thing goes on for long, you may be earning a lot of extra pay. Or you can choose to see it from a negative point of view. Marriages and the like are going to suffer, especially if this goes on through the summer.”
Again Hultin made a motion to get up; again he sank back into his chair.
“Just one more question,” Söderstedt said. “What about Säpo?”
Hultin nodded. It was impossible to interpret his brief pause. “Right. Well, the Security Police will certainly be involved. As usual, they’ll carry out their parallel investigation in secret, but the plan is for us to ‘exchange information.’ ” Hultin’s quote marks fluttered around the room like little death’s-head hawk-moths. “One day in the very near future, their group is going to show up here to introduce themselves and discuss the security aspects of the case. I’ve had certain indications, you might say, that the security division of the military will also step in at the slightest hint of any international military involvement. So we have several reasons to hope that this can stay on a national level.”
That was as far as Hultin’s subjective opinion went.
He got up and went out to the corridor. They followed, single file, well aware of what lay ahead of them, and disappeared, two by two, into their respective offices.
Jorge Chavez and Paul Hjelm went into room 304. It was so small that it really had only enough space for the two desks, which had been shoved together. The computer stood on the crack between the two desks; the monitor could be turned to face in either direction. Squeezed into the corner of the room was a little table with a coffeemaker.
At least the minuscule room had a window facing the courtyard. Hjelm stepped over to the window and looked out. He could see sections of police headquarters surrounding a small, concrete yard. Under the window stood a little table with an old dot-matrix printer; the cables stretched like tripwires across the floor from the computer.
“If we quickly swallow our disappointment at not getting our own offices, this will probably do just fine,” said Chavez. “Which desk do you want?”
“It doesn’t look like it makes any difference,” said Hjelm.
Chavez sat down on the chair closest to the door, and Hjelm took the other. Both tested the chairs by rocking back and forth as they absentmindedly leafed through the file folders on the desks in front of them.
“Better than Sundsvall,” said Chavez.
“What’s better?”
“The chairs. At least they’re better.”
Hjelm nodded, noticing the unanswered questions hovering in the air between them. He imagined that the other man noticed it too.
Chavez broke the rather oppressive silence by jumping up and asking Hjelm, “Coffee?”
“That might be a good idea.”
Chavez lifted the lid of the coffee container sitting on the little table in the corner. Then he bent down and sniffed.
“Ah,” he said as he let the coffee grounds slide through his fingers. “Ah. What is it they call this? The King’s Coffee? Would you mind if I brought along a South American blend tomorrow instead?”
“Okay, but leave that one here.”
“Absolutely,” said Chavez as he returned to his desk with the empty coffee pot in his hand. He leaned toward Hjelm. “But I think I’ll be able to make you a convert to genuine Colombian coffee, hand ground.”
Hjelm looked at the short, eager man. “Can you brew that sort of thing in an ordinary Swedish coffeemaker?”
“Ah,” said Chavez. “It has many unused capabilities.”
He disappeared out into the hallway, then returned carrying the pot filled with water. He went over to the corner table and gently tipped the pot toward the coffeemaker.
“That part about being a hero …” said Hjelm as he heard the first drops hitting the tabletop. One by one they landed on the floor. The rest of the water ended up, as intended, in the coffeemaker, which Chavez switched on as he stuffed a filter in the
Again Hultin made a motion to get up; again he sank back into his chair.
“Just one more question,” Söderstedt said. “What about Säpo?”
Hultin nodded. It was impossible to interpret his brief pause. “Right. Well, the Security Police will certainly be involved. As usual, they’ll carry out their parallel investigation in secret, but the plan is for us to ‘exchange information.’ ” Hultin’s quote marks fluttered around the room like little death’s-head hawk-moths. “One day in the very near future, their group is going to show up here to introduce themselves and discuss the security aspects of the case. I’ve had certain indications, you might say, that the security division of the military will also step in at the slightest hint of any international military involvement. So we have several reasons to hope that this can stay on a national level.”
That was as far as Hultin’s subjective opinion went.
He got up and went out to the corridor. They followed, single file, well aware of what lay ahead of them, and disappeared, two by two, into their respective offices.
Jorge Chavez and Paul Hjelm went into room 304. It was so small that it really had only enough space for the two desks, which had been shoved together. The computer stood on the crack between the two desks; the monitor could be turned to face in either direction. Squeezed into the corner of the room was a little table with a coffeemaker.
At least the minuscule room had a window facing the courtyard. Hjelm stepped over to the window and looked out. He could see sections of police headquarters surrounding a small, concrete yard. Under the window stood a little table with an old dot-matrix printer; the cables stretched like tripwires across the floor from the computer.
“If we quickly swallow our disappointment at not getting our own offices, this will probably do just fine,” said Chavez. “Which desk do you want?”
“It doesn’t look like it makes any difference,” said Hjelm.
Chavez sat down on the chair closest to the door, and Hjelm took the other. Both tested the chairs by rocking back and forth as they absentmindedly leafed through the file folders on the desks in front of them.
“Better than Sundsvall,” said Chavez.
“What’s better?”
“The chairs. At least they’re better.”
Hjelm nodded, noticing the unanswered questions hovering in the air between them. He imagined that the other man noticed it too.
Chavez broke the rather oppressive silence by jumping up and asking Hjelm, “Coffee?”
“That might be a good idea.”
Chavez lifted the lid of the coffee container sitting on the little table in the corner. Then he bent down and sniffed.
“Ah,” he said as he let the coffee grounds slide through his fingers. “Ah. What is it they call this? The King’s Coffee? Would you mind if I brought along a South American blend tomorrow instead?”
“Okay, but leave that one here.”
“Absolutely,” said Chavez as he returned to his desk with the empty coffee pot in his hand. He leaned toward Hjelm. “But I think I’ll be able to make you a convert to genuine Colombian coffee, hand ground.”
Hjelm looked at the short, eager man. “Can you brew that sort of thing in an ordinary Swedish coffeemaker?”
“Ah,” said Chavez. “It has many unused capabilities.”
He disappeared out into the hallway, then returned carrying the pot filled with water. He went over to the corner table and gently tipped the pot toward the coffeemaker.
“That part about being a hero …” said Hjelm as he heard the first drops hitting the tabletop. One by one they landed on the floor. The rest of the water ended up, as intended, in the coffeemaker, which Chavez switched on as he stuffed a filter in the
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