The Blinded Man

by Arne Dahl

  He places the gun on the glass table and takes a deep breath.

  In his mind he sees a list. Mentally he ticks off a name.

  Then he goes over to the stereo and turns it on. He lets the cassette door open and the tape slide down and the door close again, and the first piano notes glide through the room. The fingers wander up and down, the hands move up and down. Then the saxophone comes in and wanders alongside the piano. The same steps, the same little promenade. When the sax cuts loose and dances and leaps, and the piano starts to spread out the gentle chords in the background, the tweezers pull the first bullet out of the wall. He drops it into his pocket, then lifts the tweezers to the second hole – and waits. A couple of small drum rolls, and then that strange little Arabian-sounding twitter from the sax, a couple of seconds of Oriental digression. The piano vanishes. Sax and bass and drums now. He can see the pianist swaying as he waits. Yeah, u-hoo. He’s waiting too. The tweezers are raised.

  The saxophone keeps climbing towards the heights, faster and faster. Ai. Is the sax player himself producing those little cries that punctuate the crescendo?

  And at that moment, with the applause, the audience murmuring, the transition from sax to piano – at that moment he yanks out the second bullet. At that very moment. Splinters fall out of the wall. The flattened lump drops into his pocket to join the first one.

  The piano replaces the sax, starting off with a few meandering intervals, apparently fumbling. Then it cuts loose from the established structures. The flights are freer and freer, more and more beautiful. Now he can hear the beauty. Inside himself. Not just as … a memory.

  The bass disappears. The piano is meandering again, just like at the beginning. He should really be able to teach himself to understand this. The sax is now following.

  The last repetition.

  The applause, whistling.

  He takes a small bow.

  He will never grow tired of listening to it.

  6

  ON THE FIRST day of April Paul Hjelm was sitting in the interrogation room, ceaselessly rubbing his hands together. The clock on the wall showed 10.34. Were they going to let him sweat for a while? Or was the whole thing an April Fool’s joke?

  He no longer knew what to say. He had shut down. Maybe Grundström was right. Maybe they really did need to set an example. He knew the attitudes that prevailed in the station; he was part of them, they were part of him.

  The door opened quietly. He pictured the apologetic expression that Grundström would have on his face. He couldn’t tell whether it would be sincere.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hjelm,’ Grundström would say. ‘We made the decision earlier this morning. Your letter of resignation has to be on Superintendent Bruun’s desk no later than three this afternoon. Since you’re leaving the force voluntarily, there naturally won’t be any question of severance pay or unemployment compensation.’

  Instead the face of a stranger appeared in the doorway.

  The man studied him for a few seconds. He was in his late fifties, quite ordinary-looking, well dressed, clean-shaven and bald. His nose was enormous. He looked at Hjelm a while longer, his gaze searching, neutral.

  Then he stretched out his hand. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin. I understand that you’ve been waiting for someone else.’

  ‘Paul Hjelm,’ said Paul numbly.

  So that’s how it was done. Their boss had to do it. The top brass, the appropriate chain of command. It was hard to imagine anyone higher up than Grundström. So this was what he looked like, the more or less secret boss of Internal Affairs.

  ‘Where’s Grundström?’ Hjelm managed to say. He didn’t recognise his own voice.

  ‘Ah,’ said Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin. ‘Nothing but a memory.’

  He pulled copies of Stockholm’s two morning papers out of his briefcase and held them up, one in each hand. The ten-year-old photo adorned the front page of both. The headline in Dagens Nyheter said, HOSTAGE DRAMA IN HALLUNDA, with the subhead POLICE OFFICER RESCUES THREE. Svenska Dagbladet wrote, THE HERO OF NORSBORG, and underneath, DETECTIVE INSPECTOR PAUL HJELM SAVES THE DAY.

  It was a terrible mockery, staged by a seriously sadistic director.

  ‘Have you seen these?’ asked Hultin.

  ‘No.’ His response was meant to be brief and concise, but instead it came across as … curt.

