by Arne Dahl
‘I see,’ said Söderstedt, feeling as though a pigment or two was starting to return to his face. Since he still couldn’t remember the word for wolverine in English, he didn’t bother to correct the commissioner’s zoological mistake. Instead, he went on: ‘And the motive for Voultsos’s murder?’
‘Competition,’ Marconi said nonchalantly. ‘As I said, there’s a war going on in Europe. For control of the prostitution. From what we can tell, it was an Eastern European crime syndicate with ambitions in Sweden which killed him. Using badgers.’
Söderstedt nodded. Marconi was clearly planning on going through every single member of the marten family – other than the wolverine itself. It made him feel slightly annoyed.
Marconi held up what looked like a fax.
‘Your assignment has been officially sanctioned, Signor Sadestatt. It seems you’ve been granted a provisional position with the European police agency, Europol. Formally, that means you have full access to my investigation. How is your Italian?’
‘Not quite conversational,’ said Söderstedt. ‘But I can read it fine.’
‘Great,’ said Marconi, handing a cubiform box to his new Europol colleague, who stared at it in confusion. ‘A collection of CDs containing the whole Ghiottone investigation. I’m assuming you have a computer.’
Söderstedt nodded. He had mostly been using his little laptop to play hearts, the banal but relaxing card game which came pre-installed with Windows. He very rarely won.
‘You’ll find the names of all the suspects, including the key figure, the banker. Your contract means you’re bound by professional secrecy and that any indication of anyone but yourself having access to these disks will be treated as a criminal act. Is that understood?’
‘Understood,’ said Söderstedt. ‘One thing, though. The strange method of execution. Have you ever come across anything like it?’
‘You mean the weasels?’ asked Italo Marconi, smiling.
‘No, I mean the wire in the brain. I mean the hanging upside down.’
The commissioner nodded. He had understood. The whole thing with the otters and badgers and weasels was just some kind of game that Söderstedt hadn’t understood – yet. But he knew that he would understand it soon. He resisted.
‘I’ve actually put a few men on to that,’ said Marconi. ‘We’re currently going through murders in our country, looking for similar cases.’
‘I suspected you might be,’ said Söderstedt. He thought Marconi would catch the appreciation hidden in that line.
Marconi’s smile suggested that he had.
He stood up and held out his hand. Söderstedt took it. His respect for the Italian police force had increased markedly.
‘I’ve got a feeling we’ll be hearing from one another again,’ Italo Marconi said, stroking his enormous moustache.
‘Same,’ said Arto Söderstedt, shaking the hand which had been extended to him and turning to leave. As he reached the door, he heard Marconi’s voice.
‘By the way, do you know what ghiottone means in Italian?’
Söderstedt turned round.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Ghiottone means wolverine,’ said Italo Marconi.
Söderstedt laughed.
Of course it did.
17
ANDERSSON’S FIRST NAME was Hubald.
Hubald Andersson.
Gunnar Nyberg didn’t quite know how to handle the fact that a sporty, tough and quite recently qualified twenty-four-year-old policeman with a look that could kill was called Hubald.
Now wasn’t the time for laughing, in any case.
The dark little woman in her fifties was sitting in her office, looking Russian. ‘I’m Ludmila Lundkvist, senior lecturer in Slavic languages here at Stockholm University. And you’re Detective Inspectors Gunnar Nyberg and Viggo Norlander, and Police Assistant Hubald Andersson. Is that correct?’
‘Viggo?’ Hubald Andersson said spontaneously.
‘Hubald?’ Viggo Norlander replied spontaneously.
At which both started roaring with laughter.
After that, Ludmila Lundkvist talked exclusively to Gunnar Nyberg, who was clearly a big, level-headed, handsome man in the prime of his life.
‘Are you Russian?’ the big, level-headed, handsome man in the prime of his life asked.
‘Yes,’ Ludmila Lundkvist answered with a smile. ‘I’m from Moscow. I fell in love with a Swede researching Old Russian, Hans Lundkvist. We met when he came to a conference in Moscow in the late seventies. I took a long, winding road out of the Soviet Union and followed him back to Sweden, and then we got married. He died of testicular cancer five years ago. We never had any children.’
