CHAPTER 25
Wallander knew that he’d heard the music coming from Hjelm’s flat before. He listened with one ear pressed against the door, and remembered that Linda had played it, and that the band was called the Grateful Dead. He rang the doorbell and took a step back. The music was very loud. He rang again, and then banged hard on the door. Finally the music was turned down. He heard footsteps and then the door was opened wide, and Wallander took a step back so as not to be hit in the face. The man who opened it was completely naked. Wallander also saw that he was under the influence of something. His large body was swaying imperceptibly. Wallander introduced himself and showed his badge. The man didn’t bother looking at it. He kept staring at Wallander.
“I’ve seen you,” he said. “On the telly. And in the papers. I never actually read the papers, so I must have seen you on the front page. The policeman they were looking for. The one who shoots people without asking permission. What did you say your name was? Wahlgren?”
“Wallander. Are you Peter Hjelm?”
“Yeah.”
“I want to talk to you.”
The naked man made a suggestive gesture inside the flat. Wallander assumed this meant he had female company.
“It can’t be helped,” said Wallander. “It probably won’t take very long anyway.”
Hjelm reluctantly let him into the hall.
“Put some clothes on,” Wallander said firmly.
Hjelm shrugged, pulled an overcoat from a hanger, and put it on. As if at Wallander’s request, he also jammed an old hat down over his ears. Wallander followed him down a long hall. Hjelm lived in an old-fashioned, spacious flat. Wallander sometimes dreamed of finding one like it in Ystad. Once he inquired about the flats above the bookshop in the red building on the square, but was shocked at how high the rent was.
When they reached the living-room, Wallander was astonished to discover another man wrapping a sheet around himself. Wallander wasn’t prepared for this. A naked man who gestured suggestively had a woman with him, not a man. To conceal his embarrassment, Wallander assumed a formal tone. He sat down in a chair and waved Hjelm to a seat facing him.
“Who are you?” he asked the other man, who was much younger than Hjelm.
“Geert doesn’t understand Swedish,” said Hjelm. “He’s from Amsterdam. He’s just visiting.”
“Tell him I want to see some identification,” said Wallander. “Now.”
Hjelm spoke very poor English, worse than Wallander’s. The man in the sheet disappeared and came back with a Dutch driver’s licence. As usual, Wallander had nothing to write with. He memorised the man’s last name, Van Loenen, and handed back the driver’s licence. Then he asked a few brief questions in English. Van Loenen said that he was a waiter in a cafe in Amsterdam and that he had met Hjelm there. This was the third time he’d been to Malmo. He was going back to Amsterdam on the train in a couple of days. When he’d finished, Wallander asked him to leave the room. Hjelm was sitting on the floor, dressed in his overcoat with the hat pulled low over his forehead. Wallander felt himself getting angry.
“Take off that damned hat!” he shouted. “And sit in a chair. Otherwise I’ll call a squad car and have you taken in.”
Hjelm did as he was told. He tossed the hat in a wide arc so that it landed between two flowerpots on one of the windowsills. Wallander’s anger made him start to sweat.
“Bjorn Fredman is dead,” he said brutally. “But I suppose you already know that.”
Hjelm’s smile disappeared. He didn’t know, Wallander realised.
“He was murdered,” Wallander continued. “Someone poured acid in his eyes. And cut off part of his scalp. This happened three days ago. Now we’re looking for the person who did it. The killer has already murdered two other people. A former politician by the name of Gustaf Wetterstedt and an art dealer named Arne Carlman. But maybe you knew this.”
Hjelm nodded slowly. Wallander tried without success to interpret his reactions.
“Now I understand why Bjorn didn’t answer his phone,” he said after a while. “I tried to call him all day yesterday. And this morning I tried again.”
“What did you want from him?”
“I was thinking of inviting him over for dinner.”
Wallander saw at once that this was a lie. Since he was still furious at Hjelm’s arrogant attitude, it was easy for him to tighten his grip. In all his years as a police officer Wallander had only lost control twice and struck individuals he was interrogating. He could usually control his rage.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “The only way you’re going to see me walk out that door is if you give me clear, truthful answers to my questions. If you don’t, all hell will break loose. We’re dealing with a serial killer. Which means the police have special powers.”
The last part wasn’t true, of course. But it made an impression on Hjelm.
“I was calling him about a gig we had together.”
“What sort of gig?”
“A little import and export. He owed me money.”
“How much?”
“A little. A hundred thousand, maybe. No more than that.”
This “little” sum of money was equivalent to many months’ wages for Wallander. This made him even angrier.
“We can get back to your business with Fredman later,” he said. “That’s something the Malmo police will deal with. What I want to know is whether you can tell me who killed him.”
“Not me, that’s for sure.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you did. Anyone else?”
Wallander saw that Hjelm was trying to concentrate.
“I don’t know,” he said finally.
“You seem hesitant.”
“Bjorn was into a lot of things I didn’t know about.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give me a straight answer!”
“Well, shit! I just don’t know. We did some deals. What Fredman did with the rest of his time I can’t tell you. In this business you’re not supposed to know too much. You can’t know too little either. But that’s something else again.”
“What do you think Fredman might have been into?”
“I think he was doing collections quite a bit.”
“He was an enforcer, you mean?”
“Something like that.”
“Who was his boss?”
“Dunno.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. I just don’t know.”
Wallander almost believed him.
“What else?”
“He was a pretty secretive type. He travelled a lot. And when he came back he was always sunburnt. And he brought back souvenirs.”
“Where from?”
“He never said. But after his trips he usually had plenty of money.”
Bjorn Fredman’s passport, Wallander thought. We haven’t found it.
“Who else knew Fredman besides you?”
“Lots of people.”
“Who knew him as well as you do?”
“Nobody.”
“Did he have a woman?”
“What a question! Of course he had women!”
“Was there anyone special?”
“He switched around a lot.”
“Why did he switch?”
“Why does anyone switch? Why do I switch? Because I meet somebody from Amsterdam one day and somebody from Bjarred the next.”
“Bjarred?”
“It’s just an example, damn it! Halmstad, if that’s any better!”
Wallander stopped asking questions. He frowned at Hjelm. He felt an instinctive animosity towards him. Towards a thief who regarded a hundred thousand kronor as “a little money”.
“Gustaf Wetterstedt,” he said finally. “And Arne Carlman. You knew they had been killed.”
“I watch TV.”
“Did Fredman ever mention their names?”
“No.”
“Do you think you may have forgotten? Is it possible he did know them?”
Hjelm sat in silence for more than a minute. Wallander waited.
“I’m positive,” he said finally. “But he might not have told me about it.”
“This man who’s on the loose is dangerous,” said Wallander. “He’s ice-cold and calculating. And crazy. He poured acid in Fredman’s eyes. It must have been incredibly painful. Do you get my point?”