The Blinded Man

by Arne Dahl

  Hultin exited through his mysterious door, and the A-Unit gathered around the table to divide up the board members among themselves. The previous timetable, in which a murder occurred every other night, apparently no longer applied. If it did, then the previous night, sometime on the nineteenth or twentieth of May, which Hjelm had spent in a strange, fitful slumber in a little overnight room in police headquarters, would have produced a new corpse. The old theory about a specific pattern had fallen like a house of cards; the only constant now remaining was the fact that the murders were committed at night, so they probably had plenty of time during the day to talk to the board members. The important thing was to find the next potential victim before it was too late.

  ‘I’m wondering whether there’s any system behind the selection,’ said Söderstedt. ‘If we disregard Strand-Julén, we have Daggfeldt, Carlberger and Brandberg, in that order. D-C-B. Are there any names that start with A?’

  There weren’t. They divided up the board members. One person would be off the hook. Nobody wanted to be off the hook. Finally they agreed that Söderstedt and Hjelm would share one of the board members.

  Hjelm went to Söderstedt and Norlander’s office; he already had on his denim jacket and was ready to go. Norlander left, eager to start on his first real assignment since Tallinn. He was alive, but not exactly kicking – he was still limping slightly on his stigmatised feet.

  Söderstedt reached for his lumber jacket, on a hook just inside the door.

  Hjelm stopped him and pulled the door closed. ‘There’s just one thing I’ve been wondering about,’ he said as he studied A. Söderstedt, formerly a top lawyer in Finland, and Jari Malinen’s defence lawyer, hired by the mafia in February 1979. ‘Why the police?’

  Arto Söderstedt returned his gaze as he took down his jacket. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked without really asking. He slowly put on his jacket.

  ‘And why Sweden?’

  Söderstedt gave up. He sat down heavily on his chair and said dully, ‘Why I chose Sweden is simple: I was already a marked man in Finland; my name was known. I was the ambitious young lawyer who rescued citizens with fat wallets from the worst possible jams. I had no way out in Finland.’

  He paused for a moment and stared at Hjelm. For the first time the gaunt Finn looked completely serious. He grimaced slightly, then went on.

  ‘Why I chose the police is harder to explain. In 1980 I was twenty-seven years old and had just become a partner in the firm. Koivonen, Krantz & Söderstedt. Fucking cute name. Everything that I’d been striving for in my short and extremely goal-oriented life had now been achieved. Then I got a case representing a real fucking bad guy. That wasn’t anything new – I’d been defending that type of person all my adult life. But this time something went over the line. Behind the man’s respectable facade, the most repulsive sort of business you could imagine was going on: a type of sex-slave trade, it was beyond description. Finland was a closed country, the land that almost always refused to accept any immigrants, yet a steady stream of drugged Asians was coming in, sold at what might be called … auctions.

  ‘Naturally I got him off so that he could continue to conduct his business, but something happened inside me. In that proper-looking man with his elegant facade and his loathsome attitude, I saw my entire future. The upholder of facades. That’s when the whole shitload came down on me. I moved to Sweden with my family, became a Swedish citizen and tried to go underground. After a few dog-years I decided to join the police force, maybe to try to change the system from inside – the system I thought I’d seen in its entirety, from above and below.

  ‘But things don’t allow themselves to be changed from inside. During my time in Stockholm I became known as a controversial cop; then I was exiled to Västerås, and that’s where I stayed. You might say I went underground again. The police work became routine. I acquired a large family, and I read books instead of putting any real energy into my work; the job just took care of itself. Somehow Hultin found me by looking through the records – don’t ask me how. The end.’

  Söderstedt stood up.

  He had undergone a transformation in Hjelm’s eyes. Gone was the buffoon. Here instead was a man who had suffered the consequences of taking a moral stand. He had given up millions of kronor in salary, he had accepted the fact that he’d thrown his life away, and for the sake of this insight he had changed his country and language and life. Integrity, thought Hjelm.

  ‘The last one to the car is a frog with no legs!’ shouted the man with integrity as he dashed off.

