Bad Blood: A Crime Novel (21 page)

“Come in” came a thunderous voice.

Arto Söderstedt opened the door into an elegant atrium with a mute secretary and then entered an even more elegant office with a view of the Stockholm Sound. Anders Wahlberg was in his early fifties and wore his corpulence with the same tangible pride as he did his mint-green tie; it looked like Arto’s youngest daughter’s bib after a full-blown food fight.

“Arto Söderstedt,” said Arto Söderstedt. “National Criminal Police.”

“Wahlberg,” said Wahlberg. “I understand it’s about Lindberger. What a story. Eric couldn’t have had a single enemy in the whole wide world.”

Söderstedt sat on a chair across from Wahlberg’s candelabra-adorned mahogany desk. “What did Lindberger work on?”

“Both of the spouses concentrate on the Arab world. They have primarily devoted themselves to business with Saudi Arabia and have worked with the embassy there. They’re young and promising. Future top diplomats, both of them. We thought. Is it really an American serial killer?”

“It seems so,” Söderstedt said curtly. “How old are they? Or were?”

“Justine is twenty-eight; Eric was thirty-three. Dying at thirty-three …”

“That was the average age of death in the Middle Ages.”

“Certainly,” said Wahlberg, surprised.

“Did they always work together?”

“Essentially. They had slightly different concentrations with their business contacts. In general, their tasks were the same: to facilitate trade between Sweden and, first and foremost, Saudi Arabia. They had close cooperation with industry representatives from both countries.”

“Different concentrations?”

“Eric worked primarily with the big Swedish export firms. Justine worked with the somewhat smaller ones. Simply put.”

“Did they always travel together?”

“Not always, no. They made lots of trips back and forth and weren’t always synchronized.”

“And no enemies at all?”

“No, absolutely not. Not a single problem. Irreproachable and solid work, in general. Cash cows, you could have said, if it didn’t sound so vulgar. Justine was to have traveled down there one of these days, but I’m assuming she won’t be able to now. The plan was for Eric to be based at home for a few more months. Now it will be home base forever and ever amen.”

“Do you know what Justine’s trip ‘one of these days’ was about?”

“Not in detail. She was going to brief me today, actually. Some kind of problem with new legislation about small business trade. A meeting with Saudi government representatives.”

“And with the best will in the world, you can’t imagine that Eric’s death was because of anything other than randomness or fate?”

Anders Wahlberg shook his head and looked down at his desk. He seemed on the verge of tears.

“We were friends,” he said. “He was like a son to me. We had booked time to play golf this weekend. It’s inconceivable, horrible. Was he—tortured?”

“I’m afraid he was,” said Söderstedt, realizing that his sympathetic tone sounded false, so he changed to a harsher one. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you how important it is that we catch this murderer. Is there anything else you can remember, professionally or privately, that might be of significance? The tiniest little thing could be important.”

Wahlberg shoved his sorrow behind the mask of a true diplomat and appeared to think it over.

“I can’t think of anything. Between you and me, they were probably the only truly happy couple I know. There was a natural affinity between them. I don’t have any children of my own, and I’ll miss Eric as I’d miss a son. I’ll miss his laugh, his natural integrity, his humble composure. Shit.”

“Can you think of any reason for him to have been at Frihamnen at two-thirty in the morning?”

“No. It sounds crazy. He hardly ever even went out for a beer after work on Fridays. He always went straight home to Justine.”

“I need to take a peek at his office. And if you could make sure that all his data files are copied and sent to me, I would be extra grateful.”

Anders Wahlberg nodded mutely and stood. He took Söderstedt out into the corridor and stopped in front of Lindberger’s door. Then he disappeared back into his den of sorrow.

Söderstedt took a few steps. The door to the right of Eric Lindberger’s was Justine’s. The spouses lived and worked literally side by side. He went into Eric’s office.

It was smaller than Wahlberg’s, it lacked the secretary’s atrium, and the view wasn’t of the Sound but of Fredsgatan.
There was a connecting door into his wife’s office; he checked and found it unlocked.

