by Arne Dahl
“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.”
“There’s not a chance you can indict me,” said Lund calmly. He looked at his green elbows as he continued to puff on his cigarillo. “I have no idea who this Anja is. And if at some time I actually happened to meet her, nobody ever formally introduced her to me.”
“Are you sure you want to do this the hard way?” asked Hultin quietly.
“Why not?” said Lund cockily. “Go ahead and take me down to headquarters. I’ll be released within an hour. And by then the esteemed Alf Ruben Winge will be dead. It has nothing to do with me.”
“You misunderstood me,” said Hultin as he butted open the man’s right eyebrow. “Going down to headquarters was the easy way. The hard way starts now.”
Johannes Lund stared in surprise at the blood on the hand he’d just rubbed across his forehead.
“Good Lord,” he said. “My wife and kids can see us from the window.”
“And a fucking great show they’re going to witness if you don’t spit out Anja’s name right this minute.”
“I thought police brutality was just something you read about in the papers,” said Lund, and got another taste of it.
Now he lay curled up on the ground, gasping for breath. Hultin leaned down, speaking calmly:
“There’s a little too much at stake right now to be using the kid gloves. Within the next few hours we have the best possible chance of catching Sweden’s worst serial killer in decades. After that he’s going to slip out of our net. Today we happen to know who he’s planning to kill. We’re never going to know that again. And as you can tell, I’m not going to let your career plans save the killer. I realize that you see him as a tool that has suddenly appeared to allow you to take power at UrboInvest. I can even understand it. But if you don’t spit out everything you know about Anja, you’re going to end up seriously injured. It’s as simple as that.”
“She has some kind of Finnish last name,” gasped Lund. “Parkkila, Parikka, Parliika. Something like that. She lives in Söder. That’s all I know.”
“Is her home their love nest?”
“I have no idea. I swear it!”
“No group sex orgies that you and some of your pals have taken part in?” Hultin said diabolically.
“For God’s sake!” moaned Lund.
“Is she a prostitute? A call girl?”
“No. I don’t think so. She doesn’t seem like it. A completely different type. Very shy.”
“Thanks for your cooperation.” Hultin straightened up. “If it turns out that you’ve been lying or withholding information, we’ll be back to develop the essentials of this conversation a bit further. Is there anything you want to add or change?”
“I hope Cop Hell is big enough for the both of you.”
“I’m sure it’s already very crowded,” said Hultin, and left him. “Parkkila, Parikka, Parliika,” he said to Söderstedt as they walked back to their cars. “Which is the most likely?”
“Parkkila and Parikka are both Finnish names,” said Söderstedt. “Probably not Parliika.”
“Check up on Anja Parkkila and Anja Parikka in Södermalm,” said Hultin. “And then all the other Parkkilas and Parikkas in the entire Stockholm area.”
Söderstedt called directory
assistance. There was an Anja Parikka on Bondegatan in Söder; no Anja Parkkila. There were six other Parikkas within a reasonable radius: three with the area code 08, two with 018, one with 0175. Söderstedt scribbled feverishly in his notebook.
“What sort of area code is 0175?” he asked.
“Hallstavik-Rimbo,” the operator said and gave him the address. That was the last of them.
“Thanks.” Söderstedt hung up and punched in the number for Anja Parikka on Bondegatan. No answer.
“Anja Parikka,” Söderstedt said to Hultin, who was waiting outside his car. “Bondagatan fifty-three. No answer.”
“I’m going over there.” Hultin jumped into his car. “How many others?” he shouted through the open window as he backed up from Johannes Lund’s property.
“Six Parikkas. Three in the Stockholm area, two in Uppsala, one in Hallstavik-Rimbo.”
“Find out if the Stockholmers are relatives. Get Chavez and Hjelm to check out the rest. They’re already on the north side.” Hultin drove off.
Söderstedt called Chavez. “Her name is Anja Parikka, one a, one r, one i, two ks. Lives in Söder. Probably moved here from Finland. Hultin is on his way over to her place. Where are you?”
