Misterioso

by Arne Dahl

  “With what?”

  “The Power Murders. That’s the label that the NCP has assigned to those big-shot murders in Stockholm.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” said Hjelm in surprise.

  “It’s in the paper. Today’s press conference with the commissioner, Waldemar Mörner, and Inspector Algot Nylin.”

  “Who the hell is Inspector Algot Nylin?” exclaimed Hjelm, realizing that he didn’t know a single thing about the media and the power game surrounding the A-Unit’s investigation. The only thing he paid any attention to was his work. In the power brokers’ plus column, at any rate, was the fact that they’d managed to pull off the feat of largely keeping the A-Unit’s existence out of the media for a month and a half.

  “Does this have something to do with that?” Jonas Wrede persisted. “We haven’t had anyone from the NCP here since that incident up at the bank in Algotsmåla. So are you here because of the Power Murders?”

  “I’m not authorized to divulge that,” said Hjelm, hoping that the authoritative tone of his voice would help, by indirectly confirming the fact.

  And it did. Wrede straightened up.

  “What do you know about the gentlemen who own Hackat & Malet here in town?” asked Hjelm. “Roger Hackzell and Jari Malinen.”

  “Offhand, I’d say that they’re clean,” replied Wrede pensively. “At least I can’t recall any incidents.”

  A favorite word of his, thought Hjelm and let his mind float into a better world while Wrede consulted his computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. In the better world there were women, both fair and dark, who changed places with each other.

  “Yup, both clean,” said Wrede, with a certain smugness. “No incidents. Not since they’ve been in Växjö, that is.”

  “What about the big national database?” asked Hjelm without letting go the women’s faces he was seeing in his mind.

  “Well, that’ll take a little longer…”

  “Do I need to keep reminding you of the priorities here?” said Hjelm, even though so far he hadn’t said a thing about priorities. Wrede looked impressed and began typing. Then they waited for a while. Wrede looked as if he wanted to say something; Hjelm looked as if he would never say another word. He was quite simply gone, beyond all hope.

  Finally they received a response.

  “No,” said Wrede. “Nothing. Both are clean. Although there’s an asterisk next to Malinen’s name. A cross-reference to Finland. A possible incident, perhaps?”

  “Is there some way to find out?”

  Wrede’s face lit up. A higher-up from the NCP was taking note of his computer expertise.

  The higher-up from the NCP yawned loudly.

  “It’s possible that we can get in via the Nordic cooperative database,” said Wrede enthusiastically. “Not many people know how to do that,” he added.

  Hjelm thought he should offer some words of encouragement, but he didn’t. He hadn’t really returned to the real world yet.

  Wrede began typing again. If his eminent colleague was daydreaming, Wrede was definitely in his element.

  “Malinen, Jari, 6-13-52. Oh yes, there’s an incident, all right: smuggling. Let’s see now: yes, 1979 in Vasa, Finland. Convicted of smuggling goods. I’ll see if I can find any more details.”

  “Fucking great,” said Hjelm.

  “All right, here’s something that looks like records of a trial. Malinen was found guilty of smuggling on February 12, 1979, along with Vladimir Ragin: they had smuggled booze from Leningrad, as it was then called. Both got eighteen months in a minimum-security prison; Malinen was released after twelve months, while Ragin served the full sentence. Then there’s a list of names: the judge, K. Lahtinen; lay assessors, L. Hälminen, R. Lindfors, B. Palo; defense attorney, A. Söderstedt; prosecutors, N. Niskanpää, H. Viiljanen; witness for the defense-”

  “What?” Hjelm dived into the ice-cold water of this world. “What was the name of the defense attorney?”

  “A. Söderstedt,” repeated Wrede.

  “Can you look up more about him?”

  “I’ll see if I can find anything in the legal society’s registry, or someplace like that.” Wrede looked like a fourteen-year-old hacker who’d just gotten into the Pentagon.

  Another period of waiting. Then a liberating little ping.

