To the Top of the Mountain (4 page)

‘Why did you call the conversation which was going on behind the partner swappers “multicultural”?’ he managed to ask.

‘Because it was clearly a Swede in conversation with some southern friends, let’s say Turks.’

‘Or Basques.’

‘Basques?’ exclaimed Hjelm.

‘Or similar. Indians, perhaps. Probably South Mongolians.’

‘They were talking broken English on both sides. Fragments of the conversation reached our table.’

‘English? And they were sitting right next to the reader?’

‘Exactly. Though they disappeared later.’

‘When the killing took place,’ Hjelm pointed out.

‘Which we unfortunately missed. But suddenly they had all gone. Women were screaming, I remember. The pair of pairs didn’t manage their swap since the women suddenly turned hysterical. Perhaps we should have reacted to that.’

‘Perhaps,’ Hjelm allowed himself to say. ‘Perhaps it should have invited a moment’s consideration.’

‘Yeah, I saw him.’

Kerstin Holm and Paul Hjelm glanced at one another and then turned to give the man with the shaved head and thin blond moustache a doubly searching look.

‘You saw him?’ asked Holm. ‘That wasn’t what you said last night at Kvarnen. You told the Södermalm police night staff, and I quote, “I didn’t see anything.”’

‘It was late, I was tired and a bit drunk, and we were just about to make a move. The others were already outside in the street. I was still inside, paying. It was my round. I was pretty mad that I was stuck there in Kvarnen while the others went on to the next place, so I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’ve thought it over now, I saw him.’

The bald man was in his thirties, wearing quite a stylish pale suit with a yellow tie; he was a real powerhouse. Hjelm wondered if his jacket sleeves were hiding a range of prison tattoos. He leafed through his files and found the record for Carlstedt, Eskil, 700217–1516. Born in Bromma, salesman, living in Kungsholmen, Stockholm. It was clean. Not one little traffic offence.

No prison tattoos.

‘OK,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘What did you see?’

Eskil Carlstedt paused briefly, taking in air like a boxer does smelling salts, before getting started.

‘We had the table nearest the door. I was sitting with my back to the wall, so I was facing the bar. We got there pretty early, about seven thirty. The Hammarby tribe started to roll in just after nine. A bit surly, but hardly aggressive. One group took the last few seats, next to a little guy who was reading a book. Another group was standing next to our table. Then another gang appeared, six or seven people. They were a bit different. Aggression just beneath the surface, somehow. They were standing by the bar, the nearest section to us. Another bunch came in and found some space at the far end. The Smålanders, there were four of them, they were hemmed in between these two gangs. Then the Hammarby fans started attacking them. One of them prodded the biggest Smålander in the face with a rolled-up banner. He managed to run off with a friend. They got out onto the street, but two of them were left behind. It got all noisy and confused. One of the Smålanders pushed a guy over. He got back up slowly, and then suddenly he just hit the Smålander. I was busy paying. The guys had already gone, and the waitress was standing in the way, so I didn’t really see it happen. But I saw him when he ran past. He still had the handle of the glass in his hand. He was wearing a denim jacket, a Hammarby T-shirt and scarf, and he had mid-length, dirty-blond hair and a little moustache.’

‘Like yours?’ asked Hjelm.

Eskil Carlstedt stared at him, insulted.

‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Not at all. Like a country-bumpkin moustache. A mechanic’s moustache, biker moustache. Went partway down to his chin.’

‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’

‘I think so, yeah.’

‘How many of you were there together?’

‘Five.’

‘But when the doormen blocked the door, you were the only one left?’

‘The others had already gone. They were probably out on the street, waiting. We were going to the next pub. I was still there, paying. Like I said.’

‘Like you’ve said many times, yes,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘Who were you with?’

Eskil Carlstedt unfolded his arms, cast a quick glance at his watch and, finally, rubbed his hand over his smooth head.

‘Just a group of friends. A group of salesmen. We go out together a couple of times a week. Chase women.’

‘And listen to music,’ said Paul Hjelm.

Carlstedt groaned. ‘Music? Listen, how long’s this going to take? I’ve already waited out there for a couple of hours, and I’ve got somewhere to be.’

‘We’ve got a witness who says that you were sitting in complete silence, not uttering a word, and that at least one of you had earphones in.’

