Arne Dahl - Misterioso

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 the 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?”

“Yes, they’re in the storeroom. I can get them for you.”

“Good. All of them. Starting with 1982, that is. I’ll need to take them with me, but you’ll get them back. And I’ll need to take the current book that you’ve got out there on the counter, so you’ll have to start a new one. As soon as we’re done with all of them, you can have them back. It’ll just be a matter of a few days, at most.”

“I can’t let you have the one on the counter. We’re using it.”

Hjelm sighed. He had hoped to avoid resorting to the language of intimidation.

“Just listen to me. This has to do with a double murder, and there are likely to be more. Pretty soon your whole clientele could be wiped out. I have powers of authority invested in me that would make even those old guys out there start talking about a police state. Okay?”

She slunk off.

He never ceased to be amazed at how close ordinary speech could come to the language of intimidation. A few minor shifts in the wording, and the deed was done. Quite acceptable when spoken by the right person. Quite horrific if uttered by the wrong one.