Arto Söderstedt paused, turning round to stare at their utterly uncomprehending faces.
‘They’re hunting Eurydice,’ he explained.
Again, his clarification didn’t exactly help to clarify the matter.
‘As soon as I realised that, everything was clearer. As Jan-Olov rightly pointed out earlier: why would the Sickla Slaughterers set out on a mediocre string of robberies in western Sweden if they had robbed Nedic? It’s this ‘if’ which changes the premise. If they had stolen say… ten million from Nedic, they wouldn’t be robbing petrol stations for a couple of measly thousand notes. Because they haven’t robbed Rajko Nedic. They tried but failed. Someone else stole it from under their noses. A little man with four-year-old size 7 Reeboks. The bloody footprints going away from Eskil Carlstedt’s body. Orphei bloody footprints. When I put some pressure on the technicians, they admitted that the prints had with, and I quote, “certain but not absolute likelihood” been left by a lightweight man, not by Bullet Kullberg, who weighs eighty-eight kilos. Or, perhaps, by a woman.’
‘Orphei?’ asked Paul Hjelm, casting a glance towards Kerstin. She cast one back.
‘Genitive of Orpheus,’ Söderstedt replied, sounding like a high-school teacher suffering from senile dementia. ‘Orpheus’ footprints, in modern Swedish. They call themselves Orpheus and Eurydice. Let’s keep going. Orpheus and Eurydice grab the briefcase. They split up and head out into the countryside, each in a different direction. Why? It’s complicated, but probably because they know, for whatever reason, that they’re being hunted. They know that our Gang Two is on their tracks, so they’re trying to lie low. I don’t know, maybe they’ve hidden the money somewhere and they’re hoping that at least one of them will get away. Because Gang Two is coming. Slowly but surely, they’re getting closer. Maybe they’ve got some kind of tracking device, that’s not clear. We can draw a few conclusions, in any case.
‘One: Gang Two did want the money for something in particular; they’re gathering a new, albeit smaller, amount of money everywhere they go. A contingency fund. They need the money for something particular.
‘Two: this is our mystery. I’ve found Orpheus’ and Eurydice’s phone numbers. The messages on THIS WEEK’S “I LOVE YOU” always come from the same numbers, two mobile phones. Both of these phones are registered to a restaurant right here in Stockholm. The Thanatos restaurant on Östermalm, owned by… Rajko Nedic.’
‘So Rajko Nedic’s meant to have stolen his own money?’ Hultin asked, confused.
‘Like I said, it’s a mystery. I’ve been in touch with Nokia, and these are the most modern mobile phones imaginable. Prototypes, almost. You can go online with them. As soon as Orpheus and Eurydice arrive in a new place, they send a message to Gula Tidningen’s THIS WEEK’S “I LOVE YOU”. In all probability, it’s a man and a woman, and in all probability, they’re in love. Maybe this really is just some kind of subtle double-dealing from Nedic, or maybe the young pair have given his organisation the slip.’
‘There seem to be quite a few holes in his tight organisation,’ said Chavez.
‘Let me see if I understand,’ Hultin said neutrally. ‘The whole of this far-reaching theory is built on a certain geographic correspondence between your red and blue lines? From a lovesick pair exchanging addresses on the Internet, you managed to come to the conclusion that they’re the ones who robbed Nedic?’
‘The mobile phones belong to Nedic,’ said Söderstedt, pointing. ‘And look at the lines. There’s also a certain time factor involved, that’s why I’m being obstinate before I’m really sure. If we look at the speed that the red and blue lines have been moving thus far, Lindberg’s gang and Eurydice, that is, and look at their last-known stopping places, Falköping and Skara, then it’s very likely that they’re going to collide tomorrow morning. In Skövde.’
‘So you think that-’ Hultin asked, finding himself cut off.
‘That we can catch Niklas Lindberg, Roger Sjökvist, Dan Andersson and Agne Kullberg in Skövde tomorrow. Yes. And also get hold of this mysterious Eurydice. Two birds with one stone.’
Hultin was silent. He was thinking. What would happen if Söderstedt didn’t know what he was talking about? Not much, a failed crackdown, no risks on the scale that there had been with the Kentucky Killer. It was quite vague, and God knows how Söderstedt had found the mystical Orpheus and Eurydice. The Florento sisters? Gula Tidningen? THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’? Could it be Nedic behind it? Throwing them off the scent using the restaurant’s phones? But would Hultin ever forgive himself if he let the chance go by? And would the A-Unit be able to forgive him?
He looked at the crooked red line on the map. Was it really Lindberg’s men? A golden balaclava… Småland, Skåne, Halland, Västmanland… It was true, it was no chance route. They had turned. A bend down by Ängelholm, and then northwards. They were in pursuit. And taking the chance to get hold of some titbits on the way to the real trophy. It made sense. And the blue line? Zigzagging through western Sweden. Why? And the yellow? Dalarna? But the dates fitted perfectly. They had all begun at the same time, all three of them. The robberies and the messages in Gula Tidningen had begun the very same day, Midsummer’s Eve, the day the Sickla Slaughter had taken place. And, sure enough, the red and blue lines were going to collide. For the first and surely the last time. And, of course, Eurydice had to be protected. She – if it was a she – would, in all probability, die.
Jan-Olov Hultin nodded. Briefly. Neutrally.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’re going to Skövde.’
37
IT WAS 10.26 on Saturday 10 July.
He was lying in a flea-bitten bed in a little campsite cottage just outside Arboga, beginning his third weekend alone. He wondered how much longer he would be able to bear it.
Four hundred and one, another one gone.
The rhyme was mocking him. How many safe-deposit boxes with those now-hypnotic numbers – 4, 0, 1 – had he tried the key in? Fifty? Even more? He didn’t know. The weekdays were like a haze. All he did was drive the car and go into banks and find his position using the road atlas and send short messages over the Internet. There was nothing else.
Until the weekends. Then it all came crashing down on him. The longing. The hopelessness. The knowledge of defeat.
Their dreams would remain dreams.
But worst of all was the longing. His entire being – body, soul, spirit, everything he could imagine – was screaming for her. The weekends were a long, drawn-out agony. A walk to Golgotha.
Hymenaeus has been called to Thrace in vain.
He hugged the flea-bitten pillow until the feathers started slipping out and floating around the room. His eyes fell on the small digital clock. It had just turned 10.31.