The bald man was in his thirties, wearing quite a stylish pale suit with a yellow tie; he was a real powerhouse. Hjelm wondered if his jacket sleeves were hiding a range of prison tattoos. He leafed through his files and found the record for Carlstedt, Eskil, 700217-1516. Born in Bromma, salesman, living in Kungsholmen, Stockholm. It was clean. Not one little traffic offence.
No prison tattoos.
‘OK,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘What did you see?’
Eskil Carlstedt paused briefly, taking in air like a boxer does smelling salts, before getting started.
‘We had the table nearest the door. I was sitting with my back to the wall, so I was facing the bar. We got there pretty early, about seven thirty. The Hammarby tribe started to roll in just after nine. A bit surly, but hardly aggressive. One group took the last few seats, next to a little guy who was reading a book. Another group was standing next to our table. Then another gang appeared, six or seven people. They were a bit different. Aggression just beneath the surface, somehow. They were standing by the bar, the nearest section to us. Another bunch came in and found some space at the far end. The Smålanders, there were four of them, they were hemmed in between these two gangs. Then the Hammarby fans started attacking them. One of them prodded the biggest Smålander in the face with a rolled-up banner. He managed to run off with a friend. They got out onto the street, but two of them were left behind. It got all noisy and confused. One of the Smålanders pushed a guy over. He got back up slowly, and then suddenly he just hit the Smålander. I was busy paying. The guys had already gone, and the waitress was standing in the way, so I didn’t really see it happen. But I saw him when he ran past. He still had the handle of the glass in his hand. He was wearing a denim jacket, a Hammarby T-shirt and scarf, and he had mid-length, dirty-blond hair and a little moustache.’
‘Like yours?’ asked Hjelm.
Eskil Carlstedt stared at him, insulted.
‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Not at all. Like a country-bumpkin moustache. A mechanic’s moustache, biker moustache. Went partway down to his chin.’
‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’
‘I think so, yeah.’
‘How many of you were there together?’
‘Five.’
‘But when the doormen blocked the door, you were the only one left?’
‘The others had already gone. They were probably out on the street, waiting. We were going to the next pub. I was still there, paying. Like I said.’
‘Like you’ve said many times, yes,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘Who were you with?’
Eskil Carlstedt unfolded his arms, cast a quick glance at his watch and, finally, rubbed his hand over his smooth head.
‘Just a group of friends. A group of salesmen. We go out together a couple of times a week. Chase women.’
‘And listen to music,’ said Paul Hjelm.
Carlstedt groaned. ‘Music? Listen, how long’s this going to take? I’ve already waited out there for a couple of hours, and I’ve got somewhere to be.’
‘We’ve got a witness who says that you were sitting in complete silence, not uttering a word, and that at least one of you had earphones in.’
Carlstedt fell silent and looked at him furtively. Hesitant. He was thinking.
‘All right, OK, I understand. Yeah, Kalle’s in a band. Catwalks. Karl-Erik Bengtsson. We were listening to a demo. They could be really good. Record deal on the way.’
‘Were all of you listening?’
‘I don’t understand what this has to do with the killing.’
‘Were all of you listening?’
‘Yes. We only had one cassette player, so we had to take it in turns.’
‘So you passed the earphones around?’
‘Yeah. It took a while, so we didn’t talk so much.’
‘And the others? Can we get hold of them?’
‘Sure. They’re not witnesses, though. They were already outside when it happened.’
‘You said. Do you remember anything else?’
‘Like what?’ Eskil Carlstedt sighed, staring demonstratively at the clock.
‘Like who else was in the pub. We’re looking for witnesses.’
‘It was packed, for God’s sake. OK, OK, OK, fine. The people standing were mainly Hammarby fans. Before the tribe got there, everyone was sitting. The bar was empty, but all the seats were taken. Except next to the guy with the book. The first Hammarby fans sat there. Hen party at the tables over by the window. Next to them, nearest to us, a group of yuppies or IT types. Then the guy that was reading. Two horny-looking oldish couples. A gay guy on the prowl. A group of musician types. And a bit of a mixture nearest us, a group who looked like students.’
‘No one else?’ asked Kerstin Holm.
Hjelm watched her closely.
‘Not as far as I remember. But there must’ve been almost thirty Hammarby fans. Half of them disappeared before the doormen did anything, though.’
‘But your understanding is that there must be quite a few witnesses among the Hammarby fans?’
Eskil Carlstedt laughed gently.
‘At least ten of them were staring right at it. They’re not likely to say anything, though.’
Hjelm stood up and leaned forward over the table.
‘OK then, just two more things before you can run off to your eagerly awaited meeting. One: come with me to the police artist and help us with a picture of the perpetrator. Two: leave the names and details of your four friends with reception out there in the hall. OK?’
‘OK,’ sighed Eskil Carlstedt, looking at the clock.
They sat quietly, each lost in the other’s gaze. Or simply lost. A few years ago, they had slept together. Once. In Malmö. During the intense hunt for the so-called Power Killer. The A-Unit’s biggest – and, on reflection, only – success. The media had proclaimed them heroes. The group was made permanent, ‘the National Criminal Investigation Department’s Special Unit for Violent Crimes of an International Nature’. Then along came the Kentucky Killer. Their relationship grew into friendship, deep friendship. They had been to the USA together, working with the FBI. They had been called Jalm and Halm, like a wooden comedy duo from a variety show. It went well. They solved an old case. They captured a long-hunted serial killer. Then they made a wrong decision, and the story of the A-Unit came to an end. Bad blood always comes back round.
Though they would never say so again.
‘We could stop right now,’ said Hjelm. ‘It’s lunchtime. We could go out there into that waiting room where they’re getting more and more agitated and say: sorry, come back tomorrow. No one would hold it against us.’
He looked into her eyes. Searching. Trying to see what was going on. And she let herself be searched. Searching back.
‘No,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said.
In fact, each of them could probably see where the other’s thoughts were heading. That this was no longer just a pub brawl.
Kerstin Holm pressed a button on the intercom, and a tall, gangly man in his fifties entered the room. Wearing a tracksuit, he looked like a jogger who had lost his way.
‘Sten Bergmark – correct?’ asked Kerstin Holm, holding out her hand to him. He took it and kissed it lightly, gallantly. He greeted Hjelm in a more masculine fashion. Absurdly so, Hjelm thought when he felt the pain, a second or two later.
‘Hard Homo,’ said Sten Bergmark. ‘A real hit with the Hammarby tribe.’
Their eyes must have shown a glimmer of surprise because he added, while folding his two-metre-tall body between the table and the chair: ‘They don’t know that my name means stone, but they think I’m rock hard. Two birds with one stone, you could say.’