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  The two men were also both members of the Stockholm Golf Association, which was headquartered at the Kevinge Golf Course in Danderyd. And that was where they both played whenever they were in town. Hjelm would have to go out there as well.

  Finally, the men were both members of the same fraternal lodge, the Order of Mimir. Since Hjelm didn’t know one thing about fraternal orders, he was forced to do some serious checking up on the subject. This form of activity, which for all practical purposes was unknown to the general public, was apparently widespread among the upper classes throughout Sweden. The Freemasons alone had 25,000 members divided up among 125 lodges all over the country. After he’d read through the available material and become familiar with various orders of monks as well as military associations, with government groups and nonprofit organizations, all of them orders, both big and small, and after he’d learned about a whole series of founders of orders from the Middle Ages onward, and after he’d become familiar with the different training procedures and levels of promotion, each one more peculiar than the last, even then he didn’t have a clue as to the true nature of the activities of these orders. Their real purpose was secret and kept hidden from public scrutiny with the help of strange laws, many centuries old, but the reference books hinted that the most obscure rituals took place within those high-class walls. In general, women were excluded.

  The Order of Mimir was one of the smallest and least known groups, which made this connection significantly more interesting than if the two men had been Freemasons or Good Templars (membership in the latter, it turned out, was impossible because of the gentlemen’s drinking habits, which were apparently well known). There were no written materials to be found about the Order of Mimir, but Hjelm managed to track down an address via a tax evasion lawsuit in which the order had been involved six years earlier. He blessed the search engine on the Internet.

  No other common leisure activities showed up. As if three weren’t enough for hardworking businessmen.

  So Hjelm put together a short list of activities to be investigated further the next day: (1) The Viggbyholm Boat Club, Hamnvägen 1, Täby; (2) The Stockholm Golf Association, Kevingestrand 20A, Danderyd; and (3) The Order of Mimir, Stall-gränd 2, Gamla Stan. Talk about stepping into another world.

  Hjelm stretched. They had turned off the ceiling light. It was unusable for anyone who wasn’t a masochist specializing in migraines. They were now working with the light from the two desk lamps, using ordinary 40-watt bulbs. The sky outside had not yet turned dark, although it no longer provided them with any appreciable light.

  Chavez had lifted the computer keyboard to his side and was typing madly.

  “Have you figured out any connections regarding their board memberships?” asked Hjelm as he stood up.

  “Just a minute,” said Chavez, continuing to type. “It’s a hell of a mess.”

  “I was thinking of taking off. Where do you live? Are you headed south?”

  With an emphatic gesture, Chavez pressed enter, and the old dot-matrix printer started rattling underneath the window. He took a gulp of coffee and grimaced. “I live here,” he said, then continued melodramatically, “This is my home.”

  Hjelm stared at him, his right eyebrow raised.

  “It’s true,” Chavez asserted. “There’s a room where I can spend the night two floors up. They’re going to find me a proper place to stay tomorrow. At least I hope so.”

  “Okay. See you in the morning.”

  “Sure, see you,” said Jorge Chavez as he went over to the shuddering printer.

  8

  On the morning of April 2, Paul Hjelm sat at the breakfast table looking at his family with new eyes. Yesterday a destroyed man had consumed breakfast; today a resurrected man was telling them about his new situation. They received his news about being transferred to the city with moderate enthusiasm.

  “That’s not really surprising,” said Danne. It seemed to Hjelm that his son was regarding him with the same expression that he himself had displayed at the sight of his wife’s menstrual blood a few days earlier. “You’re the Hallunda hero, after all.”

  “Of course, it’s a promotion to get out of this ghetto,” said Tova, leaving the room before Hjelm could recover enough to ask her where she’d heard that word.

  From him? Had he been spreading a bunch of shit around without even being aware that he was doing it? Had he corrupted the minds of the next generation, which had more experience than his own in dealing with what was foreign, in becoming familiar with it, in learning not to fear it?

  Look deep into your heart, Hjelm.

  It had been exposed for a second, but only a second, and now he had to hide the sight behind tons of work. And no one in his family had a clue about how close to the abyss he had come. They saw the hero; he saw the corpse.

  He had been saved, but he was also being transferred. Maybe an officer from an immigrant background would take his place in Fittja, and maybe the Huddinge police would benefit immeasurably from his replacement.

  The children had left, and just as he was about to discuss it with Cilla, she too disappeared.

  When he got up to leave for the city, he felt lonelier than he’d ever felt. But also ready-to become someone else.

  Maybe he sensed that this case was going to be different from any he’d previously encountered.

  Something foreign.

  He picked up the newspaper and glanced at the headline: DOUBLE MURDER OF TOP BUSINESSMEN. ITALIAN MAFIA IN STOCKHOLM?

  He sighed heavily and left.

  Cool breezes that couldn’t decide whether they belonged to the forces of winter or spring rippled the surface of the water. Slightly stronger swells lapped back and forth, shoving some of the boats a few extra feet. About a dozen small vessels were bobbing up and down on Neptune’s shoulders, making dots of various sizes on the water of Stora Värtan, almost all the way out to the horizon.

