He went inside where Patricio was still sleeping. He had curled up and turned to the wall. Manuel pulled the blanket out of the bag, crawled in beside his brother, and pulled it tightly around them both.
Fifty-Nine
Very rarely or perhaps never before had Ann Lindell experienced such a veritable storm of information. It started with new leads from the Norrtälje prison, which was shifting the focus of the Armas investigation. Patricio Alavez, who was serving a sentence for attempted drug smuggling, had received a visit from his brother, Manuel Alavez, several days earlier. Lindell immediately tried to flesh out the details on this new player in the game. Faxes were coming in and e-mails were popping up with information that was making her more and more convinced: this brother was of great interest.
She asked Fryklund, the new recruit who had turned out to be a pearl, to look into how and when Manuel Alavez had arrived in Sweden. After half an hour, Fryklund called her back.
He had arrived on a flight directly from Mexico City to Arlanda, and from there he had rented a car, an almost new Opel Zafir. The Mexican had paid the whole rental fee in cash. The car was due to be returned in four days, the same day that his return flight to Mexico had been booked.
Before she finished the call, she gave Fryklund an additional task: to request all available information on the Alavez brothers from the Mexicn authorities. Some of this had probably been done in connection with the investigation of Patricio Alavez, but now there was also his brother. Had he been accused of any crimes in Mexico?
Then Lindell called Morgansson at forensics, gave him the number to the company that had rented out the Opel and asked him to see if the tire marks collected from the scene at Lugnet could have come from the rental car.
“It’ll be a matter of what brand of tires they use,” Morgansson said.
A superfluous comment, Lindell thought, who was increasingly irritated when her colleagues pointed out something obvious.
“Is there DNA from Lugnet?” she went on.
“Sure,” Morgansson said.
“Run it against Patricio Alavez, the one who escaped from Norrtälje.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” he said.
Lindell did not feel like a general commanding her troups from a field telephone, but she did not take Morgansson’s comment as an implied criticism. She knew he liked it when there was action.
“This thing is starting to crack,” she said, in an attempt to adopt a more relaxed attitude, and perhaps it was also an unconscious attempt to show her appreciation of her colleague’s work.
“It looks good,” Morgansson agreed. “If the Alavez brothers are hanging out together, we’ll get them.”
“Anything more on Rosenberg?”
“No, not really. The apartment was completely free of narcotics, apart from the cocaine on the table. He kept his place surprisingly clean. We have secured three sets of prints apart from his own.”
“Slobodan’s?”
“No, he wasn’t one of them.”
They hung up, and Lindell felt relieved. It was the first time they had been able to speak naturally with each other without their failed relationship looming in the background.
“We’ll get them,” she repeated the technician’s words out loud to herself.
She tried to visualize the two hunted men. Was there an accomplice hiding them? The Norrtälje colleagues had reviewed footage from the prison’s security cameras and had, just like the prison staff, drawn the conclusion that Patricio’s escape was a spontaneous occurrence. The staff had also confirmed that the Mexican had not had any particular contact with the other three escapees. They were housed in separate quarters and had never worked together.
If it had been an unplanned escape on Alavez’s part, then it was not clear that he could reasonably have expected to be taken in by friends outside the prison walls. But no one really knew anything about whatever network he might have. Alavez had remained silent through the entire court process and had not revealed a single detail of his smuggling attempt. He was perhaps not entirely welcome if he unexpectedly turned up at an associate’s house on the outside, but his loyalty should nonetheless give him bonus points.
Was there actually anything that spoke in favor of the brothers even being in Uppsala? Yes, Lindell decided, because if there was a connection between the fugitive, Slobodan Andersson, and Armas then it would be reasonable for Alavez to find his way to the city. And the connection existed, she was sure of it. The tattoo, and above all its removal, as well as the fact that cocaine had been both Alavez’s and Slobodan’s “business area,” backed this up. Had Patricio Alavez tried to contact Slobodan Andersson?
Sammy Nilsson hurried past Lindell’s open door. She called out to him and he stuck his head in.
“We’re going to put out an APB on an Opel Zafir,” she said and held out a piece of paper. “Can you do it? And another thing: where would you go if you had a tent and a fugitive brother?”
Sammy Nilsson took the information on the rental car and then sat down.
“Did you hear about Berglund?” Sammy asked.
Lindell nodded.
“It’s too fucking depressing,” he went on. “There are so many dumb-asses running around healthy as can be, while someone like Berglund gets hit.”
“There is no justice,” Lindell said. “We already knew that.”
She waited a couple of seconds before she picked up the thread about the Alavez brothers again.
“Where would you pitch your tent?”
Sammy stared back at her for a second before he looked down at his notes. Lindell knew he wanted to talk more about their colleague and his brain tumor.
“Not in a camping area, that’s for sure,” Sammy said. “Is this a guy from the country or the city?”
“No idea,” Lindell replied. “What do you mean?”
“If he’s from some kind of city gang or drug cartel then he wouldn’t camp out. Too rustic. That type would check into a hotel.”
“We’ve checked them all,” Lindell said.
“Assumed name?”
“Possible, but if it really was brother Manuel who camped by Lugnet then that would seem to indicate a particular style. The question is just where he went after Lugnet.”
“Most likely close to the city,” Sammy Nilsson said. He stood up and walked over to the map of Uppland that Lindell had on the wall.
“Okay,” he resumed, “if you’ve killed someone south of the city then you probably don’t just set up camp on the opposite side of the river.”
“But what about local knowledge?”
“What would you do yourself?” Sammy Nilsson asked.
“Buy a map and try to figure out a good area.”
“What is good?”
“Far away from people.”
“But still fairly close to a road, wouldn’t you say?” Sammy Nilsson said, his back to Lindell, studying the map.
He moved his finger from the southern parts of the city north, tracing the E4 motorway with his index finger.
“Månkarbo,” he said suddenly and turned around, “that’s where I would swing up to the northwest.”
“Månkarbo?”
Sammy Nilsson nodded.
“You’ll have to do the rest of the orienting on your own,” he said with a grin.
Once he had left the room, Lindell went up to the map and located the small hamlet some twenty or thirty kilometers north of Uppsala.
She had a vague memory of Månkarbo as a small town with a painfully low speed limit, a couple of stores, and a gas station.
She went to Ottosson.
“A cement foundry,” he said, “and a mission house in the middle of the village. Why do you ask?”
“Just a guess by Sammy that the Alavez brothers may have gone north, and then he named Månkarbo of all places.”
“The foundry has been closed since God knows when, but the missionaries are probably still active. Do you think they’re camping?”
“Yes, or alternatively, that they are hiding out at some drug associate’s.”