Misterioso

comparison of this handwriting with that notepad on the phone table will prove very interesting.”

Hjelm sat down in the armchair facing Linden.

“ ‘And then the big Billy-Goat Gruff rushed at the troll, lifted him on his horns, and flung him in a big arc through the air, hurling him so far that the troll was never seen again. Then the goat ran up to the mountain pasture. There was so much good grass, and the goats grew so fat that they didn’t have the energy to go back home. And if they haven’t lost that fat, then no doubt they’re still up there today.’ ”

Jorgen Linden still didn’t utter a word.

Hjelm went on: “The land of childhood. I read that story to my children almost ten years ago, every night. I remember every word of it. What sort of troll was it that flew in a big arc through the air and disappeared for good out there on the Swan boat? The troll of poverty? The troll of abstinence? Are you still up there in the mountain pasture?”

Linden closed his eyes but remained silent.

“My son is only a few years younger than you. At least I hope he is. Answer me right now, or I’m taking you in. What sort of troll was it that the big Billy-Goat Gruff Strand-Julen chased away?”

“Not the troll of poverty, at any rate,” said Linden glumly. “He didn’t want a repeat. Never wanted to see us again. The cash lasted me a couple of months, no more than that. And drugs are out of the question. I’m clean.”

“No rave parties, no Ecstasy? Like last night?”

“That’s a different story. It’s not addictive.”

“Of course not.” Hjelm leaned back in his chair. “But if you keep working as a prostitute, pretty soon you’re going to need something that is addictive. Okay, I don’t have time for this right now. Here’s my most important question: Have you ever performed any services for an executive by the name of Kuno Daggfeldt in Danderyd?”

“I don’t always know their names.”

“Here’s what he looks like,” said Hjelm, holding out a photograph of an imposing man who was struggling to carry his fifty years with dignity, a battle that a couple of days ago had horribly failed. Nothing exposes vanity more clearly than death, thought Hjelm, convinced that he was quoting somebody.

“No,” said Linden. “I don’t recognize him.”

“And you’re a hundred percent sure about that? Take a good look through your internal files.”

“I remember them, believe me. I remember them all.”

“The whole herd of Billy-Goats Gruff? Okay, give me the name of your pimp.”

“Come on-”

“Under other circumstances I would probably have picked you up off the street, lifted you up by the scruff of your neck like a little kitten… and tossed you home to your parents-”

“That would be difficult.”

“-but right now the situation is different. All I’m after is as much information as you can give me about Daggfeldt and Strand-Julen. So I need the name of your little pimp. And I need it now.”

“Do you know what he’ll do to me if he finds out that I’ve squealed?”

“He’ll never find out from me, I can guarantee it.”

“Johan Stake. I don’t know if that’s his real name, and I don’t have any address. Just a phone number.”

Linden wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to Hjelm.

“One last thing: Strand-Julen’s sexual preferences. And be as specific as possible.”

Linden gave him a pleading look and then started to cry.

The language of intimidation, thought Hjelm, not sure what he himself was feeling.

A hailstorm pounded the windowpanes for ten long seconds. Then it was gone.

April weather, thought Hjelm and sneezed loudly.

It was two o’clock by the time he rang the bell of the Nockeby villa. He listened to the first five notes of “Ode to Joy” play three times inside, hating Beethoven’s deafness. Immediately behind the villa, the property dropped down toward Lake Malaren, at the spot where it was most beautiful. This particular villa was not the most palatial in Nockeby, but it still deserved inclusion in this oasis of a western suburb, upon which the April sun had chosen to cast its fickle light.

The door was finally opened by an old woman, whom Hjelm assumed was the housekeeper.

“Criminal Police,” he said, starting to feel sick and tired of the words. “I’m looking for Rickard Franzen.”

“He’s taking a nap,” said the woman. “What’s this about?”

“It’s extremely important. If it’s not too much trouble, I really must ask you to wake him.”

“It’s up to you,” said the woman cryptically.

“What?”

“It’s up to you to decide whether it’s too much trouble to ask me to wake him. But maybe you’ve already indirectly answered the indirect question and just as indirectly asked me to wake him up.”

Hjelm stared at her, his mouth agape.

She invited him in with a wave of her hand, smiling up her sleeve, as it were. “Don’t mind me. I’ll always be a language teacher, to the end of my days. Sit down and I’ll go get my husband.” She disappeared up the stairs, moving with surprising agility.

Hjelm remained standing in the enormous vestibule, trying to make sense of what had just ensued. “If it’s not too much trouble, I really must ask you to wake him.” Surely that was an acceptable way to say it?

There went his language of intimidation.

After only a couple of minutes, the woman came back down the stairs, followed by an obese elderly man wearing a bathrobe and slippers. The man held out his hand.

“Rickard Franzen,” he said. “Ninety percent of my afternoon nap involves trying to fall asleep and ten percent trying to accept that I won’t be able to. So I wasn’t asleep. It’s hard to get used to being retired after a whole lifetime of working. And I assume that you’ve already noticed that the same is true of my wife.”

“Paul Hjelm,” said Hjelm. “From the Criminal Police.”

“The Stockholm police?”

“No, NCP.” Hjelm had forgotten that the man used to be a judge.

“Some sort of new special unit?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. And I also think I know why you’re here. Fast work.”

“Thanks. So what’s your view on the matter?”

“I think it’s entirely possible that I’m potentially the third victim. We talked about that this morning, my wife and I. Birgitta thought I should call the police. I was more reluctant. And I won the argument. That’s not always the case, let me tell you.”

“Do you think that someone in the Order of Mimir is behind these murders?”

“I wouldn’t venture to speculate about that, but I can understand that, in your eyes, there must be a connection.”

Franzen’s amenable attitude allowed Hjelm to get right to the point. He opted for blunt language instead of the language of intimidation.

“We have an important investigative meeting at three. Might I request that you accompany me to police headquarters so that we can ask you a number of questions about the Order of Skidbladnir and also decide on the surveillance measures for tonight?”

Franzen paused to consider it. Then he said, “Of course. The pattern. You think that the spatial symmetry indicates a temporal similarity as well, and that the third murder is going to take place tonight. Forty-eight hours between each of them. You could be right. Just give me a few minutes.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. Without a doubt, the Swedish judicial branch had suffered a major loss. In Hjelm’s eyes, Rickard Franzen had clearly been a very good judge.

Birgitta Franzen came over to Hjelm. “Do you think his life is actually in danger?”

“I don’t really know, but it’s quite possible. Will you be home tonight?”

“I rarely go out.”