Misterioso (37 page)

“Helena Brandberg, Enar Brandberg’s daughter. You could easily have shot her too and taken along the cassette, but instead you chose to flee and leave the tape in our hands.”

“Was it the tape that identified me?” Göran Andersson said in surprise. “That couldn’t have been easy.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Hjelm. “How did you think we’d found you?”

“Because of the bank robber in the vault, of course. I was just waiting for that whole episode to come out and for you to start hunting me. But when nothing happened, I decided to proceed. Later he showed up in that police sketch in the newspapers, as if he were still alive. What was that all about?”

Why not tell him the truth?
thought Hjelm.

“Säpo buried the investigation out of concern for national security.”

Göran Andersson laughed loudly. Hjelm was on the verge of doing the same. “I guess their original intent kind of backfired,” Andersson said after a moment.

“Why don’t you put a stop to all this and turn yourself in?” said Hjelm quietly. “You’ve very clearly demonstrated your displeasure with the actions of the banks in the late eighties and early nineties. So why not stop? By now you know that we’re watching every damned member of the board.”

“Not exactly … Besides, it’s not a question of demonstrating anything; 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.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you read the newspapers?” Göran Andersson said in surprise.

“Not very often,” Hjelm admitted.

“I’m a folk hero, for God’s sake! Haven’t you read the letters to the editor? Getting a hangover without having had even a glimpse of the party is no fun. That’s the mental state of Sweden today. Everybody who has the opportunity and authority to speak is telling us that we’ve participated in some sort of party, and now we have to pay the price. What party? So that’s what I’m doing; this is the party, the people’s retroactive party! Read the letters, listen to what people are talking about in the city! That’s what I’m doing, and maybe you should too. But no, you’re stuck in an enclosed space, and you think this case is playing out inside there. All the conversations going on in the city are about this. It’s easy to see who’s scared and who’s cheering.”

“Don’t try to tell me that this is some kind of political mission!”

“I’ve only been to one party during those giddy days,” said Andersson a bit calmer. “At the restaurant Hackat & Malet in Växjö on the twenty-third of March 1991. That’s when I found out what the buying frenzy had done.”

“You’re no people’s revolutionary,” Hjelm insisted. “This is all something you’ve invented after the fact.”

“Of course,” said Andersson soberly. “Personally, I’ve always voted conservative.”

This is a very strange conversation
, thought Hjelm. This was not the obsessed serial killer who sat and waited for hours in an empty living room, fired two shots through his victim’s head, and afterward listened to jazz. The mystery shattered into a thousand pieces, the myth crumbled away.
Misterioso
, he managed to think. Maybe the murders had somehow made him sane. On the other hand, maybe this was just the daytime version of Göran Andersson that he was having such a relatively normal conversation with; maybe the nighttime version looked entirely different.

People
, thought Hjelm, and then he said, “Just one question, purely from a factual point of view. How did you get into the houses?”

“If you follow somebody long enough, sooner or later you’ll have access to their keys,” said Andersson indifferently. “Then all you have to do is make a quick impression on a lump of clay and grind your own key. It’s no harder than grinding a dart point. And then you check out their habits and anticipate them.”

“Have you been following your next victim long enough?”

There was silence for a moment. Hjelm was afraid the man had hung up.

“Long enough,” said Andersson at last and went on: “But we digress. I just called to tell you to stay away from my fiancée. Otherwise I’ll be forced to kill you too.”

A question had been churning in Hjelm’s mind the whole
time. Would it be wise to ask? How would Göran Andersson react? He was even less sure after this weird conversation. Weird by virtue of its apparent normality.

Finally Hjelm decided to ask, possibly against his better judgment. “If you’ve been in contact with Lena, then you must know that she’s carrying your child. How does that child’s future look now?”

Utter silence on the line.

After ten seconds he heard a faint click, and the conversation was over. Hjelm put down the phone, switched off the recorder, plucked out the tape, and went to see Hultin.

“I’ve just talked to him,” said Hjelm.

Hultin looked up from his papers and stared at him through the half-moon lenses of his glasses. “Talked to whom?”

“Göran Andersson.” Hjelm waved the tape.

Hultin pointed at his tape player without changing expression.

