Hjelm. Hjelm automatically paused.
“Riding high on the hog now, Hjelm?” Grundstrom said quietly.
“Or possibly wallowing in the mud with them,” Hjelm said just as quietly.
“Go on up to see Doos and Grahn,” Hultin said to Grundstrom. “You’ll find a couple of men who are really in need of your services.”
Grundstrom watched them run down the stairs, each headed for his own vehicle. Then he went inside and fired the two Sapo agents.
They drove toward Ostermalm, racing single file through the rush-hour traffic.
“Vilgot Ofverman 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 Humlegarden. Just before the intersection of Sturegatan and Karlavagen, 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 Osmo, of all places, checking out an apartment. He’ll join us as soon as he can.”
Soderstedt and Hjelm turned right onto Karlavagen while Hultin continued for some distance along Sturegatan. After a few blocks, Hjelm turned onto Artillerigatan while Soderstedt headed toward Karlaplan and Narvavagen.
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 Soderstedt 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 Hagerblad.”
“And she lives in… where was it? Rasunda? 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 Ofverman. 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 Rasunda. So far no answer.”
Hultin disappeared for a moment. Hjelm sat in his car, waiting in torment. Soderstedt 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 Algotsmala. “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.
“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 Soderstedt’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. Goran Andersson’s.”
“No shit,” Chavez said, and hung up.
Hjelm’s cell rang again. Soderstedt picked up his phone at the same time.
“Hello,” said Hultin. “Anna Williamsson’s apartment is at Fittjavagen 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.”
