Misterioso (17 page)

Hjelm was getting bored, so he fast-forwarded. A crackling female voice said:

“But Kuno, he was a real family man. He was.”

Hjelm rewound to the start of the interview: “Madame Hummelstrand,
s’il vous plaît
,” said Kerstin Holm.

There was a rustling sound, and off in the background an angry female voice could be faintly heard:
“Touche pas le téléphone! Jamais plus! Touche seulement moi-même!”
Finally an emphatic voice spoke into the receiver:

“Allô!”

“Is this Anna-Clara Hummelstrand, wife of George Hummelstrand, vice president of Nimco France?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Kerstin Holm, National Criminal Police in Stockholm. It has to do with the murders of Kuno Daggfeldt and Bernhard Strand-Julén.”

“Oh, I see.
Une agentinne, n’est-ce pas?”

“C’est peut-être le mot juste, madame,”
said Holm, her voice ice cold. “I want to point out that this conversation is being recorded. Let me begin: phone conversation with Anna-Clara Hummelstrand in Nice on April 2 at 1702.”

“Tally ho!” said Anna-Clara Hummelstrand. Only now was it clear how drunk she was.
“On dit peut-être agentesse …”

“Maybe I should get back to you after the fog has cleared,” said Holm.

“After what?”

“After the haze has lifted.”

“Croyez-moi, une agentesse humoriste!”
shouted Anna-Clara Hummelstrand.
“Tirée! Tirée, ma amie! Immédiatement!”

“Okay. Let’s give it a try. Is it correct to say that you are close friends with both Ninni Daggfeldt and Lilian Strand-Julén?”

“As close as anyone can get. We exchange information about our gynecological exams. That’s the definition of a deep female friendship.
Tout à fait.”

“Do they know each other?”

“
Ninni and Lilian?
Not directly. I try to keep my girlfriends separate,
à ma honté
. Then they can’t gang up on me. But of course they know about each other through gossip.”

“And their husbands?”

“Well, neither of the poor dears had it easy, I can tell you that. They didn’t know how to handle their little boys the way I do. Lilian’s situation was well known, of course. Saint Bernhard’s little puppies. If she was the one who got rid of him, she has my full support. She had moved out, with
his
full support, but divorce was out of the question, as she always said. We all know how things went for little Johanna. Besides, it was an arrangement that suited Bernhard. But Kuno, he was a real family man. He was. No escapades that I know of, and what I don’t know about isn’t worth knowing, let me assure you,
ma petite
. On the other hand, he worked way too much. More than Bernhard, I’m positive about that. Never home.”

“Yet he had time to play golf and attend meetings of a fraternal order.”

“Right. The Order of Hugin or Munin, or whatever it’s called. So cute. George is a member too. He’s told me about the little rituals, how they put on Nordic god masks and strange robes, or whatever they’re called, and engage in sheer bacchanalia. It’s been a long time since he engaged in sheer bacchanalia with me, that’s the truth. I have to arrange my own.
Pas vrai
, Philippe? He’s nodding. But in general I think they regarded both golf and the order as work. I think the good Sir George, my
own little dragon-slayer, also considers them part of his work time.”

“Have you ever heard George talk about something called the Order of Skidbladnir?”

“Dear God, no. That sounds ghastly.”

“How did you hear about Daggfeldt’s and Strand-Julén’s deaths?”

“My husband called me last night. He sounded a bit shaken,
mon grand chevalier
.”

“Was he involved in business deals with them?”

“I’ve never been interested in George’s business affairs. As long as there’s plenty of money in the bank account, I’m happy. Terrible, right? I must be the classic object of hatred for feminist advocates like yourself, Miss Holm. Oh, whoops, I see that little Philippe is preparing for other activities. Have you, Miss Holm, ever seen a magnificent, olive-brown Gallic pole rise up from an absolutely slack condition to an absolutely stiff one? A marvelously prolonged moment of slow, slow, economical expansion? I guarantee that it affects a person’s ability to carry on a sensible conversation with a female Swedish police officer.
Mais Philippe! Calmons!
”

The conversation was cut off. Hjelm heard Kerstin Holm sigh. Then the same crackling telephone sounds behind Holm’s voice.

