To the Top of the Mountain

by Arne Dahl

  ‘What’s that?’ Hultin asked patiently.

  ‘Witness statements from the bank,’ said Chavez. ‘Four robbers. Three wearing black balaclavas, one in another colour. Gold. Maybe you remember the gold thread from Sickla . . .’

  Hultin nodded but objected all the same. ‘First, they steal a nice, juicy amount from Rajko Nedic, probably millions, and then they continue with a series of small, risky robberies on the west coast? The smallest of these generated 4,212 kronor. Sounds unlikely.’

  ‘It is unlikely ,’ said Söderstedt.

  Again, all eyes turned to him. He was holding something back, that much was clear.

  ‘It’s unlikely for the very reason that the premise is all wrong,’ he explained. ‘If we change the premise, then it’s not only likely, but true.’

  His clarification didn’t exactly help to clarify the matter.

  ‘I’d like to come back to the matter,’ he ended, staring at the wall.

  Chavez felt that he should be angry. To his surprise, he wasn’t. Curiosity had taken over. He jumped down from the desk, and returned to his normal seat.

  ‘Kerstin?’ Hultin said.

  ‘Yup,’ said Kerstin Holm, climbing up onto the podium and attaching a large photograph to the whiteboard using the ladybird magnets. ‘This can be a little interlude while we wait for Arto’s revelation. As you know, we’ve caught the Kvarnen Killer; a timid, invisible little man called Conny Nilsson. Hardly a bloodthirsty killer. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s almost like he was just a pawn in something bigger going on at the same time. A young, slightly apathetic man who suddenly, without knowing how, realises that there’s a blood-soaked handle in his hand. I don’t know, but there’s something awful there that I can’t quite put my finger on. Anyway, the fact that we’ve caught him hardly makes it any easier to get hold of the witnesses from Kvarnen again. The whole lot seem to have gone on holiday or been scattered by the wind. Paul and I have been trying to find something on the “policeman”. A couple of the witnesses seem to have disappeared from the surface of the earth, it took a lot of effort to get hold of some of the others. We’re finally starting to get somewhere. It seems increasingly likely that the “policeman” was dark-haired and had a beard. They all seem sure he was under forty. The witness with the best memory, the so-called “Hard Homo”, insists that the “policeman” had a little black beard; you know, the kind that sort of circles the mouth. And if we look closely at the most accurate, cleaned-up enlargement of the photo, where he’s almost completely hidden behind the Hammarby fans, then we can – here – clearly see a bit of such a beard.’

  ‘And then,’ said Paul Hjelm, ‘we asked ourselves where we last saw a policeman with that kind of beard. Still under the assumption that he really is a policeman, of course. It wasn’t so long since we last met a dark-haired policeman, just the right age, with the right beard. Though there must be a lot of them.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Chavez exclaimed. Sara loomed in his mind. The wonderful Sara Svenhagen. Walls raised between them. He continued with good speed: ‘Sara’s boss.’

  Gunnar Nyberg started, staring sceptically at him. Was that really his figure of light being alluded to? What did she have to do with Jorge? And his own – other – boss? Party-Ragge?

  ‘Let’s keep very, very calm,’ Jan-Olov Hultin articulated, slowly and explicitly. ‘No one, and I mean no one, is throwing any rash accusations about colleagues around before we’ve had time to check the facts very, very thoroughly. Do you understand? Is there any reason at all that we should suspect Detective Superintendent Ragnar Hellberg? Just because he has a small, dark beard? I think we need a bit more than that.’

  ‘Are you talking about Ragnar Hellberg?’ Nyberg exclaimed. ‘Party-Ragge? But he’s completely . . . harmless.’

  ‘You can’t claim that any of CID’s superintendents are completely harmless,’ Hultin said curtly, glaring at Nyberg. ‘But Gunnar is essentially right: there’s no reason at all to suspect Ragnar Hellberg or any other policeman in particular. Let’s get on with the real business. Right, Gunnar?’

  Nyberg was still completely taken by surprise. First, this business with Jorge and Sara – then Party-Ragge. In his eyes, Party-Ragge was the make-up plastered onto the face of the paedophile group, a figurehead who would adorn a sturdy but unspectacular vessel. Signed Ludvig Johnsson.

