case. You know, George…”

“Do you mean this passage? And I quote: ‘Have you, Miss Holm, ever seen a magnificent, olive-brown Gallic pole rise up from an absolutely slack condition to an absolutely stiff one? A marvelously prolonged moment of slow, slow, economical expansion’?”

“You delightful creature!” Mrs. Hummelstrand blurted out with glee. Hjelm had finally heard enough when she went on:

“Did you sit there and masturbate at the thought of Philippe’s remarkable organ? Shame on you!”

While Hjelm changed tapes, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the thought of Kerstin Holm masturbating because of Philippe’s remarkable organ. He pictured her sitting alone in her office. Night had descended over police headquarters. She had propped up her legs, one on either side of the laptop, and eased down her loose-fitting trousers. Her hand moved calmly and methodically up and down inside her panties. Her dark eyes were completely glazed over as she opened them wide and then threw back her head with a half-stifled moan.

What a child I am, Hjelm thought as he let his slight erection deflate. He heard the sound of a teenage girl’s shrill, defiant voice in his ears.

“How do you think it felt? Mini, midi, maxi. Maxi-deep. Maxi-horny. Of course there were other people who had fucking stupid names. One of the girls in my class was named Angel, Angel Jakobsson-Flodh, old hippies who fixed up a luxury collective in Danderyd to keep the dream alive-alongside their computer company, of course. But nobody else was ever named after a damn boat! People name their boats after women, but they don’t fucking name women after boats!”

“Did you hate your father because he gave you a name like that?”

“When I was an adolescent, sure. Now I actually think it’s rather cool.”

“Did you hate the boat?”

“I’ve actually never hated the boat. It was the only time when Papa relaxed. He was always fussing about, trying to make sure that we all had a good time. Okay, my mother was always throwing up, and that could get really disgusting, you know, but Marre and I kept out of her way and just played our silly guess-the-word game.”

“Did your father ever hit your mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. He would get so incredibly disappointed when he saw that all his efforts had no effect on my mother. They shouted and screamed, so we stayed out of their way, hid in a corner, out on the island where we docked, pulled a quilt over ourselves and played guess-the-word.”

“How do you feel about your father’s death?”

“I’ve been crying a lot…”

Hjelm fast-forwarded, thinking how impossible it was to get any sort of insight into another person’s life. What is it that drives somebody’s life, what is it that forms all these connections with other people?

Everything spreads out like rings in the water.

He changed the tape again, making another arbitrary selection.

He went on and on and on, amazed at Kerstin Holm’s diligence. Secretaries, family members, employees, friends all swept past in a never-ending stream.

Now a man was speaking with some sort of semi-west-coast accent.

“You’re from Göteborg? Then you must know Landvetter Airport quite well.”

“More or less,” said Holm, not sounding particularly interested. “Why is it that Willy changed his last name but you didn’t?”

“Hmm. I have nothing against Carlberger. It has a certain… ring to it. William took the divorce much harder than I did. He was twelve, while I was fifteen. We went to live with Mama, and our life changed radically after that. From the luxury of Djursholm to the poverty of Danvikstull, so to speak. It was lucky that I was already practically grown up. William was more susceptible. Besides, he quickly managed to turn his personal problems into an ideological conflict. I think it’s called ‘projection.’ A way to survive.”

“How did you react when you heard that your father was dead?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was dumbfounded. It’s not everybody whose father is liquidated by the Russian mafia.”

“Why do you think it was the Russian mafia?”

“That’s what it said in Göteborgs Tidende. I read the newspapers on the plane. In Aftonbladet it said something about the Red Army Faction. Expressen claimed it was the Sicilian mafia. What are we supposed to believe?”

Hjelm switched off the tape and studied the hardworking Chavez for a moment. It was beginning to get dark outside.

Then he decided that the next tape would be the last. He put it in and Kerstin Holm said:

“Conversation with Rickard Franzén at 12:16 P.M. on April 3.”