“Part two, Nice, April 3, 10:52
A.M.
”

“Encore,”
said a tremendously lackluster Anna-Clara Hummelstrand.

“Do you know a Nancy Carlberger?”

“Nancy? A wonderful little town in Lorraine—”

“Are you awake, Mrs. Hummelstrand?”

“Peu
à peu
. Nancy Carlberger? Nils-Emil’s little trophy wife? I’ve met her a couple of times. Didn’t much care for her. What is it now? Has Nils-Emil kicked the bucket too?”

“He was murdered last night. I’d like to point out that until further notice this information is to be considered confidential.”

“
Mon dieu!
This is starting to feel like that Agatha Christie story
And Then There Were None
. Have you talked to the servants? The butler?”

“As a matter of fact, we’re trying to locate his house cleaner.”

“That must be little Sonya, the poor thing. She takes care of most of the houses in Djursholm. Was she the one who found him? She didn’t murder him, that much I can guarantee. I’ve never met anyone so timid since I saved the life of a wagtail in my sadly so-distant childhood. Åke was his name, Åke Wagtail.”

“Does Sonya clean your home?”

“No, we have a different little woman, a Turk who’s been with us for years now. Iraz. Iraz Effendi. No, Sonya is black. From Somalia, I think. I’m not entirely sure that she has all her documents in order. Although officially you didn’t hear me say that.”

“Did she clean the Daggfeldt home, or the Strand-Juléns’?”

“No, she works only in Djursholm. You know how quickly word spreads through an area if there’s a nice, cheap, reliable cleaning woman. Don’t try to tell me that you don’t know that.”

“And you have no idea what Sonya’s last name is? Or where she lives?”

“No, but Nancy would know, of course. Why do you keep calling me, by the way? I do hope George isn’t in the danger zone … Speaking of which, I think I must have said a lot of nonsense yesterday. I hope you can erase whatever doesn’t have a direct bearing on the case. You know, George …”

“Do you mean this passage? And I quote: ‘Have you, Miss Holm, ever seen a magnificent, olive-brown Gallic pole rise up from an absolutely slack condition to an absolutely stiff one? A marvelously prolonged moment of slow, slow, economical expansion’?”

“You delightful creature!” Mrs. Hummelstrand blurted out with glee. Hjelm had finally heard enough when she went on:

“Did you sit there and masturbate at the thought of Philippe’s remarkable organ? Shame on you!”

While Hjelm changed tapes, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the thought of Kerstin Holm masturbating because of Philippe’s remarkable organ. He pictured her sitting alone in her office. Night had descended over police headquarters. She had propped up her legs, one on either side of the laptop, and eased down her loose-fitting trousers. Her hand moved calmly and methodically up and down inside her panties. Her dark eyes were completely glazed over as she opened them wide and then threw back her head with a half-stifled moan.

What a child I am
, Hjelm thought as he let his slight erection deflate. He heard the sound of a teenage girl’s shrill, defiant voice in his ears.

“How do
you
think it felt? Mini, midi, maxi. Maxi-deep. Maxi-horny. Of course there were other people who had fucking stupid names. One of the girls in my class was named Angel, Angel Jakobsson-Flodh, old hippies who fixed up a luxury collective in Danderyd to keep the dream alive—alongside their computer company, of course. But nobody else was ever named after a damn boat! People name their boats after women, but they don’t fucking name women after boats!”

“Did you hate your father because he gave you a name like that?”

“When I was an adolescent, sure. Now I actually think it’s rather cool.”

“Did you hate the boat?”

“I’ve actually never hated the boat. It was the only time when Papa relaxed. He was always fussing about, trying to make sure that we all had a good time. Okay, my mother was always throwing up, and that could get really disgusting, you know, but
Marre and I kept out of her way and just played our silly guess-the-word game.”

“Did your father ever hit your mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. He would get so incredibly disappointed when he saw that all his efforts had no effect on my mother. They shouted and screamed, so we stayed out of their way, hid in a corner, out on the island where we docked, pulled a quilt over ourselves and played guess-the-word.”

“How do you feel about your father’s death?”