  On that sunny morning of 20 May Jacob Lidner, chairman of the board at Lovisedal, was home in Lidingö. Jan-Olov Hultin arrived at the magnificent villa in his Volvo Turbo and rang the bell, which blared long and loud and with a slight delay through all the rooms of the mansion and out into the garden at the back. It was from there that Lidner came marching around the corner of the building. He was an impressive old man with an imperious gaze, wearing a white, monogrammed bathrobe. His white hair was a dishevelled mane, as if he’d just climbed out of the bath. Up close he smelled of chlorine.

  ‘Stop pestering me,’ he said to Hultin and then continued without giving the superintendent a chance to get a word in edgeways. ‘I’ve had enough of publicists. I’m just an ordinary retiree who wants to wait for death in peace and quiet. Stop harassing me about the troubles on the board. I know you want press people on the board at all costs, but this happens to be a business we’re running.’

  Finally he paused to catch his breath.

  ‘Do I look like a reporter?’ said Hultin, putting on his half-moon reading glasses.

  ‘You certainly do,’ said Lidner. Then a light went on in his head. ‘But you’re not, are you?’

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin. I’m in charge of the investigation of what the mass media have labelled the Power Murders.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Lidner. ‘The A-Unit. An appropriate name. To distinguish you from the A-media of the Social Democrats.’

  Hultin was thrown off balance, but managed to hide it. ‘That’s not information that the media has had access to …’

  Lidner laughed briefly. ‘Good Lord, superintendent, surely you know that a matter like that can’t be kept secret. It’s our social circles that are being threatened, after all.’

  ‘Not just your social circle in general,’ said Hultin, in an attempt to regain the initiative. ‘The Lovisedal board of directors, anno 1991, in particular.’

  Lidner again uttered a brief laugh. ‘What has made you come to such a specific conclusion? Director Strand-Julén was certainly a good friend, but he never had anything to do with the company. You should be looking at the board of Sydbanken instead. All four of them were members for a while in 1990.’

  Lidner’s insight into the inner workings of the investigation was astounding. Hultin controlled himself as usual and struck: ‘As far as I know, Sydbanken hasn’t been in close contact with the Russian-Estonian mafia the way Lovisedal has. Because you’re still refusing to cooperate with the mafia, aren’t you?’

  Lidner gave him a somewhat peeved look, the way a person looks at a fly that’s disturbing him when he’s busy with important matters. ‘Of course,’ he said curtly. ‘They continue to be an annoying element. But if you think that the mafia is behind the murders, then you’re really out of bounds.’

  ‘Why would you say that?’ Hultin retorted.

  ‘In particular because of what happened to your private detective in Tallinn.’

  Hultin was on the verge of boiling over. He cast a determined glance at Lidner’s bushy eyebrows. ‘I need to ask how you happen to have such insight into our investigative work, Mr Lidnér,’ he said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

  Pronouncing someone’s name in the wrong way can be just as effective as using the wrong title, but Lidner didn’t seem to let it bother him. Whether the fly shits or not makes no difference; in either case, it’s just as annoying. Until you take out the fly
-swatter.

  Lidner took out his. ‘You’re free to ask, and I’m just as free not to answer.’

  Hultin gave up. ‘We’re going to bring in our own men as well as detectives from the Stockholm police to give you round-the-clock protection. I hope you can put up with their presence for a few days.’

  ‘As usual, the taxpayers’ money could be put to much more effective use,’ said Jacob Lidner, and he turned on his heel and left.

  It took almost two full minutes before Jan-Olov Hultin did the same.

  25

  A WEEK PASSED in which almost nothing happened. After that came an event that should have been decisive.

  The criminal division of the Stockholm police made a routine raid on an illegal gambling club in the city centre. An alert officer by the name of Åkesson recognised one of the gamblers, even though he had affected a trendy goatee, was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and had shaved off all his hair.

  The gambler was Alexander Bryusov, the slimmer half of Igor and Igor.

  He was now sitting mute in the city jail. The members of the A-Unit were peering through the peephole, one after the other, like curious schoolchildren.

