Dark Angel

SHE LOOKED SO beautiful standing there. Wearing a white dress with a wide belt around her slender waist. Her blond hair pinned up high in a knot. Very stylish. She was smiling at the photographer with her head tilted to one side. Flirting with the camera, as usual. Always well dressed. Sometimes she wore her hair tied back with a ribbon. And that dazzling smile of hers. Standing in front of the stove as she fried Falun sausages, picking apples out in the country, walking out to the car with the children. A façade. As fragile as the glass in the frame of the photograph. He picked up the portrait and hurled it against the wall.

The shattered glass flew all over the room. That was his life.

THE BLINDS DRAWN, shutting out the springtime sun. Silence in the room. From far off the sound of car doors slamming, dogs barking. Sirens. The muted conversation of passersby, an occasional laugh. Street sounds, the sounds of life. It has nothing to do with us. My story is etched into the face of the person sitting across from me. As if the lines had deepened, the eyes filled with compassion. Neither of us says a word.

Once again I have described a memory from my childhood. In truth, nothing out of the ordinary, not at all. Just a fragment from daily life. Yet the image is still razor-sharp in my mind, although twenty-five years have passed.

I was seven when I decided to surprise my mother by serving her breakfast in bed. The idea came to me the minute I woke up and realized that everyone else was still asleep. I was ecstatic at the thought. I would make Mamma happy again. She’d been so sad on the previous day, sitting on the sofa and crying for such a long time. She never seemed to stop. I didn’t know why she was so sad. Mamma was often like that. She would cry and smoke, and smoke and cry. Then she would talk on the phone all evening, and afterwards we had to go to bed. There was nothing I could do. Or my siblings either. It made all of us sad. But now I’d come up with a good plan. I would serve her breakfast in bed.

Eagerly I climbed out of bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom. I tried not to wake anyone. I wanted to do this on my own, without any help from my siblings. I wanted to be the one she would thank, the one she would hug. Her face would be beaming with joy when I came into her bedroom carrying the tray. And then everything would be fine again.

Cautiously I crept down the stairs. I remember how I cringed at every creak of the steps, scared that the sound might wake her. In the kitchen I got out a cereal bowl and a spoon. But the box of cornflakes was high up on a shelf in the pantry. I couldn’t reach it. I went to get a chair from the table. It was so heavy. With great effort I lugged the chair into the narrow work area and then into the pantry. I climbed up on it and stretched out my hand for the box. Pleased that I’d managed to grab it, I filled the bowl and then poured just the right amount of milk over the cereal. Mamma was very particular about things like that. It had to be done just so. Not too much and not too little. What about sugar? She usually wanted sugar on her cereal. But where was it? There, behind the porridge oats. Good. I used the spoon to scoop out what I thought was the proper amount of sugar, but not too big a spoonful. Mamma always complained if her cereal was too sweet; I’d heard her say that so many times.

What was I missing? Oh, yes, an open sandwich. I looked inside the bread box. There was a loaf of bread. Skogholm Bakery, it said on the wrapper. I knew how to read. My older siblings had taught me. I found the bread knife in a drawer, but now came the hard part: cutting two slices. I thought I could manage it, but if the pieces ended up being too big, Mamma didn’t have to eat all the bread. She was a grown-up, and grown-ups didn’t have to obey the same rules as children. The problem was that she hated slices of bread that were too thick. They had to be thin. I sawed at the loaf with the knife, but it went in crooked. Thick on top and thin at the bottom. I studied the first slice with a frown. It didn’t look good. I didn’t dare throw it in the trash, because then Mamma would get mad. I knew she would. She often complained about how much everything cost. Cheese was so expensive that my siblings and I were each allowed only one slice on our sandwiches. Mamma always had two. And if I occasionally asked for a second glass of milk, she would always look so displeased that I didn’t ask again. I held the piece of bread in my hand. What should I do with it? This slice would never do. All of my efforts to make her breakfast would be ruined because she’d be so annoyed by the size of that piece of bread. If only the slice were the proper thickness, everything would have been fine. Now I was not going to see the look of total joy on her face that I longed for. Instead a deep furrow would appear between her eyes, or lines of disapproval would form around her mouth. All because of that darn slice of bread.

I cast a glance out in the hall, listening for any sounds. It was OK; everyone was still asleep. Quickly I stuffed the piece of bread in my mouth in order to get rid of it. Then I tried again, and this time I made a better job of it. The butter was hard and I couldn’t get the lumps to spread out evenly. I covered up the lumps with cheese. Then I had an idea. What if I put on three pieces of cheese instead of the two she usually ate? Wouldn’t that make her even happier? But when I saw the three pieces piled on top of each other on the bread, doubt seized hold of me again. It looked like a lot. What if she got angry because I was being wasteful? I didn’t dare take that risk, so I ate the extra piece of cheese too. Then I studied my handiwork. I was almost done.

In a cupboard I found a tray and a small plate. Mamma hated to set sandwiches directly on the bare tabletop. After I’d arranged everything on the tray, I could see that something was still missing.

Of course – how could I be so stupid? Coffee. I mustn’t forget the coffee. That was the most important part of all. Mamma always drank coffee first thing in the morning, otherwise she didn’t feel human, she said. And a paper napkin! She needed something to wipe her mouth with. She was always annoyed if the kitchen roll wasn’t on the table. I rushed over to the breakfast nook and tore off a piece. It looked a bit ragged. I tried again and managed to tear off a whole sheet. The first one I crumpled up and tossed in the bin. Now for the coffee. Again I was in doubt. How exactly was it made? I’d watched my mother cooking it on the stove. After that she would pour it into a thermos. Ours was made of red plastic with a black spout and lid. I needed water and coffee grounds, which were kept in a metal tin in the pantry. I got out the tin but then wondered how to get the powder inside the thermos. And it had to be cooked too. I turned around to look at the stove. I’d seen how my mother turned those knobs to make the burners hot. That much I knew. I paused to think. This was the only thing left to do, and I had to work it out for myself. Then my mother could have her breakfast. And be happy again. I chose one of the knobs and turned it to the number six, thinking that the biggest number must be the hottest. I waited for a moment, and then I held my hand over the burners. The one closest to me was getting warm. Hurray! I was excited, now that I was so close to achieving my goal. I picked up the thermos and turned on the tap. I had to climb up on the chair again to reach it. Then I filled the thermos half full of water. That seemed like enough. I picked up the coffee scoop and put a lot of grounds into the water. Now all I had to do was put it on the burner to cook. Proud of my ingenuity, I set the thermos on top of the hot burner. Just then I heard someone go into the bathroom upstairs. Darn. I hoped it wasn’t my mother.

At that moment smoke began pouring from the stove. The smoke smelled terrible. Something must be wrong. The next second I heard Mamma come pounding down the stairs. My heart froze.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ she roared, yanking the thermos off the stove. ‘You must be bloody well out of your mind! Are you trying to burn down the whole house?’

Thick smoke was now swirling around in the cramped kitchen. Mamma was furious. Through the billowing haze I saw the scathing look on her face. She was shouting and screaming. Behind her I heard my siblings come into the kitchen. My sister started wailing.

‘I was just trying to…’ I ventured, feeling my lower lip begin to quiver. I was paralysed with fear.

‘Out!’ she bellowed. ‘Get out of here this minute, you stupid child!’ She was shaking one hand at me. In the other she held the thermos. ‘You’ve wrecked the sodding thermos. Do you have any idea how expensive they are? Now I’m going to have to buy a new one. And I can’t afford it!’

Her voice rose to a shriek, and then she started sobbing. Scared out of my wits, I raced upstairs to my room, closing the door behind me. I wished that I could have locked it. Wished that I could have run away and never come back. I crept under the covers like a frightened animal, shaking all over.

I lay there for hours. But she never came.

And the hole inside me grew.

THE DEDICATION OF the new conference centre in Visby was decidedly one of the high points of the year. The centre would put Gotland on the map in terms of hosting conferences and help to bring people to the island all year round – not just sun-seeking tourists in the summertime. Their shoulders hunched against the capricious April wind, the invited guests hurried towards the main entrance. The Visby brass band was bravely playing their horns in the gusts, which ruffled their hair and fluttered their ties like banners.

The wind also hampered the efforts of the photographers jostling for space near the red carpet.

Everyone from the local press corps had turned up. Even a couple of paparazzi from the Stockholm tabloids had been sent over from the mainland to cover the event.

The building gleamed in the evening sunlight. Magnificently modern, it was constructed from glass and concrete and centrally located just outside the ring wall near the verdant park called Almedalen, only a stone’s throw from the sea. An unnecessary showpiece of a building, according to some people. A visionary project that would benefit all of Gotland, others claimed.

Most of the faces in the crowd of people were well known to the island residents. Local politicians, the top business people, the county governor and the bishop, the cultural élite as well as famous summer guests who had flown over from the mainland to take part in the festivities. The number of celebrities and bigwigs who bought summer houses on Gotland seemed to increase every year.

In the lobby of the conference centre stood the evening’s host, the event planner Viktor Algård. Along with the governor and the chair of the county administrative board he had formed a receiving line to greet the guests. There was the steady sound of people kissing each other on the cheek as polite words were exchanged.

The foyer quickly filled, accompanied by the cheerful buzz of voices. It was at least 10 metres to the ceiling, and the décor was done in an authentic Gotland style, with pastel colours. Young waitresses moved deftly among the assembled guests, offering hors d’oeuvres and chilled Moët et Chandon. White lilies had been meticulously arranged in slender crystal vases, and candles were burning in lanterns placed on cocktail tables scattered about the lobby. The view from the enormous picture windows was magnificent: Visby seen at its very best. Almedalen, with its green lawns, the pond with the ducks and the rippling fountain. The ring wall, partially covered with ivy, surrounding a hotchpotch of medieval buildings. The thirteenth-century ruins of St Drotten and St Lars churches, and crowning everything the cathedral’s three black spires reaching up to the heavens. Beyond it, the endless sea. The site chosen for the conference centre was perfect.

When all the guests had arrived, the county governor ascended a podium that had been positioned in a corner of the lobby. She was an elegant woman in late middle age, wearing a black floor-length skirt and silk blouse. Her blond hair had been stylishly cut.

‘I would like to welcome all of you,’ she began, letting her gaze sweep over the festively clad audience. ‘It’s a great honour for me to dedicate, at last, our new conference centre here in Visby. The project has taken five years and so many of us have been longing to see the final result. And what a result it is.’

She made a grand gesture to indicate the setting. Then she paused for dramatic effect, as if wanting to give everyone time to truly take in the atmosphere and savour the tasteful furnishings. The light grey floor was made of Gotland limestone from Slite, the walls were adorned with guild banners, and the long reception counter was decorated with knotted wool from Gotland sheep. A wide, illuminated staircase made from American cherrywood led up to the next floor, which was to be the setting for the banquet and after-dinner dancing.

‘Of course there have been sceptics,’ the governor went on. ‘Anyone who wants to change things will always face opposition. But I think that most people realize what an asset the conference centre is going to be for Gotland.’

She cleared her throat. What she had just said was a vast understatement. The protests against construction had been both numerous and loud. She had been surprised at the force of the opposition. A never-ending flow of complaints had been lodged with the municipality and the county administrative board ever since the plans had been made public. The debate had raged in the local newspapers. Many feared that the scanty tax revenues from Gotland residents would be eaten up by an unnecessary luxury building at the expense of childcare and services for the elderly. Islanders still had fresh memories of other ventures that had ended in disaster. They were apprehensive of another Snäck, the plan to build a hotel and condos just north of the city. The project had gone to pot and cost the district millions. When the construction project went bankrupt, the municipality was forced to sell the whole kit and caboodle to a local entrepreneur for a paltry sum. No one wanted to see that sort of fiasco repeated.

And that didn’t even take into account the opposition that arose because of the location of the conference centre. The monstrosity stood smack in the line of sight from the Gotlanders’ beloved park, Almedalen. To top it all off, the structure blocked the view of the sea.

Environmental activists had staged demonstrations during the entire construction process, chaining themselves to fences surrounding the site. Their protests had caused delays, which in turn had led to cost overruns. Yet in spite of everything, the building was now complete. The governor was relieved that the project had finally been brought to a successful conclusion.

‘At the moment it may be hard to see what the significance of the conference centre will be, but one thing is certain: this is a step in the right direction so that Gotland will be able to grow. And it’s totally in keeping with the favourable development that has taken place on the island over the past few years.’

A delighted murmur and nods of approval from members of the audience.

‘The community college has been growing year by year, and we’re managing to entice more and more students to attend,’ she went on. ‘Our young people no longer need to leave the island to study on the mainland. Many respected teachers have moved here and, in my view, the future looks bright for Gotlanders. Businesses have put their faith in our future and the tourist industry is enjoying an upswing. Last year there were forty thousand more nights spent at our tourist facilities, compared to the previous year. Let’s all rejoice at this development and celebrate our important new asset, which will help to promote Gotland. Let’s all drink a toast! Cheers for the conference centre!’

The governor’s voice wavered and her eyes were shining. There was no mistaking her emotion.

All of the assembled guests raised their glasses.

VIKTOR ALGÅRD OPENED A bottle of Ramlösa mineral water and looked around. So far the dedication celebration had proceeded largely as planned. There really hadn’t been any reason for him to be nervous. He’d organized so many events over the years that by now it was mostly routine. He was Gotland’s very own Bindefeld, the party king. Slightly older, a bit thicker around the middle and without the same network of contacts, but still a local celebrity. Viktor Algård was elegantly attired in a black suit tailored in a fashionably modern style. His lavender silk shirt was handsomely cut, giving him a touch of the dandy. He was past fifty but clearly in excellent shape. Hardly any wrinkles were evident on his open, friendly face except when he laughed, which he did frequently. His hair was still dark and thick. In honour of the occasion, he had combed his long hair back so it reached almost to his shoulders. He had an olive complexion, which he’d inherited from his Tunisian-born father, along with his dark eyes and full lips. In general, he was quite satisfied both with himself and with his appearance.

Now he gazed with pleasure at the building’s hyper-modern banquet hall, which could hold up to a thousand guests.

He took a certain pride in being allowed to arrange a dedication, in being the very first on the scene. He’d spent the past few months meticulously planning this event, fine-tuning all the details down to the very last minute.

He raised his hand to give a wave to the governor, who smiled at him. He could understand why she was so happy. The only disappointment was the blustery wind, which had forced them to hold the welcome ceremony indoors. But what did that matter when the champagne was expensive and the glasses gleaming?

He went upstairs to the kitchen to make sure everything was going as it should. He found the place in a frenzy, with eight chefs working to create the perfect meal. The appetizer was being plated. On the menu were: salmon and lemon parfait with feta and arugula creme, followed by mustard-marinated roast lamb with root-vegetable gratin. And dessert was a nougat panna cotta with raspberries marinated in elderberry juice. All typical Gotland fare, elevated to a sophisticated level. He shouted encouragement to the chefs, who were sweating over the stoves, before he returned to the bar. He noted with satisfaction that the glasses were being rapidly refilled. It was important not to be stingy with the booze; the guests needed to be warmed up as quickly as possible. Linen tablecloths had been placed on the tables and the waitresses, all dressed in white, were lighting the candles in the silver candelabras. It looked as though it was going to be a perfect evening.

The lobby was crowded with guests and, judging by the laughter and chatter, they were already in a festive mood.

A short distance away stood his lover, carrying on an intense conversation with two of the island’s foremost artists. Her fiery red dress and platinum-blond hair made her stand out among the other guests. Almost queenlike, if it weren’t for her exuberant spirit. She laughed loudly and waved her arms about to underscore her words as she apparently regaled the artists with one of her countless anecdotes. Both men stood very close to her, their expressions rapturous.

Algård chuckled and gave her an amorous glance as he hurried past.

Their relationship had begun two months ago. It happened at a gallery opening that he had arranged in town. She was strolling about, looking at the paintings, and they had struck up a conversation. They got on so well that they left the event together. They took a walk along the seafront and ended the evening by having dinner. By the time they parted, late that night, he was in love.

So far no one knew of their relationship. They had chosen to wait to make their love public. Visby was such a small town that gossip was rampant, and his divorce from Elisabeth was not yet final. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than necessary. Elisabeth was so weak. Fragile, both physically and psychologically.

Nothing like his lover.

DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT KNUTAS didn’t particularly care for this type of event. The small talk and overblown friendliness felt horribly insincere and rarely involved a single sensible conversation at any point in the evening. His wife Lina had persuaded him to attend. Knutas had been head of the Gotland criminal police for close to twenty years and his position carried certain obligations. There were some events that he simply couldn’t avoid, and the dedication of the new conference centre was an important occasion for the island. Besides, Lina thought it was fun to mix with the crowds. In Knutas’s eyes, his wife was a social genius. She knew how to chat easily with anyone she happened to meet, always giving them her full attention. She could start up a meaningful conversation with everyone, from the lowly civil servant who worked in the municipal administration offices to the country’s most famous pop singer. Knutas had no idea how she did it.

This evening Lina wore a loose-fitting grass-green dress with embroidered silk flowers. Her red, waist-length tresses hung loose over her shoulders, giving her the look of a wood nymph. She was energetically gesticulating, waving her pale, freckled arms about as she sat across from him at the long banquet table. He couldn’t help smiling.

For once he’d been lucky with the seating arrangements. On his right sat Erika Smittenberg, the charming wife of the chief prosecutor. She was a ballad singer from Ljugarn who wrote her own songs, which she often performed at rural community centres and small pubs all over the island. Knutas had always been intrigued by the Smittenbergs; they were so different from each other that it was almost comical. Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg was tall, lanky and pleasant in an unobtrusive way, but bone-dry and proper in all situations. His wife was petite and plump with a boisterous laugh that made the glasses on the table vibrate and caused people to turn their heads in surprise to stare in her direction. Knutas thoroughly enjoyed her company and they talked about all sorts of subjects – but not about his job. He appreciated her discretion. One topic to which they devoted a good deal of attention was golf, since it was one of Knutas’s chief interests. Gotland, with its wide-open spaces and mild climate, was perfectly suited to the game. Erika told him hilarious stories about her struggles when she first took up the sport the previous year.

Spring had arrived and the lawns had turned green. The sun was putting in an appearance more and more often, warming both the ground and their frozen winter souls. He really should go out to Kronholmen, his favourite golf course, one of these days. It had been a long time since he last played. Maybe I’ll go there tomorrow, he thought. If only the wind would stop blowing. He was hoping to take the kids along. As they got older, he felt that he was losing contact with them. The twins would soon be seventeen and they were in secondary school. It was alarming how time was rushing past. He couldn’t keep up.

Suddenly he felt Erika give him a playful poke in the side.

‘What kind of dinner companion are you, anyway?’ she pouted, feigning indignation, but the next second she broke into a smile. ‘What are you daydreaming about?’

‘Sorry,’ he said. He gave her a smile and then raised his glass. ‘All that talk about golf made me yearn for Kronholmen. Skål!’

