Soderstedt hung up and started checking out the three 08 numbers. Two in Skarholmen-fortunately, it was quite close; but one was in Hasselby.
The two in Skarholmen 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 Osterbotten,” 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.”
Soderstedt cut him off and called the number in Hasselby. Irene Parikka in Hasselby Villastad was Anja’s older sister.
“How old is she?” Soderstedt asked.
“Twenty,” said Irene Parikka. “She’s studying economics at the university. Jesus, has something happened to her?”
“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 Soder.”
“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.”
Soderstedt 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.
“And so should we,” replied Soderstedt.
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 Goran Andersson was already waiting somewhere for Alf Ruben Winge.
Soderstedt’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 Soderstedt 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. Goran 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, Soderstedt forced himself to answer.
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice a bit shyly. “It’s Irene again. Irene Parikka. Anja’s sister.”
“Yes?” Arto Soderstedt held his breath.
“I think I’ve thought of something,” Irene Parikka said hesitantly. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
Soderstedt 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 Sodra Tantolunden. That’s all I know.”
Soderstedt 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 Sodra Tantolunden. Belongs to the Parikka parents.”
Silence.
“Head for City Hall,” said Hultin at last.
Without having any idea why, Soderstedt 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 Goran 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
It took awhile before Soderstedt’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.
