The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [81]
Ann Lindell walked up to Ottosson.
“Have we contacted all of Palmblad’s relatives?” she asked.
Ottosson was too nervous to reply. He had tried in vain to catch the eye of the chief of the crime divisions, who in turn was trying to get the police chief’s attention. The latter, however, was busy reading a document that had come from Kungsholmen in Stockholm that morning, and trying to understand what was meant by the questions in the fax.
It nonetheless fell to Ottosson to begin the meeting since none of the others wanted to take the risk of making a fool of themselves.
As anticipated, the resulting discussion was animated but very little was said that was of concrete help to the investigators. Fritzén spoke at length about the media’s image of the murders. Attention was at a maximum and cars from the press buzzed like bees around the police station in Salagatan.
Several calls had come in from Jumkil and Alsike, where people living close to the murdered Blomgren and Andersson complained of the unusually intense traffic and all the curious people who were invading the area.
The assembled group was losing concentration but when the attorney started in on his thoughts about it being time to turn to Stockholm, the silence thickened.
“In light of things I would not advise bringing in National Homicide even if it would perhaps mean a certain relief. Uppsala is such a large district that we should be able to handle this on our own.”
Several investigators nodded. The higher authorities wore a becomingly neutral expression.
After Fritzén the chief of police took the stand. He spoke for a long time about nothing. Sammy Nilsson coughed meaningfully. Lindell felt the level of irritation rising and Ottosson longed for the conference room with the small group of investigators.
Is this what it’s like to wage war? Ola Haver thought, and felt like a subordinate officer who had arrived at the front in order to take part in a commissioned officers’ strategy meeting. He got up and left the room. Sammy followed him. Ottosson stared wide-eyed at them and gave Lindell a look as if to say, I want to go too. Lindell nodded but Ottosson just smiled and stayed put.
After about an hour the meeting was concluded. Now everyone felt informed and above all, involved. This was probably the only positive result.
The investigators met with Ottosson. It was crowded but Berglund brought in a couple of chairs so everyone could sit.
“This is like morning prayers,” Ottosson said when everyone was assembled. He tried to set a jovial tone, but failed since his body language indicated something very different.
“Otto, what are you hiding?” Sammy asked.
Ottosson looked up from his notes, embarrassed.
“What?” he asked.
“You look constipated,” Berglund said.
“I’ve received a tip,” Ottosson said quietly.
“From who?” several people asked in unison.
“Gusten Ander. It’s something that has to do with chess.”
“—Mate,” Sammy Nilsson added.
Ottosson gave him a grumpy look. Then he quickly summed up his conversation with Ander the night before.
The silence was deafening.
“Silvia,” Fredriksson said finally. “I’ll be damned.”
Sammy Nilsson burst out a ringing peal of laughter.
“This is completely insane. It’s like a tip from ‘Crazy Beda.’”
“Crazy Beda” was his nickname for all of the—mildly put—fantastic tips and ideas that were called in to the police.
“Has there been any threat?” was the first thing Fredriksson wanted to know.
“Security has nothing,” Ottosson said, having checked that morning.
“Nothing concrete, in other words, just a chess fanatic’s—what should we say—fanciful concoction,” Berglund said. “But I know Ander well and he doesn’t normally let himself get carried away.”
“That’s my considered opinion as well,” Ottosson said in a formal tone, as if he wanted to compensate for the outlandishness