Misterioso

15

Hjelm studied his face in the left rearview mirror and saw that the scaly red patch on his cheek had gotten bigger. He thought about skin cancer.

The sun was spreading a thick, illusory layer of summer as the police car struggled up the steep incline of Liljeholm Bridge. Hornstull Beach and the cottages of the Tanto allotment gardens basked in the spring sunlight, and he wondered for an instant whether the minigolf course was open. In the other direction the little pier of the Liljeholm swimming area stuck out into the bay.

One beach is as good as another, thought Hjelm nonsensically, flooring the gas pedal in order to make it over the crown of the bridge and head down toward Södermalm. He ended up in a rather chaotic line of cars that was forming down near the intersection. A shimmering metallic Saab 9000 had tried at the last minute to make it through before the light turned red, and ended up in the middle of the intersection while the traffic blared its horns for him to get out of the way.

“I told you we should have stayed on the Essinge road,” Gunnar Nyberg admonished as Hjelm leaned on the car horn.

He’d picked up Nyberg at his small, three-room bachelor apartment near Nacka Church. Carpooling, he thought as he squeezed the Mazda past the stranded Saab. It’d been a long time since anyone had used that term.

“This is a nicer route,” said Hjelm, swearing loudly at a bicyclist wobbling past.

“A nicer traffic jam, you mean,” said Nyberg. “They’re not exactly the same thing.”

The line was at a standstill nearly all the way to Långholmsgatan, and only close to Västerbron did the traffic ease a bit. Then they rolled past the square where the new Swedish jet had crashed one summer not so long ago, during the infamous air show for which no one was willing to take responsibility. Hjelm had actually been in attendance, along with his entire family; even Danne had enjoyed it. They were standing in the fourth row, almost directly across from City Hall, and saw the plane bank sharply to the left, watched as the pilot ejected, saw the plane slowly tilt toward the ground, saw the cloud of smoke rising up, and listened as the absolute, dead silence morphed into a shocked and aggressive but liberating chatter. Yet another blow to the national self-confidence, he thought afterward, but during the entire episode he had remained utterly passive, devoid of all thought. After a moment Danne pulled away from his father’s arm, which Hjelm, out of a primeval but futile protective instinct, had placed around his son’s shoulders.

“Cool,” Danne had said.

“Cool,” said Gunnar Nyberg. He was looking first at the waters of Riddarfjärden to the right and then at the channel of Mariebergsfjärden to the left.

One bay is as good as another, thought Hjelm nonsensically, and agreed with his colleague. It was a sight for the gods, as Erik Bruun would have said. Stockholm’s waters glittered faintly in the morning sun. Not a cloud in the sky, the building facades were brilliantly colored in the almost horizontal rays of light, and a few dazzling white excursion boats chugged between the flashes of sun on Lake Mälaren. Two sailboats were out early, with rainbow spinnakers. City Hall self-consciously swaggered with its three gleaming crowns. The vegetation already was starting to sprout at the bridge abutment on the Kungsholmen side, in Rålambshov Park, at Smedsuddsbadet, in Marieberg Park. The promenade down by Norr Mälarstrand was filling up with people out for a stroll.

Neither of them was upset when the traffic came to a complete halt on the very crest of the bridge.

Life was returning to the city, coming out of hibernation. With death in tow, thought Hjelm melodramatically.

“I have to go out and pick up some small-time thugs today,” said Nyberg. “Want to come along?”

Hjelm shifted into neutral and set the parking brake. He glanced over at the gigantic figure sitting next to him who was making the Mazda tilt precariously to the right.

“Informants?” he asked.

“Partly. The police districts have gone through their files on snitches and other loose-lipped individuals and come up with several likely candidates.”

“With knowledge of the mafia?”

“About mafia murders in general and the Russians in particular. They’re possible candidates, but real long shots. And most likely it will be deeply and sincerely pointless.”

The traffic jam abruptly cleared. Västerbron swerved sharply, and the Mazda did as well. Together they passed over Rålambshov Park. Small clusters of people, for some reason not at work, were spread out over the grass, which was not yet particularly green.

“My leads have kind of dried up lately,” said Hjelm. “Maybe I can tag along with you. I need to track down something that thrives in the undergrowth. A Stake, actually.”

“Oi,” said Nyberg. “When’d you lose it?”

“Johan is his name. Johan Stake. And he’s not mine.”

They fought their way across the numerous intersecting streets and took the right-hand route around Kronoberg Park, and turned onto Polhemsgatan. Ahead of them loomed police headquarters. Hjelm parked the car a block away and walked alongside his giant of a colleague toward Stockholm’s version of the Taj Mahal, glittering harshly in the sunlight.

Hultin sat and stared at them, peering like an owl through his half-moon glasses.

