The Return of the Dancing Master(141)
“You can try Pelle Niklasson. I’ve got his number here.”
Johansson wrote it down, thanked Sundelin, and hung up. Then he called the new number. The man who answered said he was Pelle Niklasson. Johansson repeated the questions about the red Escort.
“I can’t remember if I saw it today. We’ve got quite a few cars in the long-term area.”
“We need to have confirmation that it is there, and we need it now.”
“I’m in Vallingby. Surely you’re not suggesting that I should drive all that way at this time of night.”
“If not a police car will come to get you.”
“What’s happened?”
Johansson sighed. “I’m the one asking the questions. How long will it take you to get there and check if the car’s where it should be?”
“Forty minutes. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“No. Write down this number. Call me as soon as you know.”
It was still snowing in Sveg. They waited. Thirty-seven minutes later, the phone rang.
“Erik Johansson here.”
“How did you know?”
“How did I know what?”
“That the car wasn’t here.”
Larsson and Lindman sat up and leaned towards the speakerphone.
“Has it been stolen?”
“I don’t know. It’s supposed to be impossible to steal a car from here.”
“Can you explain that a bit more clearly?”
“This is a garage that charges high fees in return for maximum security. No car can be driven away from here without our checking the person who’s in it.”
“So everything is recorded?”
“In the computer, yes. I don’t know how to run that thing, though. I mostly do maintenance. It’s the other boys who look after the computer side.”
“Mattias Sundelin?”
“He’s the boss. He doesn’t do anything.”
“Who are you referring to, then?”
“The other boys. Five of us work here, apart from the custodian. And the boss, of course. One of them must know when the car left, but I can’t contact them now.”
Lindman raised his hand. “Ask him to fax their personal details.”
“Do you have access to their personal details?”
“They’re here somewhere.”
He went to look, then returned to the telephone.
“I’ve found copies of their driver’s licenses.”
“Do you have a fax there?”
“Yes, and I know how to use that. I can’t send anything until I get the okay from Sundelin, though.”
“He knows about it. He gave us your number, remember?” Johansson said, sounding as authoritative as he could. He gave Niklasson the police fax number.
The black fax machine was in the corridor outside the office. Johansson checked that it was working. Then they waited again.
There was a ring, and paper began to emerge from the machine. Four driver’s licenses. The text was barely legible, their faces like black thumbprints. The machine stopped. They returned to the office. Snow was piling up on the windowsill. They passed the pages around, and Johansson wrote down the names: Klas Herrström, Simon Lukac, Magnus Holmström, Werner Makinen. He read them out, one after the other.
Lindman didn’t even listen to the fourth name. He recognized the third one. He took the fax and held his breath. The face was just an outline, with no distinguishable features. Even so, he was certain.
“I think we’ve got him,” he said slowly.
“Who?”
“Magnus Holmström. I met him on Öland. When I visited Wetterstedt.”
Larsson had barely touched on the visit to Wetterstedt when he told Johansson about what Lindman had said, but he remembered even so.
“Are you sure?”
Lindman stood up and held the paper under the lamp.
“He’s our man. I’m sure.”
“Are you saying he’s the one who tried to shoot the driver of the Golf?”
“All I’m saying is that I met Magnus Holmström on Oland, and that he’s a Nazi.”
Nobody spoke.
“Let’s bring Stockholm in now,” Larsson said. “They’ll have to go to the garage and produce a decent picture of this kid. But where is he now?”
The telephone rang. It was Pelle Niklasson, wanting to know if the faxes had come through all right.
“Yes, thank you, we’ve got them,” said Johansson. “So one of your staff is called Magnus Holmström.”
“Maggan.”
“ ‘Maggan’?”
“That’s what we call him.”
“Have you got his home address?”
“I don’t think so. He hasn’t been working here long.”