Misterioso (28 page)

“Sure. Since the beginning of the eighties, the buyers have always been the same people. Jazz lovers, maybe. Lovers of rare items, absolutely. If you’re not planning to arrest them, I’ll give you the addresses. Two in Stockholm and one in Växjö. Somewhere I’ve got a little fucking yellow notebook …”

They searched through Richards’s disgusting mess of an apartment, casting aside the most astonishing objects: the dried head of a boa constrictor that turned to dust in Hjelm’s hands, filthy clothing, a shoebox containing Polish
zloty
bills, more dirty clothes, antiquated Finnish porn magazines with black patches hiding the genitals, still more dirty clothes, a number of throwing knives from Botswana, another huge pile of dirty clothes, thirteen unwashed Guinness beer tankards that had been scattered around, an LP with no album cover but with Bill Evans’s autograph etched across the tracks, and thick stacks of pub receipts.

“Why are you saving all these pub receipts?” Chavez asked as he pulled the yellow notebook out of a pair of appallingly disintegrating underpants.

“For tax reasons,” said White Jim as he let the Jack Daniel’s burn its way down his throat.

Just like in a B-movie
, thought Hjelm.

Chavez wrote down the names and addresses on the back of a pub receipt and handed the notebook back to White Jim, who tossed it into the room, belched, and then fell asleep sitting up.

Chavez and Holm laid him down on the floor, then pulled a blanket over the chalk-white body.

“That guy,” Chavez said as they came out into the sunshine, “is a truly great musician.”

Holm nodded.

Hjelm wasn’t sure what to believe.

Chavez returned reluctantly to police headquarters. Hjelm dropped Holm off at the nearest Stockholm address on White Jim’s list, then continued on to the address that was farther away.

Holm went to see the retired major Erik Rådholm on Linnégatan. He was a distinguished-looking gentleman in late middle age, with a passion for unusual jazz recordings that was as monumental as it was unexpected. As Holm later described him, he looked more like a Sousa admirer, a man for whom rhythm meant marching in step. But that was not the case. He had an enormous collection of illegal pirated recordings from the most obscure little clubs, from Karelia in Finland to the interior of Ghana.

At first he didn’t want to admit to anything that might be considered illegal. But by using methods that Holm refused to reveal, she got him to relent and, even with a certain pride, show her his impressive collection, hidden behind a bookcase that could be opened out into the room. He swore on “his country and his flag” that he would never dream of copying a single one of his unique recordings. Holm both saw and listened to Major Rådholm’s copy of Jim Barth Richards’s “Risky” tape. She stayed for two hours and also heard Lester Young in Salzburg and Kenny Clarke at the Hudiksvall Hotel.

Paul Hjelm drove to Märsta and visited the severely handicapped Roger Palmberg, who had been run over by the Stockholm-to-Luleå train; not entirely unintentionally, as Palmberg himself admitted, talking through his electronic speech apparatus. The only thing still intact was his hearing, but that was even better than before. They listened to White Jim’s “Risky” recording, and Roger Palmberg explained every little nuance, telling him exactly what was happening and precisely where it occurred and why.

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.

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.