Chapter 12
Jan Bublanski had been looking forward to a day off and a long conversation with Rabbi Goldman of the Söder congregation about certain questions which had been troubling him recently, chiefly concerning the existence of God.
It would be going too far to say that he was becoming an atheist. But the very notion of a God had become increasingly problematic for him and he wanted to discuss his persistent feelings of the meaninglessness of it all, which were often accompanied by dreams of handing in his notice.
Bublanski certainly considered himself to be a good investigator. His record of clearing up cases was on the whole outstanding and occasionally he was still stimulated by the job. But he was not sure he wanted to go on investigating murders. He could learn some new skill while there was still time. He dreamed about teaching, helping young people to find their path and believe in themselves, maybe because he himself suffered from bouts of the deepest self-doubt — but he did not know which subject he would choose. He had never specialized in one particular field, aside from that which had become his lot in life: sudden evil death and morbid human perversions. That was definitely not something he wanted to teach.
It was 8.10 in the morning and he was at his bathroom mirror. He felt puffy, worn out and bald. Absent-mindedly he picked up I.B. Singer’s novel, The Magician of Lublin, which he had loved with such a passion that for many years he had kept it next to the lavatory in case he felt like reading it at times when his stomach was playing up. But now he only managed a few lines. The telephone rang and his mood did not improve when he recognized the number: Chief Prosecutor Richard Ekström. A call from Ekström meant not just work, but probably work with a political and media element to it. Ekström would otherwise have wriggled out of it like a snake.
“Hi, Richard, nice to hear from you,” Bublanski lied. “But I’m afraid I’m busy.”
“What...? No, no, not too busy for this, Jan. You can’t miss out on this one. I heard that you’d taken the day off.”
“That’s right, and I’m just off to...” He did not want to say to his synagogue. His Jewishness was not popular in the force “... see my doctor,” he went on.
“Are you sick?”
“Not really.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Nearly sick?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, in that case there’s no problem. We’re all nearly sick, aren’t we? This is an important case, Jan. The Minister of Enterprise has been in touch, and she agrees that you should handle the investigation.”
“I find it very hard to believe the minister knows who I am.”
“Well, maybe not by name, and she’s not supposed to be interfering anyway. But we’re all agreed that we need a big player.”
“Flattery no longer works with me, Richard. What’s it about?” he said, and immediately regretted it. Just asking was halfway to saying yes and he could tell that Ekström accepted it as such.
“Last night Professor Frans Balder was murdered at his home in Saltsjöbaden.”
“And who is he?”
“One of our best-known scientists, of international renown. He’s a world authority on A.I. technology.”
“On what?”
“He was working on neural networks and digital quantum processes, that sort of thing.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“He was trying to get computers to think, to replicate the human brain.”
Replicate the human brain? Bublanski wondered what Rabbi Goldman would make of that.
“They say he’s been a victim of industrial espionage in the past,” Ekström said. “And that’s why the murder is attracting the attention of the Ministry of Enterprise. No doubt you’re aware of the solemn declarations the minister has made about the absolute requirement to protect Swedish research and new technology.”
“Maybe.”
“It would seem that this Balder was under some sort of threat. He had police protection.”
“Are you saying he was killed while under police protection?”
“Well, it wasn’t the most effective protection in the world. It was Flinck and Blom from the regular force.”
“The Casanovas?”
“Yes. They were assigned the duty late last night at the height of the storm and the general confusion. But in their defence it has to be said that the whole situation was a total shambles. Balder was shot while our men were dealing with a drunk who had turned up at the house, out of nowhere. Unsurprisingly, the killer took advantage of that moment of inattention.”
“Doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it looks very professional, and on top of it all the burglar alarm seems to have been hacked.”
“So there were several of them?”
“We believe so. Furthermore, there are some tricky details.”
“Which the media are going to like?”
“Which the media are going to love,” Ekström said. “The lush who turned up, for example, was none other than Lasse Westman.”
“The actor?”
“The same. And that’s a real problem.”
“Because it’ll be all over the front pages?”
“Partly that, yes, but also because there’s a risk we’ll end up with a load of sticky divorce issues on our hands. Westman claimed he was there to bring home the eight-year-old son of his partner. Balder had the boy there with him, a boy who... hang on a moment... I want to get this right... who is certainly Balder’s biological son, but who, according to a custody ruling, he’s not competent to look after.”
“Why wouldn’t a professor who can get computers to behave like people be capable of looking after his own child?”
“Because previously he had shown a shocking lack of responsibility. He was a completely hopeless father, if I’ve understood it right. It’s all rather sensitive. This little boy, who wasn’t even supposed to have been at Balder’s, probably witnessed the killing.”
“Jesus! And what does he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Is he in shock?”
“He must be, but he never says anything anyway. He’s mute and apparently disabled, so he’s not going to be much good to us.”
“I see. So there’s no suspect.”
“Unless there was a reason why Westman appeared at precisely the same time as the killer entered the ground floor. You should get Westman in for questioning.”
“If I decide to take on the investigation.”
“As you will.”
“Are you so sure of that?”
“In my view you have no choice. Besides, I’ve saved the best for last.”
“And that is?”
“Mikael Blomkvist.”
“What about him?”
“For some reason he was out there too. I think Balder had asked to see him, to tell him something.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“So it would seem.”
“And then he was shot?”
“Just before Blomkvist rang the bell — and it seems the journalist caught a glimpse of the killer.”
Bublanski snorted. It was an inappropriate reaction in every conceivable way and he could not have explained it even to himself. Perhaps it was nerves, or a feeling that life was repeating itself.
“I’m sorry?” Ekström said.
“Just got a bit of a cough. So you’re worried that you’ll end up with a private investigator on your back, one who’ll show you all up in a bad light.”
“Hmm, yes, maybe. We’re assuming that Millennium have already got going with the story and right now I’m trying to find some legal justification for stopping them, or at least see to it that they’re restricted in some way. I won’t rule out that this case is to be regarded as a matter affecting national security.”