Misterioso (38 page)

“I’m going to have to be a bit long-winded to explain. Lena’s brother lives in Stockholm, and the last time he was here to visit, which was only a week before the bank incident, he mentioned for some reason that one of his colleagues has a sister who’s working in the United States but can afford to allow her Swedish apartment to sit vacant. That was what Lena remembered, but she couldn’t recall the name of the woman working in the States, even though her brother did mention the name when he was visiting. But the apartment is apparently somewhere in Fittja, and when she called her brother, she got the name: Anna Williamsson. The rest is up to you.”

“Good job,” said Hultin.

“How is Lena?” asked Hjelm.

“She’s just beginning to realize the connection. She’s not doing very well.”

“See you later,” he said.

“Don’t go and get yourself shot,” she said, and was gone.

“Are the two of you ready?” asked Hultin. “Hang up, and I’ll find out the address.”

They waited, enveloped in the metal casing of their cars.

Hjelm’s phone rang. But not Söderstedt’s, as he noticed through the car window, so it probably wasn’t Hultin.

“Finally,” Chavez said into his ear. “My phone was stolen, believe it or not. I’ve just gotten it back from a junkie. What’s going on?”

“We’re hot on his trail,” said Hjelm. “Where are you?”

“Sergels Torg. I’ve had a hell of a day. I didn’t think Stockholm’s underworld was so … big.”

“Hang up and I’ll call you back in a few seconds. Hultin is checking an address. Göran Andersson’s.”

“No shit,” Chavez said, and hung up.

Hjelm’s cell rang again. Söderstedt picked up his phone at the same time.

“Hello,” said Hultin. “Anna Williamsson’s apartment is at Fittjavägen eleven, fifth floor.”

Hjelm laughed loudly.

“What?” said Hultin, sounding annoyed.

“The hand of coincidence,” said Hjelm, starting up his car. “It’s right next door to my old police station.”

They drove tandem over to Sergels Torg, where they picked up Chavez. He jumped into Hjelm’s Mazda and was given a quick rundown.

“How did Andersson sound?” Jorge asked as they came out onto Essingeleden.

“Unpleasantly sane,” said Hjelm. “As if he couldn’t possibly be the killer.”

Hjelm was trying to make sense of the chronology of events. If the lead turned out to a good one, then Göran Andersson had been living next door to the police station in Fittja while he was planning his crimes. He had gone in and out of the neighboring door, and it was even possible that they’d bumped into each other several times in February and March. Hjelm wondered if he could have seen into the apartment from his old office. Then Andersson had gone off to Danderyd to commit the first murder on the night before Hjelm, in turn, had gone into the immigration office to free the hostages. And while Hjelm was being grilled by Grundström and Mårtensson, Andersson had committed his second murder, on Strandvägen.

What was it he’d said?
“There have been so many coincidences that it’s no longer a matter of chance. It’s fate. There’s a very fine line separating chance and fate, but once you’ve crossed that line, it’s irrevocable.”

Paul Hjelm thought he was close to crossing that line.

Even though they parked in the lot belonging to the Huddinge police force, it didn’t occur to any of them to request backup from the station. They entered the building next door,
went up four flights of stairs, and assembled outside the door labeled Williamsson. It was utterly quiet in the building.

Hultin rang the bell. No one opened the door. Not a sound came from inside. Hultin rang again. They waited a couple of minutes. Then Hjelm kicked in the door.

They rushed in with their weapons raised. The little two-room apartment was empty. In the bedroom they found a neatly made bed with a bunch of stuffed animals on the pillow. Posters typical of a girl’s room hung on the walls. Chavez bent down and peered under the bed. He pulled out a rolled-up mattress, like a jelly roll, with a blanket as the filling. Under the bed he also found a suitcase made in Russia. It was stuffed with bundles of five-hundred-krona bills.

The living room looked just as unoccupied as the bedroom. The only thing out of place was that one of the shimmering pink posters was bulging out from the wall. It was hard to imagine that someone had been living here for over three months without disturbing anything. A clean saucepan stood on the stove. The inside was damp. A box was attached underneath the kitchen table. Hultin pulled it out.

The first thing that came into view was an assortment of keys, although all of them were blank, without notches or grooves, ready for grinding. Inside the box was another box, printed with Russian letters. Hultin put on a pair of latex gloves and opened it. There were the nine-millimeter cartridges from Kazakhstan, lined up in rows; not even half of them were missing.

