“Sapo buried the investigation out of concern for national security.”
Goran 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?” Goran 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 Vaxjo 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.”
“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 fiancee. 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 Goran 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?”
“Goran 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 fiancee’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 Algotsmala. 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 Goteborg 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 Soderstedt 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 Vaxjo. He was almost finished talking by the time Hjelm grabbed Hultin’s cell from the desk and punched in Soderstedt’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,” Soderstedt 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 Soderstedt’s grand entrance right away. Then he turned to Soderstedt. “Who have you talked to about Winge?”
Soderstedt was quick to reply: “His wife, Camilla, on Narvavagen; two secretaries, or rather office workers, at his company UrboInvest on Sturegatan, Lisa Hagerblad and Wilma Hammar; two of his colleagues at the firm, Johannes Lund and Vilgot Ofverman; plus a neighbor at the closed-up summer house on Varmdo, a Colonel Michel Skold.”
“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 Soderstedt.
“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 Algotsmala. Everything clear?”
“No backup?” Soderstedt asked out in the hall.
“In due time,” said Hultin.
On the steps of police headquarters they ran into Niklas Grundstrom from Internal Affairs, who glanced at
