Misterioso (15 page)

But before then, the following took place.

Jan-Olov Hultin informed them that news of the murder of Nils-Emil Carlberger, the head of the Carlberger conglomerate, had not yet reached the media. Apparently, and to Hultin’s great relief, as he said without changing expression, the media leak was not due to anyone within the A-Unit.

“As I suspected,” said Hultin modestly, “there’s something very special about the bullet that was left in the wall. Svenhagen has conducted some sort of incomprehensible but irrefutable chemical analysis of the shattered bits of lead and found a most particular chemical component. It’s a damned inferior bullet, and those types of inferior bullets stem from a small, second-rate weapons factory in a town called Pavlodar in present-day Kazakhstan. Vladimir Smirnov’s country, you know.

“Svenhagen has personally been in contact with Interpol’s forensic data center this morning, and here’s what he found out. The weapons factory ran into trouble when the Soviet Union collapsed and then the market economy came in and imposed its ‘infallible natural selection,’ to quote Svenhagen. There was simply no market for the factory’s shoddy ammunition. But apparently there was a huge bankruptcy inventory. No one knows what happened to it. But Interpol’s response is unequivocal: the mafia.”

Hultin paused. Possibly he was waiting to see the effect of his words. But no one reacted. Possibly he was just catching his breath. After a moment he went on.

“The Russian mafia is, as we know, a very heterogeneous organization. In reality we know far too little about it. It’s almost frightening how little, considering that it has made its way across the Baltic and dominates large parts of the underworld in Helsinki. There are indications that Stockholm is its next big market. In the largest faction are a bunch of crackpots who have seized upon the more extreme aspects of the market economy. Survival of the fittest.

“But the more sophisticated factions are branching out to the top national echelons in Russia and the Baltic countries. They also have close contact with top mafia bosses in Italy and the United States. The presence of this ammunition in the home of the third victim of a serial killer who has attacked Sweden’s top capitalists within a few days of one another presents us with a frightening prospect. But presumably we’re not the first to reach this conclusion. We’ve already seen the odd demonstration put on by Säpo at the Djursholm villa—as if they suddenly wanted to step out of the shadows and show their presence. Apparently they’re working at top speed in the military security division, in even deeper cellar vaults on Lidingövägen and elsewhere.”

Hultin sighed, gulped down some water, and went on in the
same droning tone of voice: “If we now combine this ammunition with the execution method, we have real reason for concern. As you heard yesterday, Norlander has ferreted out three international organizations that consistently execute their victims with a shot to the head. One of them, as you heard, is a small Russian-Estonian criminal band, led by an anonymous commander, known only as Viktor X. It’s not clear what their connections are to the mafia. We need to look into it further. That’s going to shake up our work assignments a bit. Right before the meeting I ran into Mörner in the hall. He told me that due to the, quote, ‘appalling link to the Soviet state mafia,’ he has appointed two more officers to the unit. Both are from the Finance Police. They’ll be helping out with the financial aspects, because that’s where we need to be looking.

“We also need to expand that part of the investigation—and this is important—to include any business connections to the Russian mafia. Eventually I’m hoping to release those of you working on the business angle to work on something else, to do a little moonlighting, as Hjelm is doing. We should by no means fixate on this Russian lead. And Nyberg, before you get too involved in the financial side of things, I’m going to send you over to Norlander to chart the Viktor X gang. So we’re going to be working on two flanks: one from the ex-Soviet viewpoint, and the other from the Swedish. At some point these two flanks will meet up to assume positions for the final battle.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Mörner,” said Hjelm.

“No doubt,” said Hultin.

There was a knock on the door, and two faces peeked in: a tall man so fair that his skin was almost transparent and who couldn’t be over thirty; and an equally young, dark-haired woman who was a good deal shorter than average. They were definitely an odd couple.

“Good. Come in,” said Hultin. “Have a seat. We’re just about to discuss Carlberger’s life and lifestyle. So these are the new members of the A-Unit: Billy Pettersson and Tanja Florén. We’ve managed to clear out room 305 for them. All right, does anyone have any information on Carlberger outside his business dealings? Anything that we don’t already know? Kerstin?”

Holm shook her head. “His wife and sons will be arriving soon,” she said. “I’m going to interview them.”

