The Cruel Stars of the Night

Forty-six

After the group communication that Ann Lindell was missing there was a restless atmosphere at the station. There were those who connected the disappearance with the impending visit by the queen. One of these was Säpo-Jern. He claimed with deliberation that it was very likely that Lindell had found a significant lead and either been stopped or had been stopped from communicating with the outside world.

He expressed annoyance at the crime team’s apparent lack of ability to communicate with each other.

“How is it possible that no one in Violent Crimes knows what their colleague is doing?” he asked rhetorically in a small-scale conference in Ottosson’s office.

If you only knew, Ottosson thought but held his tongue.

“We don’t have time for an internal investigation,” he said curtly and tried not to show his irritation at Jern’s insistent voice or his own concern for Ann.

He had been pondering this, tried to remember something that Ann had mentioned over the past few days and that could bring them forward in their search. Often she tried out a new idea on him. It could be a new angle of a problem or a stab in the dark. Ottosson had become increasingly good at reading the various nuances of Ann’s work method. In fact, this was one of the things he had appreciated most in her. He felt a bit flattered that she showed him the confidence of sometimes presenting completely bizarre ideas and impulses, which in many of their colleagues would have elicited snickers and perhaps future teasing when it became clear how insane the idea was.

But Ottosson could not think of anything that explained her disappearance. For a while he speculated that she may have had an accident. Perhaps she had driven off the road and sat unconscious in the car, which was hidden by vegetation. It had happened before that people had been trapped in their cars. He recalled an accident involving one car on the E-4 the driver had been able to call the emergency number on his cell phone but the ambulance and fire department had not been successful in locating him. The driver saw them pass by him and despite his injuries was able to guide them to the right place. That time there was a happy ending.

Ottosson could see Ann’s car in his mind, driven into a bush or against a tree, with Ann hanging unconscious over the steering wheel or thrown through the windshield. She was sloppy about her seat belt.

He quickly got up. She must be alive, he thought and was gripped for the first time during his long police career by what most closely resembled desperation.

“What is it, Otto?” Berglund asked.

“To hell with this!” Ottosson burst out, and Jern, who had continued his litany of the inadequate routines at the crime squad, stared at him with astonishment.

“Out and look for her, god damn it,” Ottosson went on in an agitated voice, “instead of sitting here and kvetching like a little old lady!”

Bea, who had also been listening to Jern’s tirade with growing anger, gave a chuckle.

“While you’re at it why don’t you harrass some Arab in town,” she threw out. “Maybe al-Qaida is involved.”

Jern gathered up his papers and left the room without saying a word.

Sammy Nilsson devoted himself to Ann Lindell’s office with minute attention to detail. He had wolfed down a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and was forced to attend a short briefing, but otherwise he had spent all his time at Lindell’s desk.

He thought it was possible the answer would be found there. Looking aimlessly was nothing for Sammy Nilsson. The problem was that Lindell left so little behind: scattered notes, incomplete reports, and terse theories jotted down in a notebook.

For a while he was angry at Ann. The lack of an organizational system in her office made him wonder how she could function at all as a detective.

Sammy Nilsson flipped through the transcript of the questioning of Ulrik Hindersten’s daughter and Lantz-Andersson’s own comments. It was very brief. Nothing had emerged that could explain the disappearance. What perplexed Sammy was the fact that the file lay on Ann’s desk to begin with. Why was she interested in a missing person’s report from September? He could not recall having talked about this Hindersten, but he sensed what Ann’s thinking had been. Three men around seventy years of age had been murdered and here there was a fourth man of the same age, missing without a trace.

He had called Åsa Lantz-Andersson but she had gone home for the day and when he tried her at home her husband said his wife was out for a run. Two, three times a week she ran a ten-kilometer trail in the forest. She had just set off.

Then go catch up to her, Sammy thought. He asked the man to make sure Åsa called as soon as she got home. When he had put the phone down he started calculating how long it would take to run ten kilometers. Forty-five minutes he decided and looked at his watch. It would be at least half an hour until his colleague called back.