“Stuck outside the soccer stadium. Gnaget has just beaten Blåvit, strangely enough. Hundreds of hooligans are streaming past our car.”
Söderstedt gave them the 018 number and the 0175 number. “Find out if they’re relatives of this Anja. In the worst case, you’ll have to go out there.”
“What’s this 0175 number?”
“Rimbo,” said Söderstedt. “I have the addresses. Call me back if they give you any trouble about telling you where they live.”
Söderstedt hung up and started checking out the three 08 numbers. Two in Skärholmen-fortunately, it was quite close; but one was in Hässelby.
The two in Skärholmen turned out to be brothers who had recently moved from Tampere, and they knew nothing about any Anja Parikka.
“Except for my father’s aunt who lives in Österbotten,” said one of the brothers, speaking Finnish. “She’s ninety-three and deaf and blind, but still damned spry. Maybe she’s the one you’re looking for.”
Söderstedt cut him off and called the number in Hässelby. Irene Parikka in Hässelby Villastad was Anja’s older sister.
“How old is she?” Söderstedt asked.
“Twenty,” said Irene Parikka. “She’s studying economics at the university. Jesus, has something happened to her?”
Don’t ask me, thought Söderstedt stupidly. “Not yet, but there’s a chance that something might. It’s extremely important that we locate her. Do you know about an older lover that she might have?”
“There’s a fifteen-year age difference between us. We don’t have much contact with each other. I don’t know anything about her love life, except that it’s been rather chaotic at times.”
“And you don’t know about any place where she might meet with a lover?”
“Lover, lover! What the hell does that word really mean?”
“That’s what this is about. So calm down and think.”
“The only place I know about is her one-room apartment in Söder.”
“Are there any other siblings, or are your parents still alive and living here in Sweden?”
“My older brother died right before Anja was born. Mama and Papa are still alive, although they’re getting a bit senile. They live in Rimbo.”
Söderstedt gave her his cell number and thanked her, as he saw the time slipping through his fingers. Rimbo was over thirty miles from Stockholm. He called Chavez. “How’s it going?”
“We’ve drawn a blank with regard to Uppsala. No answer at the first number; at the second we had a long and confused conversation with an elderly man named Arnor Parikka. An Icelandic emigrant to Finland who took a Finnish surname and then immigrated to Sweden. He kept claiming to be the father of Anja. But after a puzzling conversation it turned out that he’d been castrated by the Russians during the Finnish winter war. I was just going to call the number in Rimbo.”
“Do that. They’re Anja’s parents. You’ll probably have to drive out there.”
“Shit,” swore Chavez. “Tempus fugit.”
“And so should we,” replied Söderstedt.
He sat in his car in Stora Essingen, watching the final fading of the light-and with it any new ideas. He had nothing left to do. He sat there, utterly passive, with his hands on the steering wheel, feeling locked into a deep freeze. Time had flown, and he had absolutely no control over it.
It was past nine p.m. on the twenty-ninth of May, and in all likelihood Göran Andersson was already waiting somewhere for Alf Ruben Winge.
Söderstedt’s cell phone rang. He heard a clacking and crackling on the line, then Hultin. “Anja’s apartment on Bondegatan is empty. I picked the lock. Not a trace. The neighbors don’t know anything. Viggo is here. We’ve found an address book. No mention of Winge in it, but plenty of names and addresses-seems like mostly friends at the university. We’re starting to call them now. Do you know what’s happening with Hjelm and Chavez?”
“No” was all Söderstedt managed to say. A terrible sense of impotence ran through him.
His cell rang again. He made himself answer it and he heard Chavez’s voice, which sounded strangely like his own: “Couldn’t get through to her parents in Rimbo.”
That was all. Göran Andersson was in the process of slipping through their net. The pace had been ratcheted up to maximum speed-and then stalled. The frustration was beyond comprehension.
When his cell rang again, Söderstedt forced himself to answer.
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice a bit shyly. “It’s Irene again. Irene Parikka. Anja’s sister.”
