Misterioso Page 3

  Superintendent Erik Bruun lit another pitch-black cigar that had been unevenly rolled and listened. Then came what he’d been waiting for. It was Grundström.

  “He’s incredibly cunning. Why the hell did you let him off so easy? ‘A Transylvanian count’? Damn it, Uffe! We can’t let this guy slip through our fingers. A Dirty Harry who knows how to use the system and come out unscathed opens the door to hundreds of others all over Sweden, all of them more or less racist.”

  Mårtensson mumbled something, Grundström sighed, chairs clattered, a door opened and closed.

  Bruun stopped the tape and for a moment didn’t move.

  Outside the police station the bright spring day had dissolved into pitch darkness. Slowly and laboriously he got up from his chair and went over to Hjelm, still in a deep sleep. Before taking in a big breath and blowing smoke right in his face, Bruun studied his subordinate and gently shook his head.

  I won’t be able to keep him here much longer, he thought. One way or another, he’s going to disappear.

  Hjelm coughed himself awake. His eyes were running, and the first thing he saw through the cloud of smoke was the combination of a reddish-gray beard and a double chin.

  “Ten-thirty,” said Bruun, packing up his ratty old briefcase. “You can sleep in. Try to be clear and concise tomorrow. Maybe a little better than today.”

  Hjelm stumbled toward the door. He turned around. Bruun gave him a good-natured nod. It was his way of offering a hug.

  What is it they usually say? Hjelm wondered as he opened the fridge and took out a beer. Middle-aged heterosexual men with full-time jobs and white complexions are the societal norm. It’s on that set of features that all assessments of what is normal are based. And health standards. Another phrase appeared in his mind: Being a woman is not a disease. But it is a deviation. Not to mention homosexuality and youth and old age and dark skin and speaking with an accent.

  That was how his world looked: inside the boundaries were all those heterosexual, middle-aged white policemen; outside was everybody else. He looked at the deviants sitting on the sofa: his-how old was she now?-thirty-six-year-old wife, Cecilia, and his twelve-year-old daughter, Tova. Public Enemy was playing from the opposite direction, clearly audible.

  “It’s on, Papa!” cried Tova. “It’s on now!”

  He went into the living room, slurping the beer between his teeth. Cilla regarded this decades-old habit of his with a certain distaste but turned her attention back to the TV. The theme music of the evening news program was playing. The story was part of the headlines. Way out of proportion, he thought.

  “A hostage drama was played out this morning at the Hallunda Immigration Office south of Stockholm. An armed man forced his way into the office just after it opened and threatened three staff members with a sawed-off shotgun. Fortunately, the drama had a happy ending.”

  Happy, he thought. He said, “The Botkyrka Immigration Office. Located in Hallunda.”

  The women in his family looked at him, trying to evaluate his statement, each in her own way. Tova thought, But that’s not the point. Cilla thought, You always have to make a point of your own dissatisfaction by finding little factual errors; emotions become thoughts; perceptions become facts.

  The phone rang. Hjelm belched, then answered it.

  “The Hallunda Immigration Office?” said Svante Ernstsson.

  “Sawed-off shotgun?” said Paul Hjelm.

  Laughter on both ends of the line, laughter only they shared. The Noble Art of Talking Shop Without Getting Noticed.

  The requisite childishness.

  The different types of laughter.

  It’s possible to hear from the sound that it’s aimed only at somebody else.

  It deepens if it’s aimed inward at the same time.

  “How are things?” Ernstsson finally asked.

  “So-so.”

  “It’s on now,” said Cilla, Tova, and Svante in unison.

  The weatherbeaten reporter was standing on Tomtbergavägen with Hallunda Square behind him. It was afternoon, in the dazzling spring sunshine. The square was swarming with people. Everything looked normal. A gang of soccer fans wearing AIK scarves stopped behind the enthusiastic figure of the reporter to make V signs.

  “At eight-twenty this morning-” said the reporter.

  “Eight twenty-eight,” said Hjelm.

