“And you’ve taken the same name? And officially changed your first name too?”
“Yes.”
“But your brother is still named Carlberger, Andreas Carlberger. What’s the reason behind the name change?”
“Hmm. I don’t know. I guess I just feel closer to my mother.”
“You’re a doctoral candidate in sociology in Lund. Are you a Marxist?”
Willy Eriksson chuckled. “If I was, you wouldn’t have to ask the question.”
“Was there some sort of ideological conflict between you and your father?”
“I suppose you could call it ideological, even though I’d be a bit cautious about using that term. What you’re trying to get at, and I might as well make it easier for you, is the question of whether I hated that sweetheart of a man, Nils-Emil Carlberger. The answer is no. No hatred involved.”
“No hatred and no sorrow?”
“Exactly.”
“Tell me about him. What was he like? Was he the classic capitalist? From a purely sociological perspective?”
“An elegant way to steer the conversation into my own field of interest.
“That’s enough. If you really want to make things easier for me, then help me out here. Otherwise we’re just going to waste a lot of time that neither of us can spare.”
“If such a thing as a ‘classic capitalist’ exists, from a ‘purely sociological perspective,’ then I think that’s what he was. A materialistic and disciplined childhood with sporadic visits by the authoritarian father figure. Nothing new under the sun. No hugs, but no visible violence, either. Everything had to do with money and its shiny display. Andreas and Mama and I were all part of the shiny display. Andreas a bit more than I, and I a bit more than Mama. She was always a little too gray and plain to shine, no matter how much he tried to polish her up. And no matter how much I try to find redeeming features, or even any individual traits, I can’t find any. I’m sorry.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry. Did he have any special interests or something that might present an alternative picture?”
“I’ve really searched for something. When I was ten or eleven, when the inferno was raging at home the year before their divorce, I once asked him what exactly they made in his factory. He laughed and said, ‘Money.’ I was hoping for something slightly ridiculous, and redemptive, behind all that accumulation of wealth: condoms or teddy bears or back-scratchers or nose-hair clippers or whatever the hell it might be. But of course it was a purely financial enterprise, from beginning to end. There’s not much comedy in money.”
Hjelm was getting bored, so he fast-forwarded. A crackling female voice said:
“But Kuno, he was a real family man. He was.”
Hjelm rewound to the start of the interview: “Madame Hummelstrand,
There was a rustling sound, and off in the background an angry female voice could be faintly heard:
“Is this Anna-Clara Hummelstrand, wife of George Hummelstrand, vice president of Nimco France?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Kerstin Holm, National Criminal Police in Stockholm. It has to do with the murders of Kuno Daggfeldt and Bernhard Strand-Julen.”
“Oh, I see.
“Tally ho!” said Anna-Clara Hummelstrand. Only now was it clear how drunk she was.
“Maybe I should get back to you after the fog has cleared,” said Holm.
“After what?”
“After the haze has lifted.”
“Okay. Let’s give it a try. Is it correct to say that you are close friends with both Ninni Daggfeldt and Lilian Strand-Julen?”
“As close as anyone can get. We exchange information about our gynecological exams. That’s the definition of a deep female friendship.
“Do they know each other?”
“
“And their husbands?”
“Well, neither of the poor dears had it easy, I can tell you that. They didn’t know how to handle their little boys the way I do. Lilian’s situation was well known, of course. Saint Bernhard’s little puppies. If she was the one who got rid of him, she has my full support. She had moved out, with
“Yet he had time to play golf and attend meetings of a fraternal order.”
“Right. The Order of Hugin or Munin, or whatever it’s called. So cute. George is a member too. He’s told me about the little rituals, how they put on Nordic god masks and strange robes, or whatever they’re called, and engage in sheer bacchanalia. It’s been a long time since he engaged in sheer bacchanalia with me, that’s the truth. I have to arrange my own.
“Have you ever heard George talk about something called the Order of Skidbladnir?”
“Dear God, no. That sounds ghastly.”
“How did you hear about Daggfeldt’s and Strand-Julen’s deaths?”
“My husband called me last night. He sounded a bit shaken,
“Was he involved in business deals with them?”
“I’ve never been interested in George’s business affairs. As long as there’s plenty of money in the bank account, I’m happy. Terrible, right? I must be the classic object of hatred for feminist advocates like yourself, Miss Holm. Oh, whoops, I see that little Philippe is preparing for other activities. Have you, Miss Holm, ever seen a magnificent, olive-brown Gallic pole rise up from an absolutely slack condition to an absolutely stiff one? A marvelously prolonged moment of slow, slow, economical expansion? I guarantee that it affects a person’s ability to carry on a sensible conversation with a female Swedish police officer.
The conversation was cut off. Hjelm heard Kerstin Holm sigh. Then the same crackling telephone sounds behind Holm’s voice.
“Part two, Nice, April 3, 10:52 A.M.”
“Do you know a Nancy Carlberger?”
“Nancy? A wonderful little town in Lorraine-”
“Are you awake, Mrs. Hummelstrand?”
“Peu