THE DANCE FLOOR quickly filled as the band began playing a ‘slow’ tune. Everyone had finished their coffee and the bar was open. The party was going well, Viktor Algård decided, now that they’d made it through the most difficult part of the evening. Serving dinner for over five hundred people was always a juggling act, but it had gone off without a hitch. Now the guests were leaving their assigned seats at the tables to seek out other company. Some headed for the dance floor; others settled themselves on the sectional sofas arranged along the walls.

Algård exchanged a few words with the waiters, making sure that everything would continue to run smoothly. After that, it was time for him to take a well-deserved break. He tried to catch a glimpse of his lover in the crowd, but he couldn’t see her anywhere. He would have liked to share a private moment with her. Provided they could do so without drawing attention, that is. But she’d probably been invited to dance by the man seated next to her at the table. Viktor glanced at his watch. Eleven forty-five. The dinner had lasted longer than expected, which was actually a good sign. Everyone at the banquet tables had seemed in high spirits right from the beginning, with plenty to talk about. The surprise event of the evening was scheduled for midnight, so he might as well wait until the show began. He took a sip of his mineral water, allowing his thoughts to drift. His wife’s face popped up in his mind. She wore an accusatory expression, as if she knew. Not that it would really be a surprise. Their marriage had lost its spark long ago. They continued to live side by side, but their paths seldom crossed any more. They lived in a large, isolated manor house out in the country near Hamra in Sudret, the southern part of the island. Elisabeth spent all her time at her loom out in the barn, which had been turned into a weaving studio. It was as if she didn’t really need him any more. He in turn devoted himself to his job and his extensive social network. He’d acquired many friends over the years, but Elisabeth didn’t like most of them. She was a loner who detested events such as this. The migraine that she’d developed in the afternoon was probably just a pretext to get out of attending the dedication celebration. It was an effective way of avoiding anything she didn’t want to deal with, although no one could question her motives when she lay in bed in a darkened room with a towel over her face. To be honest, he was actually grateful for her absence. It meant that he could slip away with his mistress after the event and stay overnight at his flat in town.

When he’d fallen in love with such shattering effect, the deficiencies of his marriage had been brought into even sharper focus. This dream woman had come whirling into his life and turned his whole world upside down. He was completely infatuated with her. Only now did he realize the full extent of what he’d been missing. Passion. Lust. Interest. The sheer pleasure of being in another person’s company. Companionship. Togetherness.

The children had left home long ago to settle on the mainland. They had their own lives now. He was longing to be free. And not have to sneak around any more.

His thoughts kept getting interrupted by people who wanted to talk to him, thank him for such a splendid party, or simply shake his hand. He smiled at everyone, happy to see that they were having a good time.

Then the music stopped, to be replaced by a drum roll. The lights were dimmed and a spotlight lit up the stage. Everyone turned their attention in that direction. It was time for the evening’s surprise.

Wild applause broke out when Afro-Dite, the popular vocal group, appeared on stage. The three beautiful and glamorous women, Kayo Shekoni, Gladys del Pilar and Blossom Tainton, sang like soul goddesses, but they were also full of warmth, humour and charm that enchanted their fans. There aren’t many artists in Sweden with such star quality, thought Viktor, pleased that he’d managed to book them for the evening. He’d made the choice based on the fact that five years earlier the group had captured the hearts of the Swedish people when they won the Eurovision Song Contest. Suddenly he felt someone taking him by the arm.

‘Hi. How’s it going?’

She looked happy and glowing, her face a bit shiny. Her eyes were sparkling.

‘Good. I was hoping you’d turn up. I was thinking of taking a break, but wanted to wait until the show started. Want to come with me?’

‘I’m sorry to bother you, but-’ The bartender abruptly appeared at their side, holding out a drink. ‘For the lady – with greetings from an admirer.’

Viktor felt his face cloud over.

‘What on earth…’ She laughed, gazing around in confusion. ‘Well, this is certainly flattering.’ She looked at the colourful drink. ‘Who’s it from?’

The bartender pointed towards the other side of the bar.

‘Oh, looks like he’s left.’

She turned back to Viktor.

‘Honey, I need to go to the loo. Where should we meet?’

He pointed to the stairs beyond the bar.

‘Go downstairs to the lounge. That section is closed for the evening, so we can sit there in peace.’

‘I’ll make it fast. Could you take my glass?’

‘Sure.’

Viktor Algård told the bartender that he was taking a short break and then slipped away before yet another talkative guest claimed his attention. Most likely no one would notice his absence, since everyone was watching what was taking place on stage.

Downstairs was a lounge area with a small bar and several groups of sofas. A door led to a paved terrace and a deserted side street. He opened the door and stepped out, lighting a cigarette as he gazed at the sea. He savoured the quiet. Standing there in the dark, all he could hear were the waves rolling on to the shore.

He took several deep drags on his cigarette.

The temperature had dropped significantly and he shivered. The chill air forced him to put out his smoke and go back inside. He sat down on a sofa, shoved a couple of pillows behind him, and then leaned back, closing his eyes. All at once he could feel how tired he was.

A sudden sound very close made him sit up with a start. A faint rattling over by the employee lift. He couldn’t see the lift from where he was sitting on the sofa, but he knew that it was over there in the corner, near the exit to the terrace. He froze. It was too soon for his mistress to be returning from the ladies’ room.

He listened tensely. The last thing he wanted at the moment was someone’s uninvited company.

The music and noise from the floor above were clearly audible, although somewhat muted at this distance. He glanced at the bar, but it was closed and deserted. He looked out at the street, but it was just as dark and empty as before. Had someone slipped inside while he was having a smoke? He had, in fact, stepped away from the door with his back turned to the room. His thoughts vacillated nervously. But now it was quiet again. Nothing moved.

He shook his head; he must have imagined it. Or maybe a couple had come down here from the party, looking for an out-of-the-way corner. That sort of thing happened at every festive gathering. But then they must have noticed him sitting on the sofa. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes had passed. She should be here any moment.

The drink she’d handed him looked enticing, and he was thirsty. He reached for the glass.

He had barely taken a gulp before a burning flame shot up his throat. Surprised, he held up the glass to look at the contents. The drink had a bitter taste that reminded him of something, but he couldn’t think what it might be. Now he also noticed a pungent odour.

At that instant he was overcome by dizziness. He could barely breathe, and powerful convulsions surged through his body. With an effort, he stood up and staggered forward a few steps, his lips trying to shape the words to call for help. Not a sound came out. The room blurred.

Viktor Algård lost his balance and collapsed.

THE KRONHOLM GOLF course was beautifully situated on a promontory surrounded on three sides by the sea. Unfortunately, the idyllic setting was not having a positive effect on the prevailing mood. Anders Knutas shook his head at his son Nils, who for the third time in an hour was throwing a fit because he’d failed to sink a putt. Inspired by the conversation with his dinner companion on the previous evening, and by the advent of such glorious weather, Knutas had brought the twins out to Kronholm for a few hours of pleasant camaraderie. He’d quickly realized that he should have known better. Both of his children were in the midst of an explosive puberty and the slightest thing could set them off. The past six months had been almost unbearable. A simple question, such as whether Petra might like to have some juice at breakfast, could prompt her to sputter: God, why do you have to keep nagging at me, Pappa! Nils thought Knutas was interfering too much if he dared to ask his son how football practice had gone. Two sixteen-year-olds undergoing the same hormonal chaos was nothing to joke about.

When Knutas had gone out to fetch the Sunday paper from the letterbox that morning and looked up at the cloudless spring sky, a round of golf with his kids had seemed a splendid idea. The wind had died down. The day was fair and calm. The sun was shining and felt wonderfully warm on his back.

But none of that had made any difference. He was already regretting his decision.

‘Bloody sodding piss! I hate this fucking game!’

His face bright red, Nils raised his club and shoved it with all his might into the golf bag next to him. The club went right through the leather, making a huge slit in the bag and also breaking a bottle of Coca-Cola. The Coke sprayed out like a fountain, drenching Nils’s new jeans.

Knutas felt his fury rise. He’d put up with the kids’ sullen expressions all morning; now his patience had finally run out.

‘That’s enough!’ he shouted. ‘What do you mean by wrecking that bag? It was a present and it was really expensive! I’m cancelling your allowance until you pay me back enough to buy a new one!’

Angrily he gathered up his things as he continued to rant.

‘Here I am trying to arrange something fun and have a good time with the two of you, and all I get are surly looks. That includes you, Petra. This is just not acceptable. You’re both behaving like spoiled brats!’

‘I don’t give a shit,’ yelled Nils. ‘And I don’t want a new golf bag, because I’m never going to play golf again! I hate it!’

‘Don’t yell at me,’ Petra sulked. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

Knutas stomped off, heading for the car.

He was angry, hurt and disappointed. He just didn’t understand his children any more. Sometimes he really felt inadequate as a parent.

A heavy silence descended over the car as they drove back to town. Nearly 30 kilometres without a single word spoken. Knutas felt he no longer knew how to talk to the twins. No matter what he said, it was always wrong. So he thought it better not to say anything at all.

He’d had such ambitious plans when the children were born. He’d thrown himself into the role of father with the greatest spirit and gusto, determined not to spend too much time at work. He played with the kids whenever he had time, took them fishing and hung hammocks for them out in the country when they went on holiday. He also made an effort to attend at least a few football matches every season. Whenever the children’s friends came over to the house, he was always friendly and polite. One year he was even the parent representative for their school. He’d been naive enough to think that the good relationship he’d established with the twins would last a lifetime, and that the foundations he and Lina had worked to build would remain stable. The past six months had disillusioned him. Chastened, he’d gradually come to the painful realization that his relationship with his children was terribly fragile and brittle, liable to shatter at any moment. Yet deep in his heart he wanted to believe that everything was fine and fundamentally solid.

He parked the car outside the house, relieved to see that the lights were on in the kitchen. Lina was home, which meant he’d at least be able to share his misery with someone else. His offspring swiftly strode up the gravel path, several metres ahead of him. The rigid set of their backs signalled their disdain.

‘Hi. Did you have fun?’ called Lina from the kitchen as they entered the front hall.

‘Yeah, sure. It was great,’ muttered Nils sourly as he kicked off his shoes and disappeared upstairs.

Knutas heard him slam the door to his room. He sat down at the kitchen table and sighed with resignation.

‘Good Lord, what am I going to do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I keep doing everything wrong. I can’t understand why they’re always so grumpy. Especially Nils. Do you know what he did? He got so angry that he wrecked his new golf bag. I told him he’d have to pay for a new one, and then he said he didn’t give a shit because he wasn’t going to play any more!’

‘It’s called finding their independence,’ said Lina dryly as she set two coffee cups on the table. ‘All you can do is try to remain calm and on an even keel.’

Knutas shook his head.

‘I don’t remember behaving like this when I was a teenager. God, talk about a generation gap. In my day, you were expected to treat your parents with respect. You didn’t just say and do anything you liked. Am I right?’

Lina pushed back her thick red plait so it hung down her back before she poured the coffee. Then she sat down across the table from her husband, giving him a sardonic look.

‘Can’t you hear what an old curmudgeon you’re being? Have you totally forgotten what it was like to be young? You told me that when you weren’t allowed to go to Copenhagen on a camping trip with your girlfriend, the two of you hitchhiked to Paris instead, without saying a word to your parents. All they got was a postcard of the Arc de Triomphe. Your mother even showed it to me. How old were you back then? Seventeen?’

‘OK, OK,’ said Knutas. ‘I take your point. It’s just so strange not to have any control any more. Or contact. I can’t reach Nils at all. He always has his guard up.’

‘I know. But just think of it as a phase he’s going through. Right now it’s probably worse for you than me. He needs to free himself from you in order to become his own person. They’re both growing up, you know, Anders.’

‘But it makes me feel so helpless.’

She placed her hand on top of his.

‘Of course. But don’t you remember how it was last autumn when Petra barely said a word to me for months on end? Things are much better now. I think Nils is going through the same thing. Just relax. It’ll pass. It’s painful for them to free themselves from us. The only way they can do it is to belittle us for a while. It’s completely normal.’

Knutas looked at his wife doubtfully. He wished he could be as calm about it as she was. He opened his mouth to say something more but was interrupted by the phone ringing.

The sergeant on duty told him that a dead body had been found in the conference centre.

All indications pointed to murder.

DAWN HAS ARRIVED again, painfully confirming that life goes on. I’m sitting, or rather reclining, on the sofa, as usual. A sense of unreality has settled over me, as it always does.

I’ve been lying awake for several hours, having moved from the bed to the sofa in a desperate attempt to fall asleep. Memories from my childhood keep intruding. It’s as if time has caught up with me. I can’t escape it.

One summer, we were staying – as we often did – with my grandmother in Stockholm. On the day in question we were supposed to go to the amusement park and zoo called Skansen. Mamma had been promising us this excursion for a long time. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks and couldn’t think about anything else. When Sunday morning arrived, I was so excited that I could hardly eat my breakfast. I loved animals and kept talking about getting a dog. Or a cat. Or at the very least a guinea pig. I was eight years old, and this was going to be my first visit to the zoo.

The sun was shining outside the windows and Mamma was in a cheerful mood.

At the breakfast table she wolfed down her food and coffee. She was eager to get everything packed up so we could leave.

‘It’s going to be really fun to see all the animals, isn’t it, kids? And Skansen is so beautiful!’

She bustled about the kitchen, getting ready as she hummed along with Lill-Babs, who was singing her Swedish version of ‘It’s My Party’ on the radio. She made open sandwiches with lettuce, cheese and ham; she made fruit punch from syrup and water; and she took cinnamon buns out of Grandma’s freezer to thaw.

‘We’ll take along our own lunch so we can sit in that wonderful park over near Solliden. From there you have a view of the whole city, let me tell you. Oh, it’s going to be marvellous!’

She dashed into the bathroom to put mascara on her beautiful long lashes, making them even longer. I sat on the lid of the toilet and watched with admiration as she got ready.

‘You have such beautiful eyes, Mamma.’

‘You think so?’ she replied, giggling with pleasure. ‘Thank you, my sweet little boy!’

Grandma was too frail to go with us. Instead, we were going to meet Aunt Ruth and my cousin Stefan at the zoo. He was a few years older than me. Aunt Ruth was on her own, just like Mamma. Her husband had left her because he’d fallen in love with his secretary. The family used to live in Saltsjöbaden and were ‘well to do’, as my mother put it. Now Aunt Ruth and Stefan had moved to a small flat in Östermalm.

We took the train, since Grandma lived some distance outside the city. I grew more and more excited with every station we passed. I could hardly sit still. My siblings chattered away with Mamma, commenting on the view from the window and discussing the people who walked past on the platform whenever the train stopped at a station. Look at the strange hat that old woman is wearing! Where are we now? Did you see that man – was he drunk? Are we almost there? What a cute puppy!

I couldn’t concentrate. I just wanted to sit in silence until we reached our destination.

After what seemed like an eternity, we finally arrived at Stockholm’s central station. From there we took a bus out to Skeppsbron in Gamla Stan. That was where we could catch the ferry to Skansen. Mamma didn’t like taking the underground. She said it smelled bad, and it was filled with so many unsavoury characters.

Aunt Ruth and Stefan were waiting at the ferry dock when we arrived. Mamma and Ruth hugged each other, while my siblings and I shook her hand. We didn’t see her very often, only a few times a year. Stefan seemed happy to see us, which was a relief to me. It was something I’d been worrying about.

We boarded the ferry and I stayed out on deck with the other kids. The sun shone; the water sparkled. It was May. Soon it would be summer and I would be out of school. Stefan and I stood next to each other, leaning over the railing and looking at the churches and other buildings in the narrow streets of Gamla Stan, which was receding more and more into the distance behind us.

Mamma and Aunt Ruth were sitting inside to stay out of the wind. Both of them had pinned up their hair under a scarf. Ruth’s scarf was navy blue, while Mamma’s was pink. That was her favourite colour. She was looking stylish in a tight-fitting black dress and a short pink jacket with big buttons. I was proud of my mother because she looked so pretty. In comparison, Ruth looked like an old woman, even though they were almost the same age. Mamma was slender and seemed much younger. She sat inside the ferryboat, laughing and looking lovely. I was glad to see her so happy.

And soon I was going to meet in real life all the animals that I’d seen only in pictures or on TV. I could hardly believe it.

All of a sudden the zoo was right in front of us. Stefan pointed. ‘Do you see the amusement park? And the rollercoaster? Over there. I’ve ridden on it a whole bunch of times. Don’t you think it looks scary?’

I shook my head. I’d never been there before, but at that moment it didn’t matter. I was going to Skansen.

The boat docked and everybody disembarked. There were a lot of people and I lost sight of the others in the crowd in front of the entrance to Gröna Lund. Suddenly I felt somebody give me a hard pinch on the arm.

‘Where on earth were you?’ snapped Mamma in annoyance. That ugly voice of hers was back, even though she had just been laughing so merrily. ‘You need to stay close. Don’t you understand that?’

The lump in my stomach came back, settling into its familiar place. I tried to block out its presence from my mind, tried to forget it was there. We had almost reached the zoo. I tossed a remark to Stefan in a halfhearted attempt at a joke, making a great effort to act normal. We were here to have fun. I’d been looking forward to this day for such a long time. The animals were waiting inside.

At the entrance we had to stand in a queue. Mamma started looking tense because there were at least thirty people ahead of us. The nervous feeling in my stomach got worse. ‘I’m sure it won’t take very long, Mamma. Here, let me carry the bag.’

The sun was shining, it was warm outside, and no one else seemed at all concerned about the wait. They were talking and laughing and joking. I wished that Mamma could be as relaxed as they were.

The queue slowly moved forward. Ruth powdered her nose. Mamma lit a cigarette. ‘God, why is this taking so long? What can they possibly be doing up there?’

When we finally passed through the turnstile, everyone had to use the loo. But I was too excited to pee.

Skansen was located high atop a hill and we began making our way up the slope. Suddenly we found ourselves right next to an ice-cream stand, and Ruth stopped.

‘OK, I’m treating everybody to ice cream! Then we’ll sit down and get re-energized before we climb any further. Skansen is a big place, kids. It takes a long time to walk all the way around. Right over there are the elephants, but you have to finish your ice cream before we can go and see them. Or else they might swipe the cone right out of your hand! All right. Choose any kind of ice cream you want!’

The strained look on Mamma’s face disappeared when she sat down at a café table with a cup of coffee and a vanilla cone.

‘This is exactly what we all needed,’ she told Ruth, giving her sister a grateful smile.

The mood immediately lifted, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

When we each had to choose the ice cream we’d like to have, I was too timid at first to ask for a soft ice cream in a waffle cone, which is what I wanted most. But Ruth refused to give up until I admitted that was what I wanted. The man in the ice-cream stand gave me a wink and let the soft ice cream come swirling out of the machine until I had the tallest ice-cream cone I’d ever seen. Delighted, I carefully took the cone from him. It was a blend of vanilla and chocolate, and it tasted wonderful. I’d only had a soft-ice cone a few times before, and this was the best one of all. I sat down at the table next to Mamma.

I felt butterflies churning in my stomach as I looked towards the entrance to the elephant house. Soon we’d be going inside. All the kids had ordered the same kind of cone, but when I looked around at everyone else seated at the table, I was happy to see that mine was a little taller than everyone else’s.

