Arne Dahl - Misterioso

Hjelm did as he was told. He felt like a schoolboy. All the elevations in title had apparently collapsed.

“The asterisk indicates, to put it simply, that they’re no longer members of the Order of Mimir.”

“Do you mean that they’ve forgotten to pay their annual dues?”

Once again the Guardian uttered an ear-splitting bellow of laughter. “This is a fraternal order, my boy, not a country club. No, I put the asterisk there myself for quite another reason. The men in question have chosen to establish a subgroup within the Order of Mimir, the so-called Order of Skidbladnir. In lay terms, their group functions as a subsidiary, independent but at the same time always answerable to the parent company. They wanted to develop certain ritualistic ideas that were not found acceptable by the Order of Mimir, meaning by me, but they didn’t want to leave entirely. And let me emphasize that there was no real conflict behind the formation of the Order of Skidbladnir.”

“No grumbling in the corridors?”

“There are no corridors here, nor any grumbling. Any antagonisms that have arisen have been on a more personal level, and as I mentioned, that sort of thing doesn’t interest me.”

“Do you recall who or what was the driving force behind the secession?”

“When the matter was presented to me, and this was about six months ago, we were all wearing our masks after an intense ceremony here. I have no idea who or what prompted the whole thing. But I accepted their proposal; I’m not running a reformatory here, you know. The administrative arrangements seemed quite acceptable. But I was expecting to receive certain reports regarding their progress, et cetera, and so far nothing has been forthcoming.”

“What are the differences between the Order of Mimir and the Order of Skidbladnir? What did the other men want to develop?”

“You won’t be able to entice me any further into our secret domains, officer. It’s a matter of specific details in the rituals. Nothing radical. A desire to develop certain ceremonial aspects a bit further.”

“I’m sure you’d be willing to give me a list of the names with an asterisk,” said Hjelm, aware that he’d now been drastically demoted to the rank of officer.

Two taps of the keys, a rustling sound under cheese bell number two, and then David Clöfwenhielm, Guardian of the Order of Mimir, lifted off the lid and let a microscopic inkjet printer pump out two pages of A-4 paper.

“I assume that the same tact and finesse that you have demonstrated here today, Hjelm, will be shown regarding these pages. I would be very upset to hear that the media had gotten hold of them.”

“I would too,” said Hjelm.

They both stood and shook hands.

“I’d like to thank you for all your help, Guardian,” said Hjelm. “Just one little question. What is it that this organization actually does?”

“Does?” said Clöfwenhielm in surprise. Then he really let loose.

The periodic bursts of laughter moved like shock waves, seeming to propel Hjelm up the stairs and out onto Stallgränd.

April weather , thought Hjelm, peering through the rain trickling down the windows of the café. As capricious as fate . Occasionally someone crossed Västerlånggatan with the collar of his coat or jacket turned up, dashing along the wall of the building, vainly seeking shelter under balconies that didn’t exist. The rain lashed against the big windows of Café Gråmunken, and light was noticeably absent. He squinted his eyes, staring at the Order of Mimir printouts. A flash of lightning abruptly lit up the café, leaving behind a lavender light that blocked his vision for a moment.

“Shit. Thanks a lot,” said Hjelm to the lightning.

“Shit yourself, and here you are,” said the girl with the white apron as she poured him another cup of coffee. He looked up at her in surprise. She was nothing but a lavender silhouette.

When his vision returned to normal, he went back to skimming the list. It included the home and business addresses of all the brothers in the strange separatist faction called the Order of Skidbladnir. He found two addresses in Gamla Stan: one residential address on Prästgatan, and one business address. Since it was only a few minutes past noon, he chose the work address, a computer company on Österlånggatan. Not waiting for the rain to let up, he gulped down the rest of his coffee and rushed out.

When he found the address, he pressed the intercom for ComData. A secretary answered, then reluctantly buzzed him in. He walked up two flights of stairs and entered a five-room apartment that had been converted for office use. The secretary was a woman with too much makeup, her hair pulled into a bun. When he showed her his ID, it dripped rain onto her neatly stacked papers, curling the edges.

“Put that away,” she said indignantly.

“Criminal Police. I want to talk to Axel Strandelius.”

“The director is unavailable at the moment. I assume that you don’t have an appointment?”

“You have thirty seconds to tell him that I’m here. After that I’ll just barge in on my own.”

It had worked earlier in the day, and it worked now. A door opened, and an impeccably dressed man in his fifties whose demeanor practically screamed “CEO” showed Hjelm into his office without a word.

“Sara said you’re from the police,” the man said as he sat down behind the desk. “How can I be of service?”

“Are you Axel Strandelius?” asked Hjelm.

“Yes,” said the man, “that’s precisely who I am.”

“Are you a member of the group known as the Order of Skidbladnir?”

Strandelius was silent for a moment. “Now we’re touching on proprietary information.”

Hjelm recognized his choice of words. “I know the rules. The only proprietary information has to do with the rituals. Membership is public information.”

“Except that the group in question is not yet public.”

“You know why I’m here. I see there a copy of Dagens Nyheter , over there Svenska Dagbladet , and here Dagens Industri . All three have the story on the front page. This isn’t some kind of game or police harassment; it’s a matter of life and death. Your life and your death. Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén were part of the little separatist group that about six months ago broke away from the Order of Mimir. That means that you too are at risk.”

Strandelius clearly hadn’t thought that far and shrank a couple of inches in his chair. “Good God. But the Order of Mimir is the most innocuous organization you could imagine. There couldn’t possibly be anyone who-”

“The strongest link we have between the two men who were murdered two days apart and in the exact same way is this little Order of Skidbladnir. Both of them belonged to the group, which has a total membership of twelve. Or had. That goes a long way in my book. There are two questions I want you to answer. One: What were the driving forces behind the secession? Two: Which members were most fiercely opposed to the secession?”

Strandelius paused to think. He was a data guy. He spent a couple of minutes organizing and analyzing. When he replied, he used the enumeration that Hjelm had used.

“One: Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén were the driving forces, but the idea actually came from Rickard Franzén. He was probably also the strongest advocate in getting the idea pushed through. At about the same level as Daggfeldt and Strand-Julén was Johannes Norrvik. First and foremost Franzén, then Daggfeldt, Strand-Julén, and Norrvik. The rest of us just thought it sounded exciting and joined in. Two: I’m afraid I can’t help you much in that area. There was a general undercurrent of opposition, which the otherworldly Clöfwenhielm never even noticed. But I think it was Franzén who took the brunt of it. He would at least know who most opposed the whole idea. If, and I say if , this has something to do with the murders, then Franzén would most likely be the next victim.”