On the first day of April, Paul Hjelm was sitting in the interrogation room, ceaselessly rubbing his hands together. The clock on the wall showed 10:34. Were they going to let him sweat for a while? Or was the whole thing an April Fool’s joke?
He no longer knew what to say. He had shut down. Maybe Grundstrom was right. Maybe they really did need to set an example. He knew the attitudes that prevailed in the station; he was part of them, they were part of him.
The door opened quietly. He pictured the apologetic expression that Grundstrom would have on his face. He couldn’t tell whether it would be sincere.
Instead the face of a stranger appeared in the doorway.
The man studied him for a few seconds. He was in his late fifties, quite ordinary looking, well dressed, clean shaven, and bald. His nose was enormous. He looked at Hjelm awhile longer, his gaze searching, neutral.
Then he stretched out his hand. “I’m Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin. I understand that you’ve been waiting for someone else.”
“Paul Hjelm,” said Paul numbly.
So that’s how it was done. Their boss had to do it. The top brass, the appropriate chain of command. It was hard to imagine anyone higher up than Grundstrom. So this was what he looked like, the more or less secret boss of Internal Affairs.
“Where’s Grundstrom?” Hjelm managed to say. He didn’t recognize his own voice.
“Ah,” said Detective Superintendent Jan-Olov Hultin. “Nothing but a memory.”
He pulled copies of Stockholm’s two morning papers out of his briefcase and held them up, one in each hand. The ten-year-old photo adorned the front page of both. The headline in
It was a terrible mockery, staged by a seriously sadistic director.
“Have you seen these?” asked Hultin.
“No.” His response was meant to be brief and concise, but instead it came across as… curt.
Hultin folded up the newspapers: “These headlines should never have occurred. Don’t get me wrong, I’m
At the moment confusion felt like Paul Hjelm’s middle name.
Hultin set a pair of half-moon reading glasses on his capacious schnozz and leafed through a dossier with Hjelm’s name clearly visible on the brown cover.
“How were you able to spend so many years in this tough district without leaving any traces behind? No complaints filed against you, no commendations, nothing. I’ve seldom seen such a blank sheet in a file this old. What have you been doing here, anyway?”
Hjelm sat as if frozen. Hultin gave him an inquisitive look. He probably wasn’t expecting an answer. But he got one.
“During these years I’ve raised and supported a family. Not all cops could say the same.”
The man with the big nose bellowed, directing the laugh both at Hjelm and at himself. Then he laid his cards on the table.
“Early this morning an entirely new unit was created within the National Criminal Police. For the moment it has been assigned a ridiculous name: the A-Unit. You might say it’s structured to be the antithesis of the Palme Assassination Investigation Squad. No big names, no constant changing of bosses, no fussing around with hierarchies. It’s going to be a completely new type of unit-small, compact, composed of people from the outside; it will broaden the scope of the Criminal Police while at the same time compressing it a bit. Young officers, experienced and highly skilled, from all over Sweden will form its core.
“I’m in charge of the group, and I want you to join. When the media gets hold of the story, we’re going to need the goodwill of the press that your actions attracted. I also happen to think that you did a damned good job. I’ve taken some of the material from Internal Affairs-liberated it, so to speak. This has been given top priority, and since the National Police Board is involved, even Internal Affairs has to kiss the ring.”
“I was about to get fired just a few seconds ago.”
Hultin gave him a searching glance. “Forget about that. It’s ancient history. The question now is whether you’re up to joining this well-oiled machine. Overtime hours are going to be far more extensive than the normal work schedule. You’re looking a little worn out.”
Hjelm cleared his throat. For a moment he thought he actually understood what it felt like to be happy. “These past few days haven’t exactly been a piece of cake. But give me the job, and damn it, I’ll work my butt off. Literally.”
“Not too literally, I hope,” said Hultin, pausing a moment. “We need some of that initiative that you demonstrated at the immigration office. But not too much of it. Above all, it’s important to create a functioning group made up of individuals with imagination and conscience. Grundstrom’s notes and tapes indicate that you have just such a personality hidden somewhere behind the blank pages that have filled your dossier all these years. I think this is an opportunity for you to allow it to blossom. There’s also a chance that you’ll get totally burned out.”
“What’s this all about?”
“Serial murders. But not the usual kind, with little boys or girls or prostitutes or foreign campers. No, this is a whole new type, and by all indications, we’ve only seen the beginning.”
“Politicians?”
Hultin smiled faintly and shook his head. “No. Good guess, though. No, this has to do with what we call the titans of business.
On the night before you so heroically stormed into the immigration office, a man by the name of Kuno Daggfeldt was shot to death at his home in Danderyd. Even then, there were signs that this wasn’t going to be the end of it. By all indications a cold-blooded killing that was either a professional hit or committed by someone beyond desperate, so to speak. We now have two situations that exhibit a remarkable number of similarities. Daggfeldt leaves behind two large corporations, a wife, two children, and six homes both in Sweden and abroad. Late last night it happened again. This time on Strandvagen, in one of the slightly smaller luxury apartments, with a mere eight rooms, plus balcony. There Director Bernhard Strand-Julen was killed in precisely the same fashion. Two shots to the head. As with Daggfeldt’s killing, the bullets were dug out of the wall with pliers or large tweezers. Not a single trace of evidence left behind. An ordinary nine-millimeter handgun. It’s impossible to be more specific, except that we’re talking about real firepower: all four bullets passed straight through the skulls of the victims. So far we know nothing about how the perpetrator managed to get in or out. Daggfeldt and Strand-Julen have countless personal connections, and every single one will need to be followed up. They moved in the same social circles, were members of many of the same associations, sailed with the same sailing club, played golf at the same clubs, were members of the same fraternal order, sat on many of the same boards, et cetera, et cetera. On the surface nothing odd or abnormal.”
“Forming a special group is a rather extreme measure. How does the Stockholm police department feel about being pushed aside?”
“We don’t know yet. We’ll continue to cooperate with them. And of course it’s an extreme measure. But the key players in the Swedish business world are being decimated. And we have some nasty indications that organized crime might be involved. An utter professionalism that I’ve never seen the likes of before in Sweden. If we’re smart, we’ll jump on this right away. For a change.” Hultin paused. “Of course it’s a bit unfortunate to start up a new special unit on the first of April.”
“Better than on Friday the thirteenth, I assume.”
Hultin smiled faintly and then cast a quick glance at his watch. Hjelm could tell that the man was under a great