  “Arto Söderstedt, 1-12-53, law student at Åbo University 1972 to ’75; finished a five-year degree in three; hired by Vasa’s most respected law firm of Koivonen & Krantz right after graduating in 1975, at the age of twenty-two. For several months in 1980, the firm was actually called Koivonen, Krantz & Söderstedt. He became a partner at the age of twenty-seven. By the end of 1980, the firm was again known as Koivonen & Krantz. After 1980 there is no Söderstedt in any list of attorneys.”

  Hjelm laughed long and loud. Scandinavia was such a small world.

  Wrede looked at him skeptically. Was this man really what he purported to be? The Hallunda hero? The Power Murders investigator?

  “Okay.” Hjelm wiped away tears of laughter. He was back. “Damn it if I’m not thinking of recommending you to my bosses. You really know your way around a computer. I’m very grateful.”

  Detective Inspector Jonas Wrede stood at the window and watched as Hjelm headed off toward Hackat & Malet. His face was shining with unrealized ambitions.

  There was a mirror in a display window on the main walking street that cut through Växjö’s downtown area. Hjelm caught sight of himself and stopped. The scaly, red blemish had grown even bigger. It now almost covered his cheek. It looked like a question mark.

  Hackat & Malet had closed for the night, but Roger Hackzell was still there, drying glasses like a traditional bartender. Hjelm tapped lightly on the windowpane. The space around Hackzell seemed to freeze, but he managed to skate over to the door and open it.

  “A triple vodka,” said Hjelm when he came inside.

  Hackzell stared at him, returned to the bar, and poured another glass from the Absolut bottle.

  Hjelm sniffed at the clear liquid. “No,” he said simply. “This isn’t Absolut Vodka from Vin & Sprit. I’d guess that it’s diluted 120 proof Estonian from the Liviko distillery.”

  Hackzell’s face fell. It seemed to be lying on the counter, gasping for breath, as Hjelm completed his attack.

  “You’re a first-time offender and presumably basically clean. That’s why you’re reacting so strongly. Malinen would probably have been significantly more cool-headed, with that record of his. But I’m not here to get you or Malinen. Answer my questions correctly, and you won’t lose the restaurant and end up in jail. Think carefully before you answer, because I know a lot more than you thought, and if I discover even the smallest lie in what you tell me, I’ll arrest you and take you back to Stockholm for a proper interrogation. Is that understood?”

  The man with no face nodded mutely.

  “Where did the vodka come from?”

  “There are a couple of vendors who show up now and then. Russians. They call themselves Igor and Igor.”

  A peculiar calm came over Hjelm. He’d guessed right. He could even allow himself to daydream a bit during the rest of the interrogation.

  “Do you know anything more about them?”

  “No, they just show up. For safety’s sake, they don’t have any schedule or specific delivery dates.”

  “Haven’t you seen the sketches of Alexander Bryusov and Valery Treplyov in the newspapers? They’ve been on all the newsstand placards too.”

  Roger Hackzell blinked in surprise. “They were? In that case, the sketches must not look much like them.”

  “The caption clearly states their names, Igor and Igor.”

  “I didn’t read anything about them, just saw the placards. It was all about the Power Murders in Stockholm, you know. That didn’t have anything to do with them. I didn’t know there was any sort of connection. I swear it.”

  “All right. But now at least you realize how important this is. You’r
e already mixed up in it. There are police officers who would lock you up for good just because of the link between you and Igor and Igor. You get me?”

  “Oh, dear God,” said Roger Hackzell, sounding like a real native of Göteborg.

  “So now let’s talk about the important thing. The cassette tape.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Hackzell blurted out with a wild look in his eyes. “Damn it to hell! That’s right! The last time they were here, they took some of my old tapes. Partial payment, they said. Real tough customers. I gave Jari hell for dragging us into their fucking mafia deals. Are they the ones who did it? It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

  “And you don’t know anything else about their Swedish or Russian or Baltic connections?”

  “For me they’re just a couple of ruthless fucks who show up once a month or so and more or less force us to buy their booze. I’m telling you, I don’t know anything else.”

  “When were they last here?”

