Bad Blood: A Crime Novel (6 page)

Nothing in FBI agent Ray Larner’s newly arrived, scrupulous report indicated any departure from what had been said earlier; nor did it indicate any imaginable ties to Sweden. Thus there was nothing they could really do, other than wait for the first victim, and that was unbearable.

Therefore they devoted themselves to mental preparation for the intensive burst of activity that lay ahead. They spent the rest of the afternoon on small tasks that not only gave them the illusion of meaningful work, the sensation of
doing
something,
but also involved
individual
activity. Each of them seemed to need to digest the state of things on their own.

Hultin continued to collect and organize the material from the FBI. Holm returned to Arlanda to see if any of the staff had been struck by a flashback or a flash of genius, anything at all. The cabin crew of flight SK 904 would, they had heard, also be there, and she prepared herself for her specialty: conversations, interviews, interrogations. Nyberg returned to his usual routine: he set off for the underworld of Stockholm to sound out the situation there. Söderstedt shut himself up in his office and called all the places that he could in any way imagine might be sheltering this Reynolds, who was surely no longer called Reynolds. Chavez threw himself into the world of the Internet; what he thought he could find there was a mystery to the uninitiated. Hultin set Norlander to the task of scrubbing all the toilets in the police station with an electric toothbrush, which was viewed as a technical achievement within the noble art of punishment.

And Hjelm set out on his own assignment. Just as small as the likelihood that the Kentucky Killer had remained in the United States was the likelihood that the literary critic Lars-Erik Hassel’s past had anything to do with the case. Nevertheless Hjelm set off for the large newspaper office that had been Hassel’s workplace.

He allowed himself to walk there—a little habit that the relative idleness of the past year had permitted him to develop. He walked down to Norr Mälarstrand by way of Kungsholmstorg. The rainy weather from Arlanda, he couldn’t help thinking, was biding its time, waiting in the wings, getting ready to sweep the city in autumn. But for now the sun was still shining, if more weakly with every day that went by. On the other side of Riddarfjärden, an enormous cat stretched out and purred contentedly in the white rays of late-summer sunshine: the head—Mariaberget—lapped
Lake Mälaren’s waters with the tongue that was Söderleden, while its body—Skinnarviksberget—twisted greedily and stretched down toward its elegant back legs, Långholmen, where the tail, formed by Västerbro, pointed the way to Marieberg and the newspaper complex.

The only thing Hjelm knew about Hassel was that he had been a literary critic. He had seen the man’s name in the arts and leisure section of the big daily paper once or twice; other than that he was blank.

He wandered along Norr Mälarstrand and crossed Rålambshovsparken, where the
brännboll
players went stubbornly bare-chested, despite the goose bumps that were visible from a distance of twenty yards. How did the old
Farmer’s Almanac
line go? Sweat the summer in; freeze in the winter?

At the newspaper building, the receptionist advised him with a well-practiced apologetic expression that the elevators were temporarily out of order, and Hjelm found himself sweating the winter in as he trudged up the stairs. In the arts and leisure offices, the atmosphere was downhearted but bustling. Hjelm asked to speak with someone in charge and was supplied with a bundle of more or less aged issues of the arts and leisure section while he waited for the arts editor, who was rushing back and forth. He read the pages more carefully than he had in a long time and found a few articles by Hassel. He devoted just over half an hour to improving himself before the editor let him into his office, where the piles of books seemed to grow as he watched.

The editor stroked his grizzled beard, extended a hand, and said briskly, “Möller. Sorry you had to wait. I’m sure you can imagine what things are like here right now.”

“Hjelm,” said Hjelm, removing a pile of papers from a chair and sitting down.

“Hjelm,” said Möller, sinking down behind his cluttered desk. “Aha.”

He didn’t say more, but Hjelm realized that the old epithets “Hallunda Hero” and “Power Murders” were not so easily gnawed away by the tooth of time. Like all old heroes, he was confronted day and night by his insufficient heroism.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said curtly.

Möller shook his head. “It’s a bit difficult to understand,” he said. “What actually happened? The information we’ve received so far is scanty, to say the least. What should we write in the obituary? We can’t exactly pull out the old ‘after a lengthy illness.’ That much I’ve understood.”

