They parted and the old man was swallowed up by the masses on the square. It was Saturday morning and the shopping rush was on. Ottosson remained standing in his spot for a while and wondered how the old man would have voted if he had still been sitting in city government.
Ottosson suddenly heard a shout from the corner toward Väder-kvarnsgatan and Hjalmar Brantingsgatan. It came from a collection of youths approaching each other from opposite directions. He actually felt a sting of fear. He was alone and would not have a chance if they decided to knock him on the back of the head.
Nothing happened, as it turned out. They met in the middle of the square and the youths went noisily on their way Ottosson walked slowly home, reflecting on Gusten Ander’s theory and what it would mean if they decided to accept it.
Ottosson had a great deal of respect for Ander and his judgment but on the chilly October night it was as if his mind cleared. The unlikely aspect of his colleague’s reasoning—that a serial killer was acting out an old chess game, and moreover had the queen as the ultimate target—was suddenly self-evident.
He realized that he had taken Ander’s theory seriously for a few moments simply because they had so much trouble finding any motive in the three murders. It was no advanced conjecture to think that they were connected, but the question was how? Two single, old farmers and a retired bureaucrat from the university, with horses as his passion, what did they have in common?
That question had been argued back and forth and Ottosson had noticed a certain desperation behind all the contributions.
Ottosson decided to sleep on it and to discuss the question with Ann first thing in the morning.
Asta was reading in bed but lowered her book and gave him a searching look. Ottosson knew he had to first try the idea out on his wife. For decades they had discussed police cases without Ottosson feeling as if he was breaking any code of silence. He knew she would never pass anything along.
Asta Ottosson had almost the same objections that he had raised and that he knew Ann Lindell would come up with.
After Ottosson had taken off his clothes and brushed his teeth, he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and let out a sigh. Asta put her hand on his back. He turned his head and looked at her. It would be wrong to say she was as beautiful as a lily—that might have been true thirty years ago—but at that moment he fell in love with her all over again.
“You’re something, you,” he said and smiled.
“Come on, you old lug, get into bed,” she said.
They lay as close to each other as two people can get.
Before Ottosson fell asleep he thought that Asta and Silvia were probably the same age but that was the extent of their similarities.
Sammy Nilsson refused to look at the clock but he knew it had to be close to one.
His brain was rinsed as clean as a dead tree root at the edge of a northern reservoir. Sometimes he got this image in front of his eyes when he associated something decayed and joyless. It was a childhood memory from the time when he and his father would go fishing in southern Lappland. Once they had gone past a dammed-up lake and stopped for a break. The artificial shore was littered with tree corpses. Hundreds of twisted, white-yellow tree stumps stood out as horrifying as dead animals whose bones bore witness to a slaughter of inconceivable proportions.
These stumps often returned to him in nightmares. The three murder cases that, reasonably speaking, had to be classified as one, appeared to him as something equally terrifying.
Everyone tried in their own way. Sammy’s way was to be systematic. He had an instrument, just like the ViCLAS coordinator at the Uppsala Police. He had long been skeptical about the system but in time the resistance had weakened and now he tried to view the system as the support it was intended to be.
ViCLAS was a Canadian model developed in order to aid in the collection of data so that the investigators could discover similarities in different crime cases. It was thought to deepen and help the investigative work.
When, according to his own application of the ViCLAS system’s extensive format, Sammy Nilsson now at this late hour made a data search in his clean-swept tree-stump brain, four factors came ticking out: access to a car, local knowledge, rapid chain of events, and the absence of a traditional deadly weapon.
The access to a car implicated a large portion of Uppsala’s population, but most likely the killer was not an eighteen-year-old who had borrowed his dad’s Volvo in order to go off on a murder rampage, nor was it a retired person. Probably the perpetrator was between thirty and sixty.
It was most likely a man; few women were serial killers. Sammy Nilsson had seen the statistics.
None of the cases involved a robbery. The motive must have been revenge. But revenge for what? The driving force must have been enormously strong in someone who systematically clubbed three elderly people to death. Three older men, none of whom were known to have an extensive love life or any financial difficulties. He bit his pen and stared out in front of him.
Motive? He stared at the six letters. An honor killer, he thought. Someone who had been deeply humiliated? By two farmers and an academic? Could it have been in grade school? Sammy made a note to check where the three men had gone to school. He thought that Jan-Elis Andersson and Petrus Blomgren were from the area, but what about Palmblad? Could an old wrongdoing some fifty, sixty years back in time be part of the background?
Sammy Nilsson approached the second point on his list, local knowledge. The facts that he was in possession of indicated someone who had lived in Uppsala or the surrounding area for a long time. He had trouble imagining a newcomer scraping together motive enough for three murders. Again a sign that this was old debris that had finally risen to the surface.
An amateur, he determined. In all three cases the murderer could have availed himself of a gun or even some kind of knife. Instead the victims were clubbed down with an unknown object. Ryde had hazarded a heavy iron tool but had ruled out a hammer. The murderer had been forced to come close and had surprised the victims. It was a moment that involved an element of risk.