“I’ve been crying a lot …”

Hjelm fast-forwarded, thinking how impossible it was to get any sort of insight into another person’s life. What is it that drives somebody’s life, what is it that forms all these connections with other people?

Everything spreads out like rings in the water.

He changed the tape again, making another arbitrary selection.

He went on and on and on, amazed at Kerstin Holm’s diligence. Secretaries, family members, employees, friends all swept past in a never-ending stream.

Now a man was speaking with some sort of semi-west-coast accent.

“You’re from Göteborg? Then you must know Landvetter Airport quite well.”

“More or less,” said Holm, not sounding particularly interested. “Why is it that Willy changed his last name but you didn’t?”

“Hmm. I have nothing against Carlberger. It has a certain … ring to it. William took the divorce much harder than I did. He was twelve, while I was fifteen. We went to live with Mama, and our life changed radically after that. From the luxury of Djursholm
to the poverty of Danvikstull, so to speak. It was lucky that I was already practically grown up. William was more susceptible. Besides, he quickly managed to turn his personal problems into an ideological conflict. I think it’s called ‘projection.’ A way to survive.”

“How did you react when you heard that your father was dead?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was dumbfounded. It’s not everybody whose father is liquidated by the Russian mafia.”

“Why do you think it was the Russian mafia?”

“That’s what it said in
Göteborgs Tidende
. I read the newspapers on the plane. In
Aftonbladet
it said something about the Red Army Faction.
Expressen
claimed it was the Sicilian mafia. What are we supposed to believe?”

Hjelm switched off the tape and studied the hardworking Chavez for a moment. It was beginning to get dark outside.

Then he decided that the next tape would be the last. He put it in and Kerstin Holm said:

“Conversation with Rickard Franzén at 12:16
P.M
. on April 3.”

“I want this on tape too,” said the retired judge sternly, “so I can make my view perfectly clear. How dare you come here, my dear, after what you did to my son last night?”

“I’m truly sorry about what happened, but you might have informed us that you had a son, and that he had keys to the house, and that in the middle of the night he might come tromping in with his nostrils rimmed white with cocaine.”

“I never thought that …”

“Here’s my first question. One member of the Order of Mimir who was not part of the Order of Skidbladnir is named George Hummelstrand. Do you know him?”

“George? Of course.”

“How did he feel about you forming a separate group?”

“He wasn’t at all in favor of it. Do you mean to say that
you’re still following the order lead? In spite of what happened to Carlberger?”

“How do you know about that? It hasn’t been officially announced yet.”

“I have my contacts, damn it! That lead is a dead end!”

“Tell me about Hummelstrand.”

“Without a doubt he was furious about it. For him the bylaws of the Order of Mimir were inviolable. We were traitors. He belonged to the little hate group. It was because of them that I accepted your suspicion that I would be the next victim.”

“Give me more names.”

“Oscar Bjellerfeldt, Nils-Åke Svärdh, Bengt Klinth, possibly Jakob Ringman.”

“What was the whole thing about? Really?”

“Ritual details. Ultrasecret. Especially from women.”

“Is it true that in 1978 Jan-Olov Hultin, who back then was a detective inspector with the Stockholm police, on the narcotics squad, arrested Rickard Franzén Jr. for drug possession and dealing; that Hultin was stubborn as hell and managed to get him arrested and arraigned in spite of tremendous opposition; and that your son was convicted by both the district court and the county court but was acquitted by the Svea Court of Appeals, where you were then serving as judge?”

“I was not the judge for my son’s case!”

“No one said you were. Is it also true that Hultin was transferred to the Huddinge police after this incident?”

There was silence for a moment. Hjelm imagined serious eyebrow raising. Franzén’s voice reappeared, faintly from the background.

“I didn’t think Hultin was the kind to tell tales … Well. It was an open-and-shut case. My son was acquitted. There wasn’t enough evidence.”

“Hultin hasn’t been telling tales. I reviewed the details of
the case myself. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. Since then Rickard Jr. has been picked up a dozen times and released.”

A rattling sound started up, and it got worse. The judge said in a shrill, quavering, and utterly grotesque voice:

“I think you’d better start looking around for a new job, young lady. I know one that would be very suitable.”

“Let go of the tape recorder, judge,” said Kerstin Holm calmly.