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.”