  “-a man of Albanian-Kosovar origin went into the immigration office in Hallunda, armed with a shotgun. Four staff members were present at the time, and the man took three of them hostage. The fourth managed to escape. The man forced the hostages up to the third floor and made them lie on the floor. After about twenty minutes, police officer Paul Hjelm from the Huddinge police department appeared…”

  The ten-year-old photograph now filled the TV screen.

  “Where did that come from?” said Hjelm.

  “What a cutie,” said Ernstsson, over the phone.

  “They came to the hospital,” said Cilla, glancing at him. “Apparently your picture wasn’t in any media archives. That’s the photo that I have in my wallet.”

  “Have?”

  “Had.”

  “… and entered the building. He made his way, unobserved, up the stairs and managed to get inside the barricaded room…”

  “Barricaded,” said Ernstsson on the phone.

  “… and he shot the perpetrator in the right shoulder. According to the three staff members, Hjelm acted in an exemplary fashion. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to reach Paul Hjelm for his reaction. Nor would his boss at the Huddinge criminal investigation division, Superintendent Sven Bruun, offer any comment.”

  “Good old Svempa,” said Ernstsson on the phone.

  The reporter continued, “Bruun did tell us that the investigation is ongoing and confidential. But you, Arvid Svensson, you were one of the hostages. Tell us what happened.”

  A middle-aged man appeared next to the reporter. Hjelm recognized the staff member who had pressed the gun to the head of the unconscious Frakulla. He slurped the last of his beer through his teeth.

  “I’ll call you back,” he told Ernstsson, then went into the bathroom.

  He studied himself in the mirror. A neutral face. No distinguishing marks. A straight nose, narrow lips, dark blond hair cut short, wearing a T-shirt, a wedding ring. No signs of balding. Early middle age. Two children approaching puberty. No distinguishing marks.

  No marks at all.

  When he laughed, his laughter sounded hollow. The one-sided laughter of a fired, lower-level police officer.

  Ulf Mårtensson said, “Two nasty bruises on the back of his head still haven’t been accounted for.”

  Paul Hjelm said, “Haven’t you talked to the hostages?”

  “We’ll take care of our job, and you take care of yours. Possibly. Although probably not. According to the medical examiner, the wounds on the skull were caused by the muzzle of the shotgun. Did you take the weapon away after you shot the man and use it to strike him on the head?”

  “So you haven’t talked to the hostages.”

  Mårtensson and Grundström were sitting next to each other in an ordinary, cold, sterile interrogation room. Maybe they’d got wind of Bruun’s maneuver yesterday with the tape recorder. Neither of them said a word as they waited for Hjelm to go on.

  And he did. “When Frakulla went down, the gun landed on the floor near the staff member named Arvid Svensson. Svensson picked it up and pressed it to the man’s head.”

  “And you let him do that?”

  “I was fifteen feet away.”

  “But you allowed this staff member to press a loaded shotgun with the safety off to the head of an unconscious man?”

  “Nobody could know whether he was unconscious or not, so staff member Arvid Svensson did the right thing by taking the gun away from him. Although he shouldn’t have pressed it to his head. That’s why I yelled at him to stop it.”

  “But you did nothing to stop him, took no physical action?�
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  “No. But after a moment he put down the gun.”

  “After a moment… How long of a moment?”

  “As long as it took me to throw up my whole fucking breakfast.”

  A pause. Finally Mårtensson said slowly and maliciously, “So in the middle of your unfinished freelance operation, when you should have been waiting for the experts, you’re put out of commission by your own digestive system. What if Svensson had shot the perpetrator? What if the perp hadn’t been rendered harmless at all? What might have happened? You left a lot of loose ends hanging, without securing the situation.”

  “Sounds redundant to me,” said Hjelm.

  “What?” said Mårtensson.

  “It was because the perp was rendered harmless that I threw up. Because for the first time in my life I’d shot someone. Surely you must have encountered this type of reaction before.”

  “Of course. But not in the middle of such an important and unilaterally determined solo operation.”

