Free The Blinded Man by Arne Dahl Page A

accordion file and reached into the pocket labelled
S
. He pulled out a postcard adorned with a statue of Dionysus that was impressive in every sense of the word. A truly erect god. Written faintly in pencil was the name ‘Strand-Julén’, and then in ink from a ballpoint pen, ‘We’re going now. You can always call. 641 12 12. P.S. You’re the biggest Billy-Goat Gruff.’
    ‘He dropped this in my office by chance. I keep all lost items here. And label them, in case the owner wants them back.’
    ‘Lost and found in a wall safe … Do you have any items filed under
D
?’
    ‘Daggfeldt? No.’
    ‘Take a look.’
    Lindviken opened his eyes wide as he stared at Hjelm.
    ‘Don’t you think I know exactly what I have in here?’
    He opened the pocket marked
D
and showed it to Hjelm. It was empty.
    Hjelm stood up, waving the Dionysus postcard in his hand. ‘I’m taking this with me. I’m sure you won’t have any more use for it. But hang on to the rest of the contents in that file. I may need to see it again.’
    When he passed by the window, he peered inside and saw Arthur Lindviken still seated at his desk. The accordion file was on his lap, and it was shaking.
    For a moment Hjelm wondered if he’d been too hard on the man. He was used to people who’d undergone police interrogations dozens of times and knew the rule book inside out. People who were familiar with all the tricks and loopholes, who knew when to keep quiet and when to lie.
    The wind had picked up considerably. The small sailing boats had vanished from Stora Värtan, as if blown away.
    It was still before noon when Hjelm parked his unmarked police vehicle, a Mazda, at Kevinge Golf Course. A surprising number of people were there, putting away one bucket of golf balls after another in the early April morning. He took out his mobile phone and punched in a number.
    ‘Directory enquiries,’ replied a woman.
    ‘08 641 12 12, please.’
    ‘One moment,’ said the woman. A moment passed and she was back. ‘Jörgen Lindén, Timmermansgatan thirty-four.’
    ‘Thanks,’ said Hjelm, jotting down the information. He wrote down the number four in front of the address. It was now the fourth item on his list of things to do. He’d have time to get out there before the unit meeting at three o’clock.
    He climbed out of his car and trudged up the stairs to the clubhouse.
    A young girl sat behind the front desk. ‘Hi,’ she said.
    ‘Hi.’ He showed her his ID. ‘Criminal investigation department. It’s about two of your former members.’
    ‘I think I know who you mean,’ she said, nodding at the copy of
Svenska Dagbladet
on the counter.
    Hjelm nodded too. ‘They were members here, right?’
    ‘Yes. They played here quite regularly. They would always say hello when they came in and stop to chat.’
    ‘Do you know whether they played golf together? Did you ever see them together?’
    ‘Hmm … I don’t think they were regular golf partners. I can’t remember ever seeing them together. But sometimes, afterwards they’d join a larger group. Those types of golfers often sit down after a game to discuss other matters.’
    ‘What do you mean by “those types of golfers”?’
    ‘Bad golfers.’
    Hjelm paused. ‘So you’re a competitive golfer?’
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    ‘And you don’t like the kind of people who come here to, well, hobnob and network and meet up with colleagues? Even though you’re a true Danderyd girl, you have trouble with these “bad golfers”, since they give the sport its persistent image of an indolent rich man’s game.’
    ‘Quite a psychoanalytical interpretation,’ said the true Danderyd girl.
    ‘So how do things work here? Do the members just go out and start playing as soon as they arrive, or do they have to register somewhere?’
    ‘We have a guest book, and everyone who wants to play has to sign in first.’
    ‘May I have a look at it?’
    ‘You’re leaning on it. Excuse me, I have to see to the guests who just