proposed murder scene?’ he asked with a smile.
He gave his wife a hug and then led the way out to Hjelm’s car, ready for a temporary but much-longed-for comeback in the machinery of justice.
The sun was still shining.
9
JAN-OLOV HULTIN AGAIN made his entrance through the mysterious door on the far side of the room, which Jorge Chavez somewhat ironically called ‘Supreme Central Command’. The half-moon reading glasses were already perched on the wide bridge of his nose. Hultin turned to face the assembled members of the A-Unit. Everyone was leafing through their papers and notebooks.
‘So this morning the whole thing was made public,’ said Hultin grimly. ‘In all the newspapers simultaneously, by the way. Somebody was busy making calls. Or else there’s some sort of cooperation among all sectors of the media. We haven’t yet located the leak. Maybe it was simply impossible to keep such a major case secret. At least we had a day’s head start.’
He went over to the whiteboard, twisted the top off one of the felt markers and got ready to fire. The pen was now his service weapon.
‘At any rate, it looks as if some feverish activity has been going on inside your A-Unit brains today. Let’s see the results. Norlander?’
Viggo Norlander bent over his dark-blue notebook. ‘Modus operandi,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in contact with everybody from the FBI to Liechtenstein’s security force and done a whole bunch of cross-checking through the worldwide phone network. Three of the groups that are currently active consistently use shots to the head when it comes to blatant executions: a branch within the American mafia, under the mob boss Carponi, in Chicago, of all classic gangster cities; a semi-extinct separatist group from the Red Army Faction, under the command of Hans Kopff; and a minor Russian-Estonian crime group led by Mr Viktor X, which you might call a segment of the Russian mafia, whatever that label is now worth. Most cases have been executions of traitors or snitches; no instance has involved two, and only two, shots. So far I haven’t been able to track down any examples of two shots to the head. I’ll keep looking.’
‘Thanks, Viggo,’ said Hultin. He’d already filled a corner of the board with notes. ‘Nyberg and the enemies they had in common?’
The imposing Gunnar Nyberg seemed uncomfortable as he gripped a pen in his big right hand.
‘It looks like a dead end,’ he said dubiously. ‘I haven’t found any common enemies. Both men attended the Stockholm School of Economics, but Strand-Julén was seven years older, so they weren’t there at the same time. That’s the place where people tend to make friends and enemies for life. A couple of decades ago Daggfeldt kicked a colleague out of a business that they’d started together under the name of ContoLine. The man’s name is Unkas Storm. I located him, in a highly intoxicated state, at a small scrap-metal company in Bandhagen. He still harbours a deep hatred towards Daggfeldt. He said that he, quote, “danced on his coffin”, unquote, when he heard about the murder. But he doesn’t know Strand-Julén.
‘The latter has an ex-wife by the name of Johanna, whom he left without financial means after their divorce in ’72. Nobody could be as filled with hatred as she is, but it’s a strictly personal hatred. She hopes, quote, “to eat his liver before they cremate the swine, and that really should have been done while he could still feel the flames”, unquote. I spoke with the family members, who showed varying degrees of grief, and came to the conclusion that of the two, Daggfeldt, in spite of everything, will be missed more. Both his son, Marcus, aged seventeen, and his daughter, Maxi—’
‘Maxi?’ Hjelm interrupted him.
‘Apparently that’s her given name,’ said Nyberg, throwing out his hands.
‘Sorry. It’s just that Daggfeldt’s sailing boat is called the
Maxi
, so that’s why I … Go on.’
‘Marcus
He gave his wife a hug and then led the way out to Hjelm’s car, ready for a temporary but much-longed-for comeback in the machinery of justice.
The sun was still shining.
9
JAN-OLOV HULTIN AGAIN made his entrance through the mysterious door on the far side of the room, which Jorge Chavez somewhat ironically called ‘Supreme Central Command’. The half-moon reading glasses were already perched on the wide bridge of his nose. Hultin turned to face the assembled members of the A-Unit. Everyone was leafing through their papers and notebooks.
‘So this morning the whole thing was made public,’ said Hultin grimly. ‘In all the newspapers simultaneously, by the way. Somebody was busy making calls. Or else there’s some sort of cooperation among all sectors of the media. We haven’t yet located the leak. Maybe it was simply impossible to keep such a major case secret. At least we had a day’s head start.’
He went over to the whiteboard, twisted the top off one of the felt markers and got ready to fire. The pen was now his service weapon.
‘At any rate, it looks as if some feverish activity has been going on inside your A-Unit brains today. Let’s see the results. Norlander?’
Viggo Norlander bent over his dark-blue notebook. ‘Modus operandi,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in contact with everybody from the FBI to Liechtenstein’s security force and done a whole bunch of cross-checking through the worldwide phone network. Three of the groups that are currently active consistently use shots to the head when it comes to blatant executions: a branch within the American mafia, under the mob boss Carponi, in Chicago, of all classic gangster cities; a semi-extinct separatist group from the Red Army Faction, under the command of Hans Kopff; and a minor Russian-Estonian crime group led by Mr Viktor X, which you might call a segment of the Russian mafia, whatever that label is now worth. Most cases have been executions of traitors or snitches; no instance has involved two, and only two, shots. So far I haven’t been able to track down any examples of two shots to the head. I’ll keep looking.’
‘Thanks, Viggo,’ said Hultin. He’d already filled a corner of the board with notes. ‘Nyberg and the enemies they had in common?’
The imposing Gunnar Nyberg seemed uncomfortable as he gripped a pen in his big right hand.
‘It looks like a dead end,’ he said dubiously. ‘I haven’t found any common enemies. Both men attended the Stockholm School of Economics, but Strand-Julén was seven years older, so they weren’t there at the same time. That’s the place where people tend to make friends and enemies for life. A couple of decades ago Daggfeldt kicked a colleague out of a business that they’d started together under the name of ContoLine. The man’s name is Unkas Storm. I located him, in a highly intoxicated state, at a small scrap-metal company in Bandhagen. He still harbours a deep hatred towards Daggfeldt. He said that he, quote, “danced on his coffin”, unquote, when he heard about the murder. But he doesn’t know Strand-Julén.
‘The latter has an ex-wife by the name of Johanna, whom he left without financial means after their divorce in ’72. Nobody could be as filled with hatred as she is, but it’s a strictly personal hatred. She hopes, quote, “to eat his liver before they cremate the swine, and that really should have been done while he could still feel the flames”, unquote. I spoke with the family members, who showed varying degrees of grief, and came to the conclusion that of the two, Daggfeldt, in spite of everything, will be missed more. Both his son, Marcus, aged seventeen, and his daughter, Maxi—’
‘Maxi?’ Hjelm interrupted him.
‘Apparently that’s her given name,’ said Nyberg, throwing out his hands.
‘Sorry. It’s just that Daggfeldt’s sailing boat is called the
Maxi
, so that’s why I … Go on.’
‘Marcus
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