  “A horrible affair,” repeated the man wearing a captain’s cap. “For both of them. Two of our most outstanding members. What are we going to do when we can’t even feel safe in our own homes? Will every decent citizen have to hire bodyguards?”

  Hjelm and the man were standing on one of six long piers that stretched out from shore toward the breakwater. Together they formed the Viggbyholm small-boat marina. Only a few boats were actually in the water next to the piers, but on land a frenzy of activity was under way as boats were readied for the new season. Men garbed in work clothes were rushing around, and the heavy, stifling stink of epoxy and varnish rose up from the roaring electric sanders.

  “So this is where Bernhard Strand-Julén’s boat should be docked?” said Hjelm, pointing down at the water.

  “Yes, and Daggfeldt’s should be over there, at pier three. It’s still a little too early to launch the boats. I must say that it was a real shock to open the paper this morning.”

  “It was for me too,” said Hjelm.

  “Such headlines! Is a Sicilian mafia hitman really planning to eradicate all the business leaders in Sweden? Or as the other paper reported-has the Baader-Meinhof terrorist group resurfaced? It seems incredible. And what are the police doing about it?”

  “This is what we’re doing about it,” said Hjelm the police officer as he turned back to shore.

  “I didn’t mean that as a criticism,” said the man, following with a somewhat swaggering gait. “I just meant, what can the police do against forces like that?”

  “This is what we’re doing about it,” repeated Hjelm.

  They went inside the imposing building on Hamnvägen that housed the boat club. The man showed Hjelm into his office. He sat down at his desk, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He picked up a letter opener and sliced open an envelope. Hjelm cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” said the man, putting down the letter opener and envelope. “I’m not feeling very well.”

  “So did you know them personally?”

  “Not really. No more than other members of the
club. We talked a bit about boats, about good sailing areas, winds, weather forecasts. Things like that.”

  “Did they know each other? Did they spend time together here at the club?”

  “I don’t really know. They were very different kinds of skippers, so I’m inclined to think that they didn’t. Daggfeldt was a family sailor; he always took Ninni and his children along when he went sailing in the Maxi. I remember that his older daughter, she must be eighteen or nineteen, was getting a bit tired of it all, and the son, who’s a couple of years younger, wasn’t particularly amused either. And Ninni would get seasick before she even left the pier. But she was always cheerful and enthusiastic. ‘Hearty but seasick,’ Daggfeldt used to say with a laugh.

  “But it was important to him to have his whole family along. That was probably the only time they were all together. Though things could get a bit testy out among the skerries. That was my impression, at least.”

  Hjelm was surprised at how much this man had been able to learn from a few chats about sailing areas and weather forecasts. “What about Strand-Julén?” he asked, to keep him talking.

  “That was a whole different story. A serious-minded skipper. He had one of those Swan boats, not the large kind, so it could still squeeze into the small-boat marina. Always with a crew that seemed very professional, two or three young men with the best equipment, different each time. Fancy new clothes, the best brands.”

  “Different each time?”

  “The crew. But they always looked well trained. Highly skilled, the type of guys who take part in the Whitbread Round the World Race, just to mention the one that everybody would know. But younger, of course. They had a certain look about them. Like swimmers do-you know how they all have the same body type.”

  “In this case very young and blond and tanned? And the equipment was newly purchased each time?”

  The man blinked a few times and frowned. Probably at his own loose tongue. But his reaction was a little too strong for that. There’s more going on here, thought Hjelm. Better lay it on thick.

  “Okay,” he said, taking a chance. “I don’t give a shit about whether Bernhard Strand-Julén was a pedophile and liked to have thirty-five young boys in-what should we say, the sack?-at the same time. But do you have any idea where I could find any of those boys? The man is beyond the reach of the law now-he’s untouchable.”

  “His reputation isn’t untouchable. Standing in judgment over a dead man, and so on. And he does have a wife, you know.”

  “It’s possible,” ventured Hjelm again, “that you never actually played the role of pimp. But if you don’t give me a little more information, I’m going to see that every detail of the situation is investigated. Homosexual procurement activities, possibly involving minors, at one of Sweden’s most prestigious boat clubs. So let’s try again. The rumor is enough. You know that, Mr. Lindviken.”

  The man chewed on his knuckles. The interview had taken a most unpleasant turn.

  Exploit the guy’s confusion, thought Hjelm. Somewhere behind it all there’s some form of guilt.

  “Ten seconds. Then I’m going to take you down to headquarters for a proper interrogation.”

  “Good Lord, I haven’t done anything wrong! All I’ve done is keep my mouth shut about what I’ve seen. A big part of my job down here is not to see or speak.”

  “At the moment, it looks like you personally, Arthur Lindviken, are behind a big pedophile operation in Viggbyholm. The more names and addresses you can produce within the next ten seconds, the greater the chance that you won’t have to see this appalling suspicion reflected in the eyes of every single member here. Not to mention the judge. Seven seconds left. Five.”

