The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [78]
“Is it described in any books?”
Now Ander knew Ottosson was hooked.
“Yes, I’ve probably read about it in six or so articles. There are probably more. I can ask around. You can probably search the Web.”
“Let’s do this,” Ottosson said. “You put together a report about this game, where you can read about it, what’s been written recently. No long history. Can you have it ready tomorrow morning?”
Ander nodded. He would start at once.
“It’s urgent, of course,” Ottosson said. “She’ll be here in three days.”
“What is she doing here?”
“She’s going to open some home,” Ottosson said distractedly and Ander understood that he was thinking about which directions the investigation should now take.
“But can anyone be so damned crazy?” Ottosson burst out suddenly. “It seems so unbelievable, so, what can you say . . . ?”
“. . . so deliberately calculating,” Ander filled in.
“It’s like it’s been taken from an English television series.”
“I never watch crime shows,” Ander said.
“No, you’re too smart for that.” Ottosson chuckled. “You figure everything out twenty moves in advance.”
“Don’t we have to get in touch with the Royal Court?”
“Maybe not just yet. This is such a delicate thing, a slightly daring analysis. We’re going to proceed with this all calm and collected.”
They went their separate ways outside the entrance to the police station. It was close to eleven o’clock in the evening on Tuesday, the twenty-first of October. On the twenty-fourth Queen Silvia was scheduled to come to Uppsala.
After several hundred meters Ottosson stopped short. Vaksala Square lay deserted except for a young couple walking diagonally across it. Ottosson could tell at a glance that they were newly in love. The man had his arm around the woman’s shoulders. They laughed from time to time. Ottosson followed their stroll until they turned the corner by Bodén’s Bicycle Shop in the Gerd block. A block that was now in danger of being torn down because a majority in city government had gotten the idea of building a House of Music right there. It was doubtful if they fully represented the district’s citizens. Ottosson was convinced there would be protests.
Just the other day, outside the bicycle shop, he had run into a scarred social democratic politician who had complained. His career was over but he couldn’t keep from expressing his concern over the state of affairs.
“I’m too old to be told what to do,” he said with a crooked smile and made a sweeping gesture with his cane. “It’s worse with the young ones who have to vote against their conscience.”
“The party whip,” Ottosson said.
The old politician nodded.
“The ones who think differently are forced to go on sick leave when it’s time for a vote in parliament,” he snorted. “Prestige has come into it. I was also behind the House of Music, but now when the costs are getting out of hand you have to say no.”
They parted and the old man was swallowed up by the masses on the square. It was Saturday morning and the shopping rush was on. Ottosson remained standing in his spot for a while and wondered how the old man would have voted if he had still been sitting in city government.
Ottosson suddenly heard a shout from the corner toward Väder-kvarnsgatan and Hjalmar Brantingsgatan. It came from a collection of youths approaching each other from opposite directions. He actually felt a sting of fear. He was alone and would not have a chance if they decided to knock him on the back of the head.
Nothing happened, as it turned out. They met in the middle of the square and the youths went noisily on their way Ottosson walked slowly home, reflecting on Gusten Ander’s theory and what it would mean if they decided to accept it.
Ottosson had a great deal of respect for Ander and his judgment but on the chilly October night it was as if his mind cleared. The unlikely aspect of his colleague’s reasoning—that a serial killer was acting out an old chess game, and moreover had the queen as the ultimate target—was suddenly self-evident.
He realized that he had