Gunnar Nyberg probably hadn’t been expecting such a detailed account, and he was still a little too fresh on the dating scene to realise that he was being flirted with.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all he said.
‘And you, are you married?’
‘No,’ Nyberg replied in surprise, before adding: ‘Divorced.’
Ludmila Lundkvist nodded with another smile, and placed three sheets of paper on the table in front of her.
‘I assume it was you who came up with the idea of writing down what you heard on the phone, Gunnar?’ she said.
Nyberg couldn’t deny it.
‘I thought so,’ Ludmila Lundkvist said, giving him a look that the vast majority of the male population over forty would have seen as sexy. Gunnar Nyberg simply felt confused.
‘I want you to listen to two voices,’ she continued. ‘They’re speaking two different languages that can sound quite similar. Here’s the first.’
She pressed play on a cassette player on the desk. A male voice began reeling off smooth-sounding diphthongs. There was a pause.
In that pause, Ludmila Lundkvist said: ‘The second voice will start soon.’
The second voice began. It sounded similar but different at the same time. The diphthongs were smooth here too, but not in quite the same way. When it was over, the professor of Slavic languages continued.
‘Which of those two languages did you hear?’
Hubald Andersson pointed senselessly at the cassette player. Otherwise, the room was completely still.
‘It’s the same voice saying the same thing in two different languages,’ Ludmila Lundkvist explained. ‘Gunnar?’
Nyberg still couldn’t understand why he had been singled out as teacher’s pet, but he felt the pressure. He delved back as deep as he could in his memory and said: ‘The second. Something about the sound pattern of the first one wasn’t quite right. The diphthongs,’ he chanced.
Ludmila Lundkvist’s face lit up.
‘What about you two?’ she asked with a neutral tone.
‘Maybe,’ said Hubald Andersson.
‘Perhaps,’ said Viggo Norlander.
The professor touched her lip and said: ‘My assessment of your rather disparate combination of letters fits with yours, Gunnar. It’s the second one. The first voice was speaking Russian, the second Ukrainian. Most people don’t even realise that Ukrainian is a distinct language, but it’s spoken by fifty million people. It used to be called “Little Russian” and wasn’t recognised as a language in its own right until the start of the twentieth century. There’s an obvious influence from Polish, by the way, and some of the sounds are midway between Polish and Russian. The most tangible difference in the sound pattern, as you quite rightly called it, Gunnar, is that the unstressed “o” remains where Russian reduces it, and the Russian “g” is a softer “h”.’
She glanced at the bewildered policemen and set the tape playing again.
While it was still quiet, she said: ‘What you heard were the classic opening lines to Nikolai Gogol’s “The Overcoat”. Let’s listen to something else – my attempt at a reconstruction of what you scribbled down. It’s me reading it, since it was a woman you heard. Listen carefully and try to work out whether it fits.’
There was more silence. The cassette play
er was producing nothing but noise. Like a frustrated television reporter, waiting for a segment which never comes, Ludmila Lundkvist said: ‘It’s coming soon.’
And so it did.
Gunnar Nyberg may have been slightly influenced, but he did think that Ludmila’s sensual voice sounded quite like the one he had heard on the phone he had wrenched from Hamid al-Jabiri’s hand down on the tracks in Odenplan metro station. He said so.
‘It’s quite similar. It could easily have been like that.’
‘Yeah,’ said Viggo Norlander.
‘Why not?’ said Hubald Andersson.
Ludmila Lundkvist said: ‘If that’s true, then the voice is saying – in translation: “Everyone through OK. Three seven two to Lublin.” Then there’s that pause. And then she says: “Cunt” and hangs up.’
‘Cunt?’ exclaimed Hubald Andersson.
‘Like I said,’ Ludmila Lundkvist replied grimly.
Gunnar said: ‘No names?’
‘Unfortunately not, no.’