  Hultin turned to the officer who had arrested Bryusov. Åkesson was looking worn out; he was desperate to go home.

  ‘Not a word?’

  Åkesson shook his head. ‘I’ve sat here almost all night trying to get something out of him. He’s pretending to be deaf and dumb.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Hultin. ‘Damned good job, in any case, Åkesson. Go home now and get some sleep.’

  Åkesson left. They hoped he wasn’t planning to drive himself home.

  The visiting schoolchildren of the A-Unit stood there, shifting from one foot to the other in the corridor of the jail. The guard was staring at them with a slightly indulgent expression.

  ‘I’ll go in with Söderstedt,’ said Hultin, and asked the guard to unlock the steel door. ‘The rest of you can leave,’ he added, and slipped inside.

  Söderstedt gave them an apologetic wave and followed.

  No one left. They took turns looking through the peephole. The guard’s expression grew progressively less indulgent.

  Hultin and Söderstedt sat down across from Alexander Bryusov. He didn’t look much like the police sketch.

  It was Söderstedt who did the talking. He repeated each question he asked; first he posed the question in Swedish, then in Russian. But it was a very one-sided conversation.

  Bryusov began by demanding a lawyer. The demand was denied with vague references to national security; an infallible excuse. The rest of the questions, including one about the Monk tape, Bryusov answered with an ironic smile. Once he said to Söderstedt, ‘I recognise you.’ Otherwise he remained mute, up until the question: ‘Where is Valery Treplyov?’

  Then Bryusov laughed loudly and said in crystal-clear Swedish, ‘That, my good sirs, is a profoundly religious question.’ After that he said nothing more.

  The chief prosecutor didn’t have an easy time of it at the indictment hearing.

  Not only was there already an overwhelming lack of evidence. But when the case was presented in famed lawyer Reynold Rangsmyhr’s rhetorically elaborated and sarcastic statements, it became downright ludicrous.

  The members of the A-Unit were flabbergasted as they sat scattered among the spectators. They were far less concerned with whether one half of the Igor duet was going to be released than with the question of why the most prominent lawyer in Sweden, and definitely the most expensive, was defending a Russian booze smuggler.

  What they witnessed was a battle royal, Tyson versus Anders ‘Lillen’ Eklund, which logically ended with the judge sternly admonishing both the office of the prosecutor as well as the police authorities for wasting the time and resources of the judicial system with a matter that could end in only one way. And the freed Alexander Bryusov actually managed to go underground while still inside the courthouse. No one even saw him leave the building.

  ‘What just happened over there?’ Gunnar Nyberg dared to ask at the afternoon meeting in Supreme Central Command. A thick haze of disappointment hovered over the A-Unit. Through the fog they could just make out their badly lacerated, but not yet beaten commander, Hultin, sitting at the end of the table. He was deliberately rolling the shattered lance of his lead pencil between his fingers. Without looking up from this Sisyphean labour, he said grimly, ‘The question is quite simple. Does the Viktor X group have sufficient resources and contacts within the Swedish judicial system to get Bryusov off so easily? Or what is it we’re actually encountering here?’

  The group tried as much as possible to relieve the Stockholm police and take over most of the night-time surveillance of the Lovisedal board of directors, anno 1991.

  Hjelm had spent a night keeping an eye on a man by the name of Bertilsson, and another night guarding a man named Schrödenius. He’d also spent a couple of nights at home in Norsborg.

  He’d had no contact whatsoever with Cilla, who was staying at the Dalarö cabin and remained an enigma. Apparently the worst thing he could do would be to try and reason with her. He had seen her loneliness. And Danne and Tova were living their own lives, with Danne spending most of his time in his room. Tova was often with her friend Milla, whose parents had cheerfully promised to look after her, but at the same time, it seemed to Hjelm, had given him a number of reproachful looks. He stocked the freezer with food, wondering who was really to blame and for what.

  Tova said that she thought the blemish on his cheek looked like an astrological sign, but she couldn’t decide which one. Not until the following morning, just as he was about to leave for work, did she say that it was Pluto she meant – a P with a little line through the loop. He asked her what the significance was. She replied merrily and innocently that she had no idea.

