“Otherwise I would have got in touch right away,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Professor Balder rang me yesterday evening.”
That made Bublanski jump. “What did he want?”
“He wanted to talk about his son and his son’s talent.”
“Did you know each other?”
“Not in the slightest. He contacted me because he was worried about his boy, and I was stunned to hear from him.”
“Why?”
“Because it was Frans Balder. He’s a household name to us neurologists. We tend to say he’s like us in wanting to understand the brain. The only difference is that he also wants to build one.”
“I’ve heard something about that.”
“I’d been told that he was an introverted and difficult man. A bit like a machine himself, people sometimes used to joke: nothing but logic circuits. But with me he was incredibly emotional, and it shocked me, to be honest. It was... I don’t know, as if you were to hear your toughest policeman cry. I remember thinking that something must have happened, something other than what we were talking about.”
“That sounds right. He had finally accepted that he was under a serious threat,” Bublanski said.
“But he also had reason to be excited. His son’s drawings were apparently exceptionally good, and that’s not common at all at that age, not even with savants, and especially not in combination with proficiency in mathematics.”
“Mathematics?”
“Yes indeed. From what Balder said his son had mathematical skills too. I could spend a long time talking about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because I was utterly amazed, and at the same time maybe not so amazed after all. We now know that there’s a hereditary factor in savants, and here we have a father who is a legend, thanks to his advanced algorithms. But still... artistic and numerical talents do not usually present themselves together in these children.”
“Surely the great thing about life is that every now and then it springs a surprise on us,” Bublanski said.
“True, Chief Inspector. So what can I do for you?”
Bublanski thought through everything that had happened in Saltsjöbaden and it struck him that it would do no harm to be cautious.
“All I can say is that we need your help and expert knowledge as a matter of urgency.”
“The boy was a witness to the murder, was he not?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to try to get him to draw what he saw?”
“I’d prefer not to comment.”
Professor Edelman was standing in the lobby of the Hotel Boscolo in Budapest, a conference centre not far from the glittering Danube. The place looked like an opera house, with magnificent high ceilings, old-fashioned cupolas and pillars. He had been looking forward to the week here, the dinners and the presentations. Yet he was agitated and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Unfortunately I’m not in a position to help you. I have to give an important lecture tomorrow morning,” he had said to Bublanski, and that was true.
He had been preparing the talk for some weeks and he was going to take a controversial line with several eminent memory experts. He recommended an associate professor, Martin Wolgers, to Bublanski.
But as soon as he hung up and exchanged looks with Lena Ek — Lena had paused next to him, holding a sandwich — he began to have regrets. He even began to envy young Martin Wolgers, who was not yet thirty-five, always looked far too good in photographs, and on top of it all was beginning to make a name for himself.
It was true that Edelman did not fully understand what had happened. The police inspector had been cryptic and was probably worried that someone might be listening in on the call. Yet the professor still managed to grasp the bigger picture. The boy was good at drawing and was witness to a murder. That could mean only one thing, and the longer Edelman thought about it the more he fretted. He would be giving many more important lectures in his life, but he would never get another chance to play a part in a murder investigation at this level. However he looked at the assignment he had so casually passed on to Wolgers, it was bound to be much more interesting than anything he might be involved in here in Budapest. Who knows? It could even make him some sort of celebrity.
He visualised the headline: PROMINENT NEUROLOGIST HELPS POLICE SOLVE MURDER, or better stilclass="underline" EDELMAN’S RESEARCH LEADS TO BREAKTHROUGH IN MURDER HUNT. How could he have been so stupid as to turn it down? He took out his mobile and called Chief Inspector Bublanski.
Bublanski and Modig had managed to park not far from the Stockholm Public Library and had just crossed the street. Once again the weather was dreadful, and Bublanski’s hands were freezing.
“Did he change his mind?” Modig said.
“Yes. He’s going to shelve his lecture.”
“When can he be here?”
“He’s looking into it. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
They were on their way to Oden’s Medical Centre on Sveavägen to meet the director, Torkel Lindén. The meeting was only meant to settle the practical arrangements for August Balder’s testimony — at least as far as Bublanski was concerned. But even though Lindén did not yet know the true purpose of their visit, he had been strangely discouraging over the telephone and said that right now the boy was not to be disturbed “in any way”. Bublanski had sensed an instinctive hostility and was not particularly pleasant in return. It had not been a promising start.
Lindén turned out not to be the hefty figure Bublanski had expected. He was hardly more than 150 centimetres tall and had short, possibly dyed black hair and pinched lips. He wore black jeans, a black polo-necked sweater and a small cross on a ribbon around his neck. There was something ecclesiastical about him, and his hostility was genuine.
He had a haughty look and Bublanski became aware of his own Jewishness — which tended to happen whenever he encountered this sort of malevolence and air of moral superiority. Lindén wanted to show that he was better, because he put the boy’s physical well-being first rather than offering him up for police purposes. Bublanski saw no choice but to be as amiable as possible.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“Is that so?” Lindén said.
“Oh yes, and it’s kind of you to see us at such short notice. We really wouldn’t come barging in like this if we didn’t think this matter was of the utmost importance.”
“I imagine you want to interview the boy in some way.”
“Not exactly,” Bublanski said, not quite so amiably. “I have to emphasize first of all that what I’m saying now must remain strictly between us. It’s a question of security.”
“Confidentiality is a given for us. We have no loose lips here,” Lindén said, in such a way as to imply that it was the opposite with the police.
“My only concern is for the boy’s safety,” Bublanski said sharply.
“So that’s your priority?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” the policeman said with even greater severity. “And that is why nothing of what I’m about to tell you must be passed on in any way — least of all by email or by telephone. Can we sit somewhere private?”
Sonja Modig did not think much of the place. But then she was probably affected by the crying. Somewhere nearby a little girl was sobbing relentlessly. They were sitting in a room which smelled of detergent and also of something else, maybe a lingering trace of incense. A cross hung on the wall and there was a worn teddy bear lying on the floor. There was not much else to make the place cosy or attractive, and since Bublanski, usually so good-natured, was about to lose his temper, she took matters into her own hands and gave a calm, factual account of what had taken place.