“What about leisure activities? Hjelm?”

“Just like Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén, Carlberger played golf and owned a boat, although his was a motorboat, apparently a real luxury cabin cruiser docked at the marina in Lidingö. Don’t ask me why. But the golf connection is rock solid: just like the other two, he was a member of the Stockholm Golf Association and played mainly at Kevinge. He wasn’t a member of the Order of Mimir, or any other order, as far as I know.”

“So we can probably set that lead aside for a while,” said Hultin, making a checkered pattern on the whiteboard. The previous day’s little fiasco was noticeably absent from everything he said, and there was an implicit command in his silence. He turned to the new members. “Arto Söderstedt is handling the corporate aspect. Söderstedt?”

Arto Söderstedt cleared his throat and straightened up a bit, as if preparing to give a lecture or a sermon. For a moment Hjelm thought the thin, pale figure was someone quite different from a low-level police officer. The wrong man in the wrong place. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. The clichés raced through his mind as Söderstedt took the floor.

“So what we’re dealing with are three individuals each in charge of a group of enterprises that border on but don’t quite constitute a genuine financial empire,” he said. “Our victims are—were—rich and powerful but weren’t part of the general flood of celebrities. The structure of their conglomerates is
similar. At the center are a couple of wholly owned financial companies, and on the periphery a cluster of various co-owned firms that are also financial companies.

“Keep in mind that all three of our corpses are capitalists of the new breed that were first given a great deal of leeway in the eighties, meaning that they were men of nonproductive business ventures. Money-movers whose wealth benefits no one but themselves, either in the form of job creation or tax receipts. What only a few years earlier was the domain of bandits—laundering money, moving it around, and lending it at exorbitant rates—has now become a legitimate business endeavor. With the deregulation during the eighties, it actually became possible to shovel money out of the country.

“All that prosperity was nothing but an empty balloon that imploded during a seriously confused decade. Government authorities misinterpreted the plus columns, reading the figures through the old, discarded lenses of industrialism, and cheered. The financial sharks cheered too, but for completely different reasons. They sucked the juice out of the national economy, as it uttered masochistic moans of joy.”

Söderstedt fell silent. The members of the A-Unit looked at him in bewilderment. What an odd explanation of Carlberger’s business ventures.

“Let’s try to keep the political opinions to a minimum,” said Hultin, his tone neutral.

Söderstedt looked around the room, as if suddenly remembering where he was. Hjelm could almost see smoke rising out of his shirt collar. He pulled himself together and went on in his resonant Finnish accent.

“There are two things I’m trying to get at here. First, the general coupling of this social climate with what I said earlier about the serial murder boom in the United States, the hero worship of outsiders who have cast aside the system of norms that is
increasingly showing its cracks and revealing the chasm behind it for one simple reason: money. We’re sitting on a powder keg.

“Second, the specific link to our case. What if we’re dealing with an individual who has quite simply seen through, or thinks he has seen through, the whole damn game. Or to put it another way: an individual who assumes he has seen the real face of the invisible power and doesn’t give a damn about ripping it away and putting it on display. An individual who is both intelligent and insane, the worst possible combination. He has seen the connections, the more or less mysterious correspondences, and begins his exposé of these connections, most likely by accident, on the anniversary of Swedenborg’s death.”

“For the sake of clarity,” Hultin said, “do you think these murders are politically motivated? Leftist terrorism?”

“Not terrorism. No, I wouldn’t think so. But in a sense they
are
political. Someone who has been affected in some way, someone who has thought deeply and drawn certain conclusions, who is quite correct in terms of analysis but completely wrong in terms of action. Let’s think about this. We’ve just come through the worst possible financial crisis. Many people were affected by it, but perhaps everything is becoming clear only now.”

No one said anything for a long time. Without a doubt Söderstedt’s torrent of words contained certain valid points. Both newcomers, Billy Pettersson and Tanja Florén, were trying not to yawn, wondering where on earth they’d landed. In a lecture hall at the university? In a discussion group for conspiracy theorists? Or in the presence of a police officer whose obstinate intelligence had always prevented him from advancing within the force?

