Misterioso (12 page)

Hjelm flinched.

“Söderstedt, I’ve heard from Västerås that you have a tendency to go off on tangents,” said Hultin, his tone neutral. “Let’s stay on topic. What about the financial aspect?”

“I just think we shouldn’t lose perspective,” muttered Söderstedt as he looked through his thick stack of printouts. “As you mentioned, Hultin, it’s a real hodgepodge. I’ve only been able to scratch the surface. Daggfeldt had two large companies that were under his sole ownership: the finance firm of DandFinans AB with four subsidiaries; and the import company MalackaImport AB. He was also part owner of eight other smaller enterprises, three of them holding companies. And he had a huge stock portfolio, primarily with shares in all five of the country’s biggest export corporations. Strand-Julén’s main company is called simply Strand-Julén Finans AB, with a bunch of interlocking holding companies attached to it. His business ventures are even more difficult to delineate than Daggfeldt’s, if that’s possible.”

“One question,” said Hjelm. “What’s a holding company?”

All eyes of the A-Unit seemed to turn on him at once.

“All muscles and no brains,” he said apologetically.

“A holding company is a management company that owns shares in other businesses,” said Söderstedt.

“Is that all it does?”

“Yes. The only company that I’ve found with any connection to trade and industry—to the production of goods—is Daggfeldt’s import firm, which imports canned goods from the Far East. You can find them in any well-stocked grocery store. And
that’s only
indirect
production. We still use industrial yardsticks when we look at the postindustrial world of business. So in that sense Strand-Julén owned shares en masse, but he also had a personal portfolio comparable to Daggfeldt’s. I haven’t been able to find any link between their business activities. But both owned stock in Electrolux, Volvo, and ABB—as do so many people. Perhaps the most interesting connection is the fact that they both owned shares in the little glass factory Hyltefors in Småland. Maybe that has some significance.”

“Have you checked with the financial police?” asked Hultin.

“That’s the first thing I did. Both men were involved in ongoing tax cases—the kind that drag on for years and then simply go up in smoke, as the bite is gradually taken out of the tax laws. Daggfeldt ruined his first partner, Unkas Storm, as Nyberg mentioned, and was accused of fraud. He was acquitted. Otherwise nothing.”

“Chavez,” said Hultin. “The board memberships.”

“Also a mess,” said Chavez, getting tangled up in a long sheaf of printouts, “although on a smaller scale. They were on a total of seventeen boards, either separately or together. They were both members on eight of them: Sandvik, 1978–83; Ericsson, 1984–87; SellFinans, 1985; Skanska, 1986–88; Bosveden, 1986–89; Sydbanken, 1987–01; and MEMAB, 1990. During the period before they were killed, they sat on only one board together, which is not without a certain irony: the Fonus Funeral Company, from 1990 on.”

“So at least we now know which undertaker will be hired,” Söderstedt remarked.

“But doesn’t this imply that they knew each other?” said Viggo Norlander.

“They must have known each other,” said Hjelm.

“On the other hand,” said Chavez, “plenty of people sit on any given board of directors, and they hold regular meetings
only a few times a year. It’s possible to be on the same board with somebody without exchanging a single word, and maybe without even knowing that the other person exists.”

“Don’t the membership periods seem rather short?” said Holm. “A few years with each board?”

“What I’ve reported are the years when they were
both
on the same board,” said Chavez. “Each of them was generally a member for a longer period of time. For example, Daggfeldt was still a member of the Skanska board up until his death, while Strand-Julén had left in 1988. On the other hand, he’d been a member since 1979. It’s much the same situation with the other boards.”

“And the Fonus connection doesn’t lead anywhere?” said Norlander.

“Just into the coffin, maybe … Of course it’s of interest that they were both on that board when they died. Daggfeldt was a member for eight years, while Strand-Julén had been on the board for fourteen.”

“Okay,” said Hultin, writing and drawing arrows. “Hjelm’s turn.”

“I didn’t find any connections at the boat club, but a man by the name of Arthur Lindviken had an entire file of blackmail-worthy items in his wall safe. Apparently he’s seen all sorts of things going on at the Viggbyholm small-boat marina. Under
S
I found a rather stiff postcard.” He held up the picture of Dionysus. “A guy by the name of Jörgen Lindén wrote his phone number on it along with a cozy little greeting. He was the one who told me about Strand-Julén’s escapades on his boat. There was nothing in the file folder under
D
.”