They listened to the whole conversation. Once in a while Hjelm thought he might have been unnecessarily passive, and sometimes he’d been downright obtuse, but in general it was a lengthy and astonishing conversation between a serial killer and a police officer.

“I can understand your caution,” said Hultin when the tape was over. “Although maybe you could have fought a little harder to get some leads. But in my opinion there are three clues here: One: Even if we take that final silence to mean that he didn’t know about his fiancée’s pregnancy, he has apparently been in contact with her. She simply hadn’t mentioned that particular detail to him. And with regard to the fact that he made contact with you so soon after you’d been there, it’s likely that they’ve been in contact with each other before; it seems unlikely that their first contact after three and a half months would occur on the very day after you identified him. Holm is going to have
put the squeeze on Lena Lundberg down there in Algotsmåla. She knows more than she’s telling us. Two: Andersson responds ‘Not exactly …’ when you say that we’re keeping watch on all of the board members. That may mean that Alf Ruben Winge is the target; he’s the only one that we haven’t yet located. We need to put every effort into finding him. Three: When you ask Andersson whether he’d followed his next victim long enough, he replies ‘Long enough.’ That could mean that he’s ready to proceed tonight. Even though he was active in Göteborg as recently as last night. Okay, that’s not much, but it gives us enough to go on. To summarize: we can probably find out from Lena Lundberg where Andersson has been staying in Stockholm; the next victim is most likely Alf Ruben Winge; and the murder is probably planned for tonight. I’ll call Holm. You call Söderstedt about Winge. Use my cell.”

Hjelm stood motionless for a moment; Hultin really was all fired up. He’d already picked up the receiver and called Kerstin in Växjö. He was almost finished talking by the time Hjelm grabbed Hultin’s cell from the desk and punched in Söderstedt’s number.

“Arto. Winge is going to be the next one, maybe tonight. What have you found out? And where are you, by the way?”

“Here,” Söderstedt said dramatically, throwing open the door. He switched off the cell in his hand. “I was in my office. What have you come up with?”

“Holm is going over to see Lena Lundberg,” Hultin said, seeming not to have noticed Söderstedt’s grand entrance right away. Then he turned to Söderstedt. “Who have you talked to about Winge?”

Söderstedt was quick to reply: “His wife, Camilla, on Narvavägen; two secretaries, or rather office workers, at his company UrboInvest on Sturegatan, Lisa Hägerblad and Wilma Hammar; two of his colleagues at the firm, Johannes Lund
and Vilgot Öfverman; plus a neighbor at the closed-up summer house on Värmdö, a Colonel Michel Sköld.”

“How hard did you pressure them?”

“Not particularly hard.”

“Is there any indication at all that anyone knew more than they were telling you? Think carefully.”

“A certain bitterness from his wife … Possibly a general sense of official secrecy at his company.”

“Okay. Do either of you know whether Chavez or Norlander has come back?”

“Both are still out,” said Söderstedt.

“Then we’ll handle this ourselves.” Hultin stood up and put on his jacket. It’s now … five-thirty. Someone may still be at the UrboInvest office; we’ll call on our way over. If no one is there, then we’ll have to look for them elsewhere. And we’ll report all results, positive as well as negative, to each other via cell phone. Avoid using the police radio. I’ll try to get hold of Viggo and Jorge and wait for Kerstin’s call from Algotsmåla. Everything clear?”

“No backup?” Söderstedt asked out in the hall.

“In due time,” said Hultin.

On the steps of police headquarters they ran into Niklas Grundström from Internal Affairs, who glanced at Hjelm. Hjelm automatically paused.

“Riding high on the hog now, Hjelm?” Grundström said quietly.

“Or possibly wallowing in the mud with them,” Hjelm said just as quietly.

“Go on up to see Döös and Grahn,” Hultin said to Grundström. “You’ll find a couple of men who are really in need of your services.”

Grundström watched them run down the stairs, each headed
for his own vehicle. Then he went inside and fired the two Säpo agents.

They drove toward Östermalm, racing single file through the rush-hour traffic.

“Vilgot Öfverman is still at the UrboInvest office,” Hjelm reported on his cell. “He’s expecting us. The rest have gone home. I got an address for the office worker, Wilma Hammar, on Artillerigatan. The other two live outside the city. Shall I go see her?”

