‘3+3=5. Still waiting. D & the gang.’
‘Eurydice. “No crime is worse than bitter betrayal, the Florento sisters said.” 82 12G 14. Orpheus.’
‘Saturday 3rd. You know where. Licking Jack.’
‘Hard-ons are fun. Secret(ion) Services.’
He lost interest, closed the window and ran down to the garage. Viggo Norlander was fuming. He was standing by his rusty old service Volvo, stomping.
‘Bastard,’ said Norlander.
‘Söderstedt,’ said Söderstedt.
They drove to Handen, twenty or so kilometres south of Stockholm. Norlander drove like a ruffled and tattered old great tit the cat had dragged in. Dan Andersson’s flat was in the centre of Handen, a flat which wasn’t a bomb site but a surprisingly well-cleaned one-bed. Precision-cleaned. Forensics probably wouldn’t find even a fingerprint. It was exactly like Eskil Carlstedt’s flat in Stockholm. They went through the few books and files. Everything was in impeccable order. Even the tassels on the rug had been combed out. A scent of soap still lingered beneath the deep-rooted stench of smoke in Danne Blood Pudding’s flat. On a shelf there was a photograph. Dan Andersson in Mallorca, smiling broadly and with an enormous beer in his hand. His face actually was slightly purple in colour. There wasn’t much else to see. Here, too, all traces of right-wing extremism were conspicuous in their absence. Here, too, they were standing in a flat which had been expecting a visit from the police, and had been made as bland as possible.
Arto Söderstedt did his duty but little else. Somewhere under the dull, routine work, something was niggling. He wondered what it was.
A grain of sand, waiting to become a pearl?
They drove north to Hökarängen. Roger Sjöqvist’s last-known haunt. Sjöqvist had fled on his first unsupervised period of release from Tidaholm prison, having served nine leave-free years. Back then, he had given this address as his residence. It turned out to be his parents’ flat, though he hadn’t been there in ten years. Both Söderstedt and Norlander were convinced by the wretched Sjöqvist parents. The father – if it was in fact his father – stank so strongly of alcohol that the smallest of sparks would have sent the entire high-rise up in flames. They left the danger zone rapidly.
‘Well, that was worthwhile,’ Norlander said in the car on the way back to Stockholm. ‘What a difference we’re making. How meaningful it all feels!’
‘Shut up,’ said Söderstedt.
Norlander looked at him in surprise.
Arto Söderstedt was thinking. The niggle was growing more and more intolerable. The grain of sand was demanding to become a pearl.
He had seen, heard or thought something. At some point during the morning, something had crept past and should have caught his attention. But it had slipped away, and now it was rubbing, like a grain of sand in a mussel. Or rather like a fly which has worked its way behind someone’s eyeball, and can’t be reached. Without resorting to surgical methods.
Söderstedt’s surgical methods were of the orthodox, clinical kind. He went through the entire day, from the moment he woke up. When he opened his eyes, Anja was gone. She had already dragged herself to work to scrape excess fat from tax returns. Next, he went to the toilet. No memorable thoughts. Irritated by his constipation. Breakfast. Lively. Four kids. Minor fight between the eight-year-old and the ten-year-old. Catfight, he recalled thinking. The fifth kid at summer camp north of Uppsala. Dropping off three of the kids, the thirteen-year-old staying at home: the first two at the youth centre, the smallest at nursery. Pondering over dropping the kids off at nursery in summer and winter. The lightning-quick realisation that soon he would never have to drop them off again. Watching the shadow play on Bondegatan and on the tower block. Strange fantasies about being in a crime novel. Pondering the parking regulations in inner Stockholm. His clear victory in the Safari Rally. Thoughts of buying a car. The term ‘family car’. European crash tests. Viggo. Discussion on sudden infant death syndrome, sewing circles, hen houses, the word ‘bubbling’. Viggo’s dreamy expression. Gula Tidningen. Expensive family cars. Seven messages of interest sent by email. Then the shamefulness. The feeling returned. Why the shamefulness? The headline THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’. Exactly, ‘Secret(ion) Services’. It was here. Somewhere here. A message.
What had it said? Your filly, Edna. The freezer incident. Licking Jack. Still waiting. Nope, they didn’t set any bells ringing.
‘No crime is worse than bitter betrayal, the Florento sisters said.’ That must have been it. The Florento sisters? A small bell rang. A crime of some kind which had recently been discovered… Weren’t the Florento sisters criminals? They were in the US, weren’t they? A couple of prostitutes who had stolen a load of money from some mega-pimp? Though surely that couldn’t have been so important?
Why were criminals being quoted in THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’, in a message posted on Gula Tidningen’s home page?
Yeah, yeah, so what? It was their combination with something else in the same message that was crucial. What had it said? Orpheus and Eurydice? Yes, that was it, but it wasn’t all. Weren’t there some numbers? Some combinations?
How had it gone in THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’?
‘BK, CF, DL. 3 12 13 18 24 28 30.’ No, those sounded like lottery numbers. There were seven numbers when you played Lotto, weren’t there? Initials and a row of numbers.
‘3+3=5.’ No that was ‘still waiting’. One of the six was missing. Two groups of three. Maybe two love triangles joining together. Two smaller group-sex gangs joining forces. But one didn’t want to. You could call that group pressure.
More. ‘Saturday 3rd.’ Nope, meeting. ‘You know where. Licking Jack.’ Classic adultery. Meeting between woman and tongue.
He normally remembered things. Memory like an elephant. Orpheus and the Florento sisters and – a combination of numbers.
‘Eurydice. “No crime is worse than bitter betrayal, the Florento sisters said.” 82 12G 14. Orpheus.’
‘82 12G 14.’ Exactly. That was it. That was what had been nagging him, and continued to do so. Why? How could he be supposed to know what that combination meant? It was just numbers and a letter. Impenetrable. Give up, as Kerstin Holm would say.
He couldn’t give up. It was nagging him. ‘82 12G 14.’
‘82 12G 14.’ ‘82 12G 14.’
A car emerged in his mind. This car. Viggo Norlander’s half-stolen service Volvo. Why? When? Hard to steer. Yeah? Why hard to steer?
Because he had to hold a book open using the wheel.
Kumla. A little church town south-west of Lake Tåkern in Östergötland.
E18. Missed turn-off on the way out of Stockholm.
Arto Söderstedt grabbed the atlas from the compartment in the car door. Motormännens vägatlas över Sverige. He ripped the loose red plastic cover open and leafed frantically in the index. Kumla. ‘44 8E 2.’
Shit. It was right and not right.
‘82 12G 14.’
‘44 8E 2.’
At the start of the index, there were instructions on how to read the combinations. First page. 82 and 44. Then a square on that page: 12G and 8E. After this, the quarter of that square: 1 was bottom left, 2 bottom right; 3 was top left, 4 top right. It was that part which didn’t make any sense. The last number in the combination could only be 1, 2, 3 or 4. Not 14.
Arto Söderstedt didn’t really understand what he was doing. Was this just a mental workout? Brain-training? So that it didn’t go rusty when he was seventy-five?
Conclusion. Criminals are quoted in THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’. Why? Combined with something which seemed to be a geographic location, but wasn’t quite. Was it a red herring after all? Did ‘82 12G 14’ have nothing to do with the atlas, despite the similarities?