Bad Blood: A Crime Novel by Arne Dahl Page A

festivals and interviews with rock bands and official speechesat awards ceremonies and conflicts within various bureaucratic organizations.”
    Möller thrust himself forward, over the desk, and his eyes drilled into Hjelm’s. “And what are you? A critic?”
    “More like a bit surprised.” Hjelm paged through his notebook. “I found an article in which a critic writes that critics read far too many books and that they ought to jog instead.”
    “Life is more than books.”
    “Well, that’s certainly a truism. If I were to claim that I would be a better police officer if I spent less time on police work, that would be a breach of duty. Then there was an article about how authors today devote far too much time to sitting and pondering the mystery of life. I thought that was the whole point.”
    “It’s clear that you know very little about this business,” Möller muttered, staring out the window.
    “And
you
write that the young ones are a gang of anemic navel-gazers without direction. Here are some quotes from Lars-Erik Hassel’s pieces: ‘The question is if it’s possible to get very much more out of literature.’ ‘Poetry and the visual arts alike seem to have had their day.’ ‘The great account of the present day that we were all waiting for never came; this is the tragic nature of literature.’ ‘Poetry seems to be nothing more than a game.’ ‘Literature has long been the most overrated art form of our time.’ ”
    When no response came from Möller, it was Hjelm’s turn to thrust himself across the desk. “Was it not the case that one of Sweden’s most influential literary critics didn’t like literature at all?”
    Möller’s gaze was stuck up among the nonexistent clouds. He was gone. His exhaustion seemed monumental. It extended right into the next life.
    Because he didn’t have much more to add, and because Möller was unlikely to lift a finger in the next half-hour, Hjelmdecided to leave this site of human catastrophe. He stepped out into the editorial office and closed the door on the fossilized chief editor.
    He walked over to the young man with the pecked-out obituary. He had stopped pecking and was now reading through the text on his monitor.
    “Is it finished?” Hjelm asked.
    The man gave a start, as though a dumdum bullet had hit him and torn him in two. “Oh, sorry,” he panted, once he collected himself. “Yes, it’s finished. As finished as it can be, under the circumstances.”
    “May I have a copy?”
    “It will be in tomorrow’s paper.”
    “I would like to have it
now
, if it’s possible.”
    The man looked at him with surprise. “Of course.” He pressed a key, and a laser printer expelled sheets of paper. “It’s always a pleasure to be read.”
    Hjelm skimmed through the text, which was signed Erik Bertilsson.
    “In accordance with all the rules of the genre,” said Bertilsson.
    Hjelm peered up from the paper and zeroed in on him. “Rather than those of the truth?”
    Erik Bertilsson got what was, to an experienced interrogator, a very familiar now-I’ve-said-too-much look and fell silent.
    “What kind of writer was Hassel, actually?” Hjelm said. “I’ve read a few rather strange pieces.”
    “Read the obituary,” said Bertilsson resolutely. “All I have to say is there.”
    Hjelm looked around the editorial office. Isolated staff members were running around. No one seemed to be taking any notice of the police visit.
    “Listen carefully, Erik,” he said sharply. “I’m only trying to get an accurate picture of a murder victim. Any informationthat can contribute to the capture of the killer is of the utmost importance. What you say will stay within the investigation. It’s not a matter of slandering someone publicly.”
    “Let’s go to the stairs,” Bertilsson sighed, standing up heavily.
    They got to the empty stairwell.
    Bertilsson squirmed as though he were standing in the flames of hell. After a moment he came to a decision,