‘But “Lublin” should mean something to you, Ludmila …’
‘You too, Gunnar. You must’ve heard of Isaac Bashevis Singer, the only Yiddish-speaking recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature? In 1960, he wrote a wonderful little story called The Magician of Lublin. Lublin is a city in Poland, on European highway number 372, one hundred or so miles south of Warsaw. And not far from the Ukrainian border. The E372 goes straight into Ukraine.’
‘“Everyone through OK,”’ Gunnar Nyberg said thoughtfully. ‘“Three seven two to Lublin.” So “through” probably means “through customs”.’
‘That seems likely,’ said Ludmila Lundkvist. ‘But all together, it supports my interpretation.’
‘It’s very convincing, in any case,’ said Gunnar Nyberg, standing up and holding out his hand. She took it, clutching it a moment too long. He could feel himself staring foolishly at her.
The three men were standing out in the shabby university corridor. There was nothing to look at, nothing at all. The lift arrived, its doors opened. Suddenly, Viggo Norlander said: ‘You’re not taking this lift, Gunnar.’
‘What?’ said Gunnar Nyberg.
‘You’re going to go back to Professor Lundkvist’s room and ask her out for dinner this evening.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Viggo Norlander held the lift doors open, leaned forward towards Gunnar Nyberg and whispered: ‘You’re probably a much smarter man than I am, Gunnar, but I’m better at this than you. I’ve rarely seen such obvious female desire.’
Gunnar Nyberg stared at the closed lift doors for a long while.
Then he turned, back down the corridor. The sound of his pounding heart filled the corridor like African drums.
18
THREE MEN IN overalls were wandering around among the broken gravestones, carting away the pieces in wheelbarrows. They handled the lumps of stone like critically injured living beings, on their way to intensive care.
Jorge Chavez was standing in the shadow of the oak where Leonard Sheinkman had hung; when he glanced up, he saw that the bark had been scraped away from a branch about four metres up. He tried to work out how they had climbed the trunk. It didn’t exactly look easy. The branches were thin and brittle, all the way up. Whoever had hanged the old man from the tree must have been exceptionally light, agile and strong.
And unbelievably cruel.
The sun was shining on Södra Begravningsplatsen, wrapping the scene in its redeeming light, but it would probably never be possible to atone for such an unsavoury, cowardly, wretched crime. The perpetrator would probably be doomed to eternal damnation.
The ground in a Jewish cemetery was, after all, eternal – Jorge Chavez knew that much. The cemetery, Bet Hachajim, is permanent and cannot ever be moved. It was a holy place, holy ground, eternity’s courtyard, and it was bound up by a number of unwritten rules which marked its holiness: you couldn’t eat, drink or smoke in the cemetery, you couldn’t take short cuts over the graves, and your head should be covered, as a mark of respect.
He leaned down and touched the remains of the gravestone which had once read ‘Shtayf’. He compared it with the other graves. They were all roughly similar. At the top, two Hebrew letters he knew meant ‘Here lies’, followed by the name, date of birth, date of death, and a symbol, often the Star of David or the menorah. Right at the bottom of all the graves he could see were five Hebrew letters which meant something like: ‘May his (or her) soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.’
There was enough of Shtayf’s headstone left to reveal that neither a forename nor a date of birth had been inscribed on it, only ‘Shtayf’ and a date of death: 7 September 1981. The question was therefore whether this mysterious ‘Shtayf’, above whose broken grave Leonard Sheinkman had met his death, was in any way linked to him. It was all a touch vague.
A long shot, like they say in American films.
But even those worked out from time to time.
Chavez stepped into the sunshine and hopped gracefully over the blue-and-white plastic tape marked ‘Police’. The three men in overalls turned to look at him.
He had walked over a grave.
‘I’m sorry,’ he shouted, holding his police ID up for them to see. ‘I’m afraid I cut across a grave.’
The eldest of the three men came over to him. He looked Eastern European, Chavez thought with a certain bias – like one of the men you saw playing chess in the Kulturhus.
