Misterioso

by Arne Dahl

  Hjelm felt bewitched. He had serious doubts about the expression “Those who talk don’t know, those who know don’t talk.” Inside that devastated body was the most subtle listener he’d ever met, and not just a music listener but a listener in general. Simply by giving Hjelm his undivided attention, Palmberg managed to get him to reveal almost everything about the case. Palmberg thought that the cassette tape lead sounded incredibly interesting. He swore that he was innocent, and in return he received a promise that Hjelm would get back in touch once the case was solved. No one else had ever heard Palmberg’s copy of the recording, until now; he admitted point-blank that it was because no one ever came to visit him. He lived a solitary life, a situation that he had accepted. It was to music that he applied his innate capacity for listening.

  So they listened to a couple of recordings of Jim Barth Richards from the late sixties, and Hjelm began to realize who it was he had visited in that repulsive one-room apartment in Gamla Stan. By the time he finally left Roger Palmberg in his relatively handicap-friendly Märsta apartment, he’d acquired a new friend in northern Stockholm.

  22

  Paul Hjelm picked up the pace as soon as he was on the scent. He had no time now to stand in front of the mirror to see how much the blemish on his cheek had grown over the past week, no time to see himself as a void, a hole in a robust and constantly changing environment; no time to notice the peculiar cracks in his marriage. The spoor from the cassette tape was sufficiently strong to make all other smells evaporate.

  He got ready to travel to Växjö to meet the remaining owner of the Thelonious Monk tape with the “Risky” improvisation at the end like a thousand-dollar tail. Hultin had calmly accepted his and Kerstin’s conclusions with regard to Rådholm and Palmgren. Neither of them was the murderer, and neither of them had copied their tapes for anyone else. They all agreed that the one remaining tape owner could be the killer. Ex-major Rådholm’s proud refusal to make copies of his tape was apparently an attitude shared by this type of jazz fanatic. It was highly likely that there weren’t many copies of the copies.

  In the office next door, Kerstin Holm was getting ready to accompany Hjelm to southern Sweden. Presumably her field of vision had also narrowed; he thought he knew her well enough to say that. Tunnel vision had begun to set in. Everything else was shoved aside.

  Then came the call from Dalarö.

  Hjelm answered the phone, his voice sounding stressed. Chavez looked at him from the other side of the desk and saw the red patch on Hjelm’s face become even brighter; except for that little spot, his whole face went pale.

  Hjelm didn’t say a word during the call. He just turned white as chalk. Chavez thought the blemish on his cheek looked like a pulsing heart. Hjelm dropped the phone twice before he managed to put the receiver down properly.

  Jorge waited.

  “Cilla has left me,” said Paul quietly.

  Jorge didn’t say a word. He put his pen down on the desk.

  “She was calling from the cabin. She doesn’t want me to come out there again this summer. She needs time to think.”

  When Kerstin Holm opened the door, she found the two men hugging each other.

  She closed the door, without making a sound.

  In the cab to Arlanda Airport, she asked only one question: “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  Hjelm nodded numbly.

  She thought the red blemish on his cheek looked like a hobo symbol, that little slanting parallelogram.

  She couldn’t remember what it stood for.

  On the plane to Växjö, some of the color returned to Hjelm’s face. The blemish became a little less noticeable, and just as the outline was starting to fade, Holm recalled what the hobo symbol meant. Hoboes used the parallelogram to warn each other, drawing it on houses occupied by cruel and inconsiderate people.

  But now it was almost gone.

  Tunnel vision had returned to Hjelm, more focused than ever before. He had felt his field of vision physically contract from one extreme to the other. After the call from Cilla, it had expanded in absurdum so that he thought he could see 360 degrees all around him, a totally undirected gaze that took in everything without being able to focus. A terrible state to be in. Complete collapse. And then the total opposite, the fiercely censoring tunnel vision of self-defense.