As if my cousin Stefan could read my thoughts, he suddenly cried: ‘Who has the biggest cone?’

He leaned forward, holding out his cone to compare it with mine. I rose halfway out of my chair to do the same. But in my eagerness, I happened to bump into Mamma’s coffee cup. It toppled off the table and landed in her lap. I can still hear her angry shout as the hot coffee spilled over her skirt and bare legs. I jumped up so quickly that all the ice cream fell out of my cone.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, you little idiot!’ she bellowed. The next second she burst into tears.

Ruth leaped up and nervously began wiping Mamma’s skirt with paper napkins from the holder on the table as she tried to console her sister. ‘Hush now, it’s not so bad. We’ll just wipe you off here and then go into the loo to wash off the rest with water. Your skirt will dry in no time in the sun. You’ll see.’

The other children and I sat in horrified silence as Mamma sobbed. She kept switching between feeling sorry for herself and yelling at me.

‘Why does everything always have to get wrecked? Why can’t I ever be happy for just one minute?’

I noticed that the people at the other tables were staring at Mamma with a mixture of surprise and alarm. And then, to my dismay, I suddenly felt something running down my legs. When Mamma saw it too, she got even angrier.

‘So now you’re peeing your pants like a baby? Haven’t you already done enough? Haven’t you? You stupid sodding brat! You always ruin everything – absolutely everything!’

Terrified, I sat frozen to my chair, incapable of moving. In one hand I still held the empty cone.

Mamma was silent and withdrawn the whole way back to Grandma’s flat. I never got to see the elephants. I would never visit Skansen again.

SUNDAY STARTED OFF slowly at the editorial offices of Regional News in Visby. Johan Berg rarely had to work on Sundays; it only happened a few times a year. What annoyed him most was that on this particular day, the editors in Stockholm had decided that they didn’t need any stories from Gotland. The news reports would consist entirely of stories compiled at headquarters on the mainland. Having to sit in the office when nothing was going on seemed to Johan like the stupidest waste of resources. But there’s no use trying to second-guess the managers of Swedish TV, he thought morosely. He really could have used a few more hours’ sleep.

At the moment he was sitting at his desk, having his morning coffee and eating a sandwich. He listlessly rocked his chair, casting a critical eye at the cramped quarters of the editorial office. He let his gaze wander over the bookshelves, the computers, the bulletin boards and the windows overlooking a park. He also glanced at the stacks of jumbled documents and the map of Gotland, which always gave him a guilty conscience because there were so many small parishes that they almost never visited.

Although Gotland was Sweden’s largest island, the distance between the northern tip of Fårö and the southernmost district, Hoburgen, was no more than 180 kilometres. And the island was barely 50 kilometres at its widest. That’s why we ought to be doing more, thought Johan. We should be covering more of the island.

As a reporter for Regional News in Stockholm, with Gotland as his beat, he’d become a bit jaded after so many years of meeting deadlines and working with inadequate resources. Although things had definitely improved: they’d moved from a musty cubbyhole of an office into the new and modern building that housed Swedish TV and Radio, only a ten-minute walk from the centre of Visby. The premises were admirably suited to their jobs, but they’d been forced to change their routines. They’d had to become much more organized. Now they set themselves goals, and pursued a specific strategy in their work. Usually he or his cameraperson, Pia Lilja, decided which stories to investigate, yet, since they were the only two employees in the local editorial office, it was difficult to find time to do the necessary research. Their boss in Stockholm, Max Grenfors, wanted them to deliver a story every day in a steady stream so that he had no problem filling the TV news programmes. He preferred their reports to be no more than two minutes long, which was considered just right in terms of newsworthiness and relevance, since the further away from Stockholm the programme ventured, the less important the news was deemed. At least that was how Grenfors viewed things. Johan couldn’t even count the number of times he’d beaten his head bloody against the brick wall that was Max Grenfors, trying to stir up interest for some issue on Gotland. The issue might be a regional problem, but it could still be placed in a larger national context.

Johan switched on his computer. They were working on an urgent topic that was even relevant to Stockholm – and the rest of the country, for that matter. It was the increasing incidence of violence among young people. He pulled up a photo of a sixteen-year-old boy that filled the entire screen: Alexander Almlöv, brutally assaulted late one night outside a popular club for teenagers in Visby. He had been beaten so badly that he had been taken into intensive care at the Karolinska Hospital in Stockholm. Now, two weeks after that fateful night, the boy was still in a coma, hovering between life and death. He’d got into a fight with a classmate outside the Solo Club down near Skeppsbron. The club had advertised a special evening for students. Hundreds of young people from all over the island had turned up, and even though no alcohol was served to anyone under eighteen, the kids had brought their own booze from home and consumed great quantities of it out on the street. The fight had started with a row inside the club and escalated when those involved were thrown out by the bouncers. Then several others jumped into the brawl. It ended with Alexander getting chased down to the harbour, where he was beaten unconscious behind a shipping container. He was kicked and punched, receiving blows both to the head and to the body. After he passed out, he was left on the ground to his fate. Some of his friends went out looking for him and found him only a few minutes later, which undoubtedly saved his life. If he survived. The outcome was still uncertain.

The number of assaults among young people had increased dramatically over the past few years, and they were getting more severe. Weapons were being used to a greater extent – knives, clubs and even guns. Johan wanted to do a story on the growing violence and its possible causes. Fights among teenagers usually occurred in the summertime when the island was invaded by tourists. Visby was popular because of its sunny weather, long sandy beaches and the lively bar scene.

‘Hi.’

Startled out of his reverie, Johan looked up from his editing. He hadn’t noticed that Pia Lilja had come in.

With a big yawn, she sat down at her desk across from Johan and switched on her computer.

‘How boring that we have to work on a Sunday. Is there really anything we should be doing?’

‘Not a thing, apparently. Are you tired?’

She gave him a sly look. As usual, she had put on a good deal of eye make-up.

‘Yeah. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘A new boyfriend?’

‘You might say that.’

Pia seemed to have a steady stream of new boyfriends. Her appetite for men was apparently insatiable, and the men seemed equally infatuated with her. Pia was twenty-six, tall and slender, with black hair sticking out in all directions. She’d had both her nose and her navel pierced and adorned with gemstones in various colours. And it was no exaggeration to say that her choice of eye shadow was vibrant. Right now her lids were painted a bright turquoise.

Johan was glad that she’d never tried to put the moves on him; he wouldn’t have been interested anyway. Just after they started working together, he had met Emma Winarve, who became the great love of his life. And they were now married.

‘Anyone I know?’ he asked.

‘I doubt it. He’s a sheep farmer from Sudret. A real hermit. But cute and sexy. Big muscles and tons of energy.’ A dreamy look came into her eyes.

‘How’d you meet him?’

‘I drove past his farm early one morning, and in the haze I saw hundreds of lambs in one of the pastures. It was an irresistible scene. I just had to stop and take a picture. And there he was, appearing out of the mist like some character in a fucking fairy tale. But what about you? Are you hung-over from the party last night? Was it fun hobnobbing with all the society bigwigs?’

Pia hadn’t stopped mocking him ever since he’d agreed to go to the dedication festivities at the new conference centre.

‘Sure. It was actually OK. Free champagne and great food. Those of us who are parents to little kids don’t get out very often, so we have to accept any invitation we can get.’

‘Oh, right. You’re a journalist, for God’s sake. You need to preserve your impartial status,’ said Pia, throwing out her long arms in exasperation. ‘What happens if the owners of that bloody consortium, or whoever is behind that building, have been embezzling taxpayers’ money? What if some of the construction work was done by illegal workers? Or if the guy who organized the celebration, that mafia type – Algård – starts selling booze under the table to teenagers at his club or turns out to be pushing drugs?’

‘I would hope I know how to keep my work and my social life separate,’ said Johan with a faint smile.

Of course he’d had his doubts. A handful of reporters had been invited to the celebration, and he was one of them. He’d felt flattered, but at the same time he was ashamed that he’d allowed himself to be so easily taken in by the very people he was supposed to scrutinize. Yet he couldn’t very well turn down all invitations just because he was a reporter. That had been Emma’s argument when he discussed the invitation with her. Was his attendance at one party really going to influence how he did his job? If it came out next week that the chairman of the municipal board had fiddled the bill for the booze, wouldn’t he report the story as usual, even though he had attended the party? Of course he would. And besides, Emma had said, wasn’t it a good idea for a journalist to get out in society by going to this sort of event? Gather impressions of people in the community and make contacts? Just because he occasionally socialized with certain people, that didn’t mean they had to be his best friends.

Johan had decided to go, although it went against his gut feeling. Was it really possible to keep his distance? Once a reporter started socializing with people privately, sooner or later sympathetic feelings were liable to arise and muddy his judgement. To minimize the risk, he probably ought to refrain from that sort of fraternizing. Pia was undoubtedly right, but since she’d spoken to him in such an annoying tone of voice, he wasn’t about to admit that he actually agreed with her. Instead he changed the subject.

‘Speaking of our work, I think we should plan on doing more segments about violence among young people. And if, contrary to all expectations, we need to put together a report for the late news broadcast, we could always do something on the Alexander case. His condition hasn’t changed, but we could talk to kids about what happened. According to the desk sergeant, things have been relatively calm in town, apparently as a result of the assault. And by the way, Alexander is just the latest in a long series of victims, although he ended up suffering worse injuries than most.’

Johan rummaged through the pile of folders on his desk until he found the one he wanted, which he handed to Pia.

‘I’ve found forty-five assault cases involving teenagers during the past year here on Gotland. No one has been seriously hurt before, but it looks like it’s just a matter of time before somebody dies – if Alexander manages to pull through, that is.’

‘Yeah. What a bloody mess,’ sighed Pia. ‘Some of my cousins were present when a fight took place last summer and a kid was badly beaten. He’s probably included in your statistics. The boy over at the Östercentrum mall, if you remember the case.’

‘Remind me.’

‘He was attacked with iron pipes and clubs, but I think they mostly aimed at his body, not at his head. My cousins weren’t involved in the fight itself, but they saw the whole thing. I just can’t believe that anyone would stand around and watch something like that without intervening.’

‘It’s strange all right. But it’s hard to predict how you yourself would react in a similar situation. That’s another aspect of the whole thing. And something else that I think people forget, both in general discussions and with regard to youth violence, is the role of the parents. Where are the parents? What are they doing? What do they think? How do they feel? How much responsibility do they have for the fact that things have gone so far? What are they doing to stop the violence? As in the case of Alexander, for instance. No parents have made any sort of statement to the media – neither the parents of the victim nor of the perpetrators. There were five boys involved, according to the police. You’d think that someone would say something.’

‘I don’t think it’s strange at all. They’re obviously ashamed about what happened. Just think what it’s like here on this little island, where everyone knows everyone else, more or less. Or at least knows someone who knows someone. It’s not that easy to make a public statement, saying that your son is a brutal bully. Especially if he might be charged as an accessory to murder, if things go badly. They’ve been detained, haven’t they?’

‘Three of them have. The other two were released pending trial because they’re so young. Only fifteen.’

They were interrupted by the phone ringing. The editor in Stockholm was calling to say that they could go home. The evening news programmes already had more than enough material.

But they were told to keep their mobile phones switched on, just in case.

EVERYTHING WAS CALM outside the conference centre when Knutas arrived. A couple of police vehicles had been parked haphazardly in front of the main entrance; otherwise there was no sign of activity. Inside he found crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman, who had also just arrived. One of the uniformed officers showed them to the area where the body had been discovered. Several members of the cleaning staff, looking upset, stood next to their carts as they talked to police. A woman with Asian features sat on a sofa, sobbing loudly.

Knutas had a strangely surreal feeling as he passed through the foyer. This was the same place where less than twenty-four hours ago he had been drinking champagne toasts and mingling with hundreds of other festively clad guests. Now the scene was completely different. They walked through the deserted and littered salon on the ground floor until they came to a smaller lounge furnished with a few sofas and a bar. This part of the centre had been closed off during the Saturday-night celebration.

Tucked away in a far corner of the room was a small lift used by employees. Inside on the floor lay the body, with the legs partially sticking out of the lift door. The dead man was wearing a silk shirt and black trousers. His hair was dark and combed back. On his feet he wore shiny black shoes with soles that looked almost untouched.

‘Do you see who that is?’ asked Knutas tensely.

‘No, I don’t recognize him,’ said Sohlman.

‘Viktor Algård. The man in charge of organizing the whole celebration yesterday.’

Images of the previous evening flashed through his mind. The event planner had been elegantly dressed, as always. Brimming with enthusiasm, he had greeted all the guests and then dashed about, talking to people right and left, attending to everything. Making sure that everything ran smoothly. Now here he lay, dead as a doornail. It was an alarming sight, and Knutas felt sick to his stomach.

‘Look at his complexion. How strange,’ murmured Sohlman. He squatted down to inspect the body.

The colour of the dead man’s face surprised Knutas too. He couldn’t recall ever seeing anything like it. The skin was a bright pink, almost the hue of a newborn piglet. The same was true of the skin on his hands and arms.

The crime tech leaned closer and began sniffing at the victim’s face. Cautiously he opened the pale lips, stuck a finger between the man’s teeth and prised open his jaws. Then he started back, grimacing.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Knutas indignantly.

Sohlman gave him a knowing look.

‘Come over here and smell it for yourself.’

Knutas leaned forward and noticed an acrid odour.

‘What’s that smell from?’

‘Bitter almonds,’ muttered Sohlman. ‘It means that he was most likely poisoned with potassium cyanide. It usually has that strong smell of bitter almonds. The body’s colouration also points in that direction. Remember that old detective novel by Agatha Christie called Sparkling Cyanide? It seems horribly apropos in this situation. You were at the party last night, weren’t you? And didn’t they serve champagne?’

Knutas was so taken aback he didn’t know what to say. He tried to recall the last time he’d seen Algård during the festivities.

‘How long do you think he’s been dead?’

Sohlman carefully lifted the victim’s arm.

‘Full rigor mortis has set in, and signs of livor mortis are also present, so we’re talking about at least twelve hours, maybe more.’

Knutas glanced at his watch. Four forty-five. He’d run into Algård on the way to the gents. That was after dessert had been served and right before the dancing began. What time would that have been? It must have been at least eleven or eleven thirty. That was the last time Knutas saw him. But with so many guests, there had been a great deal of commotion when everyone got up from the dinner tables and scattered in different directions. Knutas had spent almost all evening dancing with his wife Lina, except for the few occasions when he’d stepped outside to have a smoke. They had stayed until the band stopped playing around two in the morning. He had no memory of seeing Algård when they left. Lina had been so involved in an intense discussion with the county governor that they’d had a hard time getting away. They were probably among the very last guests to leave the conference centre.

Patches of blood and drag marks were visible on the floor outside the lift. Viktor Algård also had a gash on his forehead where the blood had coagulated.

‘How’d he get that wound on his forehead?’ asked Knutas.

‘God only knows,’ muttered Sohlman. ‘Look at the blood spattered all over the floor.’ He got to his feet and pointed. ‘The perpetrator obviously dragged the body into the lift. You can see the marks.’

Knutas looked around. A glass door opened on to a stone-paved terrace with several tables next to a narrow side street and a small car park. In the other direction was the sea, the open-air swimming baths and the harbour.

A woman walking her dog passed by outside, casting an inquisitive glance at the big picture windows. Those damned windows, thought Knutas. They were everywhere. The street outside needed to be cordoned off. He called to Detective Inspector Thomas Wittberg, who appeared in the doorway.

‘Cordon off the building, the side street and the immediate vicinity! Right now anybody can look inside. It won’t be long before we’ve got journalists swarming all over the place. Call for back-up. I want the police dogs brought in.’

‘OK. The cleaning woman who found the body is about to leave. Do you want to have a word with her before she goes?’

‘Absolutely.’

Wittberg pointed at the Asian woman who was sitting on the sofa and leaning against an officer’s shoulder. She was crying so hard that her thin form shook. Knutas went over to her and introduced himself.

Knutas’s colleague, whose name he’d forgotten, got up to make room for him on the sofa. The cleaning woman looked about twenty-five, with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Not until Knutas sat down next to her did he realize how petite she was.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Navarapat, but everyone calls me Ninni.’

‘OK, Ninni. Can you tell me what happened when you came here?’

‘I was with Anja, one of my co-workers. Everyone else had already arrived. The locker room and cleaning supplies are in the basement. We changed our clothes and started working on the ground floor. She cleaned the cloakroom and this area. I started on the other side.’ The young woman stretched out her thin arm to point. ‘And when I got over there, I found the body.’

‘Tell me exactly what you saw,’ Knutas told her. ‘Try to remember everything. Even the smallest detail could be important.’

‘I was pushing my cart past the bar.’ She pointed again. ‘And that’s when I caught sight of him lying there on the floor, inside the lift. He was on his stomach, so I couldn’t see his face.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I called for Anja, and then we rang the police.’

‘What time was it when you arrived?’

‘We start at four, and it was probably five to four when we got here.’

‘And how much time passed before you found him?’

‘Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.’

‘You said you were with one of your co-workers. Anja? How did the two of you travel to work?’

‘We both live in Gråbo, and we came by bicycle.’

Knutas decided that was enough for the moment. He thanked the woman, telling her that she’d be summoned to a more official interview at the police station later in the day. Along with Anja.

JOHAN’S MOBILE RANG just as he was falling asleep in the double bed with one arm around Emma and the other around Elin. Emma had been happily surprised when he came home from work so early. Since they were both tired after the big party the night before, and Elin was worn out from a bad cough, all three of them had gone to bed even though it was only two in the afternoon. They had settled themselves comfortably among the duvets and pillows, and then he had read a story aloud until both he and Elin began to doze off.

It was Pia Lilja on the line.

‘Hi, were you asleep? Well, rise and shine. A man was found murdered at the conference centre, and it’s not just anybody.’

‘When? Now?’

Johan’s voice was groggy. He cleared his throat and gently moved his daughter, who was sleeping soundly with her mouth open.

‘From what I understand, they found him just a short time ago. It’s Viktor Algård. Can you believe it?’

Pia sounded out of breath. He could hear her going outside as she talked.

‘I’m on my way out to the car. I’ll meet you at the conference centre.’

‘OK. How’d you find out about this?’ he asked as he climbed out of bed.

‘The body was discovered by someone on the cleaning staff, and I happen to know one of their colleagues. See you there.’

She ended the call. Johan wasn’t surprised that she’d heard the news so fast. Pia had an amazing network of contacts that extended all over the island. She had been born and raised on Gotland with six siblings and relatives in every parish. This meant that she had at her disposal countless conveyors of information who kept her up to date on everything going on. Not that it was always newsworthy.

Johan cautiously poked Emma.

Her hair had fallen over her face. Endearingly, she stretched out her long legs, turned over and pulled the covers closer around her. He gave her another poke, a bit harder. This time she reacted by sitting up in bed with a big yawn. She peered at him, not yet fully awake.

‘What is it?’

‘Viktor Algård was found murdered in the conference centre. I’ve got to go.’

He kissed his wife on the forehead and left the room before she even had time to respond.

Half an hour later Johan parked his car outside the conference centre. Uniformed officers were putting up crime-scene tape.

