bottle?”
The dedicated alcoholic looked immensely offended. “We can just drop the whole thing, if you want,” he said morosely.
“Can you tell me anything more?”
“No. Russian or Lithuanian or Estonian, 120 proof. Plus a lot of water.”
Surprised, Hjelm thanked him and went straight over to the police station. It took awhile before he was able to speak with an officer in charge. The man who came to meet him introduced himself as Detective Inspector Jonas Wrede, and he didn’t look older than twenty. He was blond, well built, and provincial.
And very computer literate, as it turned out.
“NCP,” said Wrede dreamily after they’d sat down in his office. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the Power Murders, does it?”
“With what?”
“The Power Murders. That’s the label that the NCP has assigned to those big-shot murders in Stockholm.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” said Hjelm in surprise.
“It’s in the paper. Today’s press conference with the commissioner, Waldemar Morner, and Inspector Algot Nylin.”
“Who the hell is Inspector Algot Nylin?” exclaimed Hjelm, realizing that he didn’t know a single thing about the media and the power game surrounding the A-Unit’s investigation. The only thing he paid any attention to was his work. In the power brokers’ plus column, at any rate, was the fact that they’d managed to pull off the feat of largely keeping the A-Unit’s existence out of the media for a month and a half.
“Does this have something to do with that?” Jonas Wrede persisted. “We haven’t had anyone from the NCP here since that incident up at the bank in Algotsmala. So are you here because of the Power Murders?”
“I’m not authorized to divulge that,” said Hjelm, hoping that the authoritative tone of his voice would help, by indirectly confirming the fact.
And it did. Wrede straightened up.
“What do you know about the gentlemen who own Hackat & Malet here in town?” asked Hjelm. “Roger Hackzell and Jari Malinen.”
“Offhand, I’d say that they’re clean,” replied Wrede pensively. “At least I can’t recall any incidents.”
A favorite word of his, thought Hjelm and let his mind float into a better world while Wrede consulted his computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. In the better world there were women, both fair and dark, who changed places with each other.
“Yup, both clean,” said Wrede, with a certain smugness. “No incidents. Not since they’ve been in Vaxjo, that is.”
“What about the big national database?” asked Hjelm without letting go the women’s faces he was seeing in his mind.
“Well, that’ll take a little longer…”
“Do I need to keep reminding you of the priorities here?” said Hjelm, even though so far he hadn’t said a thing about priorities. Wrede looked impressed and began typing. Then they waited for a while. Wrede looked as if he wanted to say something; Hjelm looked as if he would never say another word. He was quite simply gone, beyond all hope.
Finally they received a response.
“No,” said Wrede. “Nothing. Both are clean. Although there’s an asterisk next to Malinen’s name. A cross- reference to Finland. A possible incident, perhaps?”
“Is there some way to find out?”
Wrede’s face lit up. A higher-up from the NCP was taking note of his computer expertise.
The higher-up from the NCP yawned loudly.
“It’s possible that we can get in via the Nordic cooperative database,” said Wrede enthusiastically. “Not many people know how to do that,” he added.
Hjelm thought he should offer some words of encouragement, but he didn’t. He hadn’t really returned to the real world yet.
Wrede began typing again. If his eminent colleague was daydreaming, Wrede was definitely in his element.
“Malinen, Jari, 6-13-52. Oh yes, there’s an incident, all right: smuggling. Let’s see now: yes, 1979 in Vasa, Finland. Convicted of smuggling goods. I’ll see if I can find any more details.”
“Fucking great,” said Hjelm.
“All right, here’s something that looks like records of a trial. Malinen was found guilty of smuggling on February 12, 1979, along with Vladimir Ragin: they had smuggled booze from Leningrad, as it was then called. Both got eighteen months in a minimum-security prison; Malinen was released after twelve months, while Ragin served the full sentence. Then there’s a list of names: the judge, K. Lahtinen; lay assessors, L. Halminen, R. Lindfors, B. Palo; defense attorney, A. Soderstedt; prosecutors, N. Niskanpaa, H. Viiljanen; witness for the defense-”
“What?” Hjelm dived into the ice-cold water of this world. “What was the name of the defense attorney?”
“A. Soderstedt,” repeated Wrede.
“Can you look up more about him?”
“I’ll see if I can find anything in the legal society’s registry, or someplace like that.” Wrede looked like a fourteen-year-old hacker who’d just gotten into the Pentagon.
Another period of waiting. Then a liberating little ping.
“Arto Soderstedt, 1-12-53, law student at Abo University 1972 to ’75; finished a five-year degree in three; hired by Vasa’s most respected law firm of Koivonen & Krantz right after graduating in 1975, at the age of twenty- two. For several months in 1980, the firm was actually called Koivonen, Krantz & Soderstedt. He became a partner at the age of twenty-seven. By the end of 1980, the firm was again known as Koivonen & Krantz. After 1980 there is no Soderstedt in any list of attorneys.”
Hjelm laughed long and loud. Scandinavia was such a small world.
Wrede looked at him skeptically. Was this man really what he purported to be? The Hallunda hero? The Power Murders investigator?
“Okay.” Hjelm wiped away tears of laughter. He was back. “Damn it if I’m not thinking of recommending you to my bosses. You really know your way around a computer. I’m very grateful.”
Detective Inspector Jonas Wrede stood at the window and watched as Hjelm headed off toward Hackat & Malet. His face was shining with unrealized ambitions.
There was a mirror in a display window on the main walking street that cut through Vaxjo’s downtown area. Hjelm caught sight of himself and stopped. The scaly, red blemish had grown even bigger. It now almost covered his cheek. It looked like a question mark.
Hackat & Malet had closed for the night, but Roger Hackzell was still there, drying glasses like a traditional bartender. Hjelm tapped lightly on the windowpane. The space around Hackzell seemed to freeze, but he managed to skate over to the door and open it.
“A triple vodka,” said Hjelm when he came inside.
Hackzell stared at him, returned to the bar, and poured another glass from the Absolut bottle.
Hjelm sniffed at the clear liquid. “No,” he said simply. “This isn’t Absolut Vodka from Vin & Sprit. I’d guess that it’s diluted 120 proof Estonian from the Liviko distillery.”
Hackzell’s face fell. It seemed to be lying on the counter, gasping for breath, as Hjelm completed his attack.
“You’re a first-time offender and presumably basically clean. That’s why you’re reacting so strongly. Malinen would probably have been significantly more cool-headed, with that record of his. But I’m not here to get you or Malinen. Answer my questions correctly, and you won’t lose the restaurant and end up in jail. Think carefully before you answer, because I know a lot more than you thought, and if I discover even the smallest lie in what you tell me, I’ll arrest you and take you back to Stockholm for a proper interrogation. Is that understood?”
The man with no face nodded mutely.
“Where did the vodka come from?”
“There are a couple of vendors who show up now and then. Russians. They call themselves Igor and Igor.”
