They seemed to know their Ellroy.
On Thursday 4 May, at sometime after half two in the morning, eight Eastern European prostitutes had disappeared from the annexe of a refugee centre. In other words, a few hours later the very same night. Was there any possible link there? Sara Svenhagen might have been closest after all – even though a certain detective superintendent had attacked her ‘vague hunch’. If there was a connection – and this still felt like the weakest link – then it would probably be related to one of two things.
One: that the Skansen man was their protection, and with him gone they were kidnapped or, in worst case, murdered. Two: that the Skansen man was a threat, one which had been neutralised, meaning the women could finally have their freedom. Either way, it seemed likely he was their pimp, whether a good one or a bad one. Though good pimps weren’t especially common…
Hultin leafed through the printouts from the interviews at Slagsta. Like any good post-industrial employer, he counted them. Two from Norlander, four from Nyberg, seven from Svenhagen – and twelve from Holm. OK, Norlander and Nyberg had left the place a few hours earlier than the others, but the difference between twelve and two was still striking. Plus, he also had a number of reports from the women from the previous day. In total, thirty or so stacks of paper.
Thankfully, Kerstin Holm had summed it all up in a separate report ahead of the weekend. If he ever – against all odds – finally retired, she was looking more and more like his natural successor. She should probably have been made Superintendent long ago. Though on the other hand, so should Hjelm, Söderstedt, Chavez and Nyberg. Well, everyone but Norlander, he thought slightly evilly.
Two measly interviews.
He summed up Kerstin’s summary. Unfortunately, no one from Slagsta could remember having seen anyone wearing a thick gold chain around his neck, nor a pale pink suit. Despite that, it was becoming increasingly clear that something had happened just over a week ago. Several of the extremely reluctant johns had noticed a change in the eight women’s moods. They had seemed deeply uneasy but hadn’t wanted to answer any questions. ‘She fucked like a bloody machine,’ as a habitual sex-addict security guard from the neighbouring area had said of Mariya Bagrjana.
Nice turn of phrase.
A couple of neighbours had recalled hearing a loud engine in the early hours of Thursday morning. ‘Sounded like the bin lorry,’ an old woman with the unusual name Elin Belin had said, ‘but why would the bin lorry come round at half three in the morning?’ The other neighbour, an unemployed butcher who, by his own admission, ‘hadn’t slept more than six hours the last six months’, had been insistent that it was closer to four when he heard ‘something like a bus – but on the wrong route, because we don’t have a single useful night bus up here, and you, you’re from the authorities, maybe you can pass my complaint on to the management’. That had come from Viggo Norlander’s meagre share of the interviews, which was strange, because who could mistake Viggo Norlander for someone from the authorities?
The most important information had come from the manager, Jörgen Nilsson. After some pressure – Kerstin had clearly come down quite hard on him – he had admitted that he knew of a pimp. Back in November, Nilsson had been contacted by a man who wanted to make sure he wasn’t getting involved in the business; he was told that if he kept his mouth shut, he could have free access to rooms 224-227. From what they could tell, it seemed like Nilsson had made use of that free access an indecent amount. ‘A regular’, as an agitated Somalian dentist in room 220 had sat up from his prayer mat to say. Holm had eventually managed to drag Nilsson off to the police artist to produce a good old composite sketch. They would be running it through all the registers they could think of tomorrow. Judging by appearances, however, this ghost pimp wasn’t a match for their wolverine man.
The noise of a phone not only startled him out of his wits, it reminded him that his reasoning was wrong. The information from Nilsson wasn’t, despite everything, the most important.
‘I thought you’d still be there,’ a gruff voice barked down the line.
‘You too, I see, Brunte,’ Hultin said as his racing heart slowly calmed.
‘My name isn’t Brunte,’ Chief Forensic Technician Brynolf Svenhagen said with great emphasis. ‘My ill-bred son-in-law has been spreading that kind of dung around, I suppose?’
‘It’s normally horses that spread dung,’ Hultin said.
There was a moment’s silence at the other end of the line. Svenhagen was clearly searching for a crushing reply. Since crushing replies weren’t exactly the stern scientist’s strong point, he remained silent instead.
A telling silence, Hultin thought.
Eventually, and hardly sounding ready for battle, the chief forensic technician said: ‘Do you want this information or not? I’ve been working like mad to get it ready for you. It is Friday evening, you know.’
‘I’d really like it,’ said Hultin, pouring oil on the troubled waters. He even added a thanks.
It was enough to placate Svenhagen. He shot from the hip. ‘I’ve got a full list of calls made to and from rooms 224, 225, 226 and 227 of the Norrboda Motell in Slagsta. Is that of any interest to you?’
Despite the fact that it was of great interest, Hultin was more angry than overjoyed. He had, quite simply, forgotten about the telephones in the four rooms. Was he starting to lose the plot? Were those gaps in time more alarming than he had convinced himself they were? Was it a blood clot, inching relentlessly closer to a much-too-narrow vessel in his brain?
‘Are you still there, Jan-Olov?’ Brynolf Svenhagen asked uncertainly.
‘Yes,’ Hultin said, cheering himself up. ‘Fantastic, Brynolf. Can you fax them over?’
‘They’re already in the machine,’ Svenhagen replied self-righteously.
While he waited for the fax machine to rumble into life, Hultin glanced at his watch. It was thirteen minutes past eight – soon it would be exactly twelve hours since the hole had loosened up the space-time continuum. ‘Eight, sixteen and ten seconds. Peep.’
Maybe he was already in the middle of the gap in time…
The fax started rattling and brought the good superintendent back to reality. Though he wasn’t quite happy with that term.
Reality…
Hultin sat there watching the growing pile of paper, wondering whether it really was reality he found himself in. He stayed there a while, staring at the sheets jolting forward out of the machine. Krrr-krrr-krrr-prritt. The pile was getting big. Time vanished in hypnotic monotony. Krrr-krrr-krrr-prritt. Krrr-krrr-krrr-prritt. Krrr-krrr-krrr-prritt. Krrr-krrr-krrr-prritt.
A pair of eyes were staring at him through the darkness. He gave an unusually violent start and glanced down at his wrist. It was thirty-three minutes past eight – just like that morning, when it was actually only sixteen minutes past. My God, he thought. It’s really happening.
Paul Hjelm was standing there in his much-too-thin linen jacket, holding an umbrella adorned with the police logo and with headphones in his ears. His hand, raised in greeting, sank uncertainly down through space-time.
‘Is everything OK?’ he bellowed.
‘Don’t shout,’ Jan-Olov Hultin said, staring at his watch. The second hand was ticking away – but wasn’t it going abnormally fast? What was Paul doing here? Was it suddenly morning? Was it time for the morning meeting in the Tactical Command Centre? Had he been transported forward half a day by a black hole in time?
‘Sorry,’ Hjelm said, pulling the headphones from his ears. ‘Kind of Blue. Miles Davis.’
‘You can listen to music in your free time,’ Hultin said, still confused.
Paul Hjelm looked at him searchingly.
‘You don’t seem well, Jan-Olov,’ he eventually said.