Misterioso

“No, that wasn’t all you said.” Soderstedt fixed his eyes on Norlander.

“Okay, boys,” Kerstin Holm said suddenly.

Norlander slammed his fork down on the tray and rose, carrying it away without another word. Even in that state of monumental anger, he felt compelled to put the tray in its proper place on the rack, crumple up his napkin, and toss it into the proper wastebasket.

Hjelm glanced around the staff cafeteria. A few openly sarcastic smiles came from the neighboring tables. He smiled grimly.

To be an outsider even among the outsiders.

Right in the eye of the storm.

Holm said to Soderstedt, “Cut that out. We have other things to do than pick fights in the sandbox.”

“He socked me right in the jaw,” muttered Soderstedt sullenly. For a second, a bucket and shovel might have been visible in his hands. When they disappeared, he went on: “And then he dragged in the whole foreigner thing. Except for the blackhead, of course.” Soderstedt ran his hand over his thin, chalk-white hair.

Hjelm laughed. He didn’t know why, but Nyberg joined in. Soderstedt also chuckled a bit. Holm smiled that ironic smile of hers, as did Chavez. The peace pipe went around the whole group.

“To exclude the political aspects of this case would be like working on only half a case,” said Soderstedt at last. “Come on, give me some support, somebody!”

“I agree,” said Chavez. “But there are different ways to handle it. To back up a bit, what exactly happened in Vasa?”

“Oh no. No, no,” said Soderstedt, laughing. “We’re not on those kinds of personal terms yet. How’s it going with your hole in the wall, by the way?”

“Mine is definitely not an apartment. Just a room rented from an old woman at the intersection of Bergsgatan and Scheelegatan. Like when I was in training.”

“So what about you, Kerstin?” asked Soderstedt. “Where are you staying, my dear?”

“With my ex-husband’s second ex-wife in Brandbergen,” said Holm. “We get on well together. We share an identical and highly productive hatred.”

More laughter, about everything and nothing. About the fact that they had taken a small step closer to each other. About the fact that nobody had been murdered in several days. About themselves and their absurd situation at police headquarters.

Nyberg left, followed by Chavez and Soderstedt. Holm finished her light beer and was about to get up when Hjelm said, “Kerstin. Did you get hold of George Hummelstrand?”

She sank back down onto her chair, giving him a surly look. “I really didn’t like the fact that you took credit for the Hummelstrand lead,” she said.

“I’ve already apologized. Besides, it’s not really a matter of taking credit, is it? I was still on the track of the Mimir lead. I’ll apologize again, if that’s what you want. And again. And again.”

A reluctant smile appeared on her disturbingly beautiful face.

“And again,” he said, feeling rather pleased. “So. How did it go with George?”

The smile abruptly vanished. Her dark eyes seemed to X-ray right through him. “Are you happily married?” she asked.

“What?” he said. For a moment Cilla’s desolate expression obscured his field of vision.

“Happily married?” said Kerstin Holm with the utmost seriousness. “Really happily?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know who you are,” she said inscrutably, and got up and left.

The image of Cilla slowly faded.

Finally the whole world went pale.

17

Viggo Norlander was sitting in a warehouse in Frihamnen, waiting.

Waiting, he thought. Waiting to wait. Waiting to wait to wait. Waiting to wait to wait to wait.

In other words, he was feeling tired.

He felt even less inclined to put on the kid gloves. He’d already taken out the other kind of gloves.

The boxing gloves. Metaphorically speaking.

Something has to happen now, he thought. He was damned sick and tired of all the desk work and all the phone calls to condescending Interpol officers and recalcitrant former Soviet policemen and burned-out customs agents. He’d been waiting long enough.

He’d forced entry into the small office of the warehouse and was crouched down behind a cabinet. There he’d been sitting for three hours, and it would soon be evening. He was extremely angry.

Soon everything was going to have to proceed at an entirely new pace.

He kept his anger alive by thinking about Arto Soderstedt, that Finnish bastard, who came from somewhere out in the sticks and despised everything that he’d ever believed in. Of course money had to be coming in so that it could be divided up. If Swedish companies made the money, then it would benefit the Swedish people. It was as simple as that.

He fanned his anger by thinking about his own name. Viggo, for God’s sake, the hearty little Viggo, Viggo the fucking Viking. It was his only inheritance from the travel-happy Danish seaman who for some inexplicable reason had become his father. A quick ejaculation into the womb of a starving woman, and then he was on his way again. No responsibility. No responsibility at all. Like Soderstedt, he thought. Exactly the same.

His thoughts weren’t following any particular order.

Once in his youth he’d tried to find out something about this loathsome name of his. Its origin went back to the thirteenth century when the Danes’ great history writer, Saxo Grammaticus, latinized the Danish word vig, meaning “battle,” and gave the name to one of King Rolf Krake’s men.

Viggo, Jan-Olov Krake’s henchman, Norlander thought incoherently as the door opened. A man with a ponytail and wearing a jogging suit came in and sat down at the desk a couple of yards away. Norlander took a few seconds to ascertain that the man was alone.

Then he rushed out and slammed the man’s head against the desk.

Once, twice, three times, then four.

Taking a firm grip on the man’s ponytail, he stuck his service revolver deep into his ear and snarled, “Little Stromstedt, you’ve got three seconds to give me the name of your mafia contact. Otherwise you’re dead, big-time. One. Two.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” cried the man. “Who the hell are you?”

“Three,” said Norlander and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked.

“There’s a bullet in the next chamber,” said Norlander. “Be damn quick about it now!”

The man was like jelly in his hands, thought Norlander with a rush of adrenaline. He was shaking all the way down to the bottom of his dark soul.

He laid it on thick: “A shipment of 120 proof Estonian vodka from Liviko intended for little Stromstedt was confiscated by customs a couple of months ago. Who sent it to you?”

“I’m just a middleman,” said little Stromstedt, shaking. “Damn it, I’ve told them everything. I don’t know anything!”

“Right now there are other factors in play. Every complaint for police brutality that you submit is going to end up in the wastebasket. You hear me? Top priority. National security. Spit out everything you know. Now. The bullet’s in the chamber.”

“Who the fuck are you? Dirty Harry?”

Norlander took a chance and shot little Stromstedt’s computer to smithereens.

“You fucker!” he bellowed, trying to twist his body around. Norlander, in turn, took an even tighter grip on the man’s ponytail until he felt the roots pull halfway out. Little Stromstedt let out a scream.