  Hultin folded up the newspapers: ‘These headlines should never have occurred. Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased that they read the way they do. It means that we still don’t have any leaks. The fact is that something much, much bigger is going on in the city.’

  At the moment confusion felt like Paul Hjelm’s middle name.

  Hultin set a pair of half-moon reading glasses on his capacious schnozz and leafed through a dossier with Hjelm’s name clearly visible on the brown cover.

  ‘How were you able to spend so many years in this tough district without leaving any traces behind? No complaints filed against you, no commendations, nothing. I’ve seldom seen such a blank sheet in a file this old. What have you been doing here, anyway?’

  Hjelm sat as if frozen. Hultin gave him an inquisitive look. He probably wasn’t expecting an answer. But he got one.

  ‘During these years I’ve raised and supported a family. Not all cops could say the same.’

  The man with the big nose bellowed, directing the laugh both at Hjelm and at himself. Then he laid his cards on the table.

  ‘Early this morning an entirely new unit was created within the National Criminal Police. For the moment it has been assigned a ridiculous name: the A-Unit. You might say it’s structured to be the antithesis of the Palme Assassination Investigation Squad. No big names, no constant changing of bosses, no fussing around with hierarchies. It’s going to be a completely new type of unit – small, compact, composed of people from the outside; it will broaden the scope of the Criminal Police while at the same time compressing it a bit. Young officers, experienced and highly skilled, from all over Sweden will form its core.

  ‘I’m in charge of the group, and I want you to join. When the media gets hold of the story, we’re going to need the goodwill of the press that your actions attracted. I also happen to think that you did a damned good job. I’ve taken some of the material from Internal Affairs – liberated it, so to speak. This has been given top priority, and since the National Police Board is involved, even Internal Affairs has to kiss the ring.’

  ‘I was about to get fired just a few seconds ago.’

  Hultin gave him a searching glance. ‘Forget about that. It’s ancient history. The question now is whether you’re up to joining this well-oiled machine. Overtime hours are going to be far more extensive than the normal work schedule. You’re looking a little worn out.’

  Hjelm cleared his throat. For a moment he thought he actually understood what it felt like to be happy. ‘These past few days haven’t exactly been a piece of cake. But give me the job, and damn it, I’ll work my arse off. Literally.’

  ‘Not too literally, I hope,’ said Hultin, pausing a moment. ‘We need some of that initiative that you demonstrated at the immigration office. But not too much of it. Above all, it’s important to create a functioning group made up of individuals with imagination and conscience. Grundström’s notes and tapes indicate that you have just such a personality hidden somewhere behind the blank pages that have filled your dossier all these years. I think this is an opportunity for you to allow it to blossom. There’s also a chance that you’ll get totally burned out.’

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Serial murders. But not the usual kind, with little boys or girls or prostitutes or foreign campers. No, this is a whole new type and, by all indications, we’ve only seen the beginning.’

  ‘Politicians?’

  Hultin smiled faintly and shook his head. ‘No. Good guess, though. No, this has to do with what we call the titans of business. On the night before you so heroically stormed into the immigratio
n office, a man by the name of Kuno Daggfeldt was shot to death at his home in Danderyd. Even then, there were signs that this wasn’t going to be the end of it. By all indications a cold-blooded killing that was either a professional hit or committed by someone beyond desperate, so to speak. We now have two situations that exhibit a remarkable number of similarities. Daggfeldt leaves behind two large corporations, a wife, two children and six homes, both in Sweden and abroad. Late last night it happened again. This time on Strandvägen, in one of the slightly smaller luxury apartments, with a mere eight rooms, plus balcony. There Director Bernhard Strand-Julén was killed in precisely the same fashion. Two shots to the head. As with Daggfeldt’s killing, the bullets were dug out of the wall with pliers or large tweezers. Not a single trace of evidence left behind. An ordinary nine-millimetre handgun. It’s impossible to be more specific, except that we’re talking about real firepower: all four bullets passed straight through the skulls of the victims. So far we know nothing about how the perpetrator managed to get in or out. Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén have countless personal connections, and every single one will need to be followed up. They moved in the same social circles, were members of many of the same associations, sailed with the same sailing club, played golf at the same clubs, were members of the same fraternal order, sat on many of the same boards, et cetera, et cetera. On the surface nothing odd or abnormal.’

