Paul Hjelm sat still. Something was calling to him. Something was starting to come together. The edges of a wound slowly growing closer. All the different languages which had turned up during this case… It was like the Tower of Babel. A God, saying: ‘Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.’ The richness of European languages. ‘Everyone through OK’ in Ukrainian. ‘Shtayf’ in Yiddish. ‘Ghiottone’ in Italian. ‘Wolverine’ in English. And then ‘Epivu’ in…
For God’s sake. It didn’t say ‘Epivu’ at all.
Hjelm searched wildly on the computer. The folder of photographs from the case. The wolverine enclosure. There: the letters in the earth. ‘Epivu’. He enlarged the image so that it filled the screen. Then he enlarged it further. He stared at the last letter: ‘u’. He enlarged it further. Didn’t it look like there were a couple of commas above and below the ‘u’? Of course.
It wasn’t a ‘u’ at all. It was a ‘upsilon’. Broadly speaking, a ‘y’.
On closer inspection, he saw that the middle letter had no dot above the ‘i’.
Of course, it was Greek.
Nikos Voultsos was thoroughly Greek.
That meant that the ‘p’ wasn’t a ‘p’ after all, but ‘ro’. In other words, an ‘r’. The ‘v’ was no ‘v’ but ‘ny’, or ‘n’.
It wasn’t ‘Epivu’, it was ‘Ερινυ’, pronounced something like ‘Erini’, with the emphasis on the last vowel. And which, in all likelihood, was a word.
Paul Hjelm even thought he recognised it.
He went online and found a Greek dictionary. No hits. Damn it. Then it struck him that there were several different types of Greek. Modern Greek had surprisingly little in common with Old Greek. This had to be Old Greek. Ancient Greek. After some effort, he managed to find an old Greek dictionary on an American website called ‘Perseus’. He searched for ‘Ερινυ’. He found a result.
Erinyes.
He realised why he had recognised it. It was something he had come across during the A-Unit’s very first case. A young man called Gusten Bergström had been convinced that his sister, who had committed suicide following an attempted rape, was being avenged from beyond the grave by ancient goddesses of revenge. By Erinyes.
The Erinyes were antiquity’s most terrifying figures. Known as the Furies, they came from the kingdom of the dead and demanded revenge for past injustices. To restore the balance. And they never gave up.
The Erinyes were female goddesses of revenge.
Nikos Voultsos’s last act in this life had been to write down precisely who was killing him. He wrote it in Old Greek, the language of mythology. The man who had murdered three prostitutes in Piraeus and who had been about to take over a group of prostitutes in Stockholm was convinced that he was being hunted by female goddesses of revenge. Was it simply his conscience finally catching up with him?
Paul Hjelm shuddered. At least five thin, dark figures; a gliding presence among the gravestones in Södra Begravningsplatsen, like mythological beings…
No, he thought. No, this wasn’t just some crime syndicate among others. This was no Eastern European mafia group, selling women like pieces of meat. No, sir.
He phoned Kerstin. It was a reflex.
‘Kerstin Holm,’ she said.
‘Are you in the building?’
‘I’m in my room. Viggo’s here.’
‘Well, what do you know,’ said Paul Hjelm. ‘This “Epivu”, it’s the Erinyes, the ancient goddesses of revenge. “Ερινυ”. It’s Old Greek.’
‘Jesus,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘How did you work that out?’
‘Long story. But it’s not some Mafia syndicate.’
‘I never thought it was. You said it yourself: the ninja feminist.’
‘I think you were the one who said that. We just clarified it.’
‘Viggo’s found our phantom pimp. The man who did the deal with the manager of the Norrboda Motell. His name was Finn Johansen, he was Norwegian.’
‘Was?’
‘He committed suicide on the twenty-fourth of April. Shot himself in the head. With a silenced Luger that wasn’t his. The serial number is pretty similar to Nikos Voultsos’s gun. They’re sister guns. From the same line.’
‘What time?’
‘Time?’
‘What time of day on the twenty-fourth of April?’
There was a moment’s silence. Then Viggo Norlander’s not-quite-so-pleasant voice came down the line.
‘What’re you playing at, Freddie Freeloader?’
‘When did he shoot himself?’
‘Never, I’d guess.’
‘Me too.’
‘About one, half past one in the afternoon, apparently. His prostitute girlfriend came home from the day’s shift at about quarter to two and found him lying in a pool of his own blood.’
‘Nikos Voultsos came to Stockholm on the twenty-third of April. At half four on the twenty-fourth, he phoned each of the four rooms in the motel. 224, 225, 226 and 227. They’d lost their pimp, Finn Johansen, only a couple of hours earlier, and to a weapon almost identical to Voultsos’s.’
There was a scratching sound on the line.
‘I hear you,’ said Kerstin Holm. ‘It’s Sunday. Sunday the twenty-third. That’s when the unease starts spreading through the four rooms. The girls know they’ve been taken over by another, bigger, and presumably worse gang than Finn Johansen’s. The wolverines. Ghiottoni. A couple of days later, your ninja feminist rings-’
‘She’s not mine. And she’s not a ninja feminist. She’s a goddess of revenge; she’s an Erinye.’
‘Whatever. Somehow, she offers the girls an alternative to the situation they’ve found themselves in; exactly what, we’ve got no idea. A week goes by, Nikos Voultsos cements his position as their new pimp; maybe he gives them a display of his power, probably in combination with some kind of drugged-up, hardcore sex. Maybe he’s also taken over other groups in the same way, we’ll have to check that. Maybe that bus to Lublin really is a bus, maybe it’s full.’
‘Full of – what? Saved whores?’
‘I don’t like that word,’ said Kerstin, ‘but OK. Maybe. While he’s busy carrying out his orders from the Ghiottone, someone is planning his downfall. And carrying it out. They creep up on him somewhere in Djurgården. They probably know that he liked to sit and snort cocaine out there. Then, with precision, they drive him towards the Skansen fence, right by the wolves. They’d probably already clipped a hole in the fence next to it, alongside the wolf enclosure. That’s how they get in while he’s struggling up the fence, over the barbed wire and into the wolves.
‘Then they stand and wait for him at the top of the hill. They see him go crazy, throwing his pistol away and tearing his gold chain off, and they follow him. Then they catch him, bind his legs with a red-and-purple rope, push the metal wire into his brain and lower him to the wolverines. The animals take a first bite, maybe a bit cautiously, but there’s enough cocaine in that bite to drive those greedy little creatures to a massacre. He’d probably already died by that point; he probably died in the same incomprehensible way as Leonard Sheinkman. Of pure pain.
‘Once it’s all over, they pull the rope back up. There’s nothing left. The wolverines have managed to jump high enough to bite off the knot. It doesn’t really matter, so they take the rope and clear off. Then, virtually right away, they phone Slagsta. One of the Ukrainians in room 225, either Galina Stenina or Lina Kostenko, answers. They find out that their tormentor, Nikos Voultsos, is out of the game and that their transport will depart as planned, at four in the morning. When no one is watching. They blissfully talk the night away. They’re free. They’re finally free. No more pimps. No more bad drugs. Never again. New lives. Time to turn over a new leaf.’