  From the airport in Växjö Hjelm called home and had a long talk with Tova about what had actually happened. Danne had picked up the phone but merely snapped at him; in Danne’s eyes everything was clearly his father’s fault. On the other hand, Hjelm was also personally to blame for everything else that was wrong in his son’s pubescent inferno of a world. Cilla had told Tova that she and her father needed to live apart for a while, that was all. Tova had hardly recognized her mother’s voice. Hjelm tried to explain as best he could, but after a while he realized that he was simply uttering clichés. Our language divides up the roles, he thought grimly. He asked his daughter if they’d be able to get by on their own for a few days. Tova laughed and said that they’d been doing exactly that ever since Mama had moved out to Dalarö while Papa was working 24/7.

  As Hjelm held the silent phone in his hand, it struck him that until now he hadn’t given a thought to his children’s situation.

  Växjö was a classic small town in the heart of Astrid Lindgren’s Småland. The idea was to find the third man on the list in White Jim’s “little fucking yellow notebook,” a task that shouldn’t be too difficult considering that the man bore the rather unusual name of Hackzell, Roger Hackzell, and he even co-owned a restaurant in the small city center. But no one was home in his house on the outskirts of town, and the restaurant was closed.

  Hjelm knocked on the door so hard that he appeared to be a bit demented. Then Holm said, “I actually need to be back in Stockholm tomorrow morning.”

  “It can’t take that long to find the fucker.” Hjelm kept on knocking.

  They talked to neighbors and everyone they could find with even a remote connection to Roger Hackzell, but still he couldn’t be found. As the day turned to night, Hjelm finally managed to control his frustration. The two police officers sat down in a restaurant across from the one called Hackat & Malet, which as the day wore on had started to look even darker and more silent. But not any more. They started talking. Really talking. After a while they ceased to care about the missing fucker Roger Hackzell or his fucking restaurant.

  At first they mainly talked about their work. About Daggfeldt, Strand-Julén, and Carlberger. About Anna-Clara Hummelstrand’s personality. About the relatives who had displayed so little grief. They proposed alternative names for the strange creation known as the A-Unit: The Alienations-Unit. The Attack Force. The A-Kids. The A-Team. The A-Bonds. The Antipathetics. They spent a long time talking about Norlander’s one-man assault in Tallinn, with a certain gallows humor regarding the hero who had been nailed to the floor and then returned, like a Second Coming of Christ. They speculated about what might have happened to Arto Söderstedt back in Finland.

  They ventured into slightly more personal territory. Kerstin talked about her passion for music. Paul talked about his children; he studiously avoided mentioning Cilla. He talked about Dritëro Frakulla, about the hostage drama and the trial, and about Grundström from Internal Affairs.

  Then he said, “What did you mean when you asked me whether I was happily married? ‘Really happily’ was what you said.”

  She looked at him over her wineglass with her coal-black eyes. They each puffed on the cigarettes that they were smoking to celebrate the occasion.

  “I just had the feeling that you weren’t.”

  “I always thought that I was. Very.”

  “You were projecting something through your job, through the police work itself; I couldn’t really put my finger on it. I still can’t. It was a little clearer than with the others; I guess that’s why it was interesting. The whole time you seemed to be searching for something different through your work, as if you weren’t
really conducting a police investigation. Maybe I recognized the same thing in myself.”

  “So you’ve been studying me that closely?”

  She smiled faintly. “I study everyone I meet. Maybe that’s typical for female cops. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Maybe I’d like to take it personally.”

  She leaned forward. “Don’t forget that you’re feeling a bit confused right now. It’s the turbulence. Everything has been pulled out from under you. I don’t want to be some sort of… surrogate.”

  He leaned back and took a drag on his cigarette. He downed the last of his wine, staring up at the ceiling and beyond. Far beyond.

  As they walked through the warm May night, they put their arms around each other, without consciously planning to. They joked a bit and laughed.

  “Did you really do it?” he found himself asking her.

  “Do what?”

  “What Anna-Clara Hummelstrand suggested with regard to the olive-brown Gallic organ?”