Or perhaps the murderer was so sure of himself that he felt invincible? A perpetrator who ruled out any form of resistance. What did this say about his profile?
He shuffled the papers together into a neat pile, got up from the table, and looked at the time. In five hours he would have to get up.
Ann Lindell stared out into the darkness. She had fallen asleep shortly before midnight but had been awakened by a strange sound, turned on her lamp, and discovered that it was two o’clock.
The sound had returned several times. At first she had lain in a half daze, then she had awakened. It was a scraping, slightly squeaky noise, impossible to stand.
Her first thought was that Erik had gotten out of bed but when she checked he was sleeping peacefully.
She listened intently. Now it was completely quiet. It was pitch black in the room. She had bought new curtains that effectively kept out all light.
The image of Laura Hindersten came to her. An unusual woman. In some way Ann felt something in common with her. Perhaps only for such a trivial reason that they both lived alone.
Laura Hindersten wasn’t exactly a dime a dozen. Her apparently senseless method for closing a chapter on her old life by burning up a valuable library attracted Ann in a strange way. It indicated a consistent and merciless attitude that Ann felt was lacking in herself. Everything she undertook was half-hearted. Even in something like raising Erik she proceeded without plans or deeper intentions. But Erik seemed completely normal in his development. He was happy and social and linguistically advanced. She was surprised at how easily and quickly he could orient himself and adapt to the most diverse situations. And she wasn’t just a little proud when she heard how other parents at the day care worried about this and that.
Ann smiled to herself in the dark, but the thought of Laura Hindersten wouldn’t leave her. The pillow was starting to feel more and more uncomfortable and her
thoughts circled around the remarkable house in Kåbo. What had really happened to Ulrik Hindersten?
Laura had denied any knowledge of Jan-Elis Andersson and Petrus Blomgren and there was nothing that argued in favor of there being a connection between the three men. But it was also not a given that Laura would know her father’s complete history and all acquaintances.
Shortly before three she hit on what the sound was that had woken her up: the skirt that she had hung out on the balcony to be aired out. It was swinging on its hanger and dashing against the window. That’s what it had to be. And so it was that Charles Morgansson was the last thing she thought of before she fell asleep.
Twenty-five
The morning meeting was magnificent. It was the largest in the history of the Uppsala Police. Even those who had no real reason to be there, including all commanding officers, had turned up, on time no less.
The chief of police came down in uniform and no one would have been surprised to see the national commander himself sail in. District Attorney Fritzén, who was formally in charge of the investigation into the three murders and was dressed in a suit and brightly colored tie, had three thick binders with him, that he dropped onto one of the tables with a bang.
Ann Lindell walked up to Ottosson.
“Have we contacted all of Palmblad’s relatives?” she asked.
Ottosson was too nervous to reply. He had tried in vain to catch the eye of the chief of the crime divisions, who in turn was trying to get the police chief’s attention. The latter, however, was busy reading a document that had come from Kungsholmen in Stockholm that morning, and trying to understand what was meant by the questions in the fax.
It nonetheless fell to Ottosson to begin the meeting since none of the others wanted to take the risk of making a fool of themselves.
As anticipated, the resulting discussion was animated but very little was said that was of concrete help to the investigators. Fritzén spoke at length about the media’s image of the murders. Attention was at a maximum and cars from the press buzzed like bees around the police station in Salagatan.
Several calls had come in from Jumkil and Alsike, where people living close to the murdered Blomgren and Andersson complained of the unusually intense traffic and all the curious people who were invading the area.
The assembled group was losing concentration but when the attorney started in on his thoughts about it being time to turn to Stockholm, the silence thickened.
“In light of things I would not advise bringing in National Homicide even if it would perhaps mean a certain relief. Uppsala is such a large district that we should be able to handle this on our own.”
Several investigators nodded. The higher authorities wore a becomingly neutral expression.
After Fritzén the chief of police took the stand. He spoke for a long time about nothing. Sammy Nilsson coughed meaningfully. Lindell felt the level of irritation rising and Ottosson longed for the conference room with the small group of investigators.
Is this what it’s like to wage war? Ola Haver thought, and felt like a subordinate officer who had arrived at the front in order to take part in a commissioned officers’ strategy meeting. He got up and left the room. Sammy followed him. Ottosson stared wide-eyed at them and gave Lindell a look as if to say, I want to go too. Lindell nodded but Ottosson just smiled and stayed put.
After about an hour the meeting was concluded. Now everyone felt informed and above all, involved. This was probably the only positive result.
The investigators met with Ottosson. It was crowded but Berglund brought in a couple of chairs so everyone could sit.
“This is like morning prayers,” Ottosson said when everyone was assembled. He tried to set a jovial tone, but failed since his body language indicated something very different.
“Otto, what are you hiding?” Sammy asked.
Ottosson looked up from his notes, embarrassed.
“What?” he asked.
“You look constipated,” Berglund said.