Carlstedt fell silent and looked at him furtively. Hesitant. He was thinking.

‘All right, OK, I understand. Yeah, Kalle’s in a band. Catwalks. Karl-Erik Bengtsson. We were listening to a demo. They could be really good. Record deal on the way.’

‘Were all of you listening?’

‘I don’t understand what this has to do with the killing.’

‘Were all of you listening?’

‘Yes. We only had one cassette player, so we had to take it in turns.’

‘So you passed the earphones around?’

‘Yeah. It took a while, so we didn’t talk so much.’

‘And the others? Can we get hold of them?’

‘Sure. They’re not witnesses, though. They were already outside when it happened.’

‘You said. Do you remember anything else?’

‘Like what?’ Eskil Carlstedt sighed, staring demonstratively at the clock.

‘Like who else was in the pub. We’re looking for witnesses.’

‘It was packed, for God’s sake. OK, OK, OK, fine. The people standing were mainly Hammarby fans. Before the tribe got there, everyone was sitting. The bar was empty, but all the seats were taken. Except next to the guy with the book. The first Hammarby fans sat there. Hen party at the tables over by the window. Next to them, nearest to us, a group of yuppies or IT types. Then the guy that was reading. Two horny-looking oldish couples. A gay guy on the prowl. A group of musician types. And a bit of a mixture nearest us, a group who looked like students.’

‘No one else?’ asked Kerstin Holm.

Hjelm watched her closely.

‘Not as far as I remember. But there must’ve been almost thirty Hammarby fans. Half of them disappeared before the doormen did anything, though.’

‘But your understanding is that there must be quite a few witnesses among the Hammarby fans?’

Eskil Carlstedt laughed gently.

‘At least ten of them were staring right at it. They’re not likely to say anything, though.’

Hjelm stood up and leaned forward over the table.

‘OK then, just two more things before you can run off to your eagerly awaited meeting. One: come with me to the police artist and help us with a picture of the perpetrator. Two: leave the names and details of your four friends with reception out there in the hall. OK?’

‘OK,’ sighed Eskil Carlstedt, looking at the clock.

They sat quietly, each lost in the other’s gaze. Or simply lost. A few years ago, they had slept together. Once. In Malmö. During the intense hunt for the so-called Power Killer. The A-Unit’s biggest – and, on reflection,
only
– success. The media had proclaimed them heroes. The group was made permanent, ‘the National Criminal Investigation Department’s Special Unit for Violent Crimes of an International Nature’. Then along came the Kentucky Killer. Their relationship grew into friendship, deep friendship. They had been to the USA together, working with the FBI. They had been called Jalm and Halm, like a wooden comedy duo from a variety show. It went well. They solved an old case. They captured a long-hunted serial killer. Then they made a wrong decision, and the story of the A-Unit came to an end. Bad blood always comes back round.

Though they would never say so again.

‘We could stop right now,’ said Hjelm. ‘It’s lunchtime. We could go out there into that waiting room where they’re getting more and more agitated and say: sorry, come back tomorrow. No one would hold it against us.’

He looked into her eyes. Searching. Trying to see what was going on. And she let herself be searched. Searching back.

‘No,’ she said.

‘No,’ he said.

In fact, each of them could probably see where the other’s thoughts were heading. That this was no longer just a pub brawl.

Kerstin Holm pressed a button on the intercom, and a tall, gangly man in his fifties entered the room. Wearing a tracksuit, he looked like a jogger who had lost his way.

‘Sten Bergmark – correct?’ asked Kerstin Holm, holding out her hand to him. He took it and kissed it lightly, gallantly. He greeted Hjelm in a more masculine fashion. Absurdly so, Hjelm thought when he felt the pain, a second or two later.

‘Hard Homo,’ said Sten Bergmark. ‘A real hit with the Hammarby tribe.’

Their eyes must have shown a glimmer of surprise because he added, while folding his two-metre-tall body between the table and the chair: ‘They don’t know that my name means stone, but they think I’m rock hard. Two birds with one stone, you could say.’

‘So you like to make eyes at the Hammarby tribe?’ asked Holm. ‘And they take it?’

‘I assume it appeals to their latent homosexuality, the kind which always pops up when men spend time with men.’

‘Has it ever worked for you?’