“He was murdered,” Hjelm said mercilessly. “At the airport.”

Möller shook his head again. “At the airport.… Talk about bad luck. I thought New York was safe now. The New York model. ‘Zero tolerance,’ ‘community policing,’ and all that. For fuck’s sake, that’s why he was there!”

“What do you mean?”

“He was going to get a cultural perspective on the new, peaceful spirit of New York. I guess you could call it the irony of fate.”

“Did he have time to write anything?”

“No. He was gathering impressions. He’d been there for a week and was going to devote the week after he returned home to writing the article.”

“So the newspaper was paying for the trip?”

“Of course,” said Möller, affronted.

“Was Lars-Erik Hassel on the permanent staff?”

“Yes. He had been on the editorial staff for almost twenty years.”

“A baby boomer,” slipped out of Hjelm.

Möller glared at him. “That’s a term we prefer not to use here. It’s been corrupted by all manner of misuse.”

Hjelm observed him for a moment, then couldn’t help but argue a bit. “The article on the new, peaceful spirit of New York probably cost half a month’s salary, say fifteen thousand
kronor including taxes and fees, plus travel and board, another twenty thousand. All together, maybe more than fifty thousand kronor.”

Möller’s face darkened, and he shrugged. “You can’t count it like that. Some articles cost more, some less. What are you getting at?”

“Did he have any contacts in New York? Friends? Enemies?”

“Not that I know of, no.”

“Did you or anyone else on the editorial staff have personal contact with him during the past week?”

“I spoke with him once, yes. He had just been to the Metropolitan and was very pleased.”

“And the visit to the Metropolitan was going to be included in the fifty-thousand-kronor article?”

Hjelm sensed that he had to stop if he didn’t want to lose Möller completely. He changed his tone: “We’re going to need to speak with his family. What family relationships did he have?”

Möller sighed deeply and looked at the clock.

A younger, bald man came storming into the office and waved some papers. “Sorry to interrupt,” he panted. “We’re running out of time. Lars-Erik’s obituary is almost finished, but what are we going to put as the cause of death? Should I forget about it? We have to put something, don’t we?”

Möller gestured tiredly toward Hjelm and asked, “What can we write?”

“That he was murdered,” said Hjelm.

The young man stared at him. “Nothing more?” he said at last.

“That should do,” said Hjelm.

The man rushed out again. Through the windows in the office door, Hjelm watched him return to his computer and peck at the keyboard with the light touch of a professional butcher.

“Obituaries for the young are hard,” Möller said tiredly.
“When someone dies unexpectedly, you have to start from scratch. It takes a lot of hard work.”

“And when someone dies
expectedly
?” said Hjelm.

“We have a store of obituaries.”

Hjelm couldn’t believe his ears. “You have a store of obituaries for
living
people? What are you saying?”

Möller sighed deeply. “It’s clear that you’re not particularly familiar with editorial work. Are we ever going to get this over with? Where were we?”

“Family relationships,” said Hjelm.

“Lars-Erik had lived alone for several years. He had two marriages behind him, with one son from each. I’ll get you the addresses.”

Möller paged through a large address book, made a few chicken scratches, and handed the slip of paper to Hjelm.

“Thanks. How was he as a writer?”

Möller considered this question quietly. “He was one of the country’s leading literary critics. An author could rise or fall on what he wrote. His byline on a piece always gave it a certain … aura. A superb and versatile critic, who didn’t hesitate to be tough. And an underrated author.”

“He wrote books too?”

“Not recently, but there are a few gems from the seventies.”

“I skimmed some old arts and leisure sections out there and found several of his pieces. He didn’t seem to like literature very much.”

Möller rubbed his beard and peered through the window at the pale blue sky. “Literature today is beneath contempt,” he said at last. “Positively beneath it. The young authors have completely misunderstood their vocation. In general, we don’t write very much about literature anymore.”

“No, I saw that you prioritize reporting on society and film festivals and interviews with rock bands and official speeches
at awards ceremonies and conflicts within various bureaucratic organizations.”

Möller thrust himself forward, over the desk, and his eyes drilled into Hjelm’s. “And what are you? A critic?”

