Arne Dahl - Misterioso

The beauty of Lake Mälaren made no impression on them. Even though they’d exited the tunnel a minute ago, it was as if the tunnel were still stretched out in front of them. At the end was the glimmer of a dark light by the name of Göran Andersson, but at the moment it was obscured by another dark light by the name of Johannes Lund. Söderstedt sat behind the wheel of his car, doing his best to keep up with the wildly speeding Hultin. He wondered, possibly with a certain anticipatory glee, whether Hultin was again going to make use of his rock-hard skull.

Lund was down by the water, smoking. The blue overalls were draped over the edge of the hammock. The hammock was swaying lightly, and the cloud of smoke, which kept gathering and then dispersing past the back of his robust neck, looked extremely pleased.

Hultin grabbed hold of the hammock as it swung toward him and gave it a yank. Johannes Lund toppled onto the lawn and got green stains on the elbows of his white shirt. When he saw the police officers, he didn’t say a word, just quietly got to his feet. His expression was different now. He was ready to defend his inheritance, tooth and nail.

“Quick now,” said Hultin, his voice expressionless. “Anja.”

“As I said before, I don’t know anything-”

“If Winge dies, you’ll be charged with being an accessory to murder. This is your absolute last chance to talk. If you don’t, I’m going to arrest you and take you down to headquarters.”

“There’s not a chance you can indict me,” said Lund calmly. He looked at his green elbows as he continued to puff on his cigarillo. “I have no idea who this Anja is. And if at some time I actually happened to meet her, nobody ever formally introduced her to me.”

“Are you sure you want to do this the hard way?” asked Hultin quietly.

“Why not?” said Lund cockily. “Go ahead and take me down to headquarters. I’ll be released within an hour. And by then the esteemed Alf Ruben Winge will be dead. It has nothing to do with me.”

“You misunderstood me,” said Hultin as he butted open the man’s right eyebrow. “Going down to headquarters was the easy way. The hard way starts now.”

Johannes Lund stared in surprise at the blood on the hand he’d just rubbed across his forehead.

“Good Lord,” he said. “My wife and kids can see us from the window.”

“And a fucking great show they’re going to witness if you don’t spit out Anja’s name right this minute.”

“I thought police brutality was just something you read about in the papers,” said Lund, and got another taste of it.

Now he lay curled up on the ground, gasping for breath. Hultin leaned down, speaking calmly:

“There’s a little too much at stake right now to be using the kid gloves. Within the next few hours we have the best possible chance of catching Sweden’s worst serial killer in decades. After that he’s going to slip out of our net. Today we happen to know who he’s planning to kill. We’re never going to know that again. And as you can tell, I’m not going to let your career plans save the killer. I realize that you see him as a tool that has suddenly appeared to allow you to take power at UrboInvest. I can even understand it. But if you don’t spit out everything you know about Anja, you’re going to end up seriously injured. It’s as simple as that.”

“She has some kind of Finnish last name,” gasped Lund. “Parkkila, Parikka, Parliika. Something like that. She lives in Söder. That’s all I know.”

“Is her home their love nest?”

“I have no idea. I swear it!”

“No group sex orgies that you and some of your pals have taken part in?” Hultin said diabolically.

“For God’s sake!” moaned Lund.

“Is she a prostitute? A call girl?”

“No. I don’t think so. She doesn’t seem like it. A completely different type. Very shy.”

“Thanks for your cooperation.” Hultin straightened up. “If it turns out that you’ve been lying or withholding information, we’ll be back to develop the essentials of this conversation a bit further. Is there anything you want to add or change?”

“I hope Cop Hell is big enough for the both of you.”

“I’m sure it’s already very crowded,” said Hultin, and left him. “Parkkila, Parikka, Parliika,” he said to Söderstedt as they walked back to their cars. “Which is the most likely?”

“Parkkila and Parikka are both Finnish names,” said Söderstedt. “Probably not Parliika.”

“Check up on Anja Parkkila and Anja Parikka in Södermalm,” said Hultin. “And then all the other Parkkilas and Parikkas in the entire Stockholm area.”

Söderstedt called directory assistance. There was an Anja Parikka on Bondegatan in Söder; no Anja Parkkila. There were six other Parikkas within a reasonable radius: three with the area code 08, two with 018, one with 0175. Söderstedt scribbled feverishly in his notebook.

“What sort of area code is 0175?” he asked.

“Hallstavik-Rimbo,” the operator said and gave him the address. That was the last of them.

“Thanks.” Söderstedt hung up and punched in the number for Anja Parikka on Bondegatan. No answer.

“Anja Parikka,” Söderstedt said to Hultin, who was waiting outside his car. “Bondagatan fifty-three. No answer.”

“I’m going over there.” Hultin jumped into his car. “How many others?” he shouted through the open window as he backed up from Johannes Lund’s property.

“Six Parikkas. Three in the Stockholm area, two in Uppsala, one in Hallstavik-Rimbo.”

“Find out if the Stockholmers are relatives. Get Chavez and Hjelm to check out the rest. They’re already on the north side.” Hultin drove off.

Söderstedt called Chavez. “Her name is Anja Parikka, one a , one r , one i , two k s . Lives in Söder. Probably moved here from Finland. Hultin is on his way over to her place. Where are you?”

“Stuck outside the soccer stadium. Gnaget has just beaten Blåvit, strangely enough. Hundreds of hooligans are streaming past our car.”

Söderstedt gave them the 018 number and the 0175 number. “Find out if they’re relatives of this Anja. In the worst case, you’ll have to go out there.”

“What’s this 0175 number?”

“Rimbo,” said Söderstedt. “I have the addresses. Call me back if they give you any trouble about telling you where they live.”

Söderstedt hung up and started checking out the three 08 numbers. Two in Skärholmen-fortunately, it was quite close; but one was in Hässelby.

The two in Skärholmen 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 Österbotten,” 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.”

Söderstedt cut him off and called the number in Hässelby. Irene Parikka in Hässelby Villastad was Anja’s older sister.

“How old is she?” Söderstedt asked.

“Twenty,” said Irene Parikka. “She’s studying economics at the university. Jesus, has something happened to her?”

Don’t ask me , thought Söderstedt stupidly. “Not yet, but there’s a chance that something might. It’s extremely important that we locate her. Do you know about an older lover that she might have?”

“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?”