  The Party Policeman versus the Hermit Policeman.

  He regained his wits and began, in a distant tone, to deliver his own triumphant little speech.

  ‘Niklas Lindberg can’t have eavesdropped on any conversation between Rajko Nedic’s men in Kumla, because they always speak Serbo-Croat among themselves; that’s a characteristic of the entire gang. That means someone must’ve squealed. First, someone blabbed that a big handover was going to take place, and that there’d be a preliminary meeting in Kvarnen on the twenty-third of June, the day before Lindberg would be released. Then, Lindberg tortured Vukotic to find out where the delivery was going to take place, while his men found out the same thing by eavesdropping on the meeting in Kvarnen. A double check, as you said. But – what started it all was someone else, something unique, a leak within the Nedic circle. This snitch, having performed his duties in the ethnic-cleansing business, enlisted in the Foreign Legion, where he met a Swede sharing his extreme right-wing ideology. This Swede was Niklas Lindberg. When the two of them, for different reasons, ended up in Kumla, the snitch became Lindberg’s link to the Nedic empire. This snitch’s name is Risto Petrovic.’

  ‘“A couple of Slavs of the same kind”,’ said the newly woken Viggo Norlander energetically. The others were convinced he was talking in his sleep.

  ‘Risto Petrovic,’ Gunnar Nyberg continued, ‘is now being guarded as a potential Crown witness in a secret location. In all likelihood, he could tell us a lot about his ideological kinsman Niklas Lindberg and about his employer, Rajko Nedic. On the other hand, he doesn’t have any idea where Lindberg and his men are now.’

  ‘But Arto does,’ said Hultin neutrally, while the others continued to stare in amazement at Nyberg, who had already slumped back into his chair.

  ‘We should’ve checked their backgrounds,’ said Söderstedt, soul-searchingly.

  ‘It wouldn’t have helped,’ said Nyberg. ‘Petrovic used a false name in the Legion. Jovan Sotra. And also, Niklas Lindberg wasn’t in the picture yet.’

  ‘Still,’ Söderstedt persisted meaninglessly, standing up. He went over to the whiteboard, and shook his head in disappointment before fastening an enormous map over the top of all the photographs, arrows and notes. It showed half of Sweden. The southern half. Three squiggles, each a different colour, had been drawn onto different places on the map – like streamers left behind after a crayfish party.

  ‘Well, everyone,’ he began distractedly. ‘I’ve found something really strange. It might be a coincidence, probably not. The other day, I noticed – after some serious thinking – a series of cryptic messages on the THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’ page of the online version of Gula Tidningen. Two parties, exchanging information about their location, using references to the literary masterpiece that is our nation’s favourite atlas. The thing that caught my attention was that they were quoting the Florento sisters. Do you remember them?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kerstin Holm nodded. ‘Sex slaves who rebelled and stole a whole load of money from their pimp.’

  ‘Roughly, yes. Why would you quote criminals on the THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’ page? In any case, I contacted Gula Tidningen and they sent backups of the entire series of messages. Since Midsummer’s Eve, they’ve exchanged information sixteen times each. Which has given us two routes. The yellow one, here, goes through two counties: Dalarna and Västmanland. The blue one, here, goes through two more: Halland and Västergötland. The yellow route goes from Orsa to Köping, the blue from Falkenberg to Skara. Messages about Köping and Skara were posted online only a couple of hours ago. Ten minutes before we gathered here, we also had a message a
bout a new robbery, a petrol station in Falköping. According to witness statements, the robber was wearing a coloured balaclava that could best be described as gold. And if we turn the robberies that we know of – Skillingaryd, Ängelholm, Mellbystrand, Halmstad, Varberg, Ulricehamn, Gothenburg, Falköping – into a route – this red one, here – then we can see that the red route is getting closer and closer to the blue one.’

  Arto Söderstedt paused, turning round to stare at their utterly uncomprehending faces.

  ‘They’re hunting Eurydice,’ he explained.

  Again, his clarification didn’t exactly help to clarify the matter.