‘More often than you’d think, policewoman.’

‘Though this time it wasn’t the Hammarby tribe that you were eyeing up, was it?’

The tall man laughed.

‘I have to confess that I was longing more for some intellectual stimulation this time. Or pseudo-intellectual, at least. Probably felt that the lack of it was getting serious. You know, of course, that the most threatening thing about homosexuality through the years has been its ability to cross class boundaries?’

‘You live in Östermalm, the most exclusive neighbourhood in Stockholm, and you’re a director in the Patent Office, yes?’

‘Whose main dealings are with unemployed, working-class Hammarby fans from Bagarmossen and Rågsved.’

‘Pseudo-intellectual, by the way?’

‘The chap with the book.’

‘But why “pseudo”?’

‘It seemed forced, with that book. Like he was sort of showing off with an education that really, deep down, he didn’t have. And I wasn’t alone in eyeing him up, as you so tastefully put it, policewoman. He was a tasty little titbit. You don’t happen to have his address, do you?’

‘Not alone?’

‘Nope,’ said Sten “Hard Homo” Bergmark. ‘A group of macho gays were staring at him the whole time.’

‘A group of macho gays?’

‘You’re acting like my psychoanalyst right now, policewoman. Five hundred kronor an hour to repeat what I’ve just said.’

‘The difference being that I don’t earn five hundred kronor an hour.’

‘The table next to the door – how can I describe them? Skinheads who’ve passed the age limit. Thoroughbred Swedish bodybuilders. Five of them.’

‘And they were all staring at the reader?’

‘Three of them, the ones with their backs to the wall. Two were sitting with their backs to the room. They weren’t staring, for obvious reasons.’

‘And you’re sure they were staring at the reader?’

‘That’s certainly how my competition-conscious desire interpreted it. I was jealous. Who’d choose an eel if he’s got five beefsteaks within reach?’

‘Who else would they have been able to see?’

‘My God, policewoman. I only had eyes for him.’

‘Try.’

Sten Bergmark sat stock-still. The scene loomed in his mind.

‘I was sitting at the table nearest the bar. A group of past-it cultural types were sitting next to me, discussing which Cornelis song should be sung from the as-yet unbuilt minaret on the other side of the park. Two couples were sitting right in front of me, quite unashamedly discussing their sexual fantasies. Behind them, next to our reader and by the wall, some foreign gentlemen were speaking in English with a Swede who was sitting with his back to me. They must’ve been in the skinheads’ field of vision. The student gang on the other side of our reader, too. And possibly some of the tipsy hen party by the window.’

‘Hmm,’ said Kerstin Holm.

‘Hmm,’ said Paul Hjelm.

The Hard Homo clasped hands behind his neck and leaned back.

‘But, noble police folk,’ he exclaimed, ‘wasn’t it a death we were meant to be discussing?’

4

ARTO SÖDERSTEFT HAD
decided to stop driving. He didn’t own a car, and drove only rarely on duty. Still, he had now done almost two hundred kilometres behind the wheel on a midsummer’s morning which had defied all adverse weather reports, and as his tired service Volvo left the nourishing plains of Närke county and turned off towards the waste ground beneath Kumla prison, he could no longer deny it.

Driving was fun.

Since he was an active member of an association which wanted to drastically reduce traffic in the inner city, especially in Södermalm, and particularly on Bondegatan where he and his large family lived, that admission was made somewhat shamefully.

He eased off the accelerator, changed down to a lower gear, and turned to the passenger seat on which he was carrying horse feed.

A hay sack.

He poked the hay sack. It didn’t move. He poked it a little harder. It came to life, reaching instinctively for its shoulder holster.

Viggo Norlander woke up.

A magnificent patch of white baby sick had dried onto the right shoulder of his leather jacket. Arto Söderstedt laughed.

‘I’ve had five of them,’ he said in his clear Finland-Swedish accent. ‘Five babies have been sick on my shoulders. And still I never,
never
looked as wretched as you already do after your very first night.’

‘Shut up,’ croaked Viggo Norlander, trying to straighten himself up. Disturbing sounds were coming from his large body.

It was a strange night he had behind him. A manic-depressive night. Abrupt shifts between utter happiness and utter horror.

He had spent a night alone with his two-week-old daughter for the very first time.