The Return of the Dancing Master(142)

“You must know where your staff live, surely?”

“I can take a look. This isn’t part of my job.”

It was almost five minutes before he returned to the telephone.

“He’s given us the address of his mother in Bandhagen. Skeppstavagen 7A, c/o Holmström. But he hasn’t given a phone number.”

“What’s his mother’s first name?”

“I have no idea. Can I go home now? My wife was extremely pissed off when I left.”

“Call her and tell her you won’t be back for some time yet. You’re getting a call from the police in Stockholm soon.”

“What’s going on?”

“You said that Holmström was new?”

“He’s only been working here for a couple of months. Has he done something?”

“What kind of an impression of him do you have?”

“What do you mean by impression?”

“Is he a good worker? Does he have any special habits? Is he extreme in any way? When was he last at work?”

“He’s pretty discreet. Doesn’t say much. I don’t really have much of an impression of him. And he’s been off work since last Monday.”

“Good, thank you. Wait where you are until the Stockholm police call you.”

By the time Johansson hung up, Larsson had already called the Stockholm police. Lindman was trying to track down the telephone number, but directory assistance didn’t have a Holmström at that address. He tried to find out if there was a cell phone number corresponding to Holmström’s name and identity number, but he had no luck there either.

After another twenty minutes, all the telephones were silent. Johansson put on some coffee. It was still snowing, but less heavily. Lindman looked out of the window. The ground was white. Larsson had gone to the bathroom. It was a quarter of an hour before he came back.

“My stomach can’t handle this,” he said gloomily. “I’m completely blocked up. I haven’t had a bowel movement since the day before yesterday.”

They drank their coffee and waited. Shortly after 1 P.M. a duty officer called from Stockholm to say that they hadn’t found Magnus Holmström when they went to his mother’s house in Bandhagen. Her first name was Margot, and she told them that she hadn’t seen her son for several months. He used to visit occasionally when he was working, and to get his mail, but she didn’t know where he was living now. They would continue searching for him through the night.

Larsson called Lövander, the prosecutor, in Ostersund. Johansson sat at his computer and started typing. Lindman’s mind drifted to Veronica Molin and the computer she said contained her entire life. He wondered if she and her brother had set off for Sveg through the snow, or if they’d decided to spend the night in Ostersund. Larsson finished his call to the prosecutor.

“Things are starting to happen now,” he said. “Lövander grasped the situation and a new nationwide emergency call is going out. Everybody will be looking not only for a red Ford Escort, but also for a young man called Magnus Holmström who is probably armed and must be regarded as dangerous.”

“Somebody should ask his poor mother if she knows about his political beliefs,” Lindman said. “What kind of mail does he receive? Does he have a computer at her home, possibly with e-mail?”

“He must live somewhere,” Larsson said. “It’s very strange, of course, that he has his mail sent to his mother’s address, but lives somewhere else. I suppose this might be what young people do these days, moving around from one apartment belonging to a friend to another. If that’s it, he probably has a Hotmail address.”

“It suggests he’s purposely hiding his whereabouts,” said Johansson. “Does anybody know how to make the letters bigger on this screen?”

Larsson showed him what to do.

“Maybe they should go looking for him on Öland,” Lindman said. “That’s where I came across him, after all. And the car was filled up in Söderköping.”

Larsson slapped his forehead in irritation.

“I’m too tired,” he bellowed. “We should have thought of that from the beginning, of course.”

He grabbed a telephone and started calling again. It took him forever to find the officer in Stockholm he’d spoken to earlier. While he was waiting, Lindman gave him a description of how to find Wetterstedt’s house on Öland.

It was 1:30 by the time Larsson finished. Johansson was still tapping away at his keyboard. The snow had almost stopped. Larsson checked the thermometer.

“Minus three. That means it’ll stick. Until tomorrow, at least.”