Misterioso

times. Didn’t much care for her. What is it now? Has Nils-Emil kicked the bucket too?”

“He was murdered last night. I’d like to point out that until further notice this information is to be considered confidential.”

“Mon dieu! This is starting to feel like that Agatha Christie story And Then There Were None. Have you talked to the servants? The butler?”

“As a matter of fact, we’re trying to locate his house cleaner.”

“That must be little Sonya, the poor thing. She takes care of most of the houses in Djursholm. Was she the one who found him? She didn’t murder him, that much I can guarantee. I’ve never met anyone so timid since I saved the life of a wagtail in my sadly so-distant childhood. Ake was his name, Ake Wagtail.”

“Does Sonya clean your home?”

“No, we have a different little woman, a Turk who’s been with us for years now. Iraz. Iraz Effendi. No, Sonya is black. From Somalia, I think. I’m not entirely sure that she has all her documents in order. Although officially you didn’t hear me say that.”

“Did she clean the Daggfeldt home, or the Strand-Julens’?”

“No, she works only in Djursholm. You know how quickly word spreads through an area if there’s a nice, cheap, reliable cleaning woman. Don’t try to tell me that you don’t know that.”

“And you have no idea what Sonya’s last name is? Or where she lives?”

“No, but Nancy would know, of course. Why do you keep calling me, by the way? I do hope George isn’t in the danger zone… Speaking of which, I think I must have said a lot of nonsense yesterday. I hope you can erase whatever doesn’t have a direct bearing on the case. You know, George…”

“Do you mean this passage? And I quote: ‘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’?”

“You delightful creature!” Mrs. Hummelstrand blurted out with glee. Hjelm had finally heard enough when she went on:

“Did you sit there and masturbate at the thought of Philippe’s remarkable organ? Shame on you!”

While Hjelm changed tapes, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the thought of Kerstin Holm masturbating because of Philippe’s remarkable organ. He pictured her sitting alone in her office. Night had descended over police headquarters. She had propped up her legs, one on either side of the laptop, and eased down her loose-fitting trousers. Her hand moved calmly and methodically up and down inside her panties. Her dark eyes were completely glazed over as she opened them wide and then threw back her head with a half-stifled moan.

What a child I am, Hjelm thought as he let his slight erection deflate. He heard the sound of a teenage girl’s shrill, defiant voice in his ears.

“How do you think it felt? Mini, midi, maxi. Maxi-deep. Maxi-horny. Of course there were other people who had fucking stupid names. One of the girls in my class was named Angel, Angel Jakobsson- Flodh, old hippies who fixed up a luxury collective in Danderyd to keep the dream alive-alongside their computer company, of course. But nobody else was ever named after a damn boat! People name their boats after women, but they don’t fucking name women after boats!”

“Did you hate your father because he gave you a name like that?”

“When I was an adolescent, sure. Now I actually think it’s rather cool.”

“Did you hate the boat?”

“I’ve actually never hated the boat. It was the only time when Papa relaxed. He was always fussing about, trying to make sure that we all had a good time. Okay, my mother was always throwing up, and that could get really disgusting, you know, but Marre and I kept out of her way and just played our silly guess-the-word game.”

“Did your father ever hit your mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. He would get so incredibly disappointed when he saw that all his efforts had no effect on my mother. They shouted and screamed, so we stayed out of their way, hid in a corner, out on the island where we docked, pulled a quilt over ourselves and played guess-the-word.”

“How do you feel about your father’s death?”

“I’ve been crying a lot…”

Hjelm fast-forwarded, thinking how impossible it was to get any sort of insight into another person’s life. What is it that drives somebody’s life, what is it that forms all these connections with other people?

Everything spreads out like rings in the water.

He changed the tape again, making another arbitrary selection.

He went on and on and on, amazed at Kerstin Holm’s diligence. Secretaries, family members, employees, friends all swept past in a never-ending stream.

Now a man was speaking with some sort of semi-west-coast accent.

“You’re from Goteborg? Then you must know Landvetter Airport quite well.”

“More or less,” said Holm, not sounding particularly interested. “Why is it that Willy changed his last name but you didn’t?”

“Hmm. I have nothing against Carlberger. It has a certain… ring to it. William took the divorce much harder than I did. He was twelve, while I was fifteen. We went to live with Mama, and our life changed radically after that. From the luxury of Djursholm to the poverty of Danvikstull, so to speak. It was lucky that I was already practically grown up. William was more susceptible. Besides, he quickly managed to turn his personal problems into an ideological conflict. I think it’s called ‘projection.’ A way to survive.”

“How did you react when you heard that your father was dead?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was dumbfounded. It’s not everybody whose father is liquidated by the Russian mafia.”

“Why do you think it was the Russian mafia?”

“That’s what it said in Goteborgs Tidende. I read the newspapers on the plane. In Aftonbladet it said something about the Red Army Faction. Expressen claimed it was the Sicilian mafia. What are we supposed to believe?”

Hjelm switched off the tape and studied the hardworking Chavez for a moment. It was beginning to get dark outside.

Then he decided that the next tape would be the last. He put it in and Kerstin Holm said:

“Conversation with Rickard Franzen at 12:16 P.M. on April 3.”

“I want this on tape too,” said the retired judge sternly, “so I can make my view perfectly clear. How dare you come here, my dear, after what you did to my son last night?”

“I’m truly sorry about what happened, but you might have informed us that you had a son, and that he had keys to the house, and that in the middle of the night he might come tromping in with his nostrils rimmed white with cocaine.”

“I never thought that…”

“Here’s my first question. One member of the Order of Mimir who was not part of the Order of Skidbladnir is named George Hummelstrand. Do you know him?”

“George? Of course.”

“How did he feel about you forming a separate group?”

“He wasn’t at all in favor of it. Do you mean to say that you’re still following the order lead? In spite of what happened to Carlberger?”

“How do you know about that? It hasn’t been officially announced yet.”

“I have my contacts, damn it! That lead is a dead end!”

“Tell me about Hummelstrand.”

“Without a doubt he was furious about it. For him the bylaws of the Order of Mimir were inviolable. We were traitors. He belonged to the little hate group. It was because of them that I accepted your suspicion that I would be the next victim.”

“Give me more names.”

“Oscar Bjellerfeldt, Nils-Ake Svardh, Bengt Klinth, possibly Jakob Ringman.”