“More like a bit surprised.” Hjelm paged through his notebook. “I found an article in which a critic writes that critics read far too many books and that they ought to jog instead.”

“Life is more than books.”

“Well, that’s certainly a truism. If I were to claim that I would be a better police officer if I spent less time on police work, that would be a breach of duty. Then there was an article about how authors today devote far too much time to sitting and pondering the mystery of life. I thought that was the whole point.”

“It’s clear that you know very little about this business,” Möller muttered, staring out the window.

“And
you
write that the young ones are a gang of anemic navel-gazers without direction. Here are some quotes from Lars-Erik Hassel’s pieces: ‘The question is if it’s possible to get very much more out of literature.’ ‘Poetry and the visual arts alike seem to have had their day.’ ‘The great account of the present day that we were all waiting for never came; this is the tragic nature of literature.’ ‘Poetry seems to be nothing more than a game.’ ‘Literature has long been the most overrated art form of our time.’ ”

When no response came from Möller, it was Hjelm’s turn to thrust himself across the desk. “Was it not the case that one of Sweden’s most influential literary critics didn’t like literature at all?”

Möller’s gaze was stuck up among the nonexistent clouds. He was gone. His exhaustion seemed monumental. It extended right into the next life.

Because he didn’t have much more to add, and because Möller was unlikely to lift a finger in the next half-hour, Hjelm
decided to leave this site of human catastrophe. He stepped out into the editorial office and closed the door on the fossilized chief editor.

He walked over to the young man with the pecked-out obituary. He had stopped pecking and was now reading through the text on his monitor.

“Is it finished?” Hjelm asked.

The man gave a start, as though a dumdum bullet had hit him and torn him in two. “Oh, sorry,” he panted, once he collected himself. “Yes, it’s finished. As finished as it can be, under the circumstances.”

“May I have a copy?”

“It will be in tomorrow’s paper.”

“I would like to have it
now
, if it’s possible.”

The man looked at him with surprise. “Of course.” He pressed a key, and a laser printer expelled sheets of paper. “It’s always a pleasure to be read.”

Hjelm skimmed through the text, which was signed Erik Bertilsson.

“In accordance with all the rules of the genre,” said Bertilsson.

Hjelm peered up from the paper and zeroed in on him. “Rather than those of the truth?”

Erik Bertilsson got what was, to an experienced interrogator, a very familiar now-I’ve-said-too-much look and fell silent.

“What kind of writer was Hassel, actually?” Hjelm said. “I’ve read a few rather strange pieces.”

“Read the obituary,” said Bertilsson resolutely. “All I have to say is there.”

Hjelm looked around the editorial office. Isolated staff members were running around. No one seemed to be taking any notice of the police visit.

“Listen carefully, Erik,” he said sharply. “I’m only trying to get an accurate picture of a murder victim. Any information
that can contribute to the capture of the killer is of the utmost importance. What you say will stay within the investigation. It’s not a matter of slandering someone publicly.”

“Let’s go to the stairs,” Bertilsson sighed, standing up heavily.

They got to the empty stairwell.

Bertilsson squirmed as though he were standing in the flames of hell. After a moment he came to a decision, released his discomfort, and let out the ballast, a heavy chunk of frustration.

“It was an assignment to write this obituary, not my choice,” he said with a glance over his shoulder. “And I’ve never felt like such a hypocrite. Hassel was part of Möller’s inner circle. They’re the ones who make the decisions, quite simply, a clique from the same generation and with the same values, which they think are the same ones as in the golden sixties but in fact are the diametrical opposite. They rabidly try to ring in
the sign of the times
, and they happily follow the shallowest trends, but their willingness to let outsiders into their inner circle is nonexistent. Hassel had power. He was allowed to write about whatever books he wanted, and he always chose things he didn’t understand, just so he could cut those authors off at the knees. All his aesthetic convictions date back to the sixties, and they’re based on the pretense that literature is, by definition, fraud. He wrote a theoretical Maoist manifesto and a few documentary novels in the seventies, but since then all his work has been based on raking people over the coals. It’s almost impossible to count the promising authors he’s single-handedly sunk.”