The desk contained a moderate jumble of work papers, nothing more. A wedding picture showed a very young, dark Justine and a slightly older but just as dark Eric. They were smiling the same broad smile, and it didn’t seem nearly as pasted-on as the genre invites; it was professionally practiced but natural nonetheless. The happy couple gave the impression of belonging to a higher class of citizen by virtue of birth and force of habit, with full knowledge of all its etiquette. Neither of them appeared to have fought particularly hard for their career; on the contrary, both seemed born to be diplomats.

But perhaps he was reading too much into a standard photograph.

As for the rest of the room, Söderstedt found some notes written on everything from official Ministry of Foreign Affairs stationery to yellow Post-its, as well as a rather thick planner; he hunted for the correct term,
fax
something,
Filofax
—was that it? In any case, he collected everything, put it into his briefcase, and took it with him as he opened the connecting door and slipped into Justine’s office. It was all but identical to her husband’s.

He inspected her desk, too. It was decorated with the same wedding photo, or rather another from the same series. Their smiles were a bit less pronounced, and there was something less self-sufficient in it; a vague sense of unease hovered over them, a disturbance. The minor difference between the photos spoke to Söderstedt’s extremely well-developed sense of nuance.

Just as in her husband’s office, in Justine’s there were many notes scribbled on various pieces of paper, on the desk and in the drawers, which he rooted through even though the act could hardly be characterized as legitimate. He copied the occasionally cryptic notes and fished an identical Filofax out of a desk drawer. He peered around the room and spotted what he
was looking for, a small copy machine, and he nervously copied a month forward and a month backward in the planner; that ought to be enough.

He packed the copied notes and the photocopies into his briefcase, next to what he had already confiscated, and put Justine Lindberger’s Filofax back where he’d found it. Then he returned to Eric’s office, stepped out into the corridor, and went down the stairs. He nodded cheerfully at the receptionist, who looked as if she’d been eating dog poop, opened his glorious Bamse umbrella, and rushed out into the pouring rain.

He’d had to park his service Audi on the other side of Gustav Adolfs Torg, over by Operan, and now he ran straight across the square with his briefcase glued to his body to keep it dry; the Bamse umbrella hardly protected more than his head.

He jumped into the Audi and opened the briefcase. He skimmed through the pale copies of Justine Lindberger’s planner so that he would have a few trump cards in his hand when he met the recent widow; he hoped he wouldn’t have to use them.

Then he turned the car out along the Stockholm Sound, drove past Operakällaren, crossed Blasieholmen and Nybrokajen, drove up Sibyllegatan, and took a right onto Riddargatan at the Army Museum; the stupid hot-air balloon that had been filled with tourists and raised up and down all summer was still there, but it looked deserted in the rain.

Partway up the hill he stopped, did a seriously illegal parking job outside the unloading dock of a boutique, and rushed into a doorway where, sheltered from the rain, he pressed the intercom button next to the names
ERIC AND JUSTINE LINDBERGER
.

After four rings he heard a faint “Yes?”

“Justine Lindberger?”

“Not the press again, I hope?”

“The police. Detective Inspector Arto Söderstedt.”

“Come in.”

The lock buzzed and he went in, climbed six elevator-free flights of stairs, and found Justine Lindberger standing in the door. Viggo Norlander hadn’t been exaggerating when he described her delicate beauty in fairly unpoetic terms.

“Söderstedt,” he panted, waving his police ID. “I hope I’m not disturbing you too much.”

“Come in,” she said again. Her voice was weak from crying.

The apartment looked about as he had expected: elegant through and through, high-class but not flashy—rather, austere and subtle. He fumbled internally for adjectives.

In the living room Justine Lindberger offered him a spot on the leather sofa, which seemed unused. Of course, it was comfortable to the point of immediately inducing sleepiness. Across a low, lemon-shaped glass table, she sat down on the edge of a stylish Windsor chair. A glass door led to a balcony that looked out on Nybroviken and Skeppsholmen.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. “Have the media been difficult?”

“Yes, I’ve been feeling horribly pressed.”