“Have you picked up Lindviken and Lindén?” asked Hultin calmly. “Both appear to be felons.”

“No,” said Hjelm.

“Good,” said Hultin.

“At the golf course I found no direct connection either, just
the fact that both men seemed to be frequent guests. But I did confiscate the club’s so-called guest books, in which the golfers write down their names before they play. I haven’t gone through them yet. The third leisure activity shared by both men was membership in a small organization that goes by the name of the Order of Mimir. It apparently carries out some sort of Nordic pagan rituals, but the rites are top, top secret.”

Hultin frowned.

“I visited their cellar stronghold in Gamla Stan, without being allowed to enter the inner sanctum. The Guardian, David Clöfwenhielm, kindly informed me, in accordance with the motto of most fraternal orders, which is ‘obedience to higher powers,’ that a small breakaway group had been formed within the Order of Mimir. It’s called the Order of Skidbladnir, named for the ship that belonged the god Frey. It was supposed to be large enough to accommodate all of the gods and yet so small that it could be folded up and stuffed into a sack.”

“So what the hell does
Mimir
mean?” asked Chavez.

“Don’t you know your Nordic mythology?” said Hjelm.

“As you might have guessed, I’m better at old Inca mythology.”

“Mimir was the guardian of the spring of wisdom beneath Yggdrasil, the world tree. It was from that spring that Odin drank in order to become the wisest of all the gods.”

“Get to the point,” said Hultin.

“Twelve out of the approximately sixty brothers in the Order of Mimir formed the as-yet-unconsolidated Order of Skidbladnir. As I understand it, not everybody in the Order of Mimir appreciated the secession; it was viewed as a betrayal of sacred lifelong oaths. Four individuals were mainly responsible for the secession; one at the top, so to speak, and three others. They were Johannes Norrvik, Kuno Daggfeldt, and Bernhard Strand-Julén.”

Hjelm paused to study the effect of this revelation. No reaction. He went on.

“Johannes Norrvik, a professor of commercial law, is currently on an academic sabbatical in Japan. But the leading force behind the secession is now sitting in room 304, sniffing suspiciously at Jorge’s Colombian coffee beans. I think you know him, Hultin. The retired judge of the Svea Court of Appeals. Rickard Franzén.”

“Aha,” said Hultin forcefully, without changing expression.

“So what do you think? Should we regard this connection as sufficient reason to spend the night at the Franzén villa in Nockeby? The former judge is supposed to go out this evening, alone. And he won’t be home until late.”

Hultin sat in silence for a moment, running his index finger along his nose. “What do the rest of you think?” he asked without looking at anyone specific.

A democratic tactic
, thought Hjelm, then said, “I can’t see any other clue that bears the same weight.”

“Me either,” said Norlander.

“Ultimately, it depends on whether we think a minor controversy within this type of organization is sufficient grounds for murder,” said Holm. “It seems a bit vague.”

Chavez nodded. Gunnar Nyberg said nothing as he stared down at the table.

“Gunnar?” said Hultin.

“Sure,” said Nyberg. “It’s just that I had other plans for tonight.”

“I’ll think about whether we can do without you. The rest of us, at any rate, will be going out there. Separately and incognito. Not a word to anyone. We don’t want the press lurking in the Franzén raspberry bushes. So shall we bring in the highly esteemed judge?”

“Use the intercom,” said Hjelm.

Hultin pressed 304 and said, “Come on in, Franzén. Room 300.” He went over to the whiteboard, now covered with scribbling, and pulled down the covering. “The last thing to fade away on old dispensers of justice is their eyesight,” he said.

The door opened, and the corpulent former judge of the Svea Court of Appeals made a stately entrance. He walked right over to Hultin and shook hands.

“Superintendent Hultin,” said Rickard Franzén at once, “I hope the years have healed the wounds between us.”

“I’ll need a rough sketch of the layout of your house and the surroundings,” Hultin merely replied, “and a description of how you’re planning to spend the evening. Don’t change your plans. Our man undoubtedly knows what they are. Is it possible to gain entrance to your house from the rear?”

