work.”
He returned to what was solid.
“So,” he said, “at least we achieved a final symmetry. Jorge’s shot was fired before the stroke of twelve, so the case lasted for exactly two months.”
Soderstedt said in surprise, “That means the case was solved on the twenty-ninth of May, the anniversary of the Turks’ invasion of Constantinople in 1453, which is the date of the start of the new era.”
They all looked at him so balefully that he shrugged apologetically.
“Thanks for that,” Hultin remarked. “Well. One final question for those of you who live outside the city: are you ready to go home?”
No one replied.
“Do that, at any rate, and enjoy the summer. Then you’ll all be coming back here. If you want to. As Morner and the head of the NCP and no doubt many others who want to bask in your glory will tell you, the A-Unit is going to be made a permanent entity, although of course not under that ridiculous name.”
The former A-Unit members gaped foolishly at one another.
“The following applies,” said Hultin. Adjusting the position of his reading glasses, he silently read an official memo and shook his head. “I was planning to read Morner’s memorandum to you, but I see that it’s unreadable. I’ll summarize instead. The A-Unit was, as you know, an experiment conducted by the NCP in order to avoid the idiocies that developed around the Palme murder case, with investigative groups that were too big, in constant flux, and full of wasted resources. Instead, a small, compact core group was put together; officers who were prepared to work their asses off were invested with great authority to circumvent the standard procedures with entrepreneurial measures, so to speak, enabling them to focus all their attention on what was essential. The experiment was regarded as, and here I reluctantly quote, ‘at the present moment and in consideration of the contexts which as such, according to the aforementioned memorandum, expedited the ideal resolution of the present case, apparently satisfactory.’ In other words, Morner is damned pleased. The A-Unit will become a permanent entity within the NCP and will focus exclusively on the hardest cases. At the moment that means it will be dealing with ‘violent crimes of an international character.’ What do you say to that?”
“Have you got a nice downtown apartment for a wild Finn with five kids?” asked Soderstedt. “I’m getting really tired of puttering around in my garden back home.”
“There probably won’t be much time for puttering,” said Hultin. “Am I to interpret that as a Soderstedt
“Of course I’ll have to check with my family,” he added.
“Of course,” said Hultin. “All of you will have a couple of free months to check with your families and so on. We’ll meet again on the fourth of August. Until then, you’re on vacation, even though you’ll have to be available for the prosecutor in the run-up to the Goran Andersson case. The fact that Jorge spared his life is going to cost the government millions.”
Chavez grimaced.
Hultin went on, “Is there anyone here who wants to say right off the bat that they’d rather not continue with the NCP? You know what the wise man said: ‘Once you’re in, you’ll never get out. Except in an appropriate coffin.’ Stamped NCP.”
Nobody spoke up. Hjelm smiled.
“So be it.” Hultin stacked his papers. “Have a wonderful summer. Provided that there’s still some left.”
They stood up hesitantly and trooped out. Hjelm remained at the table, more or less incapable of moving.
Hultin picked up the cloth to transform his whiteboard masterpiece into a little spot on the fabric. He hesitated for a moment and said without turning around, “Maybe you should memorize this outline and use it to replace the map of Sweden in your atlas.”
Hjelm studied the bewildering mishmash of arrows and squares and printed letters. There they all were. An insane and yet logical map of the mental fragments of a country. An unlikely constellation of connections among the various body parts, in the throes of death. A nervous system drugged out by money. An appalling diagram of spiritual decay and cultural veneer he thought, laughing to himself.
Hultin frowned. “Time has run away from us, Paul.”
“It’s possible,” said Hjelm. “But I’m not entirely sure.”
Neither of them spoke, allowing the pattern to settle like a screen over their retinas. When Hultin finally transformed it into a little blue spot on a cloth, it was still etched into their field of vision.
“Thanks for a great investigation.” Hjelm stretched out his hand.
Hultin shook it. “You’re a bit rough around the edges, Paul,” he said sternly. “But you might turn out to be a decent officer someday.” Then he retired to his secret alcove. Hjelm watched him. Just before he shut the door, Hultin said mildly, “Incontinence.”
Hjelm stared after him for a long time, thinking about soccer. A rock-hard wingback in diapers.
He went out to the hall, glancing inside each office as he passed, one by one. In each he saw a window streaked with rain. The summer had clearly been prematurely shelved. Maybe it was already over.
In the first office Soderstedt and Norlander chatted peacefully. The old antipathies, if not completely gone, were at least suppressed.
“I’m taking off now,” said Hjelm. “Have a good summer.”
“Go in peace.” Viggo Norlander held up the palms of his hands with their stigmata.
“Come on out to Vasteras this summer,” said Arto Soderstedt. “We’re in the phone book.”
“Maybe I will,” said Hjelm, with a wave.
Out of the next room came Gunnar Nyberg in his wheelchair, its arms forced grotesquely apart by the bulk of the giant mummy’s body.
“You’re allowed to laugh,” Nyberg said in his hissing mummy voice. Hjelm took him at his word. Nyberg continued to hiss as he rolled down the corridor. “I’ve got my ride waiting downstairs.”
“Try to restrain yourself from tackling it!” shouted Hjelm after him.
Behind his back Nyberg gave him the finger, using his uninjured hand.
Hjelm went in to see Kerstin. She had just put down the phone. “That was Lena Lundberg,” she said quietly. “She wanted to know if she could come up here.”
“What’d you say?”
“That she could.” Holm shrugged. “Maybe one of them will be able to give the other some sort of explanation. I can’t.”
“Is she going to keep the child?”
“It sounds like it… But how would you tell your child that his or her father is a serial killer?”
“Maybe Andersson can do that himself.”
“If he lives that long,” said Kerstin, absentmindedly emptying her desk drawers. “Don’t forget that he murdered a member of the Russian mafia.”
“Right,” said Hjelm. “I won’t forget that.”
He watched the aimless movement of her hands. He found it enchanting.
“What do we do now?” he asked at last.
She looked at him. He felt her marvelous dark eyes riveted on his. “I don’t know,” she said. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know either. I’ve forgotten what daily life tastes like. Everything we’ve done has been in a sort of exalted state. How are things going to be between us when we come out of this little compartment? I don’t know. It’s a different world, and we’re going to be different people. My life is in a rather unresolved state right now.”
She shifted her gaze away. “Is that a no?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s a maybe. Maybe I’m going to need you terribly. It almost feels like that.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ve got to go back to Goteborg now, anyway, and take care of a bunch of things. I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Call me before then,” he said.
They kissed. They were finding it hard to part.
“It could be,” Paul said as he left her office, “that the pages in my dossier aren’t blank after all. Even though they’re being reused all the time.”
She shook her head and pointed to his cheek. “Today the blemish actually looks like a heart.”