  He met her eyes. Was it disappointment he saw?

  A shadow passed through him, just for a second.

  But she merely said calmly, without taking her arm away, “When I start masturbating at the thought of the erect male organ of a French gigolo belonging to the wife of a wealthy Swedish businessman, then I’ll know that things have really gone south for me.”

  They laughed as they walked down the street to their hotel, which was just around the corner. Inside the hotel window on the corner sat a dinner party of seven people. A very well-dressed gentleman was standing up, giving a speech. They were glad that they’d decided not to eat at the hotel. They walked down to the canal and peered at the filthy water. It wasn’t particularly exciting. After a while they went in, took out their respective room keys, and climbed the two flights of stairs. Their rooms were right next to each other. They stood in the hallway for a moment, vacillating. Then she stuck her key in the lock and said, “This is probably best.”

  She blew him a kiss and left him alone with his ghosts.

  The Erinyes, he thought hazily as he entered the dark room that was trying to imitate the coziness of home.

  Could a woman whose soul has been murdered haunt a person even though she’s still alive?

  Although he didn’t really know what Cilla was blaming him for.

  He took off his denim jacket and pants but fell onto the bed with his shirt still on. In a fog he saw himself making love to Cilla on the Dalarö pier in the twilight with an empty wine bottle rolling next to his thigh. The whole time her gaze was far away, hollow-looking in the crimson dusk.

  Right next to them sat Kerstin Holm with her feet propped up on her desk, her legs wide apart. He was still on the pier. His undershorts were pulled off. Or did he do that himself? He saw her lying next to him on the bed. She was masturbating.

  Was that her interpretation of what he wanted? Was this a wish fulfillment? His or hers?

  Then she disappeared.

  The next day he didn’t know whether it had really happened or not.

  23

  When Paul Hjelm woke up the following morning, it wasn’t morning at all. It was noon or even later, and nobody had looked for him. He wasn’t sure whether he should be more surprised than irritated. But the indecision ended abruptly as he found a note that had been slid under his hotel door. It said:

  Paul. Thanks for yesterday. You were sleeping so sweetly when I left, so I’ll make do with this note. See you back at the notorious Supreme Central Command. Hugs, Kerstin.

  Thanks for yesterday? You were sleeping so sweetly when I left? That didn’t actually answer the question about whether she’d been in his room during the night. Everything could have just as well been played out inside his own imagination. He really couldn’t tell.

  “Thanks for yesterday” could be referring to the dinner they’d had in the restaurant, and “You were sleeping so sweetly when I left” could mean that he hadn’t responded when she knocked on the door. And besides, how would she have gotten in? She didn’t have a key to his room. But maybe he hadn’t closed the door properly…

  He hated not knowing; that was a solidly imprinted reflex. Yet at the same time there was something appealing about the uncertainty. Something inside him resisted having a definitive answer. And he had to settle for that.

  For the time being.

  He looked at the map and found himself across the street from Hackat & Malet. And it was open. Presumably the place also served lunch, so perhaps he’d be able to get hold of Hackzell right away. The restaurant was quite small, and for all practical purposes the lunch rush was over-it was almost two o’clock. The premises contained a jukebox, several rifles hanging on the walls with their barrels crossed, a dartboard, advertising signs for various types of beer, and a couple of Andy Warhol posters. Rather conventional decor. The broad-shouldered man sporting a mustache behind the bar emanated such authority that Hjelm was convinced he had to be one of the owners, either Roger Hackzell or Jari Malinen.

  It turned out to be Roger Hackzell himself.

  Hjelm asked him about the cassette tape, trying to be as detailed as he could. He missed Kerstin’s and Jorge’s expertise. While Hackzell pondered his answer, Hjelm on impulse asked for a triple vodka, straight up. Hackzell peered in surprise at this police officer who was apparently a serious alcoholic, then poured him a big glass of venerable Swedish Absolut. Then he said, “I’ll go see if I can find that tape. I’ve still got some of those strange recordings that White Jim forced upon me. Just wait a sec.”