“Three representatives of the new capitalism,” Hjelm summed up. “Various possibilities. Indications pointing to Eastern Europe. Problems with the mafia establishing itself in the Baltics? Use of business contacts from the Baltics? Although one
of the three doesn’t have much to do with Eastern Europe. A purely political motive? Some sort of revenge? Personal or professional? What else?”

Silence. Clearly there was nothing else. Was there anything they had overlooked? The fraternal order, a fine old classic straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, had gone up in smoke—that type of puzzle intrigue belonged irrevocably to the past—and instead they had landed squarely in the present day: postindustrial capitalism, Eastern European mafia, and the collapse of Sweden’s financial regulatory system in the 1990s.

Paul Hjelm preferred the fraternal order.

“All right, shall we discuss Carlberger’s conglomerate?” said Hultin, pouring oil on the waters of the A-Unit.

Söderstedt instantly switched from the verbose and voluble to the terse and concise. Hjelm had the feeling that the abrupt change was something deeply anchored in Söderstedt’s character. In the latter approach there was an answer, a solution, and he wanted to present it as clearly and distinctly as possible. In the former approach, there was no answer, no solution; there the “truth” trickled through the cracks between the words, in the ghastly connections. That was how society was, this postindustrial society at least, in the eyes of the eloquent Finnish buffoon.

“The Carlberger conglomerate,” he said. “At the center is the Spiran financial firm. Surrounding Spiran are ever weaker, concentric circles formed by increasingly inaccessible subsidiaries, and subsidiaries of subsidiaries. In less than an hour I discovered one connection, and with professional help”—Söderstedt gestured toward Pettersson and Florén—“I’m sure more will come to light. My connection has to do with Strand-Julén, who was part owner in one of the affiliates of a Carlberger subsidiary, Alruna Holding AB.”

He fell silent.

Nobody could tell whether he was finished. But he was looking slightly burned out, so Hultin said, “Okay, we thank Söderstedt for an unusually inspired report. Chavez?”

Chavez chuckled. “I’ll be brief. Carlberger was a member of three boards of directors concurrently with Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén. Our three victims were members of the same board at Ericsson in 1986–87; Sydbanken in 1989–91; and MEMAB in 1990. That’s the connection between our three stiffs as regards boards.”

“What’s MEMAB?” asked Holm.

“No idea,” said Chavez.

“I can tell you,” said Tanja Florén, speaking in a deep alto voice. “What’s your guess?”

“A financial company,” said a very weary Finn.

“That’s right,” said Florén.

As far as Paul Hjelm was concerned, his work now entered an entirely new phase. After standing on the front lines, he had now been pushed to the very back of the pack. The investigation was progressing along two flanks: the Russian mafia lead, via Norlander and Nyberg; and the business angle, via Söderstedt, Chavez, Pettersson, and Florén. Holm was carrying on intensive interviews with the relatives and friends of the departed magnates, leaving the secondary interviews to the foot soldiers in NCP and the Stockholm police force.

And Hjelm was spending his days leafing through the pages of the golf association’s guest books.
The criminal landscape of the past
, he thought bitterly. No one was murdered anymore
because of intrigues within fraternal orders or at golf clubs. Nowadays it was kinky sex, drugs, and money laundering that brought people down.

The phone number for the purported pimp with the fitting name of Johan Stake had been disconnected without any forwarding number. And a return visit to Timmermansgatan, together with innumerable phone calls, revealed that the young male prostitute, Jörgen Lindén, had fled the scene.

The autopsy performed by Medical Examiner Qvarfordt on Nils-Emil Carlberger produced nothing other than signs of an incipient brain tumor. Nor had Svenhagen’s crime techs turned up any solid leads. Once again the perp had left no evidence behind—except the damned bullet in the wall.

Hjelm was making his way backward through the golf association’s guest books. The hours dragged along. Among the signatures written in varying degrees of legibility, he soon learned to recognize Daggfeldt’s meticulous handwriting, Strand-Julén’s expansive scrawl, and Carlberger’s backward slant. They appeared frequently in the books but never anywhere near each other. Hjelm had made his way back to 1990 and was getting ready to accept that none of the three corpses had ever played golf with any of the others, when he suddenly saw the meticulous squiggles right next to the scrawl. After a moment he discovered nearby the backward slant.