Under the box of ammunition was a typed list of seventeen names. Hultin carefully picked it up and snorted an affirmative snort. Kuno Daggfeldt, check, Bernhard Strand-Julén, check, Nils-Emil Carlberger, check, Enar Brandberg, check, Ulf Axelsson, check.

The last check mark was next to the name of Alf Ruben Winge.

Hjelm went into the living room. He lifted off the poster that was hanging slightly crooked. Underneath was a dartboard. But there were no darts.

They searched the wardrobes and chests of drawers. There was no other sign that Göran Andersson had spent nearly three months living there. One rolled-up mattress, one Russian suitcase containing five-hundred-krona bills, one damp saucepan, an assortment of blank keys, a box of bullets from Kazakhstan, a dartboard, and a list of victims to be liquidated. Otherwise he hardly seemed to have been there at all.

Hjelm contacted his former colleagues at the police station next door and gave orders to cordon the place off, set up a nighttime stakeout, and have forensics do a sweep of the apartment. When they emerged into the early summer sunlight, a couple of cold gusts of wind reminded them that it was actually evening—in fact, it was almost eight o’clock. And they were going to have to start over.

Hjelm and Chavez called the secretary, Lisa Hägerblad, and this time she answered. She sounded resistant when Hjelm asked about Winge’s absence. He didn’t have time to tell her how important this was because she hung up. They sighed deeply and headed out to Råsunda to talk to her in person.

Hultin and Söderstedt drove to Stora Essingen, where Winge’s younger colleague, Johannes Lund, lived in a villa with a view of Lake Mälaren. When they called him, all they got was his voicemail. They didn’t leave a message after the beep.

Since Stora Essingen was located significantly closer than Råsunda, Hultin and Söderstedt arrived at their destination first. A man wearing overalls was walking up and down the steep front lawn, zealously fertilizing the grass with a rolling apparatus that looked like a lawnmower not very suited to the job. Visible in the opening of his overalls was a white shirt collar and the knot of a black tie. A cell phone was sticking out of his pocket.

“Well, now,” the man said when he caught sight of Söderstedt. He stopped fertilizing and leaned on the spreader. “You weren’t satisfied with what we told you?”

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Hultin asked harshly.

“The land line is only for ordinary calls; they go straight to voicemail.” He patted his cell phone. “This is where I get the important calls.” He perceived their momentary silence as stupidity and clarified: “The B-group of calls are recorded, and then my wife goes through them. The A-group come to me directly.”

And so does the A-Unit
, thought Söderstedt. “Look up at the sky.”

Johannes Lund looked up at the sky.

“It’s now eight-thirty, and the sun is still up. In a couple of hours the sun will be gone. Then Alf Ruben Winge will also be gone. Do you understand? In a few hours your boss is going to be murdered by a serial killer who has already murdered five very prominent citizens much like yourself.”

Johannes Lund looked at them in surprise. “The Power Murders?” he said. “Oh shit. He’s always struck me as a very
unimportant
person. This is going to give him a certain … status.”

“Tell us everything you know about these periods of absence,” said Hultin.

“As I said before, I don’t know anything.” Lund cast a pensive glance up at the Essingen sky. “He’s very suspicious of me. He knows that I do my job a damned sight better than he does and that I bring in much more money for him than he does himself. He needs me, but he hates me. That’s it in a nutshell—hates me but needs me. Whatever. He’d never think of sharing any personal confidences with me.”

“Does he have any close friends he would confide in?” asked Hultin.

Johannes Lund laughed. “Good God! We’re businessmen!”

“Have you ever met a short blond Finn with a pageboy hairstyle who goes by the name of Anja?” asked Söderstedt.

“Never.” Lund looked him straight in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

Hultin’s cell phone rang. It was Chavez. “We’re at Lisa Hägerblad’s place on Råsundavägen. Do you have anything to tell us before we go in?”

“A complete washout here,” said Hultin. “Unfortunately.”

“Okay.” Chavez ended the call and put his cell in his jacket pocket.

They rang the doorbell. A lovely blonde in early middle age—
you might say, if it didn’t sound so awful
, Hjelm thought fleetingly—opened the door, looking worried.