  “It was quite a while ago, thank God. In February. I thought that I was finally rid of them. And now this-”

  “And it was back then, in February, that they took the tapes?”

  “Yes.” Hackzell leafed feverishly through a book that he took out of a drawer. “It was on February fifteenth. Early in the morning.”

  “Where’s Jari Malinen now?”

  “In Finland. His mother just died.”

  Hjelm took the cassette tape out of his pocket and handed it to Hackzell. “Is this it?”

  Hackzell studied it closely. “It looks like it. White Jim copied a whole bunch at the same time back in ’87 and ’88. It was a Maxell tape.”

  “Okay, do you have a tape player? I want you to listen carefully to a tune and try to recall if you can associate it with anything in particular. Anything at all. Maybe something that happened here in the bar. Calm yourself, listen, and try to think.”

  The introductory ascending piano figure of “Misterioso” glided out into the restaurant. Hackzell tried to concentrate, but seemed mostly to be in shock, as if his world were crumbling. Hjelm watched him intently, trying to picture him as the ice-cold murderer in the living rooms of the financiers. He couldn’t.

  The ten minutes of “Misterioso” passed. Hackzell was incapable of standing still for even a second longer. When the tune was finally over and the subsequent improvisation started, Hjelm switched off the tape player.

  “No. I don’t know,” Hackzell said. “I know nothing about jazz. Sometimes the customers want to hear something and I put it on. I can’t tell the tunes apart. They all sound the same to me.”

  “And you can’t remember anybody in particular who requested jazz?”

  Hjelm didn’t know where he was going with this. Igor and Igor were already the focus of the investigation: the tape, the Kazakh ammunition, Viktor X, the threat against the Lovisedal conglomerate.

  “Not at the moment, no.” Hackzell looked as though he’d lost his brain as well as his face. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

  “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. If you have a blank tape, I’ll give you a copy of ‘Misterioso,’ this Monk tune, and then I want you to do some real thinking. Make a list of everyone who asked to hear that particular tune, or jazz in general. Under no circumstances are you to leave Växjö. If you do, we’ll put out a nationwide alert to track you down, and then you can say goodbye to the restaurant, and you’ll end up in the slammer. Do you understand?”

  Roger Hackzell nodded numbly. Hjelm made a copy of the tape for him. Then he took the train back to Stockholm, feeling quite satisfied with himself during the entire ride home.

  24

  With a real lack of sensitivity, Jari Malinen was picked up in the middle of his mother’s funeral. The Finnish police simply entered the church during the service and whisked him away. They put him in a little cell in Helsinki overnight. He told them everything.

  He’d come into contact with the Soviet mafia back in the late seventies, made a so-called fiscal blunder, for which he served time. Then he went to Sweden, partly to escape from the mafia. It so happened that he’d dragged one of the Russians into the trap, a certain Vladimir Ragin, and he wasn’t sure whether the mob blamed him for that or not. He didn’t dare take any chances.

  He went to Göteborg, borrowed some money, and acquired a small restaurant; that was how he came into contact with another restaurant owner, Roger Hackzell. After some time, they decided to join forces and go into business together. They found a nice spot in Växjö and opened Hackat & Malet in the late eighties.

  Suddenly the mafia contacted him again, this time the Russian-Estonian mob, and since he’d involved one of the Russians, he was terrified and agreed to everything. During the trial in Vasa, both he and the Russian had certainly had a brilliant young attorney on his way up, whose name he couldn’t remember. And they’d gotten off with much lighter sentences than he thought possible in a society based on the rule of law, but that hadn’t diminished his fear. Then Igor and Igor turned up in Växjö and began delivering Estonian vodka. That was all.

  Hjelm kept his eyes fixed on Söderstedt as Norlander told the story. The pale Finn sat staring at the table the whole time.

  “Hjelm did an excellent job in Växjö” was the surprising remark with which Norlander finished his report to the unit.