It never bodes well to start off with a misunderstanding, so he refrained from quibbling over the meaning of the word
press
. In addition, he had to decide quickly whether to use the informal version of the pronoun
you
or the more formal one—Swedish has both. He decided on informal: “Can you think of any reason at all for your husband’s murder?”

“No.” She shook her head and scrupulously avoided meeting his eyes, as she had since he arrived. “If it’s a serial killer, I guess it was just by chance. The most awful kind imaginable.”

“There’s no other possibility? It’s not something connected with your contacts in the Arab world?”

“Our contacts have been utterly peaceful.”

“You were supposed to go to Saudi Arabia on Friday. What was that all about?”

She finally met his gaze. Her dark brown eyes were brimming with sorrow, but for a split second he seemed to see a deeper sorrow there, a guilt even deeper than the survivor always feels toward the dead partner; all the unfinished things that would forever remain unfinished, everything a person ought to have said but had always put off. It was something more than that, he was certain of it, but her eyes moved away before he had time to define it.

“It was about details of some new Saudi import laws—the consequences for small Swedish businesses. What could that have to do with this?”

“Most likely nothing. I just have to get a clear picture of the situation. For example, is there anyone who would profit if you were excluded from the meeting?”

She nodded heavily, then met his gaze again; there might have been a tiny new spark in her eyes. “Do you mean that it might
not
have anything to do with—what was he called—the Kentucky Killer?” She spat out the word.

“I’m trying to find possibilities other than pure chance,” Söderstedt replied mildly.

“My job is to facilitate the business activity of Swedish companies in Saudi Arabia, at the expense of domestic and other foreign companies. For the time being, I’m the only person who is completely familiar with the situation, and my absence could potentially mean a certain competitive advantage for companies from other countries.”

“Which sectors are affected by these new Saudi laws?”

“Primarily the machine industry. But the changes in question are far too small to motivate anyone to commit any sort of crime, least of all murder.”

Söderstedt nodded. “How would you describe your relationship with Eric?”

“It was very good,” she said immediately. “Very, very good. In all ways.”

“Isn’t it difficult to work alongside your husband?”

“On the contrary. We share an interest. Shared. Past tense!” she shouted, then suddenly stood and ran to the bathroom. He heard the faucet running as ferociously as on an upper-class Japanese toilet.

Söderstedt got up and started walking around the apartment. It gradually dawned on him that it was much larger than his first impression had led him to believe. He walked and walked, but it never ended, and then he was suddenly back where he’d started. Three doors led out into the stairwell; the Lindberg home encompassed the entire floor, which had originally been divided into three apartments. He counted at least ten rooms. Three bathrooms. Two kitchens. Why two kitchens?

Employees of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, he knew, had a good basic salary and their daily allowance nearly doubled it, but an apartment like this must have cost tens of millions of kronor. Likely a substantial amount of family capital had been invested from both sides.

He sat down, and when she came back, he looked as though he hadn’t moved. Her face was reddish, as if it had just been scrubbed. Otherwise everything was the same.

“Please forgive me.” She returned to the edge of the white Windsor chair.

“No problem,” he said grandly. “You don’t have any children?”

She shook her head. “I’m only twenty-eight. We still had plenty of time.”

“This is a pretty big apartment for two people.”

She met his gaze, immediately on the defensive. “Shall we stick to the point?” she asked cuttingly.

“I apologize, but we do need a clear picture of the circumstances of the inheritance. What are they? Do you inherit everything?”

“Yes. Yes, I inherit everything. Do you think I tortured my
own husband? Do you think I let him suffer for an hour of hell while I stuck horrific pincers into his neck?”

Now, now
, he thought.
Smooth things over now
.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I apologize.”

It wasn’t really enough. She had risen to her feet again and was half-shouting, the panic in her voice rising. “Small people like you can’t have the slightest idea of how much I loved him. And now he’s dead—gone—gone forever. Some fucking lunatic has tortured my beloved and thrown him into the sea. Can you even imagine what ran through his head during that last horrible hour? I know that the last thing he thought of was me; I have to find solace in the fact that it gave him comfort. It must have. It was my fault that he died! I should have died, not him! He died in my place!”