Arne Dahl - Misterioso

Hjelm went into the living room. He lifted off the poster that was hanging slightly crooked. Underneath was a dartboard. But there were no darts.

They searched the wardrobes and chests of drawers. There was no other sign that Göran Andersson had spent nearly three months living there. One rolled-up mattress, one Russian suitcase containing five-hundred-krona bills, one damp saucepan, an assortment of blank keys, a box of bullets from Kazakhstan, a dartboard, and a list of victims to be liquidated. Otherwise he hardly seemed to have been there at all.

Hjelm contacted his former colleagues at the police station next door and gave orders to cordon the place off, set up a nighttime stakeout, and have forensics do a sweep of the apartment. When they emerged into the early summer sunlight, a couple of cold gusts of wind reminded them that it was actually evening-in fact, it was almost eight o’clock. And they were going to have to start over.

Hjelm and Chavez called the secretary, Lisa Hägerblad, and this time she answered. She sounded resistant when Hjelm asked about Winge’s absence. He didn’t have time to tell her how important this was because she hung up. They sighed deeply and headed out to Råsunda to talk to her in person.

Hultin and Söderstedt drove to Stora Essingen, where Winge’s younger colleague, Johannes Lund, lived in a villa with a view of Lake Mälaren. When they called him, all they got was his voicemail. They didn’t leave a message after the beep.

Since Stora Essingen was located significantly closer than Råsunda, Hultin and Söderstedt arrived at their destination first. A man wearing overalls was walking up and down the steep front lawn, zealously fertilizing the grass with a rolling apparatus that looked like a lawnmower not very suited to the job. Visible in the opening of his overalls was a white shirt collar and the knot of a black tie. A cell phone was sticking out of his pocket.

“Well, now,” the man said when he caught sight of Söderstedt. He stopped fertilizing and leaned on the spreader. “You weren’t satisfied with what we told you?”

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Hultin asked harshly.

“The land line is only for ordinary calls; they go straight to voicemail.” He patted his cell phone. “This is where I get the important calls.” He perceived their momentary silence as stupidity and clarified: “The B-group of calls are recorded, and then my wife goes through them. The A-group come to me directly.”

And so does the A-Unit , thought Söderstedt. “Look up at the sky.”

Johannes Lund looked up at the sky.

“It’s now eight-thirty, and the sun is still up. In a couple of hours the sun will be gone. Then Alf Ruben Winge will also be gone. Do you understand? In a few hours your boss is going to be murdered by a serial killer who has already murdered five very prominent citizens much like yourself.”

Johannes Lund looked at them in surprise. “The Power Murders?” he said. “Oh shit. He’s always struck me as a very unimportant person. This is going to give him a certain… status.”

“Tell us everything you know about these periods of absence,” said Hultin.

“As I said before, I don’t know anything.” Lund cast a pensive glance up at the Essingen sky. “He’s very suspicious of me. He knows that I do my job a damned sight better than he does and that I bring in much more money for him than he does himself. He needs me, but he hates me. That’s it in a nutshell-hates me but needs me. Whatever. He’d never think of sharing any personal confidences with me.”

“Does he have any close friends he would confide in?” asked Hultin.

Johannes Lund laughed. “Good God! We’re businessmen!”

“Have you ever met a short blond Finn with a pageboy hairstyle who goes by the name of Anja?” asked Söderstedt.

“Never.” Lund looked him straight in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

Hultin’s cell phone rang. It was Chavez. “We’re at Lisa Hägerblad’s place on Råsundavägen. Do you have anything to tell us before we go in?”

“A complete washout here,” said Hultin. “Unfortunately.”

“Okay.” Chavez ended the call and put his cell in his jacket pocket.

They rang the doorbell. A lovely blonde in early middle age- you might say, if it didn’t sound so awful , Hjelm thought fleetingly-opened the door, looking worried.

“The police, right?” said Lisa Hägerblad. “I thought I already told you-”

“We don’t have much time.” Hjelm pushed his way inside. He wasn’t sure whether he actually apologized for skipping the normal courtesies.

Lisa Hägerblad’s apartment was huge-three big rooms with high ceilings. The furniture had been the highest fashion in the late eighties: black and white, steel tubing, sharp angles, asymmetries, a slightly nouveau riche chill. It was as if time had stood still in the apartment since the go-go years.

“You are Alf Ruben Winge’s personal secretary,” said Chavez. “It’s clear as hell that you know much more than you’ve told us. We can fully understand that you couldn’t reveal anything in front of the others at the office. But now Director Winge’s life is on the line; the threat is very real and very specific. He’s going to be murdered within the next couple of hours.”

“Oi!” The secretary was evidently using her word for the ultimate shock. “But the white-haired cop didn’t say anything about that.”

“The white-haired cop didn’t know about it at the time,” said Chavez. “But the black-haired one does now. The situation has gotten darker,” he couldn’t help adding.

“Come on now,” said Hjelm. “She speaks with a Finnish accent, her name is Anja, she has a blond pageboy, and Alf Ruben Winge disappears with her to a little love nest with sheets that get more and more stained a couple of days each month. Who is she?”

“I don’t really know,” said Lisa Hägerblad. “Everything you said is true. I often speak to her on the phone, but then I transfer her right over to Alf Ruben. I’ve never even arranged a meeting between them, and I’m the one who usually takes care of things like that. But have you talked to Johannes?”

“Johannes Lund in Essingen? He doesn’t know anything,” said Chavez.

Lisa Hägerblad gave a short laugh. “Sure,” she said. “But since I prefer Alf Ruben to be my boss and not Johannes, I might as well tell you this: Alf Ruben Winge and Johannes Lund are like father and son. Alf Ruben has already chosen Johannes to be his successor and left him the company in his will. If Alf Ruben dies, Johannes will take over, and then we’ll all probably be replaced by younger employees.”

“Do you know whether Lund has ever met Anja?”

“I’m positive that he has. They often have business dinners with their respective companions-meaning, not their respective legal companions.”

Chavez immediately called Hultin.

“Yes?” said Hultin.

“Where are you?” asked Chavez.

“We’re going back to talk to his wife on Narvavägen to find out who his friends are. Right now we’re in”-there was a crackling sound on the line-“the tunnel under Fredhäll. Can you hear me?”

“Faintly. Turn around as quickly as you can and drive back to see Lund. He’s going to inherit UrboInvest. I repeat: Johannes Lund will inherit UrboInvest if Alf Ruben Winge dies. He has every reason not to say a word about Anja. In all likelihood he knows who she is.”

“Okay,” Hultin’s voice crackled. “I’ve got the basics. We’re heading back to Stora Essingen.”

Hultin hung up just as the car exited from the tunnel. He hailed Söderstedt, who was a couple of cars behind him, and they both turned around, reentered the tunnel, and drove across the bridge. A couple of daredevils were swimming down by the rocks of Fredhäll, where the setting sun was beginning to color the waves red.