It was a different story with Justine Lindberger, a young, dark beauty with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs whose equally young husband and coworker Eric hadn’t come home the night before. While the cooler box was opened, she waited, paralyzed with fear, radiating desperation, convinced that the corpse would be her murdered husband-and when that turned out not to be the case, she broke down and wept. Norlander’s attempts to comfort her were beyond awkward; he had to call in personnel from psych, who gave her an injection of a rather heavy sedative. When Norlander sat back down at the desk, his body was trembling.
Last up was Egil Högberg, an old rapids-shooter from Dalsland who’d had both legs amputated. He’d been driven down from the nursing home in his wheelchair by a young female aide.
“My son,” he said to Norlander in a toothless, quavering voice. “It must be my son.”
Norlander did everything in his power to ignore Högberg’s monstrously bad breath. The gum-chewing aide just rolled her eyes. He let the odd couple into the room and opened the cooler.
“It’s him,” Högberg declared calmly, placing his rheumatic hand on the dead man’s icy cheek. “My only son.”
The aide tapped Norlander lightly on the shoulder, and they left Högberg alone with the dead man. Norlander closed the door.
The aide said, “He doesn’t have a son.”
Norlander looked at her skeptically and peered through the window at the elderly man, who was now laying his cheek against the corpse’s.
“He gets unmanageable,” she continued, “if he doesn’t get to come down and look at the new bodies. We don’t know why, but it’s best to let him have his way.”
Norlander didn’t take his eyes from the old man.
“Presumably he’s preparing to die,” said the aide.
“Or?” said Norlander.
“Or else he’s an old necrophile,” said the aide, blowing a big pink bubble.
It was quiet for a moment. Then someone said, “Or else he wishes he had a son.”
After a while, Norlander realized that he’d said it himself.
He opened the door. Egil Högberg looked up from the corpse and sent his crystal-clear gaze straight into Norlander’s. “The line of descent is broken,” he said.
Viggo Norlander closed his eyes and kept them shut tight for a long time.
14
The first thing that struck Gunnar Nyberg was the contrast between LinkCoop’s headquarters in Täby and its warehouses in Frihamnen. The only link between them was the vulgar logo that blinked in all the colors of the rainbow as though advertising Stockholm’s most lavish brothel.
At closer glance, the 1980s-style two-story building was a well-camouflaged skyscraper that had prophesied the conclusion of the decade by falling over. The luxurious atmosphere inside the company gates had more in common with a golf club than with a factory building. LinkCoop didn’t manufacture anything; the company was merely a link between east and west, as advanced computer equipment made in a variety of places streamed in from the east and out toward the west and vice versa. Nyberg didn’t really understand how this enterprise could be as profitable as the building suggested it was. On the other hand, economics was not his strong suit, and he felt some trepidation about the terminology that he would soon have to face.
Nyberg drove his Renault past a security gate that was disguised as a vehicle reception, then headed toward the main building. He obstinately parked across two handicap spots, because he couldn’t imagine that anyone with a handicap worked at LinkCoop; the spots were the only two empty ones and reeked of artificial political correctness. Striding through the overzealous rain, he couldn’t see a single car in the lot that had cost less than 200,000 kronor. Either the janitors and receptionists used public transportation, or there was a hidden lower-class parking lot somewhere, along the lines of a good old kitchen entrance to a gentry flat.
In other words, Gunnar Nyberg was properly worked up as he loped through the autumn storm, fat jiggling, and arrived at the main entrance. Once he was inside the automatic doors, he shook off the water like a walrus on amphetamines. The twin receptionist beauties had clearly been forewarned, for their only reaction to this antibody in their bloodstream was a tandem smile of the kind that could soothe even the most inflamed of souls.
“Mr. Nilsson is waiting for you, Mr. Nyberg,” they said in unison.
Mr. Nyberg stared at them. Was this Villa Villekulla? Was Pippi Longstocking’s horse waiting in the wings?
He collected himself, returned the smile, and accepted what tonight’s dreams would have in store. That was apparently the duo’s mission: to supply the customer’s subconscious with a positive image; LinkCoop would be present at even the most intimate moments.
The exquisitely beautiful duo were separated, however, as one of the receptionists led him through the sober rooms, his impressions of which were unfortunately diminished by the tempting dance of the miniskirt. In only a matter of seconds, Nyberg had been transformed from a radical champion of the working class to a drooling dirty old man-the result of some carefully planned PR work.
The seduction of capitalism, he thought helplessly.
Finally they reached a door, which opened the instant they reached it. The security system must have been perfect. A thoroughly elegant middle-aged woman appeared, nodded curtly to the receptionist, noticed Nyberg’s wandering eyes, and shook his hand firmly. “Betty Rogèr-Gullbrandsen,” she said, “Mr. Nilsson’s secretary. Please follow me.”
Pippi Longstocking herself, Nyberg thought inappropriately, downgraded to Mr. Nilsson’s secretary. He followed Betty Rogèr-Gullbrandsen into a gigantic room where the only piece of furniture was a large desk. It was empty except for a well-designed computer and an equally well-designed telephone, on which she pressed a button and said: “Detective Inspector Gunnar Nyberg from the National Criminal Police is here.”
“Send him in,” replied an authoritative, distortion-free voice from within the keypad.
Betty Rogèr-Gullbrandsen gestured toward a door at the far end of the room and sat down at the computer without conferring upon him a single further look.
Nyberg stepped into the CEO’s office, which was about twice as large as the secretary’s atrium. The whole room-it was sacrilege to call it an office-had a well-balanced, utterly showy un-showiness; a splendid, crystal-clear, pure style. An impeccably dressed man in his forties stood behind a gleaming oak desk and extended his hand. Nyberg took it. His handshake was firm, to say the least.
“Henrik Nilsson, CEO,” said the man distinctly.
“Nyberg,” said Nyberg.
Henrik Nilsson pointed at a chair in front of the desk, and Nyberg took a seat.
“I don’t believe I said either ‘detective inspector’ or ‘National Criminal Police’ when I announced myself out there,” said Nyberg.
Henrik Nilsson smiled self-confidently. “It’s Betty’s job to have all available information.”
“And to show it,” Nyberg said, but was ignored. He was used to it.
“National Criminal Police,” Nilsson said. “That means that you think there’s a link between the banal break-in at our warehouse and the corpse outside it.”
“It’s likely.”
“And furthermore, it means that the corpse isn’t just any corpse, but a corpse of national concern. And furthermore, that LinkCoop has somehow been dragged into a national murder case, which we would prefer not to happen. In other words, we’re at your service.”