  ‘As soon as I realised that, everything was clearer. As Jan-Olov rightly pointed out earlier: why would the Sickla Slaughterers set out on a mediocre string of robberies in western Sweden if they had robbed Nedic? It’s this ‘if’ which changes the premise. If they had stolen say . . . ten million from Nedic, they wouldn’t be robbing petrol stations for a couple of measly thousand notes. Because they haven’t robbed Rajko Nedic. They tried but failed. Someone else stole it from under their noses. A little man with four-year-old size 7 Reeboks. The bloody footprints going away from Eskil Carlstedt’s body. Orphei bloody footprints. When I put some pressure on the technicians, they admitted that the prints had with, and I quote, “certain but not absolute likelihood” been left by a lightweight man, not by Bullet Kullberg, who weighs eighty-eight kilos. Or, perhaps, by a woman.’

  ‘Orphei?’ asked Paul Hjelm, casting a glance towards Kerstin. She cast one back.

  ‘Genitive of Orpheus,’ Söderstedt replied, sounding like a high-school teacher suffering from senile dementia. ‘Orpheus’ footprints, in modern Swedish. They call themselves Orpheus and Eurydice. Let’s keep going. Orpheus and Eurydice grab the briefcase. They split up and head out into the countryside, each in a different direction. Why? It’s complicated, but probably because they know, for whatever reason, that they’re being hunted. They know that our Gang Two is on their tracks, so they’re trying to lie low. I don’t know, maybe they’ve hidden the money somewhere and they’re hoping that at least one of them will get away. Because Gang Two is coming. Slowly but surely, they’re getting closer. Maybe they’ve got some kind of tracking device, that’s not clear. We can draw a few conclusions, in any case.

  ‘One: Gang Two did want the money for something in particular; they’re gathering a new, albeit smaller, amount of money everywhere they go. A contingency fund. They need the money for something particular.

  ‘Two: this is our mystery. I’ve found Orpheus’ and Eurydice’s phone numbers. The messages on THIS WEEK’S “I LOVE YOU” always come from the same numbers, two mobile phones. Both of these phones are registered to a restaurant right here in Stockholm. The Thanatos restaurant on Östermalm, owned by . . . Rajko Nedic.’

  ‘So Rajko Nedic’s meant to have stolen his own money?’ Hultin asked, confused.

  ‘Like I said, it’s a mystery. I’ve been in touch with Nokia, and these are the most modern mobile phones imaginable. Prototypes, almost. You can go online with them. As soon as Orpheus and Eurydice arrive in a new place, they send a message to Gula Tidningen’s THIS WEEK’S “I LOVE YOU”. In all probability, it’s a man and a woman, and in all probability, they’re in love. Maybe this really is just some kind of subtle double-dealing from Nedic, or maybe the young pair have given his organisation the slip.’

  ‘There seem to be quite a few holes in his tight organisation,’ said Chavez.

  ‘Let me see if I understand,’ Hultin said neutrally. ‘The whole of this far-reaching theory is built on a certain geographic correspondence between your red and blue lines? From a lovesick pair exchanging addresses on the Internet, you managed to come to the conclusion that they’re the ones who robbed Nedic?’

  ‘The mobile phones belong to Nedic,’ said Söderstedt, pointing. ‘And look at the lines. There’s also a certain time factor involved, that’s why I’m being obstinate before I’m really sure. If we look at the speed that the red and blue lines have been moving thus far, Lindberg’s gang and Eurydice, that is, and look at their last-known stopping places, Falköping and Skara, then it’s very likely that they’re going to collide tomorrow morning. In Skövde.’

  ‘So you think that—’ Hultin asked, finding himself cut off.

  ‘That we can catch Niklas Lindberg, Roger Sjökvist, Dan Andersson and Agne Kullberg in Skövde tomorrow. Yes. And also get hold of this mysterious Eurydice. Two birds with one stone.’

  Hultin was silent. He was thinking. What would happen if Söderstedt didn’t know what he was talking about? Not much, a failed crackdown, no risks on the scale that there had been with the Kentucky Killer. It was quite vague, and God knows how Söderstedt had found the mystical Orpheus and Eurydice. The Florento sisters? Gula Tidningen? THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’? Could it be Nedic behind it? Throwing them off the scent using the restaurant’s phones? But would Hultin ever forgive himself if he let the chance go by? And would the A-Unit be able to forgive him?

