Bad Blood: A Crime Novel by Arne Dahl

returned home to writing the article.”
    “So the newspaper was paying for the trip?”
    “Of course,” said Möller, affronted.
    “Was Lars-Erik Hassel on the permanent staff?”
    “Yes. He had been on the editorial staff for almost twenty years.”
    “A baby boomer,” slipped out of Hjelm.
    Möller glared at him. “That’s a term we prefer not to use here. It’s been corrupted by all manner of misuse.”
    Hjelm observed him for a moment, then couldn’t help but argue a bit. “The article on the new, peaceful spirit of New York probably cost half a month’s salary, say fifteen thousandkronor including taxes and fees, plus travel and board, another twenty thousand. All together, maybe more than fifty thousand kronor.”
    Möller’s face darkened, and he shrugged. “You can’t count it like that. Some articles cost more, some less. What are you getting at?”
    “Did he have any contacts in New York? Friends? Enemies?”
    “Not that I know of, no.”
    “Did you or anyone else on the editorial staff have personal contact with him during the past week?”
    “I spoke with him once, yes. He had just been to the Metropolitan and was very pleased.”
    “And the visit to the Metropolitan was going to be included in the fifty-thousand-kronor article?”
    Hjelm sensed that he had to stop if he didn’t want to lose Möller completely. He changed his tone: “We’re going to need to speak with his family. What family relationships did he have?”
    Möller sighed deeply and looked at the clock.
    A younger, bald man came storming into the office and waved some papers. “Sorry to interrupt,” he panted. “We’re running out of time. Lars-Erik’s obituary is almost finished, but what are we going to put as the cause of death? Should I forget about it? We have to put something, don’t we?”
    Möller gestured tiredly toward Hjelm and asked, “What can we write?”
    “That he was murdered,” said Hjelm.
    The young man stared at him. “Nothing more?” he said at last.
    “That should do,” said Hjelm.
    The man rushed out again. Through the windows in the office door, Hjelm watched him return to his computer and peck at the keyboard with the light touch of a professional butcher.
    “Obituaries for the young are hard,” Möller said tiredly.“When someone dies unexpectedly, you have to start from scratch. It takes a lot of hard work.”
    “And when someone dies
expectedly
?” said Hjelm.
    “We have a store of obituaries.”
    Hjelm couldn’t believe his ears. “You have a store of obituaries for
living
people? What are you saying?”
    Möller sighed deeply. “It’s clear that you’re not particularly familiar with editorial work. Are we ever going to get this over with? Where were we?”
    “Family relationships,” said Hjelm.
    “Lars-Erik had lived alone for several years. He had two marriages behind him, with one son from each. I’ll get you the addresses.”
    Möller paged through a large address book, made a few chicken scratches, and handed the slip of paper to Hjelm.
    “Thanks. How was he as a writer?”
    Möller considered this question quietly. “He was one of the country’s leading literary critics. An author could rise or fall on what he wrote. His byline on a piece always gave it a certain … aura. A superb and versatile critic, who didn’t hesitate to be tough. And an underrated author.”
    “He wrote books too?”
    “Not recently, but there are a few gems from the seventies.”
    “I skimmed some old arts and leisure sections out there and found several of his pieces. He didn’t seem to like literature very much.”
    Möller rubbed his beard and peered through the window at the pale blue sky. “Literature today is beneath contempt,” he said at last. “Positively beneath it. The young authors have completely misunderstood their vocation. In general, we don’t write very much about literature anymore.”
    “No, I saw that you prioritize reporting on society and film