He laughs. “Presumably, yes.”
“The alternative way of thinking,” she says sarcastically, sitting up on the edge of the bed and tossing back her black hair. “I know a little about it.”
“This morning-was it really this morning?-my daughter said that this… blemish on my cheek looked like the astrological sign for Pluto. What does that mean?”
“I’ve never thought about that,” she says, coming over to touch his cheek. “Maybe your daughter is right. Lately I’ve thought it looked like a hobo sign.”
“Have you really been thinking about my blemish?” He closes his eyes.
“Pluto.” She takes her hand away. “It can signify a lot of different things. Willpower, for instance. But also a lack of consideration.”
“Hmm. Really?”
“Wait. I’m not done. The sign of Pluto also signifies an individual’s ability to handle change. And catharsis, the final purification.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Hjelm’s eyes are still closed. “But does it really look like the sign for Pluto? What do you think?”
Again he feels the light caress of her hand. He keeps his eyes shut.
“I think it looks like you have an erection,” she says lightly.
“I’m sorry,” he says without feeling sorry. “And the blemish?”
“It’s disappeared in the rest of the crimson on your face.”
He opens his eyes. She’s now sitting on the edge of the bed a couple of yards away, looking at him with an inscrutable expression through the dim light.
“It’s the only way to make it disappear.” He sits up. “I have to ask you about the last time in Vaxjo. Did anything really happen?”
She laughs. “The masculine need to demystify everything,” she says. “You can’t live with uncertainty, can you?”
“But believe me,” he says, “the mist is still there.”
“I interpreted your wish,” she says. “That question about Anna-Clara Hummelstrand’s Gallic lover… I assumed you’d fantasized about me masturbating, that you had a certain preference for masturbating women.”
“Good Lord.” He’d hit the mark. “But how did you get into my hotel room?”
“You know very well you left the door open.”
“So the whole thing was about fulfilling my wish? But what about you? You didn’t look as if you were suffering.”
“One person’s pleasure is shared by the other. As long as there’s no coercion, no forcing the other person. It’s all a matter of being viewed as a human being.”
A warmth spreads between them. Kerstin continues, her voice a bit hoarse: “Have you interpreted my wish?”
He closes his eyes to think. Images of her fly past, phrases, words. He is feverishly searching for clues, hints, glances. He merely sees her with her feet propped up on the desk and her hand inside her panties.
He feels like a little boy. “Give me a clue,” he squeaks.
“Take off your clothes,” she says curtly.
He takes them off. He stands there naked, confused. He’s holding his hands in front of his genitals.
“Take your hands away and put them on top of your head,” she says. She’s still lying on the bed, fully dressed, with her hands clasped behind her head.
He’s standing there in front of her. His penis is sticking straight up, strutting with nowhere to go. Without ever getting there.
“Come here and stand next to the bed, near my feet.”
He walks over there, with his hands on top of his head. His penis sways back and forth as he moves. His knees are resting against the edge of the bed. His penis is sticking out over the bed. She comes closer. She studies it carefully without touching it.
“The scourge of woman,” she says without taking her eyes off his cock, “and most of us have fallen victim to it in one way or another. Me, I was raped when I was fifteen, and then over and over again by my dear husband, the cop, although he had no idea about it afterward, of course.”
Hjelm feels himself going limp, all at once.
“Come here and lie down,” she says.
He lies down next to her and closes his eyes. She lightly touches the blemish on his cheek. He lets everything happen.
“Can you forgive me?” she asks him softly. She sounds like a little girl.
He nods; his eyes are still closed. He hasn’t stopped feeling like a little boy.
“Look,” she says in the same bright voice. “Now the blemish looks like a tiny cross.”
He smiles and understands.
And yet understands nothing.
But it feels good.
29
They were eating breakfast in the hotel restaurant when Chavez’s cell phone rang. Jorge answered it, then didn’t say a word, and his face turned noticeably pale. Hjelm recognized that kind of phone call. He could guess what it was about.
Another murder.
Had they committed a serious breach of duty by neglecting to report immediately the name of Goran Andersson and provide his picture?
If they had reported their suspicions at once, would Hultin have been able to redirect the surveillance from the members of the Lovisedal board to those on the Sydbanken board?
Hjelm looked at Kerstin and saw that she was thinking the same thing.
Had their determination to wait until they’d achieved complete clarity and put together a perfect resolution, with all the ends tied up, cost someone his life?
The thought made his head swim.
But that wasn’t all.
“Gunnar Nyberg was seriously wounded last night,” said Chavez in a subdued tone as he ended the call. “During the Lovisedal stakeout.”
The burden grew heavier.
“Goddamn it.” Kerstin Holm crushed her liverwurst sandwich in her hand.
“How seriously?” Hjelm was stunned.
“I couldn’t really make that out. Hultin sounded so damned angry. Nyberg’s injuries aren’t life-threatening, in any case. It was apparently at the home of the chairman of the board, Jacob Lidner, in Lidingo. Nyberg was on his way in when he was shot. He got up and went totally berserk, crashed through a big fucking hedge, and charged the gunman’s speeding car with his own body.”
Hjelm couldn’t suppress a slightly hysterical hoot of laughter. “Sounds like Nyberg. It sure does.”
“Tackling the car did the trick too. The gunman drove right into a lamppost. Soderstedt pulled the guy out just before the car caught fire.”
“Do modern vehicles really catch fire?” said Hjelm, puzzled.
“You’ll never guess who the gunman was,” said Chavez.
“Let’s not play guessing games,” said Holm.
“The sole surviving Igor. Alexander Bryusov.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” shouted Hjelm. “What the hell was he doing there?”
“And there was another murder, wasn’t there?” Holm said calmly.
Chavez nodded. “In Goteborg. And he was a member of Sydbanken’s board of directors,