  Mårtensson leafed through the papers for a moment, then went on: “This is actually just a minor addition to an already long list of questionable actions. Taken together, it looks like this. One, you chose to go in alone, even though the special unit was on its way. Two, you shouted through the door without warning. Three, you claimed to be unarmed even though your gun was visibly sticking out of your waistband. Four, you lied to the perpetrator when you attempted to talk him down. Five, you fired a shot, aiming at a spot that was not according to regulations. Six, you failed to disarm the person you had shot. Seven, you allowed a desperate hostage to mistreat and almost shoot the perp. Are you starting to understand the dilemma that we’re facing here?”

  Grundström cleared his throat. “In addition to this formal list, there are two more important elements that are worth taking a look at, pertaining to department policy and discipline. They have to do with discrediting the police department and with the immigrant question. Together they open the door to a freelance mentality, which has no place on the force. I’m not saying that you’re a racist, Hjelm, but your actions and the flood of praise for you in the media risk legitimizing attitudes that are latent in large sectors of the police force. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You want to set an example…”

  “It’s not a matter of want: it’s something we have to do. The fact is that I think you’re one of the least corrupt members of the force. You speak your mind, and you’re a thinker, maybe even too much of a thinker. But our job is crystal clear. The point is not to get rid of individual rotten apples on the force. We have to ensure that any unpleasant attitudes that may exist in the force are not given official sanction. Because otherwise we’d be damned near approaching a police state.

  “It’s the same with our whole society. The abyss is lurking inside us. We project our own failures, the voice of the people, the voice of simple solutions. But the skin of this societal body, so loosely held together, is law enforcement. We’re way out on the periphery, closest to the crimes, the most exposed of all. If the skin is cut open at the right place, the entrails of the societal body will come pouring out. Do you realize what you may have started with your little freelance action? I really want you to understand.”

  Hjelm looked Grundström right in the eye. He wasn’t really sure what he saw there. Ambition and careerism at war with dedication and honesty, perhaps. Maybe even genuine concern about the attitudes that were doubtless simmering beneath the uniformed surface. Grundström could never be just another colleague; his role would always be special, outside. He wanted to be the superego of the police force. Only now did Hjelm understand what a top-level power they had sent after him. And maybe even why.

  His eyes bored into the table as he said quietly, “All I wanted to do was resolve a difficult situation as quickly and simply as possible, in the best possible way.”

  “There’s no such thing as a simple action.” Grundström sounded almost human. “Every act is always linked to a multitude of other actions.”

  “I knew that I could save him.” Hjelm looked up. “That’s all I wanted to do.”

  Grundström gave him a penetrating stare. “Is that really true? Look deep into your heart, Hjelm.”

  They sat for a moment, studying each other. Time passed. Something happened, an exchange took place.

  Finally Niklas Grundström got up with a sigh, and Ulf Mårtensson followed. As Grundström packed up his briefcase, Hjelm noticed how young he still looked, yet they were the same age.

  “To start with, we’ll need your ID badge and your service weapon.” Mårtensson said. “Until further notice, you’re on suspension. But the interrogation will continue tomorrow. It’s not over yet, Hjelm.”

  Hjelm placed his ID and service weapon on the table and left the interrogation room. He closed the door but left it slightly ajar, perfect for eavesdropping, and placed his ear to the narrow opening.

  It was possible that he heard a voice say, “Now we’ve got him.”

  It was possible that no one said a word.

  He stood in the pitch dark taking a leak, for a very long time. Five late-night beers needed to be excreted in a single nightly piss. As he stood there and the stink of urine rose up from the toilet, the contours of the bathroom gradually emerged around him. There was just enough light for the dark to take shape. Thirty seconds earlier it had been so dark that the darkness didn’t exist. Only when he shook out the last drops did it seem real.

  As he flushed the toilet, he thought about the fact that the only urine that didn’t stink was one’s own.

  He looked in the mirror again, a vague rim of light encircling darkness. In that darkness, in the dark that was always himself, he saw Grundström, who was saying, “Look deep into your heart, Hjelm.” Then Mårtensson appeared: “It’s not over yet, Hjelm.” And Svante: “Wait, Pålle. Don’t do anything stupid.” And then Danne, his son, within the encircling light, stared with the horrified eyes of puberty straight at him. Now Frakulla was there, saying quietly, “I’m sacrificing myself for their sake.” And Cilla was there too, in the faceless darkness, saying, “Why the hell are you still disgusted by a woman’s bodily functions?”

