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 Dalaro 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.
Was that her interpretation of what he wanted? Was this a wish fulfillment? His or hers?
Then she disappeared.
The next day he didn’t know whether it had really happened or not.
23
When Paul Hjelm woke up the following morning, it wasn’t morning at all. It was noon or even later, and nobody had looked for him. He wasn’t sure whether he should be more surprised than irritated. But the indecision ended abruptly as he found a note that had been slid under his hotel door. It said:
Thanks for yesterday? You were sleeping so sweetly when I left? That didn’t actually answer the question about whether she’d been in his room during the night. Everything could have just as well been played out inside his own imagination. He really couldn’t tell.
“Thanks for yesterday” could be referring to the dinner they’d had in the restaurant, and “You were sleeping so sweetly when I left” could mean that he hadn’t responded when she knocked on the door. And besides, how would she have gotten in? She didn’t have a key to his room. But maybe he hadn’t closed the door properly…
He hated not knowing; that was a solidly imprinted reflex. Yet at the same time there was something appealing about the uncertainty. Something inside him resisted having a definitive answer. And he had to settle for that.
For the time being.
He looked at the map and found himself across the street from Hackat & Malet. And it was open. Presumably the place also served lunch, so perhaps he’d be able to get hold of Hackzell right away. The restaurant was quite small, and for all practical purposes the lunch rush was over-it was almost two o’clock. The premises contained a jukebox, several rifles hanging on the walls with their barrels crossed, a dartboard, advertising signs for various types of beer, and a couple of Andy Warhol posters. Rather conventional decor. The broad-shouldered man sporting a mustache behind the bar emanated such authority that Hjelm was convinced he had to be one of the owners, either Roger Hackzell or Jari Malinen.
It turned out to be Roger Hackzell himself.
Hjelm asked him about the cassette tape, trying to be as detailed as he could. He missed Kerstin’s and Jorge’s expertise. While Hackzell pondered his answer, Hjelm on impulse asked for a triple vodka, straight up. Hackzell peered in surprise at this police officer who was apparently a serious alcoholic, then poured him a big glass of venerable Swedish Absolut. Then he said, “I’ll go see if I can find that tape. I’ve still got some of those strange recordings that White Jim forced upon me. Just wait a sec.”
Hjelm picked up the glass and sniffed the contents suspiciously. The moment the last customers left the restaurant, he went over to their table, grabbed an empty Ramlosa bottle, and returned to the bar. He poured the vodka into the bottle, took a cork from a little basket on the counter, and stuck it in the mineral-water bottle, which he then slipped into his pocket.
After a moment Hackzell came back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t find it.”
Hjelm nodded, paid for the vodka, and went out into the sunshine.
He went over to the state liquor store and asked the sales clerk, “Is it possible to tell the difference between various types of vodka, or do they all taste the same?”
“I haven’t got a clue,” said the clerk, in a broad Smaland accent. She looked puzzled.
“Could I speak to the manager?” He showed her his police ID. That was always the easiest way to avoid fuss.
A serious-looking middle-aged man wearing a suit came out to the counter. Hjelm repeated his question.
“I don’t really know,” said the man. “Vodka is the purest liquor available, with the least flavor. I would think the only thing that would make any difference would be the alcohol content.”
Hjelm thanked the manager and went back out to the street. He was very tired. He sat down on a park bench outside the store and closed his eyes.
Roger Hackzell had looked scared shitless when Hjelm showed his ID and mentioned the NCP; that much he was sure of. When he started talking about the tape, his fear had decidedly diminished.
When Hjelm opened his eyes again, he found sitting next to him on the bench a very young wino, a man that he might almost have mistaken for a buff bodybuilder. He was greedily eyeing Hjelm’s bulging jacket pocket.
“Have you got something there?” said the muscular alcoholic in the purest Smaland dialect.
“Yes,” said Hjelm. “One question first. You’re an expert, right? Is it possible to tell the difference between various types of vodka, or do they all taste the same?”
“After I’ve had half a bottle, I can start concentrating on the taste,” said the young alcoholic slyly. “I’m actually a connoisseur of hard liquor.”
“If I buy you half a bottle…”
“Then I’d be happy to undertake a more sophisticated taste test.”
This man didn’t seem the usual blabbering alcoholic, so Hjelm went back inside the liquor store and bought a half bottle of Explorer. The bodybuilder-wino downed the entire contents in six minutes and afterward looked extremely alert.
“We’re the A-Unit,” said Hjelm sleepily while the man drank.
“Yes, we certainly are.” The man set down the empty Explorer bottle. “Now let’s see about your taste test.”
Hjelm took the Ramlosa bottle out of his pocket and pulled out the cork. The steroid-pumped wino sniffed at it, shook the bottle, took a gulp, and let it swirl around in his mouth like a professional wine taster.
“Diluted,” he said. “Otherwise the usual strength.”
“Do you mean that a stronger vodka has been watered down?”
“That’s right,” said the man, taking another swallow. “Finer than Explorer, that much is obvious.”
“It came out of an Absolut bottle.”
“No, no. It’s definitely not Absolut. This one has a more direct kick. Not Swedish at all. Or Finnish. And absolutely not that American junk, Smirnoff. No, this is genuine East European vodka with a touch of a chemical factory. Probably 120 proof. Diluted, of course.”
“Do you really know what you’re talking about or are you just blathering until you’ve drunk the whole
