Was he waiting for the spirits of his wife and son to seek their vengeance?
No, his betrayal wasn’t of that kind. He could have taken his family and moved to America, of course – not having done so was, in itself, a betrayal of sorts. And of course, he could have protested loudly when his wife and son were slaughtered, but that wouldn’t have made any real difference.
No, this was something else, something worse. On that point, Söderstedt was in complete agreement with Paul. ‘I’ve got a vague feeling there’s something wrong somewhere,’ as he had said on the phone.
And then the second conversation had come.
From Hultin.
‘What do you say about the spookily beautiful Odessa?’
He would be leaving tomorrow. He would be leaving his neglected paradise and entering the wolf’s lair, having to avoid being robbed and shot by aggressive beggars, and having to coax reluctant Eastern European policemen and women without computers into working with him.
It was the choice he had made.
And he didn’t regret it for a second.
He glanced at his watch. It was time. He closed the document containing the drawing of Palazzo Riguardo and changed the CD for another, a newly bought one. He started the installation Wizard and opened a box on the table next to the computer. In the background, the cicadas were singing.
He took out a device that looked like a little flashlight, plugged it into his laptop and attached it to the top of his computer screen.
The installation was complete. He accepted all of its mysterious licence agreements and caught sight of himself on-screen. His face was dark.
He moved the floor lamp from behind him and pointed its beam of light at his face. As he did so, the face on the screen also lit up. For a moment, he thought it was Uncle Pertti he could see, the young Pertti, his hand gripping his sabre. So ludicrously similar to Arto Söderstedt. What was he doing there? A shudder ran through him.
Arto stuck out his tongue. On the computer screen, Uncle Pertti did the same.
The spell was broken.
He returned to his technology. It should all work now.
He got rid of his picture on-screen. It was his and his alone.
As he set up the Internet connection, the insects began to gather around the lone source of light. He could feel that his face was covered with unknown winged insects when a completely different but equally well-known face finally appeared on-screen, and he said:
‘Hello, wage labourers.’
31
CILLA LOOKED EXPECTANT as the hardened couple made their way in through an elegant doorway in Birkastan. The expression remained as they climbed the stairs – genuine art nouveau – and when it was still there as they reached a door marked with the neighbourhood’s only foreign name, even Paul Hjelm allowed himself to feel expectant.
Though it was almost half past seven.
She took hold of his arm in a way he remembered from their youth. It had been so long since she had done it that he almost felt moved.
‘Just think, finally getting to meet everyone,’ she said as he ceremoniously folded back the paper on the bunch of flowers he had just bought from the 7-Eleven on the corner.
‘You’ve met them before, haven’t you?’ he said, surprised.
‘No,’ she said, squeezing his arm.
He rang the bell.
Sara answered. She was wearing barely any make-up below her greenish crop, which seemed more straggly than usual in honour of the party; the simple, dark blue dress she was wearing made no attempt to hide her figure. She hugged them both and welcomed them in. The half-wilted bouquet from 7-Eleven was thankfully accompanied by a bottle of malt whisky.
She glanced at it, nodded, and whispered to Pauclass="underline" ‘You haven’t forgotten the golden rule, have you?’
Paul chuckled and shook his head.
To say not a single word about the ongoing case.
He would do everything in his power to keep that promise. But it wouldn’t be easy.
Jorge came to greet them from somewhere in the bowels of the flat. He was wearing a blue shirt and a brand-new beige linen suit. It looked exactly like his old one.
‘The food’s ruined now,’ he said, forcing two glasses of Martini Rosso into their hands.
‘Oh,’ said Cilla as she hung up her coat. ‘Are we late?’
‘Ah,’ said Jorge. ‘You’re glowing, Cilla.’
‘Glowing?’ she said, hugging him.
He glanced at the bottle of whisky Sara handed him.
‘Cragganmore?’ he said.
‘Perfect for when you’re tired of the excesses,’ said Paul.
‘Well, come in and have a look round, then,’ Jorge said with a confident, welcoming gesture to the late-arriving couple. ‘To think that not even you’ve been here, Paul. That’s what I call social misery.’
They moved on from the narrow hallway through a curtain of knotted Indian beads.
‘Chilean,’ said Jorge.
The scent of garlic-saturated food beckoned them into the living room. On the way, Paul glanced into the kitchen. It was big and old and looked cosy. Though a wooden floor in a kitchen seemed a bit unusual. On the gas hob, a couple of stews were bubbling away.
‘Gas,’ he said, pointing.
‘Unrivalled,’ said Jorge. ‘But don’t peep yet.’
The women had already reached the living room. They were leaning over a group of people sitting around a small Indian-looking glass table. Each of them seemed to be holding a glass of reddish liquid.
Apart from one, who was holding a baby bottle. She was sitting on Viggo Norlander’s lap.
Paul gave them a general wave and cast a quick glance around the room. It was quite big, with a relatively large amount of mixed furniture. There wasn’t much space – probably because of the abnormally big circular table in the middle of the room taking it all up. A surprising number of books, and a couple of genuine-looking paintings on the walls. The overall impression was one of good, albeit chaotic, taste.
Something which probably matched Jorge and Sara fairly well.
Slightly distracted, he ruffled little Charlotte’s thin, dark blonde hair. Then he held his hand out to the woman by Viggo’s side. She had the same colour hair as her daughter and was wearing a sober floral dress; she looked as though she was rapidly approaching the fifty-year mark.
‘Paul,’ he said.
‘Astrid,’ she replied. ‘So you’re the famous Paul Hjelm. The master detective.’
Paul cast a surprised glance at Viggo, who shrugged ambiguously and threw a giggling Charlotte up in the air.
‘Congratulations,’ Paul said.
‘What for?’ asked Astrid.
Paul cast yet another glance at Viggo, more uneasily this time, but Viggo simply continued throwing his daughter up in the air.
‘For the new addition to the family.’
‘Ah,’ Astrid replied, surprised but not angry. ‘Right, yes. Thanks.’
He turned to Viggo, pointed at little Charlotte, and said: ‘You must’ve been videotaping her too?’
‘She’s the one I’ve been practising on,’ Viggo replied, deadly serious.
Paul moved further along the sofa. He could see Cilla talking to Kerstin Holm out of the corner of his eye; it felt slightly odd.
A small, dark woman dressed in black held out her hand to him and exclaimed: ‘Ludmila.’
He couldn’t quite make the connection. He felt sluggish and ungainly. A fish on dry land.
‘Paul,’ he said, his gills flapping. ‘Hi.’
A bookcase swung to one side and an enormous body squeezed out from behind it.
‘Christ, that loo’s small,’ Gunnar Nyberg said, coming over to them. He headed straight for Cilla and greeted her politely, like a retired officer from the old guard.
‘Yeah,’ Jorge said loudly. ‘That’s the problem with this place. There’s no room for a washing machine.’
Only when Paul caught sight of Gunnar did he make the connection. Still holding the small, dark woman’s hand, he blurted out: ‘Right! Ludmila. The professor.’