To the Top of the Mountain

33

SURE ENOUGH, THE Florento sisters were criminals. Arto Söderstedt managed to find them fairly quickly in the news archives. The story had gained lots of column inches, particularly in the tabloids, over the few days around Midsummer – it was uncommon for any story to last longer than that.

The sisters were prostitutes in Atlanta, Georgia. They had been part of an enormous brothel controlled by a mega-pimp called Big Ted Curtis, who treated his whores badly even by pimp standards. Under challenging circumstances, the sisters had set up an Internet connection, gained access to Big Ted’s bank account, emptied it, and then vanished into thin air. Penniless, he had committed suicide, and the whole brothel was set free.

A few weeks ago, the sisters had broken their silence. They communicated with the press via email, telling their story. But still, no one knew where they were.

Söderstedt pondered their story. Each second he neglected to spend on Niklas Lindberg and Rajko Nedic gave him a guilty conscience. Though less and less so. He couldn’t let it go.

Two people, presumably lovers, were calling themselves Orpheus and Eurydice – the ancient musician and his beloved, whom he had sung back from the kingdom of the dead. They were quoting two criminal sisters who had also made their way back from the dead and, on top of that, managed to sink their tormentor and become rich. They were sending messages about their respective positions in different places across Sweden using Gula Tidningen’s THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’ feature. Something outside the bounds of the law was probably going on here.

Söderstedt sat at his desk with the extensive investigatory material on the Sickla Slaughter in one hand, the measly printouts from Gula Tidningen in the other. The strange thing wasn’t just that they seemed to weigh the same amount, but that they were also being pulled together like magnets.

Two positions: Orpheus in Arvika, Eurydice in Alingsås. Two citations, quotation marks and all: ‘No crime is worse than bitter betrayal, said the Florento sisters.’ ‘But the sisters vanished into thin air.’ He had a brainwave, phoned Gula Tidningen and spoke to the webmaster.

Yes, the paper had backups for the last six months’ ads.

Arto Söderstedt clenched his fist for a brief moment. He asked whether he could have the last month’s entries for the THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’ feature sent to him. He could. It took just under an hour.

He searched through the extensive material on his computer. As ‘Orpheus’ after ‘Orpheus’ popped up on his screen, he was struck by how drastically this little computer function had aided their police work. Eventually, he was left with a cluster of similar messages on the screen in front of him. They all looked alike. First, the name of the recipient – Orpheus or Eurydice – then, in quotation marks, a short phrase which was more or less obviously connected to the Florento sisters; then, the position marker from the atlas which, without exception, referred to an urban area; finally, the sender (Orpheus or Eurydice). Always exactly the same form.

The first message was sent on Midsummer’s Eve, 25 June. Söderstedt could feel the two piles of paper being pulled even closer together. The Sickla Slaughter had taken place on the night of the 24th.

He looked more closely at the first message. It had come from Orpheus. The code from the road atlas said Orsa in Dalarna county. There was no quotation, but a reference: ‘Expr., 24.06, p. 12 top’. The reply from Eurydice had come just under two hours later, along with a code that pointed to Falkenberg on the west coast. Here, there was a quotation: ‘The sisters were just spiritual sisters.’

‘Expr.’? And then ‘p. 12 top’? That must have been a reference to the top of page 12 in the previous day’s issue of Expressen. There weren’t any tabloids on Midsummer’s Eve, were there? Maybe Orpheus had got hold of the day before’s number – and found…?

Söderstedt rang the police station’s library. A woman answered, and five minutes later, a girl brought him a copy of Expressen from 24 June. Most articles were about the Kvarnen Killing, but at the top of page 12 was one with the headline: ‘THE SISTERS WHO VANISHED INTO THIN AIR.’ It was a follow-up article on the Florento sisters. Partway through, it said: ‘The sisters were just spiritual sisters.’ Towards the end, it read: ‘No crime is worse than bitter betrayal, said the Florento sisters.’

And the article ended with the words: ‘But the sisters vanished into thin air.’

He went through the rest of the messages from THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’. All were quotations from the Expressen article.

Reconstruction, Söderstedt thought to himself, leaning back. Orpheus finds the article about the Florento sisters. In his first message to Eurydice, he refers to it. She replies after two hours, during which time she’s presumably gone out in Falkenberg, where everything’s closed for Midsummer, to get hold of a copy of Expressen. She then replies with a quote from the article: ‘The sisters were just spiritual sisters.’ The pair must have agreed in advance to call one another Orpheus and Eurydice, those who escaped the kingdom of the dead. They find an article on a couple of spiritual sisters who have done the same thing – and who have also got hold of an enormous sum of money. They identify with the sisters, so they send a quotation from the article each time they communicate. They’re moving through Sweden, each in a different location, and they’ve decided in advance to keep in touch using Gula Tidningen’s most harmless, well-hidden page: THIS WEEK’S ‘I LOVE YOU’. That implies that they have access to the Internet. Wherever they are, the pair seem to have immediate Internet access. How? And why the Internet? Why not direct contact? To avoid the chance of being traced? Hmm.

The server, Söderstedt nodded. It must be possible to find out where the messages to Gula Tidningen were coming from.

He contacted the webmaster again. Yeah, Orpheus and Eurydice were using the same server. A free Spanish server called Virtud. He found it online. After some linguistic confusion and general resistance, Virtud’s Spanish webmaster finally accepted that Arto Söderstedt was calling from the Swedish police and, very reluctantly, gave him Orpheus and Eurydice’s details. They were registered as Baruch Spinoza and Elton John. That didn’t mean a great deal. The most important thing was that there were two phone numbers.

Two mobile phone numbers.

In other words, Orpheus and Eurydice were connecting to the Internet using their mobile phones.

He looked up the numbers with the provider, Comviq. Both were registered. At the same address. A restaurant.

The Thanatos restaurant in Östermalm, Stockholm.

He contacted the Patents and Registrations Office. What could they tell him about the Thanatos restaurant?

Eventually, Arto Söderstedt found the name of the owner.

The Thanatos restaurant was owned by a man called Rajko Nedic.

Arto Söderstedt suddenly felt completely, completely calm.