  ‘Forming a special group is a rather extreme measure. How does the Stockholm police department feel about being pushed aside?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. We’ll continue to cooperate with them. And of course it’s an extreme measure. But the key players in the Swedish business world are being decimated. And we have some nasty indications that organised crime might be involved. An utter professionalism that I’ve never seen the likes of before in Sweden. If we’re smart, we’ll jump on this right away. For a change.’ Hultin paused. ‘Of course it’s a bit unfortunate to start up a new special unit on the first of April.’

  ‘Better than on Friday the thirteenth, I assume.’

  Hultin smiled faintly and then cast a quick glance at his watch. Hjelm could tell that the man was under a great deal of pressure, but he showed little sign of it. Hultin stood and shook hands with Hjelm.

  ‘First meeting this afternoon at three o’clock, at police headquarters, the new building. Entrance at Polhemsgatan thirty. What do you say?’

  ‘I’ll see you there,’ said Hjelm.

  ‘All right then,’ said Hultin. ‘Now I’ve got to head over to Gamla Värmdövägen to pick up a certain Gunnar Nyberg from the Nacka district. Do you know him? Damned fine officer. Like you.’

  Hjelm shook his head. He knew almost no one outside the Huddinge police force.

  On his way out the door Hultin said, ‘So you’ve got less than four hours to say goodbye to your colleagues for the foreseeable future and collect all your things. That ought to be enough time, shouldn’t it?’

  He disappeared, but came back just as Hjelm had sat down and taken a deep breath.

  ‘I assume you realise that for the moment this is all top, top secret.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Paul Hjelm. ‘I realise that.’

  His first thought was to call Cilla to tell her what was happening, but he changed his mind. He thought about all the overtime hours and about the summer and his holiday, which would most likely be cancelled, and about the Dalarö cabin that they had rented at such a good price for the whole summer. But first he wanted to enjoy the moment.

  Finally he went over to the break room, unable to hide his joy.

  Four people were sitting there, stuffing themselves with the junk food that they’d brought for lunch. Anders Lindblad, Anna Vass and Johan Bringman. And Svante Ernstsson. They all looked at him with surprise. Maybe the expression on his face wasn’t exactly what they’d been expecting to see.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ Hjelm said solemnly.

  Bringman and Ernstsson stood up.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ said Bringman.

  ‘Tell us,’ said Ernstsson. ‘You mean to say those fuckers fired you?’

  Hjelm sat down across from them and pointed at Ernstsson’s lunch.

  ‘Put the burger in the nuker. I told you – it’s better if the sauce is warm.’

  Ernstsson laughed with relief. ‘Okay, so they haven’t fired you! Tell us what happened.’

  ‘I really have come to say goodbye. You might say I’ve been kicked upstairs.’

  ‘What about Internal Affairs?’

  ‘That ordeal is over. Now it’s the NCP for me, hand in glove with the commissioner himself.’

  ‘So they thought it’d be better to remove you from the shitpile of the southern suburbs and the hordes of black-head immigrants?’

  ‘Something like that, I guess. It’s … top, top secret, as the man said. You’ll probably be reading about it in the newspapers, soon enough. But right now it’s all very hush-hush.’

  ‘When do you start?’

  ‘This afternoon, actually. Three o’clock.’

  ‘Fucking great! I’ll drive you over to Ishmet’s bakery so you can buy the most expensive farewell honey-oozing cake that he’s got.’

  Bruun inhaled the brown smoke from a black cigar and smiled into his beard, which covered a considerable portion of his face. He stretched his arms upwards and growled faintly, and a few flakes of ash floated onto his reddish-grey mane.

  ‘So, now I’ve produced yet another bigwig at the NCP,’ he said with immeasurable conceit. ‘And you know that once you’re in over there, they’ll never let you out. Except in a casket. Stamped NCP.’

