Arne Dahl - Misterioso

“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.”

“That’s why the cup is so small,” murmured Hjelm, trying to be helpful.

“I’ve got other things on my mind,” said Hultin, raising his walkie-talkie to his ear. They all had them, hanging from a strap across their chests. “Hello-is the first team in place?”

They heard static, then Chavez’s voice.

“We’re parked on Gubbkärrsvägen, right behind the church. Waiting. Is it nice and comfy inside?”

“The taxi was ordered for eighteen forty,” said Hultin curtly. “How’s it going with the bush people? I’m going to take the liberty of pointing out just once the importance of keeping the earpiece in your ear and keeping all sounds and movements to an absolute minimum.”

“Oi,” Söderstedt’s voice crackled. “And here I was hanging by my knees from the pear tree, making jungle noises.”

“That might be a lot smarter than what we’re doing,” said Holm, shivering. “I don’t think I can squat here in these spiny bushes for hours on end. The wind is really fierce right now.”

“If you don’t want to have a third of your force laid up with pneumonia, you might want to think of another plan,” said Söderstedt.

“You’re right-this is no good. The weather gods aren’t on our side. You’ll just have to slip inside once in a while and get warmed up. One at a time, and put on as many warm clothes as you can find here in the house.”

Rickard and Birgitta Franzén came down the stairs. He was wearing an ancient but still elegant pin-striped suit, complete with vest and pocket watch. As he straightened his tie, he leaned to one side to see past Nyberg’s substantial bulk and out the window.

“It’s dismal weather for an outdoors stakeout,” he said as the taxi pulled up. “You’ll have to relieve your colleagues now and then, the three of you. Three big strong fellows in here and a woman outside. Very nice. Now take good care of my wife. She’s the most precious thing I have.”

The old couple gave each other a quick kiss. Then Franzén put on his overcoat and went out into the wind. She stared after him for a long time.

“The cab arrived a little early,” Hultin was saying into his walkie-talkie. “It’s turning around now and heading off. A black Mercedes, license number CDP four four three.”

“Black Mercedes, CDP four four three,” Chavez repeated.

Hultin let go of the walkie-talkie so that it hung from the leather strap in the middle of his chest. He turned to Mrs. Franzén.

“All right, from now on it’s going to be risky for you to be seen downstairs. I hope you’ll be comfortable on the upper floors and won’t come down again unless absolutely necessary.”

Birgitta Franzén stared at Hultin for a moment, as if she were trying to place him in a different context but failed. Then she gave a slight nod and swiftly made her way upstairs.

When she was out of sight, Hultin said, “I’m afraid, gentlemen, that Franzén was right. You’re going to have to relieve the others when they come inside.”

Nyberg sneezed, sighed heavily, and tapped lightly on the storm-lashed windowpane. Then he headed out to the kitchen to keep an eye on the kitchen door and the windows facing the back garden. In spite of the bad weather, he would have a fine view of Lake Mälaren at dusk.

Hjelm went off to Franzén’s study, where he checked the windows, and moved on to the two smaller rooms in that wing of the ground floor. Everything was normal.

Hultin went into the living room and sat down on the leather sofa. He gave Söderstedt and Holm the good news about their anticipated replacements.

It’s the waiting , thought Hjelm as he leafed through one of the law books in Franzén’s study. Everything in the room looked to be still in use. Obviously the man had refused to stop working. Maybe there was nothing besides work for him-nothing but the yawning abyss. Maybe that was why Franzén had wanted at all costs to rejuvenate the Order of Mimir. Hjelm listlessly read an ordinance regarding tools that were permitted and not permitted for picking berries, until it got too dark to read.

He went out to the kitchen to find Nyberg and caught him with a glass of white wine in his hand. “There’s an open bottle in the fridge,” said Nyberg, holding out the glass. “The lady of the house said to help ourselves.”

“Compensation for missing the dress rehearsal?” said Hjelm, opening the fridge. He peered at the label. A Mosel. 1974. That didn’t mean anything to him.

“And now I’ve got to go out into the cold and feel my vocal cords clench up,” muttered Nyberg.

“Life is tough.”

“You can say that again.”

The whole conversation was part of the waiting. Completely meaningless phrases that they never would have said otherwise. They were talking while their thoughts were elsewhere. Everything could happen very fast. At any moment something life-threatening could go down. They had to stay loose but at the same time be alert. A strange, double-edged, and stressful state.

“You married?” asked Hjelm, eating a banana as he looked to see what else was in the refrigerator.

“Very divorced,” said Nyberg. “You?”

“The last time I saw my wife I was still married, at any rate.”

The sun appeared just as it was about to sink beyond the choppy waters of Lake Mälaren. The layers of clouds were moving at varying speeds, one above the other. The April storm was still at work.

Nyberg lit a cigarette and offered one to Hjelm. He took it, and they sat in the dark, smoking.

“I don’t actually smoke,” said Nyberg.

“Neither do I,” said Hjelm.

He put on some coffee, working in the beam of a little pocket flashlight. An ordinary drip coffeemaker stood next to the astoundingly huge espresso machine.

“Such a big machine to produce such a tiny cup,” he muttered to himself in the dark. Nyberg didn’t seem to react.

A crackling sound came from their walkie-talkies. Kerstin Holm whispered, “Solitary man passing. Thirty feet to the gate.”

Hjelm set down the pot filled with water and went out to the hall. He took a drag on his cigarette and felt a slight nicotine kick. Through the window he watched the individual pass the gate and continue up Grönviksvägen. After a moment Hjelm heard Söderstedt’s crackling walkie-talkie voice issuing from his chest: “He’s gone past me now.”

Hjelm poured water into the coffeemaker, put in a filter, measured out some ground coffee, plopped one spoonful after another into the filter, and then pressed the red button. He did everything slowly and methodically, making no unnecessary movements. He smoked calmly and took a swing down the funnel-shaped corridor to the living room. Hultin was sitting in the murderer’s position on the leather sofa against the far wall. A muffled darkness had settled over the room.