  “Wait!” shouted Lindviken. “I have to get…”

  He stumbled over to a painting that hung on the wall and lifted it off. Then he wildly spun the dial on the combination lock of a wall safe, got it open, took out a thick accordion file, and reached into the pocket labeled S. He pulled out a postcard adorned with a statue of Dionysus that was impressive in every sense of the word. A truly erect god. Written faintly in pencil was the name “Strand-Julén,” and then in ink from a ballpoint pen, “We’re going now. You can always call. 641 12 12. P.S. You’re the biggest Billy-Goat Gruff.”

  “He dropped this in my office by chance. I keep all lost items here. And label them, in case the owner wants them back.”

  “Lost and found in a wall safe… Do you have any items filed under D?”

  “Daggfeldt? No.”

  “Take a look.”

  Lindviken opened his eyes wide as he stared at Hjelm.

  “Don’t you think I know exactly what I have in here?”

  He opened the pocket marked D and showed it to Hjelm. It was empty.

  Hjelm stood up, waving the Dionysus postcard in his hand. “I’m taking this with me. I’m sure you won’t have any more use for it. But hang on to the rest of the contents in that file. I may need to see it again.”

  When he passed by the window, he peered inside and saw Arthur Lindviken still seated at his desk. The accordion file was on his lap, and it was shaking.

  For a moment Hjelm wondered if he’d been too hard on the man. He was used to people who’d undergone police interrogations dozens of times and knew the rule book inside and out. People who were familiar with all the tricks and loopholes, who knew when to keep quiet and when to lie.

  The wind had picked up considerably. The small sailboats had vanished from Stora Värtan, as if blown away.

  It was still before noon when Hjelm parked his unmarked police vehicle, a Mazda, at Kevinge Golf Course. A surprising number of people were there, putting away one bucket of golf balls after another in the early April morning. He took out his cell phone and punched in a number.

  “Directory assistance,” replied a woman.

  “08 641 12 12, please.”

  “One moment,” said the woman. A moment passed and she was back. “Jörgen Lindén, Timmermansgatan thirty-four.”

  “Thanks,” said Hjelm, jotting down the information. He wrote down the number 4 in front of the address. It was now the fourth item on his list of things to do. He’d have time to get out there before the unit meeting at three o’clock.

  He climbed out of his car and trudged up the stairs to the clubhouse.

  A young girl sat behind the front desk. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.” He showed her his ID. “Criminal investigation department. It’s about two of your former members.”

  “I think I know who you mean,” she said, nodding at the copy of Svenska Dagbladet on the counter.

  Hjelm nodded too. “They were members here, right?”

  “Yes. They played here quite regularly. They would always say hello when they came in and stop to chat.”

  “Do you know whether they played golf together? Did you ever see them together?”

  “Hmm… I don’t think they were regular golf partners. I can’t remember ever seeing them together. But sometimes, afterward they’d join a larger group. Those types of golfers often sit down after a game to discuss other matters.”

  “What do you mean by ‘those types of golfers’?”

  “Bad golfers.”

  Hjelm paused. “So you’re a competitive golfer?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you don’t like the kind of people who come here to, well, hobnob and network and meet up with colleagues? Even though you’re a true Danderyd girl, you have trouble with these ‘bad golfers,’ since they give the sport its persistent image of an indolent rich man’s game.”

  “Quite a psychoanalytical interpretation,” said the true Danderyd girl.

  “So how do things work here? Do the members just go out and start playing as soon as they arrive, or do they have to register somewhere?”

  “We have a guest book, and everyone who wants to play has to sign in first.”

  “May I have a look at it?”

  “You’re leaning on it. Excuse me, I have to see to t
he guests who just came in.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Hjelm. “While I leaf through the pages for the past few weeks, you can take a quick look in that fancy computer of yours and find out when Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén became members.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said over his shoulder to a couple of gray-haired men wearing classic checkered lamb’s-wool golf sweaters. Hjelm eavesdropped on their conversation as he glanced through the so-called guest book.

  “Good Lord,” said the older man. “What’ll it be next? Have you seen today’s Svenska Dagbladet?”

  “Yes, by God. Does every decent person have to rely on a security firm nowadays? They were fine, upstanding men, I’ll tell you that, brother, fine men. Both Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén. I knew them personally. Do you think the Communists are behind it?”

  Hjelm left the two men to their not entirely unpredictable fate as the girl handed him a handwritten note and then turned with a smile to her guests.

  Hjelm stopped her. “I’m not quite done here. Mr. D. joined in ’82,” he said cryptically in order not to attract the attention of the two men. “Mr. S.J. didn’t become a member until ’85. Do you have the guest books from that period?”

  The girl again apologized to the guests, who were easily seduced by her dazzling white teeth.

  “What a great girl,” Hjelm heard them say behind him. “Ranked number ten in Europe, I’ve heard.”

  “Could we go into your office?” said Hjelm. They went into the office. “Ranked number ten in Europe?” he exclaimed.

  She smiled. “Nope. Those dear old men have me mixed up with Lotta Neumann. She’s older than me, but ten years give or take doesn’t mean much at their age.”

  “So do you still have the old guest books?”