‘You shouldn’t walk over graves,’ the man said sternly, ‘and you should cover your head.’
It clearly wasn’t the first time he had uttered those words because, as if by magic, a small hat appeared from his pocket – a skullcap. Chavez took it and thanked him.
‘You wouldn’t happen to be Yitzak Lemstein, would you?’ he asked, placing the skullcap high on the crown of his head.
The old man looked sorrowfully at him.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I’m Jorge Chavez, from CID. You’re in charge of the cemetery?’
‘Yes,’ said Yitzak Lemstein. ‘My sons and I take care of it.’
‘I’m very sorry about the night’s events. Things like that shouldn’t happen in Sweden.’
‘They’ll always happen. At all times and in all places on earth.’
Chavez paused, slightly surprised. Then he said: ‘I understand there’s been a lot of damage over the past few years?’
‘Yes,’ Lemstein replied laconically.
‘I was planning on asking you a few questions, if you have time. You heard what happened to Professor Leonard Sheinkman here last night. Did you know him?’
‘No.’
‘And you have no idea what he might have been doing here?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve been wondering about the grave he was killed next to.’
‘When can we take care of it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When can we take care of the gravestone inside the plastic tape there? It’s not well.’
Chavez observed him for a moment. Then he said: ‘I don’t really know. It’s probably OK now. I can ring and check with our technicians as soon as you’ve answered a couple of questions about it. Who was “Shtayf”? And why is there no forename or date of birth on the stone?’
At that, the old man turned his back. He wandered slowly back to his wheelbarrow and began pushing it away.
Chavez stood where he was for a few seconds, slightly bewildered. Then he jogged after him.
‘Why don’t you want to answer that?’
‘It has nothing to do with you. It’s Jewish.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. We think Leonard Sheinkman may have been on the way to that grave. This is important.’
Yitzak Lemstein paused, set the wheelbarrow down with a clank and fixed his gaze on Chavez.
‘Are you familiar with Jewish humour?’ he asked solemnly.
‘Not really,’ Chavez admitted. ‘Woody Allen?’
; Lemstein sighed and grabbed the wheelbarrow handles again. Chavez placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and said: ‘I’m sorry. You’ll have to explain what you mean.’
The old man stood for a moment, his hands still gripping the handles. He sighed once more, let go and turned to the stubborn Latino policeman.
‘Humour is how we’ve survived,’ said Yitzak Lemstein. ‘Jewish humour is a special kind of gallows humour, often using wordplay. There were a whole lot of jokes in the Nazi camps. It was just one part of our survival strategy. Believe me, I know.’
He held out his wrist for Chavez to see. The black digits were almost completely covered with thick grey hair. But sure enough, they shone with an utterly dark light.
Chavez nodded and said: ‘So “Shtayf” is what – a joke?’
‘It’s Yiddish,’ the old man said. ‘“Shtayf” means “stiff”. Corpse. We can make jokes in the cemetery, too.’
‘But why is it on the gravestone? What does it mean?’
‘It means it’s an unidentified body. The grave of the unknown soldier, as they say. Unknown dead Jew.’
‘Died in 1981 and still unidentified?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you there when they buried him? If it was a man?’
‘It was a man. And yes, I was there when they buried him. I’m part of Chevra Kadisha. It’s my duty in looking after the cemetery.’
‘Chevra Kadisha?’
‘The burial organisation.’
‘If he was unidentified, how did you know he was of Jewish origin?’
‘He was circumcised. And he had one of these.’
He showed his tattoo again.
Chavez nodded.
‘How did he die?’
‘Murdered. A stab wound, I think. I seem to recall he was found naked out in the woods. I don’t remember exactly where. No one could identify him. But you’re a policeman, you can find out more.’
‘Yes, I’m going to. Do you remember anything else? How old was he?’
‘Must’ve been in his forties. Oh yes, there was one other thing.’
‘What?’ asked Chavez.
‘He didn’t have a nose.’
Jorge Chavez felt utterly confused.