“I’ve received a tip,” Ottosson said quietly.
“From who?” several people asked in unison.
“Gusten Ander. It’s something that has to do with chess.”
“—Mate,” Sammy Nilsson added.
Ottosson gave him a grumpy look. Then he quickly summed up his conversation with Ander the night before.
The silence was deafening.
“Silvia,” Fredriksson said finally. “I’ll be damned.”
Sammy Nilsson burst out a ringing peal of laughter.
“This is completely insane. It’s like a tip from ‘Crazy Beda.’”
“Crazy Beda” was his nickname for all of the—mildly put—fantastic tips and ideas that were called in to the police.
“Has there been any threat?” was the first thing Fredriksson wanted to know.
“Security has nothing,” Ottosson said, having checked that morning.
“Nothing concrete, in other words, just a chess fanatic’s—what should we say—fanciful concoction,” Berglund said. “But I know Ander well and he doesn’t normally let himself get carried away.”
“That’s my considered opinion as well,” Ottosson said in a formal tone, as if he wanted to compensate for the outlandishness of the investigative hypothesis with his proper formulations.
“Who could be thought to have the motive for a serial killing with the queen as the final target?”
Fredriksson’s question made Ottosson sink back into his chair. Until then he had been sitting leaning forward, as if about to spring into action.
“We’ll have to consult upstairs,” Berglund said, “however much it hurts.”
“And who would set this up like a chess game?” Fredriksson continued.
“And a relatively unknown chess game at that,” Ottosson said.
“We can do a Gallup,” Sammy Nilsson said. “Is there anyone here who knows about even one game somewhere in the world?”
“I lost to my brother once,” Ola Haver said.
“Which one?”
“My little brother.”
“I see why you still remember it,” Nilsson said, grinning.
“Well,” Ottosson said, “that’s how it is, but it restricts our search. Ander was going to come by with a memo. He’ll be here presently.”
“Is this it?” Lindell asked and picked up a green folder. “It’s lying on your desk. Antonov versus Urberuaga, and the date is 1936.”
“That’s the Basque,” Ottosson explained. “How the devil could he be so fast?”
“It’s at least fifteen pages,” Lindell said, who had opened the folder.
“Read it and then let me know how and if we can proceed with this thing.”
“You mean,” Lindell said, “that the victims have nothing more in common with Silvia or each other, apart from the fact that they have been selected more or less at random in order to coincide with moves in a chess game.”
“Read it and weep.”
Lindell looked far from amused. Ever since she got up that morning she had had the feeling that there was something about Petrus Blomgren that she had missed. It was a thought she had had last night that had whirled by without gaining a foothold. Since then it lay working in her subconscious but she couldn’t get ahold of the loose thread.
Now she would have to put Petrus aside in order to study chess history.
Sammy Nilsson told them about his night activities at the kitchen table with the ViCLAS method. He read through his list: “access to a car, local knowledge, rapid succession of events without excessive complications, and no use of a conventional deadly weapon.”
“What does this tell us?” he asked rhetorically and acknowledged Ola Haver’s smile. “Yes, I know, we’re constantly asking ourselves this question, but it’s the pattern we have to detect. I don’t believe in the chess idea, it seems too unbelievably sophisticated. Stuff like that only happens in books. No, I think this is a local guy with a number of enemies who pops them off with a
weapon he happens to have near at hand. Is it the same weapon? I think so, and what does that tell us? The weapon itself may have a symbolic value for the perp. Or else it’s simply a lack of imagination.”
“But it’s also smart to bring the weapon with him,” Berglund said.
“True,” Sammy Nilsson said emphatically.
He who normally was not particularly active at these meetings was now overflowing with energy.
“We’re looking for a man, in fair physical shape, with a relatively nondescript car, maybe someone with a country background, and I don’t think we’ll find him already in the database.”
Edvard, Lindell thought, and couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s not a clerk at the Department of Agriculture,” Haver muttered, “that much is clear.”
“Or else that’s precisely what he is,” Beatrice said in an unexpectedly sonorous and forceful tone of voice. “A little dry, flabby man, balding, with a townhouse in Valsätra, wife, dog, a Volvo 760, half-grown children, and troubling sex dreams at night.”
“There, we have him!” Haver burst out.
Ottosson coughed.
“What do you say, Allan?”
Fredriksson pinched his nose, as he usually did when there were too many questions.
“I can buy two farmers,” he said after a short pause, “but throw in an academic on top of that, that changes things. The motive must be very complicated. It can’t simply be someone out to settle a score with farmers, as we initially believed. It’s true that Palmblad was out in the country a lot as the owner of some stables, but is this significant? Neither Anders-son nor Blomgren were involved in any trouble such as land disputes, unpaid debts, or anything else that had to do with their main line of support, right? I don’t think Palmblad did either. If this is about chess, then yes, the horses are important: a knight is forced from the board. Then he could be replaced by any man with horses. Even a teenage girl could have been the intended victim.”
The Cruel Stars of the Night Page 19