He said hello to his fellow reporters from the local radio station and newspapers. Word had obviously spread quickly. Pia was already busy with her camera. She had taken up position in a side street and had been filming through one of the big picture windows until she was chased off by a policeman.

‘The body’s still here,’ she told Johan. ‘God, how awful. There was blood on the floor. I hope I got something, but I’m afraid it’s probably just footage of the detectives’ backs.’

‘Maybe that’s just as well,’ said Johan dryly.

Pia was a highly professional cameraperson, but sometimes she lacked a sense of what was ethically acceptable to show on TV.

The minutes were ticking by and they needed to get back to their office soon if they were going to get the story edited before the evening broadcast. The editor in Stockholm had already called to say that the national news programme also wanted to include a report about the murder. So they needed to be quick about it. None of the police officers was willing to say anything, and Knutas had not made himself available to talk to the press.

At that moment the detective superintendent happened to come out of the building. He was immediately showered with questions by the assembled reporters. He briefly answered a few of them before climbing into a police car.

Johan finished the report by doing a stand-up in front of the conference centre, presenting the meagre information that they’d been able to gather so far.

‘The dedication of the new conference centre here in Visby was a lavish affair with more than five hundred guests. But the festive celebration had a tragic end. Just after four o’clock this afternoon, a man was found dead inside the centre. He attended the party last night but apparently never left the building. The cleaning staff found his body in the area directly behind me, inside an employee lift on the ground floor of the centre. That part of the building was not used during yesterday’s festivities. Evidence found at the scene, including traces of blood on the floor, indicate that a crime was committed. The police have confirmed to Regional News that the case is being treated as a possible homicide. The conference centre and surrounding streets have been cordoned off, and this evening the police are going door-to-door to interview anyone who might have seen anything. The police dogs have also been brought in. As of now, no arrests have been made, and so far there is no known motive for the crime.’

IT WAS LATE by the time Knutas finally had a moment to himself. He had called Lina to tell her what had happened, and to let her know that the family should go ahead and eat dinner without him. He had no idea when he’d be home.

The body had been transported to the morgue, and from there it would be taken to Stockholm and the Forensics Division in Solna.

Knutas had already had a long conversation with the medical examiner. She told him that it was very possible that the cause of death was cyanide poisoning, but she wouldn’t be able to say for sure until she’d done the post-mortem. She was hoping to have time for it on Tuesday. At this point she couldn’t say much about the blow to the victim’s head. Knutas had known the ME for a long time. She was utterly meticulous and never made any statements until she was absolutely sure of the facts.

Knutas took out his old curved pipe from the top desk drawer. This evening the investigative team had held its first meeting in order to parcel out the necessary tasks. The top priority was to focus on those friends and family members who were closest to Algård.

Knutas was sorry that Karin Jacobsson wasn’t able to attend the meeting. She was both his deputy and best friend at work. She had gone to Stockholm for the weekend to celebrate her fortieth birthday. He’d tried to ring her in the morning to wish her a happy birthday, and again this evening to tell her about the murder, but she hadn’t answered either call, which worried him a bit. It wasn’t like Karin to switch off her mobile.

Something had been going on with her over the past six months. She was more reserved and taciturn than usual, if that was even possible. She’d always been reticent about her personal life – that was something Knutas had been forced to accept. On the other hand, when it came to her job, she was alert, outgoing and assertive, always ready and willing to participate. But lately he’d noticed a significant change. Karin seemed to be constantly slipping into her own thoughts and daydreaming at their meetings. She also seemed to be having trouble concentrating on her work. It was as if some sort of veil had come down between them. Something was getting in the way, but he had no idea what it was. It was frustrating, because he needed her as much as ever – maybe even more now.

He pushed these worries aside and went back to thinking about the murder case. What about the motive? he thought. What could it be? There was no indication that Viktor Algård had been killed during an attempted robbery. He still had his wallet and Rolex watch.

So far they hadn’t been able to interview his wife, Elisabeth. When the police went to the family home in Hamra to deliver the news of Viktor’s death, she had been suffering from a severe migraine, which made it impossible for her to answer any questions. She had asked them to come back another time. The police decided to postpone the interview until later. The two Algård children were grown up and lived on the mainland. They had been informed about their father’s death and would be flying to Gotland the next day.

Did the wife have any motive for killing her husband? Or could the murder have anything to do with the terrible assault on the teenager outside the Solo Club a few weeks ago? Algård had been very much involved in the case, giving statements both to the police and to the press, because he was the owner of the club. A sixteen-year-old boy had been beaten so badly that he’d had to be transported by helicopter to Stockholm. He ended up in a coma and was still unconscious, a patient in the intensive care ward of the neurosurgery division of Karolinska Hospital.

It had proved nearly impossible to find out exactly what happened that night. There were many witnesses, but they gave conflicting accounts. Most of them were very young and exceedingly drunk. It had been dark and difficult to see what was going on or who was doing what. Three teenage boys had been arrested. Viktor Algård landed in real hot water afterwards. Ever since the club opened, plenty of people had questioned his decision to hold parties for underage kids at the club. He was subjected to harsh criticism because alcohol was sometimes sold to minors in connection with the parties, resulting in frequent drunkenness and brawls. On the night in question, things got seriously out of hand. The bouncers stationed at the club entrance were accused of failing to intervene effectively when the fight broke out. It later turned out that both men also lacked the necessary training. One was an old jailbird; the other was a member of a motorcycle gang which had a dubious reputation on the island. Several demonstrations had been held to protest about the increasingly brutal incidents of youth violence. The newspapers had been filled with outraged letters to the editor ranting about the ineptitude of politicians, the failure of parents to take responsibility and the ever-growing exposure of teenagers to violence via the Internet, computer games and TV.

It seemed plausible that Algård’s murder might be somehow connected. The whole episode had certainly made him plenty of enemies.

Knutas couldn’t resist lighting his pipe. Then he opened the window and stared out into the darkness. He wasn’t in charge of the case dealing with the assault on the teenager. He’d assigned it to another colleague. He’d had to, because he happened to be personally and emotionally involved: he knew the victim quite well. For many years Alexander Almlöv had been in the same class as his own son Nils, and the boy’s father used to be one of Knutas’s best friends. Both families had spent a good deal of time together. But a few years ago, the friendship had ended abruptly. And then Alexander’s father had died.

It was all a very sad story.

FIVE HOURS AFTER Knutas left his office, he was back again. His eyes were stinging with fatigue as he opened the door to the police station and said hello to the sergeant on duty.

He had barely settled himself at his desk before someone knocked on the door. Karin Jacobsson poked her head inside. Knutas felt a wave of relief when he saw her. It was almost ridiculous how much he missed her whenever she wasn’t at work.

‘Hi. What the hell is going on here? I was shocked when the sergeant told me about it. Viktor Algård, of all people! And nobody told me anything!’

She plopped down on the visitors’ sofa in front of Knutas’s desk and fixed her intense gaze on his face. She flung one jeans-clad leg over the other and straightened her black shirt, which looked like something his daughter Petra would wear. In terms of her appearance, Jacobsson tended to look like a teenager. She was unusually slender for a police officer and only five foot three, a tomboy with dark hair cut short and brown eyes that she rarely accentuated with any make-up other than a trace of mascara.

‘Nobody told you anything?’ Knutas repeated dryly. ‘I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to reach you on your mobile.’

She threw out her hands.

‘My phone ran out of juice yesterday afternoon and, like a bloody idiot, I’d left the charger at home. On the other hand, I was off duty, you know. I had a good time in town, went out to eat, and then caught the night ferry home. I slept like a rock in my cabin and didn’t wake up until we arrived. I just had time to stop by my flat before coming here.’

‘And you didn’t listen to your voicemail?’

‘No. How was I supposed to know that Viktor Algård would get himself murdered and, to cap it all, at the dedication festivities for the conference centre? Thanks for the flowers, by the way. They were left outside my door. That was a nice surprise.’

‘You’re welcome. As I said, I did try to call you.’

‘So tell me all about it.’

‘Algård’s body was found inside an employee lift on the floor below the banquet hall. That part had been closed off for the evening. Presumably he never left the building after the dedication ceremony and celebration. At four o’clock yesterday afternoon the cleaning staff found his body. He probably died from cyanide poisoning.’

‘Cyanide?’ said Jacobsson, raising her eyebrows. ‘That sounds rather unlikely. Are you sure?’

‘We won’t be sure until we get the report from the post-mortem, but everything points in that direction. The victim’s complexion was bright pink, and he actually smelled of bitter almonds.’

‘Bitter almonds?’

‘Yes. Apparently cyanide has the same smell.’

‘I’ve heard that bitter almonds can be poisonous if you eat too many of them – but you’d have to scoff fifty or so. As if anyone would ever do such a stupid thing. Who in the world even uses them nowadays?’

‘I assume they’re used as ingredients in Swedish curd cake and almond buns. Aren’t they?’

‘I’m always surprised by the range of your knowledge, Anders.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘You don’t really do much baking, do you?’

‘You’re forgetting my upbringing.’

Knutas’s parents had run a bakery on their farm in Kappelshamn in the north of Gotland. Even though their speciality was unleavened flatbread, Knutas had grown up surrounded by all sorts of baked goods.

‘But it wasn’t bitter almonds that caused his death. It was cyanide,’ he said.

‘Is there anything to indicate that the murder is connected to all that uproar about Algård’s club – and the latest assault case?’

‘Not so far. But it’s certainly an interesting theory.’

‘Is Alexander’s condition still unchanged?’

Knutas nodded gloomily.

‘Did you know Algård?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘I wouldn’t say that I knew him exactly. But we’d always exchange a few words whenever we met. I’ve attended a number of parties that he arranged. He was a nice guy, cheerful and easy-going and very sociable, of course. He had to be, in order to do that kind of job.’

‘Was he married?’

‘Yes, although we haven’t been able to interview his wife yet.’

‘Any children?’

‘Two. Both grown. They live on the mainland, but they’ll be here today.’

‘What about the guests?’

‘We’re going to bring in every one of them to be interviewed. It’ll be a big job, since there were five hundred and twenty-three invited guests.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘We need to get help from the National Criminal Police. I talked to them last night. Kihlgård is apparently out on sick leave. Did you know that?’

Jacobsson’s face clouded over.

‘What? No, I had no idea.’

Martin Kihlgård was the NCP inspector they’d had the most contact with. He almost always came over to Gotland if they needed help. He loved the island and was very popular with his colleagues in Visby. He and Jacobsson were especially close. Occasionally their fondness for each other had been so blatant that Knutas felt annoyed. Embarrassed, he had reluctantly admitted to himself that this was an entirely selfish reaction because he didn’t want to share Karin. For a while he almost thought that a romantic relationship was starting to develop between Martin and Karin. But then at one of the daily morning meetings, Kihlgård just happened to mention that he had a boyfriend.

Now Knutas saw the concern in Jacobsson’s eyes and he tried to smooth over what he’d just said.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Maybe he’s just home with the flu.’

They were interrupted by Thomas Wittberg, who appeared in the doorway.

‘Hi. I just heard something interesting.’

He stopped what he was going to say and grinned when he saw Jacobsson sitting on the visitors’ sofa.

‘Happy birthday, by the way. Or are we not supposed to congratulate you on joining the ranks of middle-aged women? You’re already looking more worn out.’

Jacobsson glared at him and frowned. Wittberg was always taunting her about being ten years older than he was.

‘Get to the point,’ said Knutas impatiently. ‘We’ve got a meeting in five minutes.’

‘Viktor Algård was in the middle of divorce proceedings. They filed the documents with the district court a week ago.’

EVER SINCE LAST night, I’ve been preparing myself. It started at eight o’clock, after the Rapport programme was over. I watch the TV news every evening, even though I don’t care a wit about what happens in the world. But it’s the only thing I have left that gives me some sort of anchor in reality. Otherwise my life is nothing more than a pseudo-existence. One day follows the next in a steady stream; all of them look very much alike. I sit here in my self-imposed prison, and the furthest I have to walk is from the kitchen to the bathroom.

I see only one other person, and today it’s once again time to do that. It means that I have to venture outside. And that requires preparation.

Last night I rummaged about until I found some clothes that were presentable, clean and without any holes. I never think about such things when I’m alone. I placed them on a chair: underwear, socks, a shirt, jeans. Before I went to bed, I set three alarm clocks, each fifteen minutes apart, so that I’d be sure to wake up. Since I take sleeping tablets, I tend to sleep very soundly and I’m out for a long time.

I put one alarm clock on the bedside table, one on the window ledge so I’d be forced to get up, and the third, which rings the loudest, I put in the kitchen so I wouldn’t be tempted to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head.

All three were set to give me plenty of time to wake up and carry out the obligatory morning ablutions required of normal people who do normal things. Such as venturing outside.

This morning I took a shower and washed my hair, which was quite a feat, considering my condition. It takes an enormous effort for me to slip out of my sleep-warmed pyjamas and get into the shower. It never gets any easier. Yes, I wear pyjamas to bed, just as I did as a child. They’re my armour: against fear, evil spirits, and any malicious, sinister creature that might happen to enter my bedroom. Sometimes I lie there in the dark imagining that someone is inside the flat. There are plenty of nooks and cupboards and wardrobes to hide in. I live in the only occupied flat in the entire building. The rest are all offices. No, that’s wrong. There is one other residential flat on the same floor. But it belongs to a family who live abroad, somewhere in Saudi Arabia, I think. I don’t know when they’re coming back.

That’s why the building is so quiet at night. Very quiet. Outside these walls, it’s a whole different matter. That’s where life in the city goes on.

I’ve had my coffee and forced myself to eat two open cheese sandwiches on rye bread. Energy is required if I’m to manage the walk I have ahead of me. I always read while I eat. Right now I’m reading The Red Room by August Strindberg. It’s a book that I spent a brief period reading aloud for Pappa when he wanted to rest on Saturday afternoons. I remember that once my nose started to bleed. It left a red spot in the book that’s still visible today.

A few days ago when I got out this book, which had been packed away for so long, a photograph fell from between the pages where it had been lying, forgotten. It was a picture of Pappa, taken in the boat out at the lake. He’s wearing shorts and a light blue shirt, smiling slyly at the camera. Wrinkling his nose at the sun the way he always used to do. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a picture of Pappa in which he’s really happy. He might make a face or smile, but he never laughed when anyone took his picture.

Mamma and Pappa divorced when I was five, and after that they seldom saw each other. The day before my thirteenth birthday, he died in a car accident. My memories of him are few and fragmentary, but occasionally images appear in my mind’s eye. The dark hair on the back of Pappa’s neck as he drove; the way he would floor the accelerator on that bumpy hill out in the country so that the three of us kids sitting in the back seat would screech with delight. His inimitable way of chewing on a bun, making it look so heavenly; the way he inhaled through his nose; his dry hands; and the way he tossed back his head when he laughed. He had a big round belly and the indentation of his navel was clearly visible under his shirt. Pappa smelled so nicely of aftershave. The bottle of Paco Rabanne stood on his shelf in the medicine cabinet.

During one summer holiday in Norrland, I remember playing in a deep, dark lake in the woods. Pappa was romping with us, chasing us about in the water. I laughed so hard that I nearly choked when he grabbed me and I landed in his big, soft embrace.

Pappa worked on the mainland and came home only at the weekends. I remember how Mamma would always hum as she cleaned up the flat before he arrived. She would set the table with the good china and candles, take out a bottle of wine, and cook steak with French fries and Béarnaise sauce. When he finally turned up on Friday evening, my siblings and I would stand in the hall, our eyes sparkling, as if the king himself was coming to visit.

I never heard any explanation for why they split up. Only that something had happened that Mamma couldn’t forgive. She was the one who wanted the divorce. Even so, she was inconsolable afterwards, and everyone in her circle of friends was fully occupied trying to take care of her. The poor woman, left on her own with three small children. And so young. Without money in the bank or any sort of education.

The grey days became weeks, months, years. No one had time for the feelings of loss that my siblings and I were trying to deal with. We ended up in the shadows. And that’s how things were to remain.

Actually, I’ve been in the shadows ever since I was born. Like someone who really has no right to live. I wonder why I was born at all.

Mamma never wanted me. She told me that herself.

She has always said that she thinks it was a miracle I could be such a happy child when she was in such despair while she was pregnant with me. At first she was utterly beside herself when she found out she was going to have another baby. Then she wept every day as I grew inside of her. Apparently it was hard to tell that she was even carrying a child until close to the end. That was how strongly she tried to deny me.

I must have been about fourteen when I heard the story for the first time. She related the tale as if it were a funny anecdote. I don’t remember having any particular reaction; I didn’t feel angry or upset. I assume my response was the usual one. Acceptance. I simply accepted the insult – hook, line and sinker. Just as I put up with everything she said about me, no matter how denigrating her words. I can hear her voice echoing inside my head.

‘And just imagine – even though I was so upset about having you, you were incredibly happy when you came out! Right from the very beginning!’

Sure, Mamma. Imagine that. And why exactly are you telling me how unwanted I was? I have no bloody idea.

I’m dressed now. I have to go out of the door, take the lift downstairs, and mingle with all the people out on the street. I take a breath. A deep breath.

LINA PHONED JUST as Knutas was heading down the corridor to the investigative team’s morning meeting. He’d left home very early, before she was awake. Knutas’s Danish wife was on her way to her job as a midwife at Visby Hospital. She’d started taking a walk every morning before breakfast. It was another of her countless attempts to lose weight. Knutas didn’t think there was anything wrong with his wife’s plump figure, but she was always trying to get rid of a few extra pounds. At the moment she had high hopes for the diet based on the glycaemic index, which was the current fad. Consequently, whenever it was her turn to do the cooking, their meals consisted of meat, fish and salads. Potatoes, pasta and rice had been replaced by lentils and beans, although Knutas and the children weren’t happy about the substitution. Because of their protests, she had relented enough to serve whole-grain pasta.

‘Good morning,’ Lina gasped on the phone, sounding out of breath. ‘How’s it going?’

‘OK, but we’re really busy. We’ve got a meeting in a few minutes.’

‘I just had to phone you because Nils is sick.’

Knutas stopped in his tracks.

‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘This morning it was almost impossible to wake him. He said that he’d hardly slept at all and that his stomach hurt.’

‘Hurt in what way?’

‘He says it aches but he hasn’t thrown up, and he doesn’t have a fever. At any rate, I let him stay home from school.’

‘That’s good. I’ve got a lot on my plate today, but I might be able to drop by to see him later on.’

Lina’s work schedule was not as flexible as his since she was assigned specific shifts at the hospital.

‘That would be great. I know you have to go, so we’ll talk later.’

‘I’ll phone Nils.’

‘No, don’t do that. He went back to sleep.’

‘OK. Love you.’

‘Love you too.’

Worry instantly settled over Knutas. Nils hadn’t been himself lately, and maybe it wasn’t all due to puberty.

Still thinking about his son, he went into the conference room for the first meeting of the day with the investigative team.

Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg was already in his place at the table, intently leafing through the morning newspaper. He glanced up at Knutas and gave him a distracted greeting. Wittberg and Jacobsson were sitting next to each other, leaning close and conversing in low voices. The police spokesman, Lars Norrby, was missing. He’d taken a two-month leave of absence to sail around the West Indies with his children. While Lars was away, Knutas had to handle the press himself, which he didn’t really mind. Things were actually calmer this way. He and Norrby didn’t always agree about what information should be made public.

Knutas had just sat down in his customary place at the head of the table when Sohlman came in. The crime-scene tech’s face was ashen and he looked as if he hadn’t slept all night.

He sank down on a chair next to Jacobsson, who patted him lightly on the shoulder. Sohlman reached for the thermos of coffee on the table.

‘Good morning,’ Knutas greeted everyone. ‘You all know about what happened. Viktor Algård was found dead yesterday afternoon inside the conference centre. According to the ME’s preliminary examination, Algård died of cyanide poisoning. But he also had a wound on his forehead, and there were bloodstains both on the cocktail table near the bar and on the floor underneath. Marks on the floor indicate that the perpetrator dragged the body into the lift, presumably to hide it. We don’t know yet what caused the wound on the victim’s forehead. The body is being taken on the afternoon ferry to Stockholm and the Forensics division in Solna. We’re hoping that the post-mortem will be done tomorrow. Sohlman, can you describe what we know so far about the injuries and crime scene?’

Knutas nodded to his colleague, who got up to stand next to the screen at the front of the room.

‘First let’s take a look at the victim. Certain circumstances make this a particularly interesting case. You can see that the victim’s skin is bright pink. Livor mortis, which is a light crimson or rose colour, has fully developed. This points to cyanide poisoning, since cyanide obstructs the airways, making it impossible for oxygen to get out of the bloodstream. The victim also smelled strongly of bitter almonds, which is typical of cyanide poisoning.’

‘I don’t know anything about cyanide,’ said Jacobsson, ‘but it must be an extremely unusual method for killing someone. I’ve only heard of it used as a murder weapon in old detective novels.’

‘I know. I’ve never handled a homicide case in which cyanide was used,’ Sohlman agreed. ‘But I’ve actually had a couple of instances of suicide by cyanide. It’s extremely toxic. In this instance we’re probably dealing with potassium cyanide, which is cyanide in crystal form. It dissolves easily in water.’

‘Why did you make that assumption?’

‘Because that’s the easiest form to handle and carry around. It can be kept in small glass vials. Then all you need to do is empty the contents into a glass of water, or some other liquid.’

‘What about alcohol?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘It doesn’t dissolve in alcohol, but the perpetrator could have mixed it in water first, before adding it to a drink. If that’s how the poison was administered to Algård, that is. We don’t know for sure. But it’s not the sort of substance that anyone would drink voluntarily. The perp must be at least somewhat familiar with cyanide. Handling it can be quite risky. For one thing, it’s fatal if inhaled. Hydrogen cyanide was the gas that the Germans used to murder the Jews in the concentration camps in the Second World War. As I said, it can knock out your respiratory system in a matter of minutes.’

‘How does it work?’ asked Knutas.

‘The cyanide instantly blocks the airways. You could say that the cells are suffocated, and the victim will have trouble breathing immediately after ingesting the poison. I presume it’s sometimes used as a method of committing suicide because it’s such a lethal substance. If you take a sufficient amount of cyanide, you will definitely die. And it happens so fast, taking anywhere from thirty seconds to a few minutes, depending on the amount. The Nazi Hermann Goering killed himself by swallowing a cyanide capsule when he was sentenced to death for genocide at the Nuremberg trials.’

‘How difficult is it to get hold of cyanide?’

Sohlman shrugged.

‘These days you can buy just about anything on the Internet. Or make it yourself if you have an interest in chemistry. It may also be used in certain industries. I don’t really know.’

‘We’ll need to find out about that,’ said Knutas. ‘Will you look into it, Thomas?’

‘Sure. At the same time, I think we have to ask ourselves what type of person would use poison to commit a murder. It indicates a certain amount of calculation. And who would be capable of handling such a dangerous poison?’

‘Something that distinguishes a killer who uses poison is the absence of physical contact between the perpetrator and the victim,’ Sohlman interjected. ‘That type of murderer watches the victim ingest the poison, but usually leaves the scene as quickly as possible. So he doesn’t leave any incriminating evidence behind. No fingerprints or strands of hair, no skin scrapings, no blood. In this case, the perp did drag the victim into the lift, but he must have felt a need to hide the body for some reason. There’s also a psychological aspect. Death by poison is often extremely painful, even though it happens fast, which indicates that the motive is most likely personal. So the victim and killer knew each other; they had some sort of relationship.’

‘If we assume that someone put cyanide in Algård’s drink, shouldn’t he have noticed from the smell that something was wrong with it?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘Since it would have smelled so strongly of bitter almonds?’

‘Hmmm,’ said Sohlman and then paused, rubbing his chin. ‘That depends. I’ve heard that only fifty per cent of human beings are able to smell the scent of bitter almonds. Algård might have belonged to the group that can’t. Or else it all happened so fast that he noticed the smell too late. It’s also possible that he was forced to drink the poison. We found a chair toppled over at the crime scene. And he’d suffered a blow to the head.’

Silence settled over the room, as if everyone were trying to imagine what might have happened on the night of the dedication festivities. Knutas broke the silence.

‘Let’s leave the speculations for now and concentrate on what we know about Viktor Algård. I didn’t really know him. I only met him a few times in connection with various events that he’d organized. Anyone else know him?’

Everyone shook their heads.

‘OK.’ Knutas glanced down at his notes. ‘Algård was fifty-three years old, born and raised in Hamra. Married, with two grown children who live on the mainland. A son who’s twenty-eight and a daughter who’s twenty-six. He’d worked as an event planner for years, and I know that he was quite successful. His problems started when he bought a building down by the harbour and turned it into a club for teenagers. We all know what has gone on since then. There has been trouble at that club from the very beginning, and now, to top it all, we have the recent case of assault and battery.’

Knutas got up, picked up a red marker and began writing on the whiteboard at the front of the room.

Assault.

‘The incident that took place in front of his club is an important factor, and we need to explore a possible connection, of course. According to several witnesses, Algård was in the process of divorcing his wife.’ Knutas wrote the word Divorce on the whiteboard. ‘Wittberg, can you tell us more?’

‘The Algårds filed for divorce in district court a week ago. They’ve been married more than thirty years. We’ve just started on the interviews, and unfortunately we haven’t been able to talk to any of the family members yet. We’ll be meeting with his wife, Elisabeth Algård, later today. Both children will also be interviewed – I hope sometime today. The only people we’ve talked to so far are employees of his company, which specialized in PR and event planning. Algård had two people on staff and his company is called Go Gotland. The office is located on Hästgatan and the client list includes major players, such as Wisby Strand, Kneippbyn and the municipality of Visby itself. I’ve talked to the two employees, a young guy named Max and a girl called Isabella. They had only good things to say about Algård as a boss. In addition, both of them are positive that he was having an affair. They hadn’t seen him with another woman, but apparently he’d exhibited all the signs of being in love. They said that he’d started having lunch with someone, but he refused to tell them who it was. He was gone from the office for long periods of time, and would return looking flushed and very pleased with himself. He’d started going to a gym – apparently he used to work out, but had let it lapse – and he’d even hired a personal trainer just a few weeks ago. He’d told his employees that he was going to take a trip to Paris in May, and he’d contacted an estate agent to help him find a large flat in the centre of Visby, since he was planning to sell his small pied-à-terre.’

‘So now we have another motive,’ said Smittenberg, twirling the ends of the moustache he’d recently affected. ‘The mysterious mistress.’

Knutas wrote Mistress on the whiteboard and then turned again to Thomas Wittberg.

‘You might as well write Wife, while you’re at it,’ Smittenberg suggested. ‘From what I gather, Elisabeth Algård doesn’t have an alibi, does she?’

Knutas did as the prosecutor requested.

‘There’s one theory that may be a long shot, but we still can’t rule it out,’ Wittberg interjected. ‘The fact is, the conference centre has been a very controversial construction project. It’s possible that someone murdered Algård to protest against the dedication of the building.’

‘A statement from rabid environmentalists, maybe? That sounds really credible,’ Jacobsson teased him.

‘We need to keep all avenues open,’ Knutas countered, his voice sharp.

He added the words Conference Centre to the list and again turned to Wittberg.

‘What have you found out so far from talking to the waiters and service personnel?’

‘According to a bartender, shortly after midnight Algård told him that he was going to take a break. It was the first time all evening that he left the party. After that no one saw him again.’

‘And no one missed him?’ asked Jacobsson in surprise.

‘The dinner was over by the time he took a break, and then the dancing started up and there was a lot of commotion. We’re talking about more than five hundred guests, after all. The people that we’ve interviewed so far seem to have taken it for granted that Algård was on the scene somewhere, but none of them can pinpoint exactly the last time they saw him.’

‘Was he alone when he left?’

‘Yes, he headed downstairs to the section of the building that was closed off for the evening.’

‘The perp could have been someone he worked with,’ said Jacobsson. ‘What do we know about any problems on the job? We should look into that.’

Knutas wrote Work Colleague on the board.

‘As of now, we haven’t come up with anything significant other than the trouble at his club,’ said Wittberg. ‘We need to keep working.’

THE GROUP FROM the National Criminal Police in Stockholm arrived in the afternoon. There was none of the hullabaloo that always ensued whenever Martin Kihlgård was part of the group, and Knutas reluctantly had to admit that he missed his charismatic colleague. Even though Kihlgård frequently drove Knutas crazy, at least he was entertaining. Jacobsson politely greeted their newly arrived associates, but displayed what seemed like a deliberate lack of interest in talking to them. Knutas found that annoying. It wasn’t their fault that Kihlgård was ill.

In charge of the group was an inconsequential-looking man by the name of Rylander. Under his direction, they immediately set to work on the most pressing task: scheduling and recording the huge number of interviews. Some had already been conducted, but hundreds of others still needed to be done.

Viktor Algård’s two children were coming to the police station to be interviewed, but his wife couldn’t muster the strength to do the same. So the police would have to go to the Algård house. Knutas thought that was actually just as well. He wanted to see Algård’s home to get a better picture of what the man was like as a person. The police had already searched the house without finding anything of interest. The same could not be said of the victim’s flat on Hästgatan. In the bathroom the police had found perfume, a hair dryer and other feminine toiletries. In the bedroom were shoes and clothing belonging to a woman, but of course they might be his wife’s. Knutas had decided to wait to ask about these items until he could talk to Elisabeth Algård in person.

As soon as the morning meeting was over, Jacobsson and Knutas headed for Hamra to interview the widow.

First, however, they made a detour to Bokströmsgatan and parked in front of Knutas’s house.

‘I just need to run in and see Nils for a moment,’ he explained. ‘He stayed home from school because he had a stomach ache this morning.’

‘But isn’t he sixteen by now?’

‘Children still need their parents. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. They’re never too old for a little parental concern.’

Knutas gave her a wry smile as he opened the car door. Jacobsson made a choking sound, as if something had got lodged in her throat. Then she had a coughing fit.

‘Are you coming down with something too?’ Knutas asked.

He pounded his colleague on the back as tears ran down Jacobsson’s cheeks. Knutas looked at her in astonishment.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s nothing,’ she told him. ‘I must have swallowed something the wrong way. That’s all. I think I’ll wait in the car.’

‘OK.’

The house was dark and silent. Knutas tiptoed upstairs so as not to wake Nils if he was asleep. Cautiously he opened the door. Nils was sitting at his desk next to the window with his back turned. His computer was on. Knutas saw at once the picture of Alexander Almlöv that had been published in the newspapers.

‘Hi, Nils. How are you feeling?’

His son turned around with a start. His eyes were shiny with tears.

‘What are you doing at home?’

Knutas went over to Nils and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy was much too thin. That was something he’d been noticing for a while now.

‘I just wanted to look in on you. Mamma said you had a stomach ache.’

Knutas’s expression turned grim as he looked at the picture on the computer screen. The photo had been taken at Tofta beach in the summertime. Alexander, his face suntanned and his hair wet, was smiling at the camera. Now he lay in a coma.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked gently.

‘Nothing.’ Nils turned off the computer and went over to his bed to lie down. ‘Just leave me alone.’

‘But how are you feeling?’

‘Better. Nothing to worry about.’

He turned over to face the wall. Knutas sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘Are you thinking about Alexander?’

‘Why are you here, anyway? Don’t you have a lot to do because of the murder and everything?’

‘Yes, I do,’ sighed Knutas. ‘We’re on our way down to Sudret. Karin and I. She’s waiting in the car.’

‘So go. I’m fine.’

‘Shall I get you something? Are you thirsty?’

‘No.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes. I said I’m fine.’

Knutas made his way back to the car, filled with anxiety. He had to find some way to reconnect with Nils.

They drove south, taking the coast road. It was a beautiful day with the springtime sun shining over the fields and meadows. The hides of the cattle gleamed as they grazed in the pastures. On the right-hand side of the road Knutas and Jacobsson occasionally caught glimpses of the sea, which glinted with promise. After the long and dreary winter, it was as if someone had lifted a hazy grey curtain that had been hovering over the island for months and now nature had come back to life. A few fiery red poppies were visible in places along the road, and suddenly summer didn’t seem so far away. The air was already warmer. Knutas rolled down the window.

‘Beautiful day,’ he said, casting an enquiring glance at Karin.

‘It really is.’

‘So how are things going?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

She looked at him and smiled. She had a relatively large mouth for such a narrow face. The big gap between her front teeth was particularly endearing.

‘We haven’t had much time to talk lately.’

‘No.’

‘You’ve seemed a bit down.’

‘You think so?’

Karin’s face seemed to close up. It was obvious that she didn’t want to discuss the topic. They continued driving south in silence.

Knutas looked out of the window again, wondering what could be weighing on her. He’d worked with Karin Jacobsson for more than fifteen years and she was his closest confidante. At least from his point of view. He told her everything, including any problems he experienced with his family. She was a good listener, always willing to offer encouragement and advice. But when it came to Karin’s own personal life, that was a whole different story. As soon as the conversation turned to her, she became guarded and silent.

A year ago Knutas had promoted Jacobsson to Deputy Detective Superintendent and second in command, which had stirred up some bad feelings at the station, even though most people were positive about her new role. Malicious comments were heard from a handful of older male officers who didn’t like being passed over for a much younger colleague who also happened to be a woman. Jacobsson’s petite stature hadn’t made it any easier for her to win their respect. The fact that she didn’t live according to the expected norms had also given rise to speculations. Although she was forty years old, she still lived alone with her cockatoo named Vincent. She devoted most of her free time to football, both as a coach and as a player in the women’s league.

‘Have you heard anything more about Kihlgård?’ Knutas asked, mostly just for something to say.

‘Yes. He was in Karolinska Hospital for a week, and they did a lot of tests, but he’s home now. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with him.’

‘I didn’t even know that he was in hospital. What sort of symptoms does he have?’

‘He just generally doesn’t feel good. He’s suffering from nausea and dizziness.’

‘How long will it take to get the results of the tests back?’

‘A week or two.’

‘We should send him flowers.’

‘That’s a good idea.’

He glanced at Karin. She looked more tired than usual.

‘You know that you can talk to me if there’s something bothering you,’ he said. ‘I’m always willing to listen.’

‘Thanks, Anders. I know that. Maybe we could talk some other time. Not now.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

Knutas changed the subject in order to break the oppressive mood that had settled over them.

‘What do you think about the case? Any ideas about a motive?’

‘It’s impossible to say. There are several likely motives, but I don’t think it’s any coincidence that Algård was murdered just a couple of weeks after Alexander Almlöv was assaulted. Especially considering all the criticisms that have been hurled at Algård lately.’

‘Who do you think is a likely candidate?’

‘Either someone who is close to Alexander, or someone connected to the bouncers, who both happen to be involved in criminal activities. Or maybe some fanatic who’s tired of all the youth violence and wants to take matters into his own hands. There are all sorts of variations to consider. Nine times out of ten the perp is a member of the immediate family. So it could also be someone like that.’

‘Maybe it’s no coincidence either that Algård was in the process of getting a divorce.’

‘Sure. And it’s a strange thing about this mistress of his,’ said Jacobsson pensively. ‘We need to find out who she is. And does Mrs Algård know that her husband was playing around on the side? Maybe not, if the love affair is relatively recent, but somebody in their circle of friends must know something. Do you think the mistress was at the party?’

‘Maybe. We’ll have to wait and see what the interviews can tell us. She may have been out of town. Maybe she doesn’t even know about the murder yet.’

WHEN JACOBSSON AND Knutas reached the Hamra Inn, they pulled over and stopped in the deserted car park. The inn was incredibly popular in the summertime, but now it looked practically abandoned. Several signs indicated that the Coconut Bar was to the left, while Pepe’s Tex-Mex was on the right. The rustic wooden tables were stacked against one wall and the restaurant was glaringly empty. A few messages had been tacked up on a decrepit-looking bulletin board near the car park. ‘Flea market in Burgsvik’, ‘Weaving class in Havdhem’, ‘Alcoholics Anonymous meets every Tuesday in the Hablingbo community centre’, ‘Sheep shearing – cheap’, and ‘Lost cat’.

‘We need to go left here and head down towards the sea,’ said Jacobsson, turning the car on to a gravel road. The flat landscape was mostly cultivated fields. This was farm country, with one farmstead right next to another. Healthy-looking cattle grazed in the pastures and flocks of sheep stared at the car as they drove past. The sea glittered up ahead. They were almost at the southernmost tip of Gotland, far from their own familiar stomping grounds.

They drove along a narrow road that followed the shoreline. The farm at the end of the road belonged to the Algård family. As they pulled into the gravel-covered yard in front of the house, two greyhounds appeared, barking loudly. Knutas, who was afraid of dogs, hesitantly climbed out of the car, never taking his eyes off the two animals. Jacobsson called out to them and they instantly loped over to her, barking happily. The front door of the house opened and a shrill whistle rang out across the yard. The dogs immediately stopped their romping and raced to join their owner.

Elisabeth Algård showed Knutas and Jacobsson into the house. They sat down in a big country kitchen replete with all the farmhouse charms: blue-and-white-checked cotton curtains, exposed ceiling beams, a big brick fireplace, a scoured wood floor and a gate-legged table, which was the biggest and most rustic Knutas had ever seen. The tall windows offered an expansive view of the fields and, off in the distance, the sea. The widow served them coffee and almond buns without first asking if they’d like any. She shooed the dogs out of the kitchen and closed the door. With a heavy sigh she sat down on a chair across from the two officers. Her thin, sinewy figure was clad in jeans and a short-sleeved cotton blouse. Her wispy, smoky-coloured hair was pulled back and fastened with a clasp at the nape of her neck. She wore no make-up. Her lips were thin, making a narrow streak of her mouth. She couldn’t be described as a beauty, but she had pleasing, distinctive features. As she poured the coffee, Elisabeth Algård looked Knutas right in the eye.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘First of all, we want to offer our condolences. Unfortunately, we do need to ask you quite a few questions. When was the last time you saw Viktor?’

‘Saturday afternoon, before he left for the party.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘He was in a great mood, even though he tried to hide it.’