  He looked at the crooked red line on the map. Was it really Lindberg’s men? A golden balaclava . . . Småland, Skåne, Halland, Västmanland . . . It was true, it was no chance route. They had turned. A bend down by Ängelholm, and then northwards. They were in pursuit. And taking the chance to get hold of some titbits on the way to the real trophy. It made sense. And the blue line? Zigzagging through western Sweden. Why? And the yellow? Dalarna? But the dates fitted perfectly. They had all begun at the same time, all three of them. The robberies and the messages in Gula Tidningen had begun the very same day, Midsummer’s Eve, the day the Sickla Slaughter had taken place. And, sure enough, the red and blue lines were going to collide. For the first and surely the last time. And, of course, Eurydice had to be protected. She – if it was a she – would, in all probability, die.

  Jan-Olov Hultin nodded. Briefly. Neutrally.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’re going to Skövde.’

  37

  IT WAS 10.26 on Saturday 10 July.

  He was lying in a flea-bitten bed in a little campsite cottage just outside Arboga, beginning his third weekend alone. He wondered how much longer he would be able to bear it.

  Four hundred and one, another one gone.

  The rhyme was mocking him. How many safe-deposit boxes with those now-hypnotic numbers – 4, 0, 1 – had he tried the key in? Fifty? Even more? He didn’t know. The weekdays were like a haze. All he did was drive the car and go into banks and find his position using the road atlas and send short messages over the Internet. There was nothing else.

  Until the weekends. Then it all came crashing down on him. The longing. The hopelessness. The knowledge of defeat.

  Their dreams would remain dreams.

  But worst of all was the longing. His entire being – body, soul, spirit, everything he could imagine – was screaming for her. The weekends were a long, drawn-out agony. A walk to Golgotha.

  Hymenaeus has been called to Thrace in vain.

  He hugged the flea-bitten pillow until the feathers started slipping out and floating around the room. His eyes fell on the small digital clock. It had just turned 10.31.

  That was when he felt the jolt.

  The jolt passed through his entire being like electricity; a violent impulse which shot through every nerve cell in his body, out to the more ethereal connections of his soul and his spirit. All was pain. There was only pain, and pain was all. Apart from a short, brief realisation:

  Without knowing it, he must have turned round.

  Orpheus must have turned and thrown a glance over his shoulder.

  And Eurydice sank back into Hades’ shadowy depths.

  It was 10.26 on Saturday 10 July.

  She was lying in a flea-bitten bed on the ground floor of a hotel in Skövde, beginning her third weekend alone. She wondered how much longer she would be able to bear it.

  Had she made a mistake after all? Had the viper not actually headed out into the country to put the money in a rural saf
e-deposit box? Was something missing from her calculations? Wasn’t there something she should remember – something she should take into consideration? Something she was blocking out?

  She thought. It had always been her only defence mechanism. And she felt, at that moment – when the weekend arrived and almost drowned out the overactivity of the past week – that her thoughts took her a step closer to the truth.

  One factor was missing from her calculations.

  Uncle Jubbe . . .? Wasn’t there something there?

  Shouldn’t she know where this bank was?

  Time to be seized by misgivings . . .

  He was pale, she was dark, and she missed him. That was the only thing that was crystal clear. That was the only unquestionable fact of life. The only pure, utterly unblemished part.

  They wouldn’t be able to stay apart for much longer now.

  She hugged the flea-bitten pillow until the feathers started slipping out and floating around the room. Her eyes fell on the small digital clock. It had just turned 10.31.

  That was when she felt the jolt.

  The door opened. She hadn’t even locked it.

  Three men in balaclavas, two black and one gold, strode into the room, closing the door behind them. A fourth clambered in through the door out onto the little terrace outside. All four had pistols in their hands, and all four were dripping with water.

  She froze.

  ‘Bloody rainy,’ said the golden one, pointing his pistol at her.

  She stared into his icy blue eyes. That was all that could be seen behind the golden balaclava.