  This was a new Viggo Norlander sitting before them. A healed man. The crutches had been tossed aside, and the gauze bandages were gone from his hands. His wounds had closed up, and the scars shone a naked pink, like tiny flowers in the middle of his hairy hands. He moved them with a new lightness. Healed and reborn, thought Hjelm. Stigmatized, healed, and reborn.

  Hjelm and Holm had exchanged a few glances, each without being able to interpret what the other meant.

  Hultin cleared his throat loudly and added another arrow to the whiteboard whose pattern had grown even more grotesquely labyrinthine. The arrow pointed to Växjö.

  “Does everyone agree that we should prioritize Lovisedal now?” It sounded like a genuine question, not just a rhetorical statement. Hultin even waited for a reply. Maybe he thought he was on his way up to midfield.

  He received no verbal response, just a general murmuring. He went on:

  “Okay, that’s where the perpetrator and his victims met, except for Strand-Julén. The other three, Daggfeldt, Carlberger, and Brandberg, all sat on the Lovisedal board of directors for a period of time. So we’re suggesting the following scenario. The Lovisedal conglomerate tries to establish itself with a tabloid publication in Tallinn, just as it has already done in St. Petersburg. The company receives some prodding from Viktor X, refuses to accept the so-called protection that’s offered, and is threatened. It continues to resist, and then as a warning the henchmen Igor and Igor-alias Alexander Bryusov and Valery Treplyov-start executing members of the board. They take a break after three murders, two of them intended (Daggfeldt and Carlberger) and one of them an error (Strand-Julén) to see if Lovisedal will react. The company doesn’t-it stubbornly continues to resist. Then Igor and Igor set to work again, on direct orders from Viktor X. Brandberg is presumably the fourth victim in a new series. Does this sound reasonable?”

  “It’s hard to see anything more reasonable,” said Gunnar Nyberg.

  “There’s just one catch, aside from Strand-Julén,” said Jorge Chavez. “Daggfeldt, Carlberger, and Brandberg sat on the Lovisedal board together for only a brief period in 1991. Daggfeldt was a member from 1989 until 1993; Carlberger from 1991 until his death; and Brandberg from 1985 until 1991, when he was elected to parliament. The only year they had in common was 1991. At their deaths, only Carlberger was still a board member. One out of four.”

  “The point is presumably that it was in 1991 that the company started probing the Estonian market,” said Hultin. “It’s the board from that time period that they’re after. Maybe they simply have an old list, or maybe it’s deliberate: maybe they’re saying it was that year, in 1991, that the company made the
mistake of a lifetime when it tried to force its way into territory that had already been claimed. In any case, it’s the most reasonable explanation we have.”

  “There’s one other catch,” said Viggo Norlander. “Jüri Maarja and Viktor X allowed me to live as a means of proving their innocence. You’ve all read the letter that was pinned to me, so to speak.”

  “That doesn’t prove or disprove anything,” said Hultin.

  “I saw the surprise on Maarja’s face when I accused them. It was absolutely genuine.”

  “Your Jüri Maarja is a smuggler of refugees. It’s possible that he doesn’t have Viktor X’s ear in all matters. He was surprised, okay, but was Viktor X surprised? You never saw his face, if it really was him at all. Igor and Igor may be acting on direct orders from Viktor X, with no intermediaries involved. That’s entirely possible, don’t you think?”

  Viggo Norlander nodded but remained unconvinced.

  “Chavez has a list of the Lovisedal board members anno 1991,” Hultin continued. “How many are still alive?”

  “Seven on the list, six are still alive. One died of natural causes.”

  “Six individuals. We have to keep an eye on those six at all costs. No one is a more likely victim.”

  Hultin looked at his notes.

  “Of the six, I’ll take Jacob Lidner, who was then chairman of the board; he still is. There are five more for you to divide up. Put some pressure on them, find out whether they know anything, whether they’re scared, and whether they have any security protection. They’re going to have to get some, like it or not. As of tonight, we’re putting the entire Lovisedal board under around-the-clock surveillance. And of course we’ve put out a juicy all-points bulletin for Igor and Igor. In all likelihood, they’re our Power Murderers. All right then, let’s get going.”

  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.