Knutas looked at her enquiringly.

‘Viktor wanted a divorce,’ she said tonelessly.

‘We know about that. Can you tell us why?’ said Jacobsson as she bit into a bun.

‘It was a bolt out of the blue. I can’t understand it. Good Lord, we’ve been married for thirty-two years. We have two grown children, this farm with all the animals and my studio. Viktor had his own company. Our life was good. It was calm and pleasant and the days passed enjoyably. All of a sudden he wanted to destroy everything we’d built together.’

‘When did he tell you that he wanted a divorce?’

‘A couple of weeks ago. Right after that boy was assaulted. At first I thought that was the reason – because Viktor was so upset by all the uproar and criticism. But he said it had nothing to do with that.’

‘So what did he give as his reason?’

‘Reason? He didn’t have a reason. He just said that he wanted to lead his own life. Have you ever heard anything like it? He said he was longing to focus on himself, on his own happiness. “You only live once,” he said, “and I don’t want to end up a bitter man.”’

The widow shook her head.

‘Bitter! How could he even utter such a word, considering everything we’ve accomplished during all these years together? Two well-brought-up children who have become independent and successful individuals with their own lives. An entire farm that we renovated from the ground up. It’s frequently included on lists of the most beautiful farms on all of Gotland. We live here in this marvellous natural setting and close to the sea, which we both love. We have dogs, and we raise chickens that give us the best eggs for breakfast every day. I have my weaving, which actually now provides me with a full-time income. He has his company and the club, both of which were doing amazingly well – at least up until that awful beating incident occurred. We can afford to travel and do all the fun things we want to do. We eat well every day. So how can he talk about being bitter and wanting to finally put himself at the top of his priorities? I’m sorry, but I just don’t understand it.’

Elisabeth Algård’s voice had risen in volume. She leaned across the table, shifting her gaze between Jacobsson and Knutas, as if trying to convince them of her own bewilderment. Jacobsson sat motionless, her hands cradling her coffee cup. Elisabeth continued her diatribe, as if a dam had burst.

‘And he wanted to destroy everything, tear it all down. He cared nothing about me, or the fact that he was about to shatter my whole life. And he had no consideration for the children. No, he was thinking only about himself. It was a week before my birthday when he told me that he wanted a divorce. Just like that. And this summer we were supposed to spend a month in Italy, the whole family, and rent a villa in Tuscany. That might have been the last summer the four of us spent together, since the children will probably have their own families soon. Our friends couldn’t understand it either. They couldn’t fathom why he’d want to leave me and everything we had together. They thought it was just a whim, a mid-life crisis. But I’m not so sure… And then what happens? He goes and dies only weeks later. So much for focusing on his own life. If it wasn’t so sad, I’d probably laugh myself silly. Yes, I would. The whole situation is utterly absurd.’

At last she fell silent and paused to drink her coffee. Elisabeth Algård was not behaving at all the way Knutas had expected. He’d pictured a grieving widow overcome by despair. Instead she mostly seemed filled with rage. He realized that she must have spent the past two weeks brooding about the collapse of her marriage.

‘Did he have any enemies that you know of?’ Knutas asked. ‘Anyone who might have wanted to harm him?’

‘Of course he did. After that sixteen-year-old boy was beaten up outside the club, half of Gotland was angry at Viktor. Plenty of people even thought that he was to blame for the boy nearly getting killed. And then there’s the divorce. All of our relatives and friends were surprised by his decision. Nobody understood why he was doing this. But of course it’s ridiculous to think that someone would murder him for that reason.’

‘What was Viktor’s attitude towards the assault?’

‘Naturally he thought it was a horrible thing to happen. He was truly shocked and blamed everyone except himself. He said that it was the parents’ fault for not having better control over their kids; that the bouncers should have stepped in sooner and with greater force when they saw what was going on; that the police should have had a greater presence outside the club, since they knew about all the drinking and fighting that went on. Viktor was devastated and went over to visit the boy’s mother, but he was thrown out on his ear. She blamed him. She runs the Kloster Restaurant, which is near the club. Viktor claimed that in addition to being upset that her son had been assaulted, she was also mad at him for chasing away her customers with his rowdy club parties.’

‘Are you talking about Ingrid Almlöv?’

‘Yes. And I know that Viktor was very upset about the fact that she refused to see him. He tried several times.’

‘Are there other enemies your husband might have acquired because of the assault incident? Or simply because he ran the club the way he did?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘Of course. The bouncers were mad at Viktor because he accused them of shirking their duties. Now they’re at risk of losing their jobs altogether. And just think about all the parents and others who have been complaining ever since the club opened.’

‘But as far as you know, he never received any sort of specific threats?’

‘No.’

Knutas thought about what the widow had told them. They were going to have to thoroughly investigate the whole story about the assault and Viktor’s club. He decided to phone Ingrid Almlöv later in the day. He’d talked to her a number of times since her son had been beaten, but their conversation had never touched on any of these issues. He felt sick at the idea of having to broach these topics with her when her son was hovering between life and death.

‘Think very carefully,’ Jacobsson said now. ‘If we disregard everything having to do with the assault and the divorce, was Viktor on bad terms with anyone else? It might be related to something in the distant past. It doesn’t have to be something current.’

Elisabeth took a bun from the plate and slowly chewed on it as she considered the question.

‘In that case, the only person I can think of is Sten Bergström, who lives out near Holmhällar down the road. Several years ago he started a company similar to Viktor’s. In the beginning it was just a matter of a few events. The first thing he did was handle the arrangements for a big wedding here in the area, and it was a huge success. We were even invited. After that he got so many requests to arrange weddings and other types of celebrations that he started his own business, specializing in local parties. Slightly smaller events than those Viktor handled. But the problem was that he gave his company a name that was ridiculously similar to Viktor’s, which is called “Go Gotland”. Sten Bergström called his firm “Goal Gotland”. Gradually Sten began getting requests from customers who had previously hired Viktor’s company. His business grew. Viktor got more and more unhappy and even alarmed over the competition. After a while rumours began to spread that Sten’s events were marred by drunkenness and brawls. I think he lost his licence to serve alcohol, and eventually he went bankrupt.’

‘When did all this happen?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘Maybe three or four years ago. After the bankruptcy, Sten and Viktor never spoke to each other again. He’s the only real enemy that I can think of.’

Knutas made a note of the name. Jacobsson decided to change tack.

‘And your children – what did they think about the fact that you were getting a divorce?’

‘It’s hard to say. They’re both adults now, you know. Fredrik is twenty-eight and Sofia is twenty-six. Both of them live in Stockholm and have their own lives. Neither of them seemed particularly upset by the news, although they might not have wanted to tell us their true thoughts or feelings. Children end up with conflicting loyalties, not wanting to side with one parent or the other.’

Elisabeth Algård gave a heavy sigh and then refilled their coffee cups.

‘What was your reaction when you heard about Viktor’s death?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘When the police came here the first time, I had such a migraine that I hardly reacted at all when they told me that Viktor was dead. And to cap it all, that they suspected it was murder. When my headache finally began to subside, I had a hard time taking in the news. As I began to comprehend fully what had happened, I felt angry. Because he was dead and I could no longer talk to him. Because I still couldn’t work out why he wanted a divorce. Or what had made him come up with such an idea. I’m angry because I never had a chance to find out. I feel cheated. It’s as if I’m living in a vacuum, and I can’t seem to get anything done. But there are a lot of things I need to deal with: the funeral, the estate, his will and our finances. I need to decide what to do about the farm, and whether I can even afford to live here any more. Then there’s Viktor’s business – and everything else. I feel like there’s no room for grief. Just a lot of practical matters that need to be addressed, along with my own anger, and I have no idea what to do about that.’

Knutas felt genuinely sorry for Elisabeth Algård. So far he had deliberately put off asking her about her husband’s purported love affair.

Jacobsson made it easy for him by broaching the sensitive topic herself.

‘There’s one more thing that we have to ask you,’ she began. ‘Do you know whether Viktor had met someone else? Another woman?’

The widow’s eyes narrowed.

‘What do you mean?’

Jacobsson nervously shifted position and cast a quick glance at Knutas, as if asking him for help. But he had none to offer.

‘Certain people we’ve talked to claim that they suspected Viktor had a mistress.’

Elisabeth got up and went over to look out of the window, with her back turned to the two officers. When she spoke, her voice was dry and composed.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Several witnesses have said that they recently started to suspect that he had fallen in love. This could be of great importance to the investigation. Think carefully. Did you notice any change in his behaviour? Some small sign that might indicate he was having an affair?’

‘No, nothing. I didn’t notice anything like that.’

‘Did you ever spend the night in Viktor’s flat in Visby?’

‘No.’

‘When was the last time you were there?’

‘Good Lord, it must be at least a year ago. I’ve never had any reason to go there.’

‘So you didn’t keep any personal belongings in the flat? Clothing or toiletries?’

‘No.’ Elisabeth turned around and gave the officers a resigned look. ‘Is that what you found there? In Viktor’s flat?’

Knutas had no option but to nod.

YET ANOTHER NIGHT when Johan had slept very poorly. Elin woke up at least ten times, coughing so hard that it sounded as if her lungs would burst. He’d phoned both the doctor on call and the paediatric hotline, but both times he was advised to remain calm, give the child some cough syrup and keep an eye on her. How typical, he thought with annoyance. Just because they don’t want to use any of their sodding resources to make a house call. He deeply regretted that he and Emma had decided not to vaccinate their daughter against whooping cough, but they had both judged the vaccine to be too new and unproven.

Around 4 a.m. Elin finally fell asleep, and she was still sleeping soundly when he got up. Emma would stay home with Elin as long as necessary. Johan had taken care of their daughter the previous week, but now he was swamped with work because of the Algård murder case. Besides, Emma was feeling generally worn out, so she candidly admitted that she was more than happy to stay home from work. She was a primary school teacher at the small Kyrk School in Roma. Right now the pupils were bubbling over with spring fever, which made them even more rambunctious than usual.

Luckily, Johan and Pia had agreed that he didn’t need to drive into town to the editorial office. She was going to pick him up in Roma on her way south. As expected, the murder in the conference centre had prompted big headlines in the local morning papers. It was front-page news, with other related stories inside as well. None of the papers mentioned the victim’s name, merely speaking of ‘a well-known individual in Visby’s hospitality industry’. When Johan carefully read through all the articles about the murder, he happened to notice a brief story in Gotlands Allehanda. It was about the case of the sixteen-year-old boy who had been assaulted. Shit. He’d completely forgotten about that because of everything that had happened yesterday. The boy’s condition was still serious. I need to remember to check up on the case sometime today, he told himself.

Pia turned up at nine o’clock sharp, as agreed, and then they headed south.

‘I think we should start with Birgitta Österman. She’s the one who usually takes care of the Algårds’ dogs.’

‘Do you think she’ll talk to us?’

‘I’ve already phoned her,’ said Pia with a grin.

‘Of course you have. I should have guessed.’

The farm they were headed for was located a short distance before the road ended at the Algård farm and on the opposite side. The farmhouse was an impressive limestone building with barns forming separate wings on either side and a horse pasture where a colt was restlessly trotting back and forth. The front door opened even before they could get out of the car. Birgitta Österman was a stout woman in her sixties. She gave them a friendly smile when they introduced themselves and then invited them in, but they politely declined the obligatory offer of coffee. Instead, they all sat down outside in the comfortable patio chairs. The yard was warm with sunshine and there was no wind.

‘What do you think about the news of the murder?’

‘Well, I was certainly shocked.’ Birgitta Österman shook her head. ‘Even though it happened up north in Visby, it still feels so close, since he was a neighbour and all.’

‘What was Viktor like?’

‘To be honest, I really couldn’t stand the man. There was something fishy about him. I could never figure him out. He was perfectly nice as a neighbour, but he always seemed wound up somehow, as if he could never relax. I always had the feeling he was hiding something, but I don’t know why. That’s just how he seemed. He was that way from the very beginning.’ She paused to look towards the Algård farm. ‘And it turned out that he wasn’t the reliable sort after all, since he suddenly wanted a divorce. Elisabeth told me about it just last week.’

Johan gave a start. This was something new, but he didn’t let on that he hadn’t known about it.

‘Do you know why he wanted a divorce?’

‘She had no idea. Nobody did. Everyone thought he must be having a mid-life crisis. But I knew that he’d found someone else.’

‘Really? What makes you think that?’

‘It’s not something I “think”. I know it for a fact.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because I saw them. Not here – oh no. It was in Stockholm. I went there one weekend to visit a friend who lives in Vasastan. It’s something I do a few times a year. We were on our way to a restaurant, but stopped for a glass of wine at a pub first. And who do you think I saw? Viktor. With another woman! I just about had a heart attack, and I had no idea what I was going to say to him. But they were sitting at the very back of the pub, and they were so wrapped up in one another that they didn’t have eyes for anybody else. They had their heads close and were practically cooing to each other. There was no question what was going on. They left soon after, and he didn’t see me. If he had, he probably would have fainted.’

‘What did she look like?’ asked Johan, trying hard not to sound too eager.

‘She was petite, with blond hair to her shoulders, in a pageboy style. Thin and expensively dressed. I never saw her face.’

‘How old?’

‘I’d guess about forty-five, maybe fifty.’

‘Have you told this to the police?’

‘No, I wasn’t home yesterday when they came around to talk to the neighbours. They left a note asking me to contact them, but I just haven’t had time yet. I’ve been out feeding the livestock this morning.’

‘When did you see Viktor in Stockholm?’

‘It was exactly one month ago.’

‘Did his wife know about this other woman?’

‘I have no idea. But she didn’t mention it to me. On the other hand, it’s not really something that you go around talking about, and we’re not exactly close friends. More like acquaintances. And I didn’t want to say anything. I’m not the sort who goes running about spreading gossip.’

THE FIRST THING that struck Knutas when he met Viktor Algård’s children at the police station was how astonishingly different they looked.

Fredrik was relatively short and robust, with an olive complexion, and he had his hair combed back, just like his father. He wore a white cotton shirt with a green-checked pullover, a preppy look that reminded Knutas of an American college boy.

His sister, Sofia, was tall and fair. She was dressed in an oversize lilac shirt, black tights and patterned canvas shoes. She also wore enormous silver earrings and a checked Palestinian scarf.

Silent and tense, they sat next to each other on a bench in the corridor outside the interview room.

Jacobsson and Knutas chose to start with the son.

The minute they all sat down, Fredrik asked for a glass of water. Knutas switched on the tape recorder.

‘I’d like to begin by expressing our condolences. As you no doubt realize, we need to ask you a number of questions.’

‘Of course.’

The young man looked at him attentively. Knutas was again struck by how much he resembled Viktor.

‘When was the last time you saw your father?’

‘On his birthday, a couple of months ago. He was born on the twenty-eighth of February.’

‘What sort of impression did he make on you at the time?’

‘He was the same as always. We were at the house in Hamra. It turned out to be quite a bash, with about fifty guests. Pappa loved to celebrate on a grand scale.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he was a real party-person, even outside of his job. That was probably why he enjoyed his work so much. Pappa loved parties, and he was always ready to organize one at the drop of a hat.’

Knutas discerned a trace of scorn in the young man’s voice. Jacobsson came back with a glass of water and then sat down on a chair at the other end of the room. Her presence was needed as a witness to the interview.

‘And what did you think about that?’

‘It didn’t bother me. I didn’t care.’

‘What sort of relationship did you have with your father?’

‘We didn’t really have one. He was always working when we were growing up, and he was almost never home. So we didn’t really know each other very well. I’m much closer to my mother, as you can imagine.’

‘How did you react when you heard that your parents were getting a divorce?’

‘I thought it was about time.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘They were miles apart, in almost every way. They had completely different interests and never enjoyed doing the same things. Even politically they were mismatched – well, actually I don’t think Pappa even had any political opinions of his own. He was simply ignorant. Mamma devours books, while Pappa never read anything except the evening paper and glossy magazines about celebrities. They had different views about nearly everything. They didn’t even like the same kind of food. Mamma is a vegetarian, while Pappa loved rare steaks. Mamma got involved with the Red Cross and other charitable projects, while Pappa didn’t give a damn about the problems of the world. I remember once when he yelled at my mother because she’d decided to sponsor a child in Guatemala.

‘Mamma cares about her family far more deeply than he ever did. She often comes to Stockholm to visit us, but he never came with her. She has her friends and colleagues, and they like to travel together and go to the theatre. Mamma reads a lot and keeps up on social matters. If we ever wanted to discuss a current issue in world politics or some hot topic in general, Pappa never had anything sensible to say.’

Crimson patches had appeared on Fredrik Algård’s throat. He took several sips of water.

‘Do you know whether your father had any enemies?’

‘I’m sure he’d managed to collect quite a few over the years. You know how it is in the hospitality business and the world of celebrities. Pretty on the outside, but lots of shit underneath.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Pappa only cared about people who could be of benefit to him at that moment. People who were rich, successful and famous. If an artist who counted him as a true friend happened to lose the spotlight, he was suddenly of no use to Pappa. If a well-known author’s books stopped selling, or if a top politician was found to have a drinking problem, or if an actor began to slide downhill, they no longer existed as far as Pappa was concerned.’

Knutas was surprised at the way this young man expressed himself. There was no mistaking the sarcastic tone.

‘In other words, I think there must be plenty of people who were disappointed in Pappa. But whether they would go so far as to kill him, that’s a whole different matter.’

‘And what about you? How did you feel about him?’

‘To be perfectly honest, I didn’t care much for him. To win someone’s trust and respect, you have to show the same in return. Don’t you agree? You get the relationship with your children that you deserve. Everything depends on how you behave as a parent.’

For an instant, his words prompted Knutas to look inside himself. And he was frightened by what he saw.

He shook off his personal unease and went on: ‘It sounds as if you actually hated your father.’

‘No, I wouldn’t say that. He had his good sides, just like everyone else. But who says that you have to love your parents? That’s not a law. Honour thy father and mother? What kind of shit is that? Am I supposed to love him just because of a few seconds of orgasm when he impregnated my mother and I was conceived? He never gave a damn about me. We just ended up having to live in the same house.’

Knutas cast a glance at Jacobsson. The conversation was getting more and more unpleasant. Fredrik Algård’s anger seemed to fill the whole room.

‘Do you know whether your father ever received any threats?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Did you notice anything different about his behaviour lately?’

‘No. As I said, I saw him at his birthday party in February, and before that at Christmas.’

‘But not for your mother’s birthday? Wasn’t that very recent?’

‘Yes, but she came to Stockholm. She was angry and upset with my father because he wanted a divorce. We celebrated her birthday at our place instead.’

‘So you live with someone?’

‘Yes, my girlfriend Sanna. We live in Söder, near Mariatorget.’

‘And you’re studying at the university?’

‘Yes. Political science. I also have a law degree, but I wanted to expand my interests. This is my last term, then I’ll be finished.’

‘How long are you planning to stay here on Gotland?’

‘I have a breathing space in my studies at the moment, so I can stay at least a week. Mamma needs all the help and support she can get.’