Franzén studied him for a moment. Then he took a fountain pen out of his vest pocket, leaned forward, and began drawing on a blank piece of paper on the table.

“The house,” he said, pointing. “The pathway, road, and both neighboring houses. The trees, shrubbery, fence, gate. In here the stairs, vestibule, hallway, living room. My wife sleeps two floors up. A kitchen door opens onto the terrace in back. Here. There are never any cars parked on the road, so you should avoid parking there. I’m supposed to be at the home of my old colleague Eric Blomgren in Djursholm at seven o’clock. He’s someone else you know, Hultin. I always take a taxi out there and back. We play chess until around midnight, put away half a bottle of Rémy Martin, and reminisce about the old days. I have a feeling that we’re going to be talking about you tonight, superintendent. Was that all?”

“For the time being. Now I’d like to ask you to return to the other room and wait. Hjelm will be there in a minute to take another statement from you. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Rickard Franzén laughed loudly as he left Supreme Central
Command. Everyone except Hultin stared after him in astonishment.

“All right,” said Hultin, his voice devoid of expression. “We’ll go in the back way, in case the killer is already out there somewhere, keeping watch. I assume it’s possible to gain access from some distance, through neighboring properties. And we need two men tailing Franzén in the taxi and out to Djursholm, just in case the pattern is broken. Chavez and Norlander in two cars. You’ll rendezvous out on Drottningsholmsvägen.”

They both looked disappointed.

Hultin went on, pointing at Franzén’s sketch. “Two of you will watch the front of the house from outside, one from each direction on this road. What’s it called?”

“Grönviksvägen,” said Hjelm.

“Grönviksvägen,” said Hultin. “It’s going to be a cold job. Söderstedt and Holm, with walkie-talkies in the most appropriate shrubbery.”

They too looked disappointed.

“Hjelm and I will be inside the house. We also need to keep watch on the old lady and the kitchen door and the windows on the ground floor. Do you think we can manage that on our own, or do we need Nyberg to help out? I’m afraid we’re going to need Nyberg. Do you think you can cancel your plans for tonight?”

“Sure, sure,” said Nyberg, frowning. “It’s a dress rehearsal.”

“Do you sing in a choir?” asked Holm.

“How’d you know that?”

“I do too. In Göteborg. Which choir is it?”

“The Nacka Church choir,” said the huge, lumbering Gunnar Nyberg, suddenly enveloped in a whole new light.

“Sorry,” said Hultin. “Dress rehearsal canceled. I’m sure you know your part. Okay, we’ll stop now. I suggest you go downstairs to the cafeteria and get something to eat. The operation
starts at seventeen thirty, in a little less than an hour. Hjelm, I’d like to see you for a minute.”

Hultin and Hjelm remained in the room. Hultin was packing up his papers and said without looking up, “Good work, man.”

“Everything came together perfectly, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Hultin, and exited the room through his mysterious door on the left.

He was lying in a sticky brown mire. He tried to get up but couldn’t, tried to crawl but couldn’t, tried to squirm forward, but couldn’t even do that. The more he moved and fought and struggled, the tighter the mud squeezed around his body, pulling him downward. He opened his mouth and was just about to scream when the brown murk started pouring into his throat. As his nose sank into the mud and his nostrils filled up and only when the horrible last minute of death by drowning remained, did he notice the stench for the first time.

“What shitty—” Nyberg began, and then sneezed.

Hjelm gave a start, an unreasonably strong reaction.

“Try and stay awake, will you?” said Hultin.

“I wasn’t asleep,” Hjelm said groggily.

Nyberg blew his nose and tried again. “What shitty weather,” he said from the hall window. The April storm rattled the pane alarmingly as it swept in from Lake Mälaren. “I’m grateful to have an indoor assignment.”

“It might be possible to accuse us of nepotism,” said Hjelm. “Shivering outside in the car are the Stockholm detective and the Sundsvall blackhead, and out in the bushes the Västerås Finn
and the officer from Göteborg are shivering even more. While here we sit, inside this warm house with our southern suburban past, drinking coffee. There must be a connection.”

“Paranoia is the worst side effect of our profession,” said Hultin, downing a cup of Birgitta Franzén’s superb espresso in one gulp. “Damn, that’s strong!”

“It’s espresso,” said Nyberg. “You’re supposed to take little sips.”