He flipped through the folder again. The daughter’s name was Laura Hindersten. She was most likely unmarried since she had the same last name and address as her father. The street where they lived he couldn’t place exactly but he knew it was in Kåbo.

Ulrik Hindersten was retired but had been an associate professor in Italian literature. Sammy re-read the sentence.

“Italian literature,” he muttered, got up, took out his cell phone, and called Berglund.

“Hi, where are you?”

“In the bathroom,” Berglund answered drily. “Do you want to hear me flush?”

Sammy heard flushing water in the background.

“Hey, Berglund, didn’t you say something about Jan-Elis Andersson being a farmer with a flair for languages? What did you mean by that?”

“I saw an inscription on the side building,” Berglund said, and now his voice was serious. “If you remember, there was a smaller cottage a little ways off.”

“In what language?”

“I think it was Italian, why?”

“Then I was right! Do you have any idea what it said?”

“Not in the least,” Berglund said and Sammy realized he had left the bathroom because now there was no echo in the phone.

“Can you come to Ann’s office?”

Berglund arrived after half a minute.

“Why were you asking?” he said as soon as he came in.

“I had a vague memory of you talking about something Italian,” Sammy Nilsson started, and then summed up the case of the professor who specialized in Italian.

“The connection is tenuous but…” Berglund said.

“But…”

“… but interesting,” the old criminal investigator went on. “You think there may be a connection between the professor and the farmer in Al-sike?”

Sammy Nilsson nodded and told him about the file he had found on Lindell’s desk.

Berglund eyed the first page.

“Kåbo,” he said.

“Do we know anyone who speaks Italian?” Sammy Nilsson asked.

Berglund shook his head.

“But that can be arranged,” he said. “Should I call Örjan Bäck? He knows these things.”

Sammy Nilsson nodded. In his thoughts he was already in Alsike to check the inscription, which according to Berglund appeared on the wall of a farm building some thirty meters from the murdered Andersson’s living quarters.

“Another idea would be to call Andersson’s relative in Umeå,” Berglund said. “What was her name? She may know if there were any ties between the professor and her uncle.”

“Lovisa Sundberg,” Sammy Nilsson said. “Let’s do that. Damn that I didn’t think of it.”

“We’re all exhausted,” Berglund said.

“Do you think Ann has called her?” Sammy Nilsson asked. “No, she hasn’t been in contact with any of Andersson’s or Palmblad’s family I’ve checked.”

Ottosson called home to see how things were going with Erik. As he expected there was no problem. The boy had eaten and was right now playing with one of Ottosson’s grandchildren, a girl about Erik’s age. Asta had nothing but praise for his calm and social skills.

“You can tell he has learned from day care how to be around people,” she said, which surprised Ottosson somewhat. Asta was not the one who usually had anything good to say about the communal childcare services and he couldn’t help pointing it out.

“You don’t understand all that,” Asta determined calmly, “but I will try to explain it to you one day when you aren’t so stressed.”

They finished the conversation and Ottosson really did feel stressed. The worst thing was not being able to do anything, not even pretend to look for Lindell. What would that even look like? Should he walk around on streets and squares and call out her name? Suddenly he understood the frustrations of relatives of missing people. They could be a complete pain during an investigation, call all the time and nag, suggest various approaches, and sometimes threaten to file a complaint with the Parliamentary Ombudsmen or go to the papers and say how passive the police were being.

There was a knock on the door. Sammy Nilsson came in. Ottosson thought he looked as eager as a playful boy.

“I think we have a connection between Andersson and a missing professor in Kåbo,” he started without introduction. “I called Lovisa Sundberg and she confirmed that the uncle had rented a cottage to the academic about twenty years ago. It was the same cottage she lived in later for a while. She couldn’t remember his name but she recalled that he worked with books and was unpleasant. I think it was Ulrik Hindersten.”

“And?”

“This is what Ann is doing. I am absolutely sure of it. Berglund saw an inscription in Italian in Alsike. Everything adds up. He’s a professor of Italian or something.”

Ottosson couldn’t help smiling in the midst of the misery. He now remembered that Ann had said something about a missing professor.

“Okay, take this slowly and from the top,” he said and pointed to the visitor’s chair, grateful to have someone to talk to.