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.”