“Yes?” Arto Söderstedt held his breath.
“I think I’ve thought of something,” Irene Parikka said hesitantly. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
Söderstedt waited.
“Mama and Papa have a little cottage in their allotment garden, and I think Anja sometimes uses it. Up on Tantolunden.”
“Do you have a specific address?” He started the car and wound his way toward Essingeleden.
“No, I’m sorry,” said Irene Parikka. “I think the area is called Södra Tantolunden. That’s all I know.”
Söderstedt thanked her sincerely-at least to him it sounded sincere-and called Hultin.
“I think we’ve got him,” he said calmly. “A cottage in an allotment garden in Tanto. The area’s called Södra Tantolunden. Belongs to the Parikka parents.”
Silence.
“Head for City Hall,” said Hultin at last.
Without having any idea why, Söderstedt drove toward City Hall. Stockholm was almost deserted. When he reached the end of Hantverkargatan, Hultin was back on the line.
“Listen up, everybody!” he practically shouted. “We’ve zeroed in on a cottage in Tanto. Rendezvous at the end of Lignagatan. We’re going to handle this ourselves. Everyone head over there immediately. Except for Arto. I’ll call you in a second.”
Hjelm stomped on the gas, and Chavez felt his torso thrust into the backseat.
They were the first to arrive. The place was desolate. Tanto was a rural black hole in the middle of the big city. Here and there a little light flickered in a few cottages up on the slope of the hill.
Somewhere up there was Göran Andersson.
They sat in the car in silence. Not a word, not a movement. Hjelm smoked a cigarette. Chavez didn’t seem to notice.
A taxi glided up alongside the Mazda. For one brief, awful moment Paul Hjelm thought it was Andersson, come to “take him out,” as he’d said on the phone. But out of the cab stepped Kerstin Holm. She jumped into the backseat.
“Straight from the airport,” she said quietly. “Do you mind if I ask for an update?”
“Anja Parikka’s parents have an allotment garden up there.” Hjelm felt Kerstin’s hand touch his shoulder. Briefly, very briefly, he placed his
hand on hers. Then they separated.
A Volvo Turbo came racing onto the truncated piece of road that was Lignagatan. Hultin and Norlander jumped out and got into the Mazda. It was starting to get crowded.
“Arto will be here soon with a map.” Hultin gave Kerstin a nod. “And you’re back. Good. I got hold of a guy in charge of the property records at City Hall. Arto is meeting with him in the basement archives over there.”
“We’re not bringing in any marksmen or anything like that?” Hjelm said hopefully.
“No,” said Hultin. And that no said a lot.
It took awhile before Söderstedt’s vehicle came bumping along Lignagatan. He got out, brandishing a map. They all got out, and Hultin took the map and studied it.
“All right, people!” Hultin shouted. They gathered around. “Here we have the cottage.” He pointed. “Okay, can everybody see? It’s on the other side of a small path at the very top of the hill. We can make our way up to this other cottage by the same path, if we’re damned careful. It’s the cottage right across, and also the one closest to our target cottage. The door is here, facing away from the Parikka cottage. That’s our position one. One of you will go up there first and find out whether there’s any movement inside the target cottage.
“There are a couple of other cottages nearby that look like possible sites for keeping watch, both on the other side of the target cottage; you’ll need to make a roundabout approach on the top side, here. One of the cottages is catercorner, on the opposite side; this one here, position two. And the other is right below, on the slope leading down to Hornstull Beach; here, position three.
“With these three positions we’ll have the target cottage surrounded so that no one can go in or out undetected. Position one covers the entire front side of the target, facing the path. Position two covers the area above, as well as a good part of the back. Position three covers the area below and also part of the back. We’ll put in our first man at position one. Then another will join him, since that’s going to be our primary observation post. One officer at position two, and one at position three. Is that clear? We’ll establish a rendezvous point at the very bottom of the hill and take care of liaison from there. That’s where Norlander and I will be positioned, in charge of the operation.”