A GLANCE IN the mirror inside the lift is enough to remind me of my sorry state. I’ve lost weight and look ghastly. But I’m in one piece and clean. That ought to be sufficient. Today I’m going out, which demands a great deal of mental concentration.

Life nowadays is a struggle, periodically marked by a lull and a vacuum. I have to think in small steps. Cleanse away everything else. The dreams I may have had, the goals and ambitions, no longer exist. I can’t even remember what they were. Or whether I ever really had any.

The next test comes when I open the heavy front door to the street. Like a stinging slap in the face, I’m confronted with all the traffic noise of the city, the people and the smells. I hadn’t noticed that it was raining and I’m freezing in my thin jacket. I refuse to meet anyone’s eye as I walk along the pavement. I shut everyone out, pretending that they don’t exist: all those poplin coats, jackets and sweaters, the ribbed umbrellas, the briefcases and the shoulder bags made of brown leather. Rubber galoshes and walking shoes. The blurry faces that I glimpse passing by are nothing but hazy masks.

Finally I arrive. A moment of panic because at first I can’t remember the door code. I rummage around in my pocket for the slip of paper and breathe a sigh of relief when I find it. I can’t handle any setbacks right now.

It’s a square room, with one window facing the street, a bed along one wall, and a small table and two armchairs.

‘I had a bad dream last night.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I dreamed that all of my teeth turned black and became porous bits of coal. One by one they came loose and then fell out into my cupped hands. Soon my gums were bare and my hands were full. I was heartbroken and thought to myself: But I’m so young. I woke up screaming, and after that I couldn’t go back to sleep, as usual.’

‘What did you think about while you were lying there awake?’

‘Those horrible years when I was a teenager. I haven’t had that dream in a long time, but back then I had it all the time, when I was in my early teens.’

‘It sounds like you were suffering from anxiety.’

‘I was. It lasted three years.’

‘Can you tell me about it?’

I shake my head. I don’t really want to. I know that whenever I dredge up memories, I feel as if I’m transported back to that time for a moment. And it’s too painful. I’m overwhelmed by the same abysmal sense of despair. It has taken up residence inside my body, and it will always be there. For as long as I live.

‘Try.’

‘It doesn’t make any sense. For example, I still have a hard time taking a shower.’

‘Taking a shower?’

‘Yes. Ever since my schooldays. I can’t believe I can’t get over it. During my first years I was very popular. In photographs from back then, I often looked happy. My classmates thought I was fun, sort of the class clown. Plus I was a good football player. I liked sports and music. Those were my two main interests. But when I started secondary school, everything changed.’

‘In what way?’

‘I still have no clue what happened, but it had something to do with my father dying in a car accident that summer before secondary school. Mamma and Pappa had already been divorced for a long time, but we lived in a small town and everyone knew everything about everyone else. There was something about that accident… My siblings and I spent nearly the whole summer holiday at a camp for kids. When I got back, my old friends’ attitude towards me had changed. They avoided me. No one wanted to be around me any more.

‘I started at a new school, with new classmates, and suddenly it was as if I didn’t exist. The other kids treated me like air. No one said a single word to me; they hardly even gave me a glance. For the rest of my schooldays I never talked to anyone in my classes. I was alone during breaks and at lunchtime in the cafeteria. I was never chosen for any sports teams; I moved like a shadow along the walls. Frozen out.’

‘What about the shower?’

‘The shower?’

‘You said something about having a hard time taking a shower.’

‘Oh, right. PE lessons were the worst. I was the smallest boy in my class, a late bloomer, and I looked like a child. One after the other, they all entered puberty. Lots of the boys were more than a head taller than me. They had broad shoulders, and their voices were changing. They had peach fuzz on their upper lips, hair on their legs and in their armpits. Their Adam’s apples were as big as ripe plums. Before games I used to try to hide in the changing room. It was a torment to have to undress in front of the others. I always claimed the shower in the corner and stood with my back turned, washing as fast as I could.’

I close my eyes. These memories are painful. My eyes are stinging. I don’t want to cry right now. I’m feeling a little sick, but I go on: ‘Even today I can still hear the sound of the spraying shower water, the rough voices, the joking and teasing. The snap of towels slapping bare skin. Water fights, towel fights. And the whole time I’m standing in the corner with my back turned to all the other boys. It was pure hell. PE lessons were too. I was always the last one to be picked. Everyone sighed if they were forced to have me on their team. They never passed the ball to me. When I lie awake at night, I can still see their faces and hear their comments.’

‘How did you get through it?’

‘I didn’t. Finally I asked the teacher if I could practise discus throwing instead. Can you imagine that? The discus, of all ridiculous ideas. And the teacher went for it. So instead of playing basketball and football with the others, which was actually what I loved most, I would stand all alone on the grass behind the sports hall and throw the discus. Lesson after lesson. The teacher didn’t care. He just let me keep practising. That was probably a lot easier for him.’

Silence settles over the room. I down the rest of the water in the glass on the table in order to stave off the feeling of nausea. I’m about to fall into the darkness, and I don’t want to go there. I clutch the glass tight, holding it with both hands. I need to concentrate. How am I going to make it home? I’m on the verge of collapsing. I open my mouth again and the words automatically spill out. I listen to the voice, which sounds unfamiliar, as if it doesn’t belong to me.

‘If only I’d known what was ahead of me when I entered that classroom. A darkness that would last three years. And that’s an endless number of dark days. A feeling of dread would fill me each morning when I forced myself to get out of bed. Three years of humiliation and annihilation. Do you know what that does to a person? I’ve never understood why they hated me so much. I was completely alone.’

The memories are still buried in my body. My hands are shaking so badly that I have to put down the glass.

‘But what about at home? During all those years when you were having such a bad time, didn’t your mother notice anything? What did she do?’

I can hear the bitterness in my voice as I say: ‘Nothing. She never did anything.’

‘Nothing?’

‘It must have been obvious that I was having a bloody awful time of it. I never wanted to get out of bed in the morning. After school and all evening I would lie on my bed, alone in my room, and listen to music on my headset. Do you understand? Every night! Weekdays and weekends. Year after year. For three years not a single friend ever came home with me. No one ever phoned. And what did my mother do? Nothing.’

‘And you never talked about this with her? Didn’t she ever ask you what was wrong?’

I can’t bring myself to answer. Nausea has taken hold of me full force, and I feel as if I’m going to throw up at any second. My vision blurs. I see that the person across from me is leaning forward and saying something, but I no longer hear the voice.

I can’t stay here. I pick up my jacket and rush out of the door, then set off running for home. Along the way I bump into a pram, almost toppling it over. A woman screams abuse after me. Outside of the Konsum supermarket I knock over a bucket of tulips.

I manage to stay in control as I ride up in the lift. As soon as I get my door open, I dash for the toilet.

I lift the lid just in time.

JOHAN HAD NEVER received so much criticism for a story as he did after his report on the murder at the conference centre, which was broadcast on Monday evening. Regional News was the only programme to reveal Viktor Algård’s identity and the first to mention his pending divorce, as well as the possibility that he was having a love affair. All of this provoked a heated discussion about journalistic ethics.

After every broadcast Johan and Pia had a teleconference with the head office back in Stockholm. This time both were harshly reprimanded, primarily for choosing to publicize the information about Viktor’s mistress. It didn’t help that the neighbour’s speculation about Algård’s dalliances had been confirmed by his employees.

Several managing editors also found it appalling that Regional News had revealed the victim’s identity only twenty-four hours after he was found murdered. Johan defended his decision by saying that there was enormous interest in the case on Gotland, since Algård was so well known on the island. Besides, they had checked with the police to make sure that all family members had been informed about the death.

Johan, together with Pia and their boss Max Grenfors, had thought the information sufficiently relevant to make it public, given that this was a high-profile homicide. It might also provide an important clue to the motive.

Even though Johan defended himself fiercely and certainly presented a convincing argument, doubt was gnawing at him as he drove home to Roma in the dark.

He hoped to find Emma still awake. What he needed right now was a glass of wine and a chance to talk.

And Emma. He was longing for her. He was always longing for her. Finally they were able to be together, all the time. They could fall asleep together every night, and wake up together every morning.

Their relationship had definitely had its ups and downs since they’d met five years ago. Back then, Emma was married to Olle, she had two children in primary school, and she was living a quiet life with her family in Roma.

Then she met Johan. He happened to interview her in connection with a murder case, and they instantly fell in love. Eventually she divorced Olle and gave birth to Johan’s child. Their relationship had been stormy ever since. Against all odds, they had decided to get married during the previous summer. Johan had begun to doubt that they’d ever become husband and wife, when Emma had suddenly accepted his marriage proposal. On the day of the wedding, she kept him nervously waiting outside the church. Fårö Church was filled with guests, the time for the wedding came and went, and the pastor was wringing her hands. Johan’s best man, Andreas, started looking worried, while all the groom wanted to do was run away. Half an hour late, Emma and her maid of honour had finally appeared, both of them out of breath. They’d had a flat tyre and had left their mobiles at home.

For the past six months they’d led a normal family life with their three-year-old daughter Elin. Every other week the family expanded when Sara and Filip, Emma’s children from her first marriage, now eleven and ten, came to stay. Johan had moved into Emma’s house in Roma and sublet his flat in the Södermalm district of Stockholm.

His routine of buying fast food at the local 7-Eleven had now been replaced by major shopping expeditions at Willy’s supermarket. Takeaway pizza had been replaced by home-cooked meals served at specific times of the day. He’d become an expert at making sausage stroganoff, mincemeat sauce and pancakes. Instead of sleeping late on the weekend, he now got up to fix porridge for the kids in the kitchen. The days were filled with playing with the doll’s house and plastic cars, watching children’s programmes on TV, Parcheesi, football and sledding.

Instead of spending late nights at the pub, Johan would fall asleep by ten o’clock in front of the TV, with Emma leaning on his shoulder and sometimes one or two of the kids on his lap. His job didn’t claim all his attention the way it used to do. Sometimes in the middle of editing a story he’d find himself suddenly wondering what Elin was doing at the day-care centre. And an interview that unexpectedly ran late could make him start to fret because he’d promised to take the children swimming or to football practice, or he was supposed to attend a parents’ meeting at school. Previously he’d been the type of person who more or less lived for his job, endlessly on his computer or discussing work with colleagues. But now he was always in a rush to get home. His family was waiting for him. They needed him. And he loved that.

It was dark by the time he parked outside the house, but there were lights on in all the windows. Emma was awake.

‘Hello,’ he called as he went in, pushing aside ten pairs of shoes and some little rubber boots decorated with flowers.

‘Hi,’ he heard her reply from the kitchen. She was sitting there, clad in her usual grey jogging suit, with her long, sandy-coloured hair hanging loose down her back. Her eyes looked tired.

He gave her a hug.

‘Hi, sweetheart. How are things?’

‘OK. Elin’s cough is better. She’s asleep now, thank God.’

Johan went upstairs and opened the door to Sara’s room. Her breathing was slow and regular; she always slept so soundly. He gently touched her cheek, and then turned off the light next to her bed, which was shining right in her face.

In the next bedroom Filip was asleep with his arms stretched over his head and his mouth wide open. He had kicked off the covers. Johan stood there looking at the boy for a moment. He almost thought of Filip as his own son. Lately they’d had such good times together. They shared a passion for football and a week ago Johan had gone to watch Filip play in a match. The boy had scored his first goal and they’d celebrated afterwards with hamburgers for dinner.

Then he went to look in on Elin. Her room was next to the bedroom he shared with Emma. All of her stuffed animals were lined up in her bed, barely leaving any room for the little girl. There she lay, squeezed in between the dolls, rabbits, teddy bears and shaggy dogs, a monkey with long arms and a cuddly elephant. All of them had names, and whenever Johan or Emma kissed their daughter goodnight, they also had to kiss all the animals, one after the other, and in the proper order. He smiled and kissed Elin on the forehead, prompting a little sigh. She turned on to her side and hugged one of the rabbits even closer.

AFTER COMPLETING THE interviews with Sofia and Fredrik Algård, Knutas felt utterly confused. Never had he met two children from the same family who had such vastly different attitudes towards their father. While Fredrik’s feelings bordered on hatred, his sister Sofia had praised her father to the skies. She said that he’d been her best friend, always available and ready to help. She was devastated by her father’s death, completely undone, and she burst into tears several times during the interview. According to her, Viktor had been the best father in the world.

Knutas yawned, rubbing his tired eyes, and went to get a cup of coffee. He also bought a dry sandwich from the vending machine. He hadn’t made it home for dinner today either. He was lucky that Lina was so understanding. After all these years she had become used to his erratic schedule, and she almost never complained. Besides, as a midwife, she often had to work late herself. Things were easier now that the kids were older. Knutas suddenly pictured his son’s face. He would just gather up a few documents and then head for home before Nils went to bed.

He thought about Elisabeth Algård. Apparently there had been another woman in Viktor’s life. Who was she? It was absolutely essential that they find her. He wondered why she hadn’t come forward, especially now that the victim’s identity had been revealed on TV. On the other hand, that had happened only a few hours ago. Did she even know about the murder?

Knutas had talked to the technicians who had examined Viktor’s phones and computers. There were no text messages or emails with any woman who might be the person they were looking for. And of the friends and colleagues that the police had interviewed so far, not one had any idea who the event planner’s new love interest could have been. The only clues they had were the items that had been left behind in the flat in town.

The box was sitting on Knutas’s desk. It contained an ordinary bra, a pair of white cotton knickers, a cotton shirt, size medium, and a pair of linen trousers. A small bag held make-up and toiletries. The police had also found a handwritten note among a stack of old newspapers: ‘Thanks for yesterday. Love you. Your sweetie-pie.’ With a drawing of a flower at the bottom.

Knutas tapped the note. Sweetie-pie. What a thing to say.

According to his wife, Viktor Algård had planned to stay in town after the party at the conference centre, which seemed perfectly natural. No one had questioned his decision. That was what he usually did whenever he had to work late.

What puzzled Knutas was the fact that Algård and his mistress never seemed to have phoned each other or corresponded by email.

The police had talked to the other tenants in the building. No one had ever seen Viktor enter or leave his flat with a woman. Either the relationship was very new, or the couple must have met somewhere else. Which meant that the investigative team would have to contact all the hotels and bed-and-breakfast establishments that were open during the wintertime. Knutas wrote himself a reminder to do this.

He went back to studying the note, turning it first one way and then the other. Why hadn’t the woman come forward? He felt restless with frustration. The techs had lifted fingerprints from the flat, but found only three different sets. One belonged to Algård, the second to the building custodian who had recently repaired the window. The third set of fingerprints most likely belonged to the unknown woman.

How had they managed to keep their relationship so secret? On Gotland Knutas could hardly step outside his front door without running into someone he knew.

Maybe she lived on the mainland. Viktor Algård was a very fit fifty-three-year-old who was extremely fastidious about his appearance. Men in that time of their life – and Knutas was actually the same age – often sought out younger women. Maybe because they were afraid of growing old, or simply because they were feeling randy. A man like Viktor would certainly have had no problem attracting women. He had money and status, and plenty of women would have enjoyed basking in the spotlight that focused on him.

Knutas puffed on his pipe. They had met somewhere. The question was: Where? And how did they keep in touch?

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, an idea popped into his head. Could it be that simple?

Suddenly he was in a big hurry.

ALGÅRD’S PIED-À-TERRE WAS located on Hästgatan in the centre of down-town Visby, in a whitewashed two-storey building that housed four flats. The building was surrounded by a high wooden fence that prevented passersby from looking in. To Knutas’s surprise the gate in the fence was unlocked, so he was able to simply step inside. The courtyard was exceptionally beautiful with resplendent flowerbeds, lilac bushes and a bubbling fountain in the middle. On the other side of the courtyard was an artist’s studio. Knutas walked across to the studio but found it closed and shuttered. On the door hung a hand-painted sign showing a flock of sheep grazing in a pasture. Also on the sign was a name painted in ornate letters. It said ‘Veronika Hammar’.

Knutas read the name several times as his heart began pounding faster. He took a few steps back to look at the studio’s façade. Veronika Hammar was a well-known artist on Gotland. Her speciality was painting sheep in every possible and improbable guise and setting. Her paintings were not highly regarded by the local citizens, but they were certainly popular among tourists.

He had seen her in photographs from the dedication of the conference centre. Veronika Hammar had been one of the guests. And her studio shared the courtyard with Viktor Algård’s pied-à-terre. Could that be the explanation for the absence of emails and phone calls? Because they were unnecessary, given the close proximity of Viktor and Veronika? Wouldn’t the neighbours have noticed? Maybe not if they were sufficiently discreet. Knutas pictured Veronika Hammar’s face. An attractive woman, about fifty, he would guess.

Knutas turned on his heel and quickly made his way back to the police station.

VERONIKA HAMMAR LOOKED NERVOUS as she sat on the very edge of the chair in the small interview room. As if she might take off at any moment. Calm down, thought Knutas. Just stay calm. This is going to take a while.

It was almost midnight, but the fatigue he had felt earlier was completely gone. Jacobsson took the lead in the interview.

Knutas studied Algård’s lover sitting on the other side of the table. She looked younger than her fifty-six years, but he suspected that she’d had some work done to hide her age. The smooth, taut skin on her face hinted at Botox treatments. Her breasts seemed unnaturally full and positioned too high for a woman her age.

She was a striking woman, her blond hair pinned up under a colourful scarf wrapped around her head. She was petite and slender, clad in dark trousers and a dove-grey polo-neck sweater. Her lips were painted bright red, and the mascara and eyeliner had been applied with a heavy hand.

As Jacobsson made the usual introductory statements for the tape recording of the interview, she leaned back in her chair and gave Veronika Hammar a friendly look. She wanted the older woman to relax. Her voice was gentle when she asked the first questions.

‘Do you understand why you’re here?’

‘Yes,’ Veronika replied. ‘I suppose it’s because Viktor is dead.’

‘What was your relationship with him?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How did you know him?’

Veronika’s gaze shifted.

‘Viktor and I got to know each other a couple of months ago.’

‘Surely you must have met before then. You’re a well-known artist, after all, and he was Gotland’s most important event planner. You were also about the same age, weren’t you?’

‘Well, yes. And of course we’d met before. We knew of each other’s existence, but that was about all. I’ve been invited to a lot of events, but…’

‘But what?’

‘It was only recently that we really got to know each other. I mean, we started spending time together.’

‘As a couple?’

Veronika Hammar looked down.

‘We were in love. Actually, it was more than that. We were thinking of getting married. He had even proposed.’

‘But Viktor was already married.’

‘He and his wife had split up. They’d already filed for divorce and everything.’

‘Why didn’t you get in contact with the police?’

Veronika nervously ran her fingers over the tabletop.

‘I’m not feeling very well,’ she murmured. ‘Could I have a cigarette?’

Jacobsson got out her pack and handed it across the table. Then she leaned forward and lit the cigarette for Veronika. Smoking was not permitted inside the police station, but the interview room was exempt from the rule.

‘The thing is, I was at the party and late in the evening Viktor finally decided to take a break. He asked me to come with him.’

‘What time was that?’

‘A few minutes after midnight, I think. The show had just started.’

‘Where did the two of you go?’

