Things were about the same when it came to the potential criminal behavior of visiting Americans. There Norlander was the one holding the nonexistent reins; he thought it was taking an unusually long time for the mental dunce cap to wear off. A man who was unwise enough to call himself Reynold Edwins attracted Norlander’s attention, more because of his name than because of his activities, which consisted of going around to primary schools in Malmö and picking up girls for porn films. Three American businessmen purchased sexual favors at porn clubs in Gothenburg and, when picked up, firmly maintained that it was illegal for this to be illegal. An unidentified American had had a forbidden key copied at a shoe repair shop in Gärdet; the owner hadn’t called the police until afterward, which resulted in charges being brought against him, too. Another unidentified American had been seen dealing hash on Narvavägen; apparently he had a bad map. A third naïvely exposed himself in Tantolunden and was assaulted by a women’s soccer team. A fourth bought a sailboat with thousand-kronor notes that had been badly photocopied; unfortunately the owner had been so drunk that it took him a day to realize it, and by then the American had already performed the unlikely achievement of driving the sailboat through a shop window in Vaxholm.
And so it went, uninteresting through and through.
Chavez became more and more virtual; Söderstedt drove around in his Audi, personally investigating Americans staying in lodgings fit for both princes and paupers; and Hultin endured long, chaotic crisis meetings with Mörner and the national police commissioner, during which he entertained himself by thinking about what sort of wrenches the young Communist Mörner could conceivably have thrown into the works of the KGB.
Kerstin Holm worked intensively with the material from the FBI, but the descriptions of the victims from the 1970s had faded considerably, and the KGB hypothesis seemed less plausible. She noted with some interest that Hjelm was in her presence a bit more often than usual. They reasoned back and forth but never got further than they had in that single associative minute when they helped each other deliver a joint hypothesis that no one really believed.
Without his virtual office mate, Hjelm turned to Kerstin, and to his surprise, the very fact that he and Cilla were doing better than they had for a long time made him draw closer to Kerstin. There were so many things he wanted to ask her, but all that came out were indirect insinuations, such as when he played the tape of the interviews with Lars-Erik Hassel’s two exes. First the ex-wife:
“You were together during his more political period, right?”
“Political… hmm…”
“He did take an active interest in the weaker members of society…”
“Well… I don’t know…”
“An active, genuine interest.”
“Yes… well… um… What are you getting at?”
“And then his interest in literature. Incredibly strong.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
It had been a catastrophe, and he very much deserved the stern side-glance he received from Kerstin. Then he fast-forwarded the tape to the other ex, the young woman who had left Hassel before he had time to meet his second son:
“Has he seen his son since?”
“Yes… well… um…”
“Has he ever met him at all?”
“I don’t think you could say he has. I’m not one hundred percent sure that he knew he existed.”
Rewind, and back to the first:
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Well, there are enemies and then there are enemies… You can’t be a critic for that long without attracting someone’s hatred, that’s for sure.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Throughout the years there have been a few, three of them. And more recently I’m quite sure he received a steady stream of hate e-mails, all from the same nut job.”
“Hate e-mails?”
“Hate letters via e-mail.”
“How do you know that? Did you still see each other?”
“Laban told me. They saw each other once or twice a month.”
“Your son?”
“Yes. There was some kind of crazy person who sent him e-mail. That’s all I know.”
Then fast-forward again to the younger woman.
“How old is your son now?”
“Six. His name is Conny.”
“Why did you leave him? It happened so quickly, after all. He didn’t even have time to see his son.”
“He had absolutely no desire to see him. My water broke as he was packing to go to the book fair in Gothenburg. He called for two taxis, one to Arlanda for himself, one to Karolinska for me. Gallant, huh? Then he fucked around like a madman down there, while his son was being born. Maybe he had time to fertilize another one before the first one came out. Always a bun in the oven.”
“How do you know that? That he-was so sexually active in Gothenburg?”
“One of his colleagues called me, actually. A woman. I don’t remember her name.”
“She called you? At the hospital? To tell you your husband was fucking around? So tasteful.”
“Yes. No, not very-tasteful.”
“Didn’t you think it was a bit strange?”
“Yes, actually. But she sounded convincing, and besides, I could see when he left that it was over. He thought one kid was enough. Conny was an accident, but I didn’t want to have an abortion.”
“Can you remember what this colleague’s name was?”
“I’m pretty sure her first name was Elisabeth. After that, I don’t know. Bengtsson? Berntsson? Baklava? Biskopsnäsa?”
And rewinding again. Kerstin watched him rewind with raised eyebrows.
“Do you know if these hate e-mails are still on the computer?”
“No. The only thing I know is that Laban said that they upset Lars-Erik. I can’t really picture it, but that’s what he said.”
“How old is Laban?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Does he live at home?”
“He has an apartment on Kungsklippan, if you want to verify my statement, or whatever it’s called. Laban Jeremias Hassel.”
“What does he do?”
“Now don’t laugh. [Pause.] He studies literature.”
Hjelm pressed stop again and was just about to fast-forward when Kerstin pressed his very own stop button; it seemed necessary. “That’s enough.”
He stared at her strangely, as though from another world, then stopped reluctantly and returned to the present. He sank down into the chair across from her and scanned the room. It was the office that Kerstin shared with Gunnar Nyberg, the choir room. A serene but chilly autumn light streamed in through its always-half-open windows. Sometimes they sat here and practiced scales and sang in harmony, a cappella, he with his strong bass, she with her husky alto. Hjelm compared it to his own office, where Chavez surfed the Internet full time and where the conversation these days mostly seemed to involve soccer. He felt short of breath. He needed a little John Coltrane. And maybe he would be brave enough to return to Kafka, even though the worth of literature had been drastically devalued during the last few days.
But most of all he needed to tell Kerstin something.
He wondered what it was.
“Can’t you give me a summary instead?” she said.
He looked at her. She didn’t turn away. Neither of them understood the other’s look.
“Three things,” he said professionally. “One: pay a visit to the twenty-three-year-old literature-student son, Laban Hassel. Two: find out more about the colleague Elisabeth Biskopsnäsa, the one who called the hospital and tattled. Three: check whether those threatening e-mails are still on the computer, either at home or at the newspaper office.”