“The police, right?” said Lisa Hägerblad. “I thought I already told you—”

“We don’t have much time.” Hjelm pushed his way inside. He wasn’t sure whether he actually apologized for skipping the normal courtesies.

Lisa Hägerblad’s apartment was huge—three big rooms with high ceilings. The furniture had been the highest fashion in the late eighties: black and white, steel tubing, sharp angles, asymmetries, a slightly nouveau riche chill. It was as if time had stood still in the apartment since the go-go years.

“You are Alf Ruben Winge’s personal secretary,” said Chavez. “It’s clear as hell that you know much more than you’ve told us. We can fully understand that you couldn’t reveal anything in front of the others at the office. But now Director Winge’s life is on the line; the threat is very real and very specific. He’s going to be murdered within the next couple of hours.”

“Oi!” The secretary was evidently using her word for the ultimate shock. “But the white-haired cop didn’t say anything about that.”

“The white-haired cop didn’t know about it at the time,” said
Chavez. “But the black-haired one does now. The situation has gotten darker,” he couldn’t help adding.

“Come on now,” said Hjelm. “She speaks with a Finnish accent, her name is Anja, she has a blond pageboy, and Alf Ruben Winge disappears with her to a little love nest with sheets that get more and more stained a couple of days each month. Who is she?”

“I don’t really know,” said Lisa Hägerblad. “Everything you said is true. I often speak to her on the phone, but then I transfer her right over to Alf Ruben. I’ve never even arranged a meeting between them, and I’m the one who usually takes care of things like that. But have you talked to Johannes?”

“Johannes Lund in Essingen? He doesn’t know anything,” said Chavez.

Lisa Hägerblad gave a short laugh. “Sure,” she said. “But since I prefer Alf Ruben to be my boss and not Johannes, I might as well tell you this: Alf Ruben Winge and Johannes Lund are like father and son. Alf Ruben has already chosen Johannes to be his successor and left him the company in his will. If Alf Ruben dies, Johannes will take over, and then we’ll all probably be replaced by younger employees.”

“Do you know whether Lund has ever met Anja?”

“I’m positive that he has. They often have business dinners with their respective companions—meaning, not their respective
legal
companions.”

Chavez immediately called Hultin.

“Yes?” said Hultin.

“Where are you?” asked Chavez.

“We’re going back to talk to his wife on Narvavägen to find out who his friends are. Right now we’re in”—there was a crackling sound on the line—“the tunnel under Fredhäll. Can you hear me?”

“Faintly. Turn around as quickly as you can and drive back to
see Lund. He’s going to inherit UrboInvest. I repeat: Johannes Lund will inherit UrboInvest if Alf Ruben Winge dies. He has every reason not to say a word about Anja. In all likelihood he knows who she is.”

“Okay,” Hultin’s voice crackled. “I’ve got the basics. We’re heading back to Stora Essingen.”

Hultin hung up just as the car exited from the tunnel. He hailed Söderstedt, who was a couple of cars behind him, and they both turned around, reentered the tunnel, and drove across the bridge. A couple of daredevils were swimming down by the rocks of Fredhäll, where the setting sun was beginning to color the waves red.

The beauty of Lake Mälaren made no impression on them. Even though they’d exited the tunnel a minute ago, it was as if the tunnel were still stretched out in front of them. At the end was the glimmer of a dark light by the name of Göran Andersson, but at the moment it was obscured by another dark light by the name of Johannes Lund. Söderstedt sat behind the wheel of his car, doing his best to keep up with the wildly speeding Hultin. He wondered, possibly with a certain anticipatory glee, whether Hultin was again going to make use of his rock-hard skull.

Lund was down by the water, smoking. The blue overalls were draped over the edge of the hammock. The hammock was swaying lightly, and the cloud of smoke, which kept gathering and then dispersing past the back of his robust neck, looked extremely pleased.

Hultin grabbed hold of the hammock as it swung toward him and gave it a yank. Johannes Lund toppled onto the lawn and got green stains on the elbows of his white shirt. When he saw the police officers, he didn’t say a word, just quietly got to his feet. His expression was different now. He was ready to defend his inheritance, tooth and nail.

“Quick now,” said Hultin, his voice expressionless. “Anja.”

“As I said before, I don’t know anything—”

“If Winge dies, you’ll be charged with being an accessory to murder. This is your absolute last chance to talk. If you don’t, I’m going to arrest you and take you down to headquarters.”