  Hjelm picked up the glass and sniffed the contents suspiciously. The moment the last customers left the restaurant, he went over to their table, grabbed an empty Ramlösa bottle, and returned to the bar. He poured the vodka into the bottle, took a cork from a little basket on the counter, and stuck it in the mineral-water bottle, which he then slipped into his pocket.

  After a moment Hackzell came back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t find it.”

  Hjelm nodded, paid for the vodka, and went out into the sunshine.

  He went over to the state liquor store and asked the sales clerk, “Is it possible to tell the difference between various types of vodka, or do they all taste the same?”

  “I haven’t got a clue,” said the clerk, in a broad Småland accent. She looked puzzled.

  “Could I speak to the manager?” He showed her his police ID. That was always the easiest way to avoid fuss.

  A serious-looking middle-aged man wearing a suit came out to the counter. Hjelm repeated his question.

  “I don’t really know,” said the man. “Vodka is the purest liquor available, with the least flavor. I would think the only thing that would make any difference would be the alcohol content.”

  Hjelm thanked the manager and went back out to the street. He was very tired. He sat down on a park bench outside the store and closed his eyes.

  Roger Hackzell had looked scared shitless when Hjelm showed his ID and mentioned the NCP; that much he was sure of. When he started talking about the tape, his fear had decidedly diminished.

  When Hjelm opened his eyes again, he found sitting next to him on the bench a very young wino, a man that he might almost have mistaken for a buff bodybuilder. He was greedily eyeing Hjelm’s bulging jacket pocket.

  “Have you got something there?” said the muscular alcoholic in the purest Småland dialect.

  “Yes,” said Hjelm. “One question first. You’re an expert, right? Is it possible to tell the difference between various types of vodka, or do they all taste the same?”

  “After I’ve had half a bottle, I can start concentrating on the taste,” said the young alcoholic slyly. “I’m actually a connoisseur of hard liquor.”

  “If I buy you half a bottle…”

  “Then I’d be happy to undertake a more sophisticated taste test.”

  This man didn’t seem the usual blabbering alcoholic, so Hjelm went back inside the liquor store and bought a half bottle of Explorer. The
bodybuilder-wino downed the entire contents in six minutes and afterward looked extremely alert.

  “We’re the A-Unit,” said Hjelm sleepily while the man drank.

  “Yes, we certainly are.” The man set down the empty Explorer bottle. “Now let’s see about your taste test.”

  Hjelm took the Ramlösa bottle out of his pocket and pulled out the cork. The steroid-pumped wino sniffed at it, shook the bottle, took a gulp, and let it swirl around in his mouth like a professional wine taster.

  “Diluted,” he said. “Otherwise the usual strength.”

  “Do you mean that a stronger vodka has been watered down?”

  “That’s right,” said the man, taking another swallow. “Finer than Explorer, that much is obvious.”

  “It came out of an Absolut bottle.”

  “No, no. It’s definitely not Absolut. This one has a more direct kick. Not Swedish at all. Or Finnish. And absolutely not that American junk, Smirnoff. No, this is genuine East European vodka with a touch of a chemical factory. Probably 120 proof. Diluted, of course.”

  “Do you really know what you’re talking about or are you just blathering until you’ve drunk the whole bottle?”

  The dedicated alcoholic looked immensely offended. “We can just drop the whole thing, if you want,” he said morosely.

  “Can you tell me anything more?”

  “No. Russian or Lithuanian or Estonian, 120 proof. Plus a lot of water.”

  Surprised, Hjelm thanked him and went straight over to the police station. It took awhile before he was able to speak with an officer in charge. The man who came to meet him introduced himself as Detective Inspector Jonas Wrede, and he didn’t look older than twenty. He was blond, well built, and provincial.

  And very computer literate, as it turned out.

  “NCP,” said Wrede dreamily after they’d sat down in his office. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the Power Murders, does it?”