by Arne Dahl
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 St
rand-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.”