‘Viktor told me to meet him downstairs. There was supposed to be a lounge area where we wouldn’t be disturbed. It was closed off for the evening.’

‘And?’

‘Well, I agreed to go with him, but I needed to use the loo, so he went first. Then I ended up being delayed because I met some friends. When I went downstairs, the room was empty. He wasn’t there.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. It was dark and there wasn’t a sound. But I didn’t go inside or look around. I called his name, but he didn’t answer, so I thought he must have grown tired of waiting for me. I was very disappointed, as a matter of fact.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘I went back to the party.’

‘Which route did you take?’

‘Up the main staircase, like everybody else.’

‘And you just glanced inside the room?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where were you standing? You didn’t go in?’

‘No. I stood in the doorway. I could see at once that the room was empty.’

‘Do you remember noticing anything at all inside?’

‘One of the bar stools was lying on the floor, but I didn’t give it much thought.’

Jacobsson cast a quick glance at Knutas. If what Veronika Hammar had just said was true, they had now established an almost exact time for the murder.

‘What did you do next?’

‘Just what I told you. I went back to the party. I looked around for Viktor, but I didn’t see him. Then someone asked me to dance, and the rest of the night just flew by.’

‘And you didn’t see him again?’

‘No. We were supposed to go home together, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I didn’t want to ask too many people, since we were trying to be discreet until his divorce went through.’

‘And then you went home?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time did you leave the party?’

‘When they closed up the conference centre.’

‘What did you do during the last hour or so of the party?’

‘I sat on the veranda, talking to a doctor.’

‘Who was that?’

‘His name is Gunnar Larsson.’

‘Where can we get hold of him?’

‘At the hospital. I don’t know where he lives, but he works there as an anaesthetist. We sat outside on the veranda and talked for a long time.’

‘Did you leave the conference centre together?’

‘Yes, but then I decided to wait for Viktor outside the front entrance. I still thought he would turn up. I waited maybe half an hour, but he never came.’

Her voice quavered and tears came to her eyes.

‘So you went home alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Probably close to three.’

Jacobsson gave her a searching glance.

‘Is there anyone who could confirm what you’ve just told us?’

‘Yes. There were a lot of people still there, standing outside the conference centre and talking. I’m sure that some of the staff would have seen me. Why?’

‘Right now I’m the one asking the questions,’ said Jacobsson sternly. Her former friendliness was gone, and she paid no attention to the fact that Veronika Hammar looked as if she might start crying in earnest at any moment. ‘By Sunday evening the media was already reporting that a man had been found dead in the conference centre, and had probably been murdered. You must have suspected that the man could be Viktor. The two of you were on intimate terms, so you’re up to your ears in this case whether you like it or not. Why on earth didn’t you contact the police?’

Veronika stared at Jacobsson in alarm.

‘I didn’t want to get involved.’

‘Involved? Did you seriously think that we wouldn’t find you? That no one had noticed anything? That you’d never been seen together?’

‘Well no, but…’

‘This is a murder case we’re talking about. Don’t you understand the gravity of the situation?’

Veronika bit her lip. Her hands shook as she put out her cigarette and then immediately lit a second one.

‘I… I don’t know. I had no idea what to do. I’m shocked and sad and upset. We were going to get married, you know. Victor and…’

‘What were you thinking?’

‘I was panic-stricken. I couldn’t think clearly. I wanted to pretend that nothing had happened. I sat at home, hoping that he would come in the door.’

‘Do you have any idea who might have done this? Who might have killed him?’

‘I can only think that it might have been his wife. She doesn’t seem right in the head.’

‘What are you basing that on?’

Veronika took a deep drag on her cigarette before answering.

‘She was furious when Viktor told her that he wanted a divorce. She went berserk and starting throwing things around the house. She even hit him. She was rabid, and refused to accept the situation. She did everything she could to stop him from leaving her. She even booked a holiday in Italy for the whole family this summer after he said he wanted a divorce. She tried to force him to stay, the poor man. She acted like a crazy woman, without an ounce of shame.’

Abruptly she fell silent and looked down at her hands. Then she asked faintly: ‘How did he die?’

The question echoed in the small, cold room.

‘He was poisoned.’

‘But how…?’

‘That’s all we can tell you right now. I’m sorry.’

Jacobsson glanced at her watch and saw that it was very late. She leaned towards the tape recorder on the table.

‘The time is one fourteen a.m. That concludes the interview with Veronika Hammar.’

IT WAS TUESDAY morning, and the first thing Knutas thought of when he woke was that he hadn’t managed to talk to Nils the previous night. He turned on to his side and looked at Lina’s freckled back. Cautiously he ran his fingertips over her smooth skin. He didn’t want to wake her. She had worked the night shift at the hospital and had probably fallen asleep only a short while ago. As usual, she was sprawled across the bed so that there was hardly any room for him. When he moved her over so that he could get up, she grunted and then put her arms around him.

‘Hugs,’ she whispered.

‘Sorry. Did I wake you?’

‘Not at all. I’m sound asleep.’

She burrowed her head against his chest. Her hair spilled out across the covers.

‘How was Nils feeling last night?’ he asked.

‘Good. Fine. His stomach ache was gone. We had lasagne for dinner before I left for work. It’s Nils’s favourite, as you know. We had a nice time together.’

Lina had a much better relationship with their son. Towards her Nils was as sweet as could be, and he almost never snapped at her. Knutas felt a pang of jealousy.

‘I was planning to have a talk with him last night, but then I got home too late.’

‘Do it tonight instead. I have the night shift again and start work at nine. Maybe it would be better if I’m not home. Then the two of you can talk in peace.’

Knutas looked in on the children before he went downstairs to the kitchen. It was only six o’clock. Too early to wake them. Petra was tangled up in the duvet with only her hair showing. Her room was crowded with so many things, but it still had a certain sense of order. Her desk and the shelves above were cluttered with hairspray, perfume, various containers and bottles in garish colours. There were dozens of little notebooks, stacks of notepads and scraps of paper covered with handwriting. He wondered what it said. Heaps of clothes, belts, various small purses and shoes were scattered about. The walls were covered with pictures of different pop stars, but he didn’t know the names of any of them.

What did he really know about his daughter and the thoughts that whirled about in her head? How many genuine conversations had they had lately? When did they ever talk to each other, and what did they say? Feeling dejected, he realized that they mostly discussed practical matters: what they should cook for dinner, whether she had to go to practice or not on a specific evening, and how things had gone at school.

And then there was Nils. He was lying in bed with his back turned to the door, and he’d forgotten to turn off his desk lamp. Nils had inherited his mother’s thick red hair. The room seemed naked, stripped bare. Nothing on the walls, a few schoolbooks on the desk, otherwise just the computer, which he spent far too much time staring at, in his father’s opinion. Nils was sleeping calmly.

How well do I really know my own children? thought Knutas. He felt an uneasy churning in his stomach, out of fear that they were slipping away from him. If he didn’t do something about it soon, it might be too late. We should take a trip somewhere, he thought. Just me and the kids. Lina often spent time alone with them at their summer house out in the country when he had to work at the weekend. Why shouldn’t he spend time with them too?

Quietly he closed the door to Nils’s room. He needed to think of something: maybe a week’s holiday on the Canary Islands or a long weekend in a big city. London, Paris, New York? The kids could choose where they wanted to go, within reason, of course.

Maybe sharing some experiences with them away from home would help.

I WANDER THROUGH room after room and pull down the blinds on all the windows. It takes a while. The flat may be a free zone for me just now, but I’m actually trapped in here, like a prisoner in a cell with too much space. Taking the lift four floors down seems, as usual, practically insurmountable, even though I need to buy groceries. I have no desire to go out in the street, among all those people who are always racing along in every direction yet going nowhere. I’m no longer part of any of that. I feel as if I’m looking down on a gigantic anthill. People and cars rush aimlessly through their daily lives, like hamsters in a wheel. To what purpose?

In the bathroom I take my medicine, though with some hesitation. I shake out two capsules and a little round tablet. Then wash them down with several gulps of water, shuddering. I’ve always had trouble swallowing. I avoid looking at myself in the mirror, fully aware of what an unpleasant sight it would be. My stomach is empty, but I’m not hungry even though I’ve hardly eaten a thing in days.

I go back to the sofa and curl up in a foetal position with my back to the room. My eyes are dry and open wide, staring without seeing at the white upholstery of the sofa cushion. I know that I won’t be able to sleep. I just lie there, mute and motionless. Like part of the furnishings. That’s precisely what I am.

Again I start thinking back.

To one of those Sundays. We were going to visit Aunt Margareta and Uncle Ulf, who lived inside the ring wall, very close to the church. Their eldest son, Marcel, was the same age as me. We went to the same high school but pretended not to know each other. I always looked away whenever I saw him in the corridor. I suspected Marcel of making jokes about the fact that we were cousins.

He was named Marcel because his mother loved the Italian actor Marcello Mastroianni. We might have been friends, if only circumstances had been different. If it weren’t for the fact that I was regarded as a wimp. And the fact that we were always being compared to each other. By our mothers.

Marcel was already six foot one, with hair under his arms and a moustache. He had dark hair and doe eyes. He was well built, with attractively muscular arms, which he was happy to show off, evoking delighted giggles from both his mother and aunt.

The living room smelled like a shoe shop, maybe because of the white leather sofa in the corner. A pair of porcelain dogs six feet tall guarded the front door. The obligatory coffee was served at the obligatory time – always two o’clock. The leather sofa creaked as I sank on to it. The biscuit crunched between my teeth, the juice I was offered was a tad too strong. Aunt Margareta and Mamma chatted about one thing or another – the weather and other meaningless small talk. Paying no attention to any of us children, as usual, as if we didn’t exist. We were their audience. Uncle Ulf mostly sat in silence, slurping his coffee and casting resigned glances at the two gabbing women. Marcel stuffed his mouth with the biscuits piled on his plate and then left to visit a friend. As soon as he disappeared through the door, the boasting began.

‘Marcel is so popular, you know. He’s always surrounded by friends. We hardly even see him these days,’ Aunt Margareta clucked, looking immeasurably pleased. ‘The girls just keep phoning and phoning him, one after the other. He went steady with a girl for almost two months. Helena, so nice and sweet, a real gem, but he broke up with her, and I can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent on the phone talking to that girl. She’s completely devastated, the poor thing. But now he’s met someone else. Isabelle. And to top it all, she’s two years older than him. That worries me a bit. She’s not content just to hug and kiss, if you know what I mean. I’ve talked to him about contraception, of course, but it still makes me nervous. We don’t want him to get anyone pregnant. That would be terrible. And he’s out every weekend, every Friday and Saturday. Going to parties and dances and God only knows what else. But as long as he tends to his schoolwork, we let him be. He’s so smart, gets top marks in almost everything. He talks about wanting to be a doctor. Can you imagine that? But I’m sure he’d be good at the job, he’s so warm and open and outgoing. I think he really should work in a profession dealing with people. Although I don’t know how he does it, what with ice hockey taking up so much of his time. They practise three times a week, and then there are matches at the weekend. By the way, did you know that he was chosen as the best player of the year by his hockey team? Yes, he’s really incredible. I have no idea who he gets it from. Ha, ha, ha. Ulf has never been interested in sports, have you, dear?’

She stopped talking only to take a sip of coffee. Mamma smiled appreciatively and nodded encouragement as she stirred her coffee and murmured an occasional admiring remark. Aunt Margareta chattered on and on, talking only about Marcel, as if he were God’s gift to humanity.

The biscuit seemed to swell inside my mouth. With every word I felt smaller and smaller. Suddenly my aunt turned to look at me, as if she’d just discovered that I was in the room.

‘And what about you? Do you have a girlfriend?’

The question was so unexpected that it took a moment for me to respond, shaking my head.

I wanted to sink into the green carpet. Allow myself to be swallowed up.

In the car on the way home, Mamma kept on raving about how great Marcel was.

‘And just think – Margareta told me that he has already started shaving,’ she exclaimed. ‘He even has to do it every day!’

I didn’t say a word.

My siblings didn’t either.

THE RAIN WAS pouring down, so Knutas drove his beat-up old Merc to work. He still couldn’t get himself to part with the car, despite pressure from Lina to sell it. He let her take the new car, since he assumed she wouldn’t want to walk either, if the bad weather continued. He remembered her saying that they’d had lasagne for dinner the night before. Was that really part of a low-glycaemic diet? He smiled to himself. It was always the same thing with Lina. She would start out so enthusiastic and with lots of big plans whenever she decided to lose some weight. She would collect a whole bunch of information, buy exercise equipment and fill the refrigerator with the proper food. The diet usually lasted no more than two weeks.

When Knutas entered the conference room for the meeting of the investigative team, he was eager to get going.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ he began.

He raised his hand to quiet the usual morning buzz of conversation. Sometimes he felt like a schoolteacher in a classroom. Right now he wanted to tell his colleagues about what he’d discovered the previous evening. He briefly described how he happened to find Veronika Hammar’s studio at the same address as Viktor Algård’s flat.

‘But isn’t she at least sixty?’ Wittberg interjected. ‘I thought he’d go for a young hottie.’

‘Not every man shares your preferences,’ Jacobsson teased him.

Thomas Wittberg’s numerous love affairs were legend among his colleagues. They often involved twenty-year-olds who were infatuated with Wittberg because of his status as a police detective and his windsurfer good looks. Jacobsson regarded his style as hopelessly out of date and usually made some remark about him being stuck in the eighties. But that sort of criticism rolled right off Wittberg’s back. He continued to show off his biceps in tight T-shirts, regularly went to the tanning salon close to his home, and stubbornly refused to cut his long blond hair.

‘She’s actually fifty-six,’ said Knutas. ‘Viktor was fifty-three. So there was only a three-year age difference. We got hold of her last night and during the interview she confirmed that she’d had a relationship with Algård. She told us that she was at the party at the conference centre, but she couldn’t find Viktor when she was about to leave, so she went home alone. At one point during the evening, they had intended to withdraw to the room downstairs where the victim’s body was eventually found. Viktor went on ahead, while Veronika made a detour to the ladies’ room. She ended up being delayed because she ran into some friends. When she finally went downstairs, Viktor wasn’t there. She assumed that he’d grown tired of waiting for her.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Just after midnight, sometime between twelve and twelve thirty.’

‘So she went down to the closed-off lounge area, with the bar and the sofas?’ asked Wittberg.

Knutas nodded.

‘Did she see anything?’

‘No. Apparently she didn’t actually enter the room because the lights were off. On the other hand, she did notice that a bar stool had toppled over on to the floor.’

Prosecutor Smittenberg looked puzzled as he pensively tugged at his earlobe.

‘That means the murder must have been committed while Veronika was in the loo.’

‘Provided that she didn’t do the killing herself,’ Jacobsson countered sagely.

‘It does seem strange that she made no attempt to contact us. It’s frankly incomprehensible,’ said Wittberg. ‘What was her explanation?’

‘She said that she was overcome with panic.’

‘That’s not really credible. What was she afraid of? But I assume that’s not enough to arrest her, is it, Birger?’ Wittberg turned to the prosecutor.

‘No, it’s not. She was shocked and upset. They were conducting a secret love affair, and she didn’t want to get involved. We also need to consider that she’s actually quite a well-known artist. Maybe not famous, but certainly well known,’ he added dryly. ‘That made the situation more sensitive, of course. The circumstances aren’t sufficiently compelling to warrant an arrest.’

‘Does she live on Hästgatan or is that just where she has her studio?’ asked Wittberg.

‘She lives on Tranhusgatan, over near the Botanical Gardens,’ said Knutas.

‘So who is she, actually? And what sort of life does she lead? The only thing I know about her is that she paints lousy pictures,’ said Wittberg.

Knutas looked down at his notes.

‘She was divorced years ago and now lives alone. She has four grown children. Her eldest son, Mats, lives in Stockholm. He didn’t spend much time with her while he was growing up. He was born when Veronika was very young, so he was raised by a foster family. Then she had Andreas, who’s a sheep farmer out in Hablingbo. A daughter, Mikaela, has moved out to the island of Vätö in the Stockholm archipelago. She and her husband own a riding school. The youngest son, Simon, lives on Bogegatan here in Visby.’

He was interrupted by Sohlman coming into the room. The crime tech looked tense.

‘Sorry to be late, but we found a match on the fingerprints. Veronika Hammar’s prints are on the handle to the terrace door near where the body was found. Meaning the door that the perp presumably used to escape.’

Utter silence descended over the room.

THE HUNT FOR Veronika Hammar began as soon as the meeting was over. The police quickly discovered that she wasn’t in her flat on Tranhusgatan or in her studio on Hästgatan. She had no other known residence, so they went looking for her at the homes of her children. The only one they managed to contact was the sheep farmer named Andreas in Hablingbo. He claimed to have no idea where his mother might be, but he promised to phone if he heard from her. According to the employer of her eldest son, Mats was on holiday on Mallorca. The daughter who lived on the island near Stockholm was travelling with the Red Cross in South America, and it was impossible to reach her. Her husband also told the police that Mikaela had broken off all contact with her mother ten years ago. When Jacobsson asked why, he said that she would have to ask his wife about that. The youngest son turned out not to be at home either, but no one knew where he was.

In the meantime, the investigative team worked on finding out who else belonged to Veronika Hammar’s immediate circle of family and friends – a task which was quickly accomplished. She had two sisters, but both of her parents were deceased. And she seemed to have only a small number of friends.

At lunchtime the ME’s preliminary post-mortem report arrived by fax. It confirmed that Viktor Algård had died as a result of cyanide poisoning. He had apparently caused the gash on his forehead himself. According to the ME, the wound occurred when Algård fell against one of the cocktail tables near the bar. The tabletop was made of marble, and Viktor’s blood was found on the surface, as well as on the floor underneath. In her report the ME wrote that cyanide poisoning typically provoked convulsions, and that the victim, by all indications, had staggered around for several minutes before he ran into that table and then died. The time of death had to be between midnight and six in the morning.

Knutas leaned back in his worn old chair, gently rocking back and forth. The report largely confirmed what they already knew. The murderer had most likely exited through the terrace door, which faced the narrow side street. It was all so simple. And their suspicions about Veronika Hammar had been reinforced when her prints were found on the door handle.

In the conference centre just one floor above, Knutas himself had merrily partied away with all the other guests while the murder was being committed. That was a fact he was having a hard time digesting. There were no witnesses. No one had seen anyone leaving the building at the time in question, which would have been between twelve fifteen and twelve thirty. There were no residences in the area surrounding the conference centre.

Knutas felt overcome with restlessness. It seemed very likely that Veronika was the murderer. Maybe Algård had grown tired of their affair and wanted to go back to his wife. Jealousy was quite a common motive for murder.

They needed to find out more. Above all, they had to locate Veronika Hammar.

THE SHORELINE NEAR Holmhällar at the southernmost point on Gotland was covered with limestone. The kilometre-long rauk area had a very distinctive look to it. The stone formations were massive and strangely shaped, with the tallest nearly 5 metres high. Here the rauks were not isolated stone pillars; instead they stood in clusters. They clung to each other as if seeking shelter from the wind, the fossil-seekers and the ever-encroaching hordes of tourists. A short distance out to sea the little island of Heligholmen was