  ‘Are you coming to the closing ceremonies at school?’ she asked him. ‘Mama is coming.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said, feeling a pang.

  In the car on his way into town he thought about what Pluto might mean for Tova: a cute Disney dog, the most distant planet in the solar system or an archaic god of death.

  When he entered the office, Chavez hadn’t yet turned on the computer. That was very unusual. He was sitting at his desk, grinding coffee beans. ‘It’s going to be June soon,’ he said tersely.

  ‘Do you have plans for the summer that are going to end up frozen?’ said Hjelm as he sat down.

  ‘I suppose frozen is the right word.’ Chavez looked out the window of the small office. The clear blue sky was peeking through the upper-right corner. Then he seemed to remember something. ‘Oh, that’s right,’ he said, invoking his rather distracted memory banks. ‘A guy called. Said he’d call back.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘No idea. I forgot to ask.’

  It was a fundamental dereliction of duty, but Hjelm stopped himself from criticising his colleague. ‘What did he sound like?’

  ‘What did he sound like? Someone from Göteborg, I think.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Hjelm with renewed hope. He punched in a long string of numbers and waited. ‘Hackzell?’ he shouted into the phone. ‘Hjelm here.’

  ‘I think I’ve come up with something,’ said Roger Hackzell, his voice crackling on the line from Hackat & Malet in Växjö. ‘Something actually did happen a couple of years ago when I played a jazz tape here in the restaurant.’

  ‘Don’t go anywhere!’ Hjelm slammed down the phone. Already out in the hall, he said to Chavez, ‘Tell Hultin that Kerstin and I have gone to Växjö. We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Wait!’ yelled Chavez.

  Hjelm rushed into room 303. Gunnar Nyberg and Kerstin Holm were sitting there singing a complex Gregorian chant. He stopped and stared at them in astonishment. Without seeming to notice him, they sang to the end. Chavez threw open the door behind him and also halted abruptly. When they were done, Hjelm and Chavez applauded for a long time. Then Hjelm said, ‘I think we’ve got a nibble regarding the cassette
tape in Växjö. Want to come along?’

  Kerstin Holm wordlessly put on her little black leather jacket.

  ‘Is there room for me?’ asked Chavez.

  The three of them flew to Växjö. Jorge’s presence made any intimate conversation between Paul and Kerstin impossible. Neither of them seemed to mind. Their tunnel vision had been activated.

  Just after eleven o’clock they found Roger Hackzell inside Hackat & Malet. The restaurant had just opened for early lunch customers.

  Hackzell showed them into his office, leaving the restaurant in the hands of a waitress. ‘Misterioso’ was playing loudly inside the office. Hackzell turned off the cassette player, which was set up to play the same tune over and over again.

  ‘Yes, well,’ he said, motioning for them to sit down on the sofa. ‘A couple of days ago I got a feeling that there was something special about that tune, so I’ve been listening to it like a maniac. And then I remembered. It was late one night a few years back. We’d been running the restaurant here in town for several years and were the only place open until three A.M. It could get a little rowdy, with all the late-night partygoers gathered here. Later the rules were changed, and now we’re open only until midnight. On that particular night, though, the restaurant was deserted, and I was just about to close.

  ‘There were two men still here. One of them, Anton, big as a house, requested that I play this tape again. I had just played it and then put in a new one with some rock music. But Anton had a kind of crazy look in his eyes, and he wanted the jazz back on. So I put in the tape again, and I’m positive that it was this tune. Then he started shouting wildly and lit into the other guy, punching and pummelling him.

  ‘I remember it all very clearly now; it was as nasty as hell. Anton kept screaming the same thing over and over. I can’t recall what it was, something really incoherent. He was as drunk as a skunk, and I was fucking scared. First he delivered a couple of blows to the stomach, then a kick to the knee and one to the groin, and finally a hell of a knockout punch right on the jaw, making the guy’s teeth fly. He fell to the floor, and Anton kicked him as he lay there, again and again.