  Hjelm removed his ID badge and service weapon from Bruun’s desk and fastened the shoulder holster around his chest.

  ‘“Another bigwig”?’ he asked.

  ‘Hultin was here in the late Seventies. Didn’t you know? A hell of a football player. Wooden-leg Hultin. The worst centre-back in the city. Absolutely no sense of the ball. Instead he specialised in head-butting and splitting open eyebrows.’

  Hjelm felt a faint sensation of warmth creep through his veins. It was not altogether unpleasant. ‘He said he’d read about me in the papers. Lots of goodwill in the media.’

  ‘Oh yeah, Hultin the newspaper hound.’

  ‘Are you still in contact with him?’

  ‘Occasionally I give him a call to remind him of old favours, sure. I think he still plays. On the senior team of the Stockholm police sports league. When he has time, which isn’t often. I can just picture him splitting open the eyebrows of his semi-retired colleagues. That’d be a sight for the gods.’

  Hjelm decided to ask him straight out. ‘It didn’t happen to be you who …?’

  Bruun dropped the divine mental image of grey eyebrows gushing with blood and gave Hjelm a shrewd look. ‘It was pure luck that they were setting up a new group right now. The top, top secret A-Unit.’

  ‘There aren’t many ways to get around Internal Affairs.’

  ‘You have to take what you can get. Wooden-leg is always in the back of my mind.’ Bruun took one last puff on his cigar, his mouth shaped like the hose of a vacuum cleaner. ‘Just do a good job, all right? I don’t want to have to go through this shit again.’

  7

  THE A-UNIT HAD its first meeting in one of the smallest conference rooms in the enormous complex of police headquarters, located within the rectangle formed by Kungsholmsgatan, Polhemsgatan, Bergsgatan and Agnegatan. The original headquarters building, constructed in 1903, still boasts dreams of power; its yellowish expanse faces Agnegatan. It is the central hub of the Stockholm police. The opposite side of the rectangle faces Polhemsgatan, mirroring the entirely different but equally absurd architectural ideal of the Seventies. That’s where the offices of the National Police Board are located.

  And it was there that Paul Hjelm was headed a few minutes before three P.M. He was expected. A guard showed him on a map near the entrance how to find his way to the small conference room. Hjelm w
asn’t paying attention, and so he arrived a bit late.

  Five people were already in the room, sitting at a table and looking almost as bewildered as he felt. As unobtrusively as possible, he slipped into a vacant chair. As if on cue, a blond man in his fifties wearing a serious expression and a custom-tailored suit appeared. He took up position at the head of the table, placing his right hand on the telescope-like arm of the overhead projector. He glanced around, looking for a face that he didn’t see. He left the room again, clearing his throat. Just as he closed the door behind him, the door on the other side of the room opened, and in came Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin. He too glanced around, looking for a face that he didn’t see.

  ‘Where’s Mörner?’ he asked.

  The constituents of what was evidently the proposed A-Unit stared in confusion at one another.

  ‘Who’s Mörner?’ asked Hjelm, not offering much help.

  ‘A man was just here,’ said the group’s only female member, a dark-haired woman from Göteborg who was in the process of acquiring the first wrinkles on her face, but clearly didn’t give a damn. ‘But he left.’

  ‘That sounds like him,’ said Hultin flatly. He sank heavily onto a chair and set a pair of half-moon reading glasses on his big nose. ‘Waldemar Mörner, the commissioner of the National Police Board, and the official boss of this group. He was planning to deliver a little welcome speech. Oh well, maybe he’ll come back.’

  Hjelm had a hard time picturing this distinguished and efficient man with the controlled, neutral voice as a vicious soccer player.

  ‘Okay, you all know what this is about,’ Hultin continued. ‘You are now members of what, for lack of a better term and for lack of much else, is going to be called the A-Unit. You answer directly to the National Criminal Police, or NCP, but you’ll be working closely with the Stockholm police, primarily with their homicide department, which is housed in the Kungsholmsgatan wing, around the corner from here. Stockholm is the scene of the crime, at least for the moment. All right then.