“News from the higher-ups,” he said. “The cleaning woman who reported Carlberger’s death has been found. Sonya Shermarke, a Somali who was due to be deported. She and her family were hiding with some relatives in Tensta, under the protection of the church. She was making a living by cleaning houses in Djursholm and getting paid under the table. Early this morning a unit from another law enforcement department located her and arrested everybody they found in the apartment, including seven children, six adults, and a pastor from Spånga Church. All of them have been held in custody for the past three hours, being strenuously interrogated by our colleagues.”

“Should I guess which other department we’re talking about here?” asked Söderstedt.

“No, you should not,” said Hultin calmly. “All right. I just had a talk with Sonya Shermarke. She speaks decent Swedish, so we managed without an interpreter. She arrived at the villa, as usual, around nine o’clock, took a quick look at the living room to see what needed to be done, and discovered Carlberger lying in a pool of blood. She called the police without identifying herself other than to say that she was the ‘cleaning woman.’ Then she panicked and immediately returned to her hiding place. Our colleagues are still trying to pump her relatives for information about where the Russian gun was hidden.”

He paused for a fraction of a second then continued.

“Right now we’ll take time only for a very, very brief summing up. In all likelihood a fourth victim is going to end up in a pool of blood in his living room, so we have a lot to do. Don’t forget that we have access to plenty of assistants, as a matter of fact the entire Stockholm police force. I shouldn’t have to remind you that you now have much greater powers than your rank would normally permit, but don’t try to do all the shitwork yourself. Make use of the foot soldiers as much as possible. And by the way, Mörner and his superiors will keep the press away from the unit, at least for the time being. First, does anyone have a likely victim for tonight?”

No one in Supreme Central Command stirred.

“Okay. If you exceed fifty words, I’m going to give you the ‘time’s up’ signal. Holm?”

“Tons of interviews, nothing serious. Minor leads to follow up on.”

“Exceptionally concise. Hjelm?”

Hjelm glanced down at his notebook. There he read a number of names: Lena Hansson, George Hummelstrand, Oscar Bjellerfeldt, Nils-Åke Svärdh, Bengt Klinth, Jakob Ringman, Johan Stake, Sonya X. He crossed out the last name. “Not a damned thing.”

“A little more detail, please.”

“Our three victims played golf together once, just the three of them, in the fall of 1990. If the killing spree does not continue, then that’s a lead. If Kerstin isn’t going to take on George Hummelstrand, the husband of Anna-Clara, who is friends with the widows, then I’d like to have a go at him.”

Holm shrugged ambivalently. Hjelm tried to understand what she meant by that.

“He’s one of the remaining links to the Mimir lead,” he went on, “along with a few others. Then there’s Strand-Julén’s pimp, Johan Stake. I was thinking of tagging along with Nyberg on his foray into the underworld in order to locate him. How many words?”

“Close to a hundred. But okay, go along with Nyberg. And now, Nyberg?”

“Spent all day yesterday working with the Stockholm police. We cross-checked various gray-zone files and came up with some potential Russian contacts, aside from those already convicted. I talked to several of those serving time in various prisons yesterday, but they weren’t very communicative. Hjelm and I will tackle the others today. Pubs, gyms, video stores, and so on.”

“That’s good. Norlander?”

The finicky Viggo Norlander gently rubbed his balding pate. “I’ve been in regular contact with customs about hits on post-Soviet smuggled goods but have essentially drawn a blank. It seems that it’s never possible to track down the sender, but I do have several addresses that I’m going to check out. I’ve also talked to the police in Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Tallinn regarding the mafia in general and the Russian-Estonian Viktor X gang in particular. It hasn’t been easy to find out anything, but all indications are that we’re dealing with a branch of the larger mafia, and that it’s already here in some form, in Stockholm. The most cooperative was an Inspector Kalju Laikmaa in Tallinn. I’ll be getting in touch with him again today, and I hope that-”

Hultin had put the palm of one hand perpendicular to the other to form a T.

Norlander fell silent.

“The economists?” said Hultin.

“Chief economist Söderstedt reporting,” said Söderstedt. “I’ll speak for Pettersson, Florén, and myself. Chavez can make his own report. We’ve located a number of interesting things in the terrible corporate mess that the three gentlemen have left behind. The lawyers should be rubbing their hands together: there’s enough to keep them busy for years to come. But the occasional irregularities that we’ve come across are of a different nature than crimes of violence. We’ll get back to you when we know more. All we can say now is that there are more connections among the empires of the three men than we originally thought.”

Hultin was just about to make his “time’s up” sign when Söderstedt stopped talking of his own accord.

Chavez then took the floor. “There are three boards of directors that included all three victims during the late eighties and early nineties. I’m checking up on everyone who was a board member at Ericsson, Sydbanken, and MEMAB during the same period. It’s quite a list. Right now I’m leaning toward MEMAB, partly because it had and still has the smallest board of directors, a purely mathematical-statistical distinction; partly because Paul’s golf lead is connected to MEMAB, which is a more gut-level distinction; and partly because membership on that particular board seems to have aroused a bit of competition, not to mention hostility. So to put it simply, I’m looking for enemies among the board members. So far nothing concrete, but a few nibbles at MEMAB.”