  “Look deep into your heart, Hjelm.”

  So empty, so terribly empty.

  Everything had fallen apart. Suspended, fired. No unemployment checks. On the dole. Who’d want to employ a used-up police officer?

  He remembered the coffee room at the station, the hatred toward welfare recipients there, the epithets about dark-skinned immigrants. Of course he had participated, leveling scorn at those who accepted welfare, the riffraff living luxuriously on public support. Now he found himself in the same situation. There was no floor under his feet. He was floating in a dreadful emptiness.

  Where were the police higher-ups? Everybody had abandoned him. He could kill them all.

  Grundström: “Then we’d be damned near approaching a police state.”

  The details of the bathroom had emerged from their dark haze, taken on depth, assumed their proper positions. The light was hauled forth from the night; his eyes had hauled it out. The features of his face should have also taken shape by now.

  But they hadn’t. They were still cloaked in darkness.

  A silhouette.

  “Look deep into your heart, Hjelm.”

  5

  He is sitting motionless in the darkness, which isn’t truly dark. Through the balcony door light is seeping in from the streetlights below the luxury apartment. If he turned his head, he would see both of the big museum buildings resting quietly in the faint light issuing from inside. But he doesn’t turn his head. The silence is absolute. His gaze is directed unwaveringly across the floor of the large living room toward the half-open double doors leading to the hallway. He has already surveyed the space. A tiled stove and a fireplace in the same room. Next to the fireplace a dull-black big-screen TV and the stacked units of a VCR and stereo. On the floor are three artistically hand-woven rya rugs,
a dining table with two place settings, and a five-piece oxblood leather sofa group. On the walls hang genuine examples of modern Swedish art, three paintings by Peter Dahl, two by Bengt Lindström, two by Ola Billgren. Enthroned on the mantelpiece above the fireplace is one of Ernst Billgren’s big mosaic ducks. A total of seven tile stoves on both floors of the apartment. If the previous living room was ostentatious, this one is thoroughly stylish.

  He sits in the same position for over an hour.

  Then he hears the front door open. There is a fumbling with keys. He knows that the man is alone. The man swears softly out in the hallway, a noticeable but not extreme intoxication. More like the inebriation of a man who knows exactly where to find the point of greatest possible enjoyment and how to keep himself there all evening. He hears the man take off his shoes and methodically put on his slippers; he even thinks he can hear how the man unknots his tie so that it hangs loose, draped down the front of his silk shirt. The man unbuttons his jacket.

  The man pulls open one side of the double doors, already ajar and almost ten feet tall. He enters the living room, stumbles out of one slipper, swears, bends down, and manages to put it back on, then straightens up again and catches sight of him through the pleasurable haze. He tries to get a fix on him.

  “What in holy purple perdition!” says the man pompously.

  Famous last words.

  He raises the gun from his lap and fires two rapid, silent shots.

  The man stands still for a moment, stock still.

  Then he sinks to his knees and leans forward.

  He stays there for ten seconds, then topples over sideways.

  He places the gun on the glass table and takes a deep breath.

  In his mind he sees a list. Mentally he checks off a name.

  Then he goes over to the stereo and turns it on. He lets the cassette door open and the tape slide down and the door close again, and the first piano notes glide through the room. The fingers wander up and down, the hands move up and down. Then the saxophone comes in and wanders alongside the piano. The same steps, the same little promenade. When the sax cuts loose and dances and leaps, and the piano starts to spread out the gentle chords in the background, the tweezers pull the first bullet out of the wall. He drops it into his pocket, then lifts the tweezers to the second hole-and waits. A couple of small drum rolls, and then that strange little Arabian-sounding twitter from the sax, a couple of seconds of Oriental digression. The piano vanishes. Sax and bass and drums now. He can see the pianist swaying as he waits. Yeah, u-hoo. He’s waiting too. The tweezers are raised.