“Yes,” said Hultin.

The three cars stayed in formation all the way to Humlegården. Just before the intersection of Sturegatan and Karlavägen, Hultin said, “Kerstin reports that she’s over at Lena Lundberg’s home now. She’ll get back to us soon. No contact with Jorge. Viggo is in Ösmo, of all places, checking out an apartment. He’ll join us as soon as he can.”

Söderstedt and Hjelm turned right onto Karlavägen while Hultin continued for some distance along Sturegatan. After a few blocks, Hjelm turned onto Artillerigatan while Söderstedt headed toward Karlaplan and Narvavägen.

Hjelm rang the buzzer labeled “Hammar” and was admitted by a polite male voice. The door on the fourth floor was opened by the owner of that voice, if a voice can really be said to have an owner. A pipe-smoking, solid-looking man, in what is usually called late middle age.

“Criminal Police,” said Hjelm, waving his ID. The man looked utterly confused. “I’m looking for Wilma Hammar. It’s urgent.”

“Come in,” said the man, then shouted, “Wilma! The police!”

Wilma Hammar appeared from the kitchen regions, drying her hands on a dish towel. She was short and stocky and about fifty.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” said Hjelm hastily. “I think you know what this is about. We believe your boss, Alf Ruben Winge, is in mortal danger, and we had the impression from our earlier visit that we hadn’t heard the whole truth about his absence.”

Wilma Hammar shook her head, looking staunchly loyal at whatever the cost. “He disappears for a couple of days every month or so, as I told the other officer. I’m not privy to what he does.”

“Periodic binges, if you ask me,” said her husband, sucking on his pipe.

“Rolf!” said Wilma.

“Do you know about the Power Murders—” Hjelm began just as his cell phone rang.

“Okay,” said Söderstedt on the line. “His wife openly confessed this time—she’s quite drunk. He’s got a mistress. I repeat, he’s got a mistress. His wife doesn’t know who she is, but she’s expressed an interest in biting off the woman’s nipples if we find her.”

“Thanks,” Hjelm said, ending the conversation.

“Do you mean that … Alf Ruben is going to be …” Wilma Hammar looked scared.

“The next victim. Yes,” Hjelm finished her sentence for her. “Don’t try to protect him out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. It might cost him his life. We know he has a mistress. Do you know who she is?”

Wilma Hammar pressed her hand to her forehead.

“I’m afraid that every second counts right now,” said Hjelm to prevent her from putting up any smoke screens.

“All right,” she said. “But I don’t know who she is. I’ve answered the phone a couple of times when she called. She has a Finnish accent. That’s all I know. But Lisa would certainly know.”

“His secretary?”

She nodded. “Lisa Hägerblad.”

“And she lives in … where was it? Råsunda? Do you have her address and phone number?”

Wilma Hammar looked them up in her phone book, then wrote them down on a little yellow Post-it Note that Hjelm stuck on his cell.

“Thanks,” he said and left. On his way down the stairs he punched in the number on the note. It rang ten times before he gave up.

Then Hultin called. “I’m sitting here with the senior employee at UrboInvest, Vilgot Öfverman. After a little persuasion he’s managed to come up with a first name and a description of the mistress. That’s all he knows, I can guarantee it. She’s short, has ash-blond hair cut in a pageboy style, and her name is Anja.”

“I can add that she’s most likely Finnish or a Finland-Swede,” said Hjelm. He heard a beep.

“I’ve got another call,” said Hultin. “Is there anything urgent?”

“The secretary in Råsunda. So far no answer.”

Hultin disappeared for a moment. Hjelm sat in his car, waiting in torment. Söderstedt came driving up in his Volvo and parked in front of him. Their cells rang. Both answered.

“Okay,” said Hultin. “This is a conference call. I’ve got Kerstin on the line, as we used to say in the old days.”

“Hello,” said Kerstin from Algotsmåla. “I’ve just had an intense conversation with Lena Lundberg. It’s true that she’s been in touch with Andersson every now and then over the past three months. She really fooled me. Andersson has told her only that he’s involved in something really important. As we suspected, she hasn’t dared tell him about her pregnancy.”

“Get to the point,” Hultin said sternly.