Chavex delivered the last two statements at breakneck speed since he was looking at Hultin’s hands in a T as he spoke.

“Let’s get busy, then.” Hultin removed his glasses and left the room through his special door.

On his way out, Hjelm stopped Kerstin Holm. “If you want to take Sir George, go ahead. I was out of line bringing that up. I guess I’m just obsessed with the Order of Mimir.”

“Fine,” she said curtly, then disappeared into room 303 just as Nyberg came out with his jacket in hand and gave Hjelm a wave. Like Laurel and Hardy, they trudged down the hallway and out into the sunshine.

It turned out to be a long and tiresome day. Hjelm drove Nyberg around, following a list of names in Nyberg’s notebook, which soon filled up with check marks. The names checked off consisted partly of a bunch of well-informed snitches, partly of shady characters with possible Russian contacts for access to cheap booze and drugs: pub owners who slept in the daytime, notorious pushers, steroid-popping gym owners, less-than-honest art dealers, owners of illegal gambling clubs. All of them well known to the police but impossible to catch.

Nyberg’s personality changed before Hjelm’s eyes. From one second to the next the bass singer in the Nacka Church choir switched from a good-natured teddy bear to a furious grizzly, then back again when it was time to check off another name.

“How the hell do you do that?” asked Hjelm after check number eight, just as fruitless as the previous seven.

Gunnar Nyberg chuckled. “It’s all a matter of harnessing the steroids,” he said. He stopped laughing and stared out the car window with a faraway look in his eyes. After a moment he went on quietly.

“I was Mr. Sweden in 1973. I was twenty-three and tossed down all the pills that anyone handed to me, as long as they would increase my muscle mass. While I was on the Norrmalm police force from 1975 to ’77, I was charged three times for police brutality but managed, with the proper help, to wriggle my way out of it each time. The reports just disappeared, so to speak, in the bureaucratic process. I stopped doing serious bodybuilding, meaning with drugs, in 1977 after the last charge of assault and battery, which was a really close call. Even I could see that. I’m never going to get over it. For a time I struggled with sudden outbursts of anger. I left my wife and lost custody rights to my kids. But I conquered that angry shit. At least I think I did. But I still don’t know whether I pretend to be enraged, or whether it actually takes over for a moment. I don’t know. But it seems very controlled, don’t you think?”

Hjelm would never again hear Gunnar Nyberg say so much all at one time.

“Very,” he said. Nyberg never crossed the line. His violence was indirect. With almost three hundred pounds of potential assault and battery looming over them, most small-time thugs quickly turned submissive.

They continued all day long and even into the evening, traversing Stockholm and its environs. Hjelm’s main role was to drive, but he usually slipped his brief questions regarding pimps into Nyberg’s interrogations. Just before three in the afternoon Hjelm had a brief phone conversation with Hultin, who had decided to skip the three o’clock meeting; there wasn’t anything new to discuss. Hjelm reported on the duo’s meager results:

The owner of a gym in Bandhagen had bought a large supply of anabolic steroids from a couple of “ferocious Russians” who called themselves Peter Ustinov and John Malkovich.

One of the more prominent drug pushers at Sergelplattan had once received a load of first-rate stuff, sent in plastic bags that had Russian letters printed on them. That was all they could get out of him before he started spitting up blood.

The owner of a small basement pub in Söder had made several purchases of Estonian vodka via a strange Russian pair calling themselves Igor and Igor.

A self-proclaimed art dealer in Järfälla had been offered big money from a “Russian-speaking gangster type” for a Picasso, then in the possession of the financier Anders Wall. He had declined the offer.

An amphetamine-babbling proprietor of a video store with private viewing booths in Norrmalm had cheerfully offered them some child porn films with Russian subtitles, even though they had shown him their police ID. He was arrested. He spoke Swedish with a Russian accent, but he wasn’t Russian. With thirty confiscated child porn movies, it wasn’t going to be difficult to get him arraigned quickly. They would be talking to him again later.

That was all they had come up with just before three P.M. on April 4.

Their search continued until seven. By then every name and address on Nyberg’s list had been checked off.

The latter half of their search was depressing in terms of the Russian mafia lead, since it brought in no results whatsoever. But after an utterly absurd marathon chase all the way from Tessin Park to Värtahamn, they had caught up with a terrified dealer. They learned from him that the man who went by the name of Johan Stake had actually been baptized Johan Stake, and one of his many enterprises was a phone sex company with an 071 pay-by-the-minute number. The company was called JSHB, for Johan Stake Handelsbolag, and it was located in Bromma. They had big ads on the phone sex pages in all the tabloids.

When Hjelm and Nyberg drove back across the Liljeholm Bridge, the lights of the city were already turned on. Everything had settled into an eerie silence; they both noticed it, although it might have existed only in their own minds. They both knew that they would sleep badly.

They knew when and how, but not who or where.

That night another person was going to be murdered.