“I want this on tape too,” said the retired judge sternly, “so I can make my view perfectly clear. How dare you come here, my dear, after what you did to my son last night?”

“I’m truly sorry about what happened, but you might have informed us that you had a son, and that he had keys to the house, and that in the middle of the night he might come tromping in with his nostrils rimmed white with cocaine.”

“I never thought that…”

“Here’s my first question. One member of the Order of Mimir who was not part of the Order of Skidbladnir is named George Hummelstrand. Do you know him?”

“George? Of course.”

“How did he feel about you forming a separate group?”

“He wasn’t at all in favor of it. Do you mean to say that you’re still following the order lead? In spite of what happened to Carlberger?”

“How do you know about that? It hasn’t been officially announced yet.”

“I have my contacts, damn it! That lead is a dead end!”

“Tell me about Hummelstrand.”

“Without a doubt he was furious about it. For him the bylaws of the Order of Mimir were inviolable. We were traitors. He belonged to the little hate group. It was because of them that I accepted your suspicion that I would be the next victim.”

“Give me more names.”

“Oscar Bjellerfeldt, Nils-Åke Svärdh, Bengt Klinth, possibly Jakob Ringman.”

“What was the whole thing about? Really?”

“Ritual details. Ultrasecret. Especially from women.”

“Is it true that in 1978 Jan-Olov Hultin, who back then was a detective inspector with the Stockholm police, on the narcotics squad, arrested Rickard Franzén Jr. for drug possession and dealing; that Hultin was stubborn as hell and managed to get him arrested and arraigned in spite of tremendous opposition; and that your son was convicted by both the district court and the county court but was acquitted by the Svea Court of Appeals, where you were then serving as judge?”

“I was not the judge for my son’s case!”

“No one said you were. Is it also true that Hultin was transferred to the Huddinge police after this incident?”

There was silence for a moment. Hjelm imagined serious eyebrow raising. Franzén’s voice reappeared, faintly from the background.

“I didn’t think Hultin was the kind to tell tales… Well. It was an open-and-shut case. My son was acquitted. There wasn’t enough evidence.”

“Hultin hasn’t been telling tales. I reviewed the details of the case myself. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. Since then Rickard Jr. has been picked up a dozen times and released.”

A rattling sound started up, and it got worse. The judge said in a shrill, quavering, and utterly grotesque voice:

“I think you’d better start looking around for a new job, young lady. I know one that would be very suitable.”

“Let go of the tape recorder, judge,” said Kerstin Holm calmly.

Hjelm knocked cautiously on the door and went in. Nyberg was gone. Holm was still sitting at her desk, listening to a tape and typing on her laptop. It was quite dark in the room. She looked up and took off the headset.

“Yes?” she said, her tone of voice much the same as when she had said “Let go of the tape recorder, judge,” a few hours earlier. It was late.

Hjelm put the pile of tapes on her desk and shook his head. “Hopeless,” he said. “But Franzén was an unexpected bonus.”

“That might have been stupid.”

“You went there to give him a scare.”

“He’s been supplying that son of his with money for drugs all these years, and he’s bailed him out so many times that it’s become a standing joke down at the jail. He’s never going to let him go through the Passageway of Sighs again.”

Hjelm perched on the edge of the desk. The Passageway of Sighs was the underground tunnel between police headquarters and the courthouse, through which prisoners with bowed heads had passed for almost a century.

“What a hell of a lot of work you’ve done,” he said.

“So did you ever manage to get beyond the clichés?” she asked.

“I’ve never felt so far removed from other people.”

“I know what you mean. New threads keep appearing that you can track down further; new shoots keep growing out of the stalks. But the stalks themselves remain inaccessible. Maybe a human being merely consists of a bunch of threads and external connections. Who knows?”

“In any case, that’s all that’s left.”

Kerstin Holm closed her laptop, stretched, and said into the dark, “You have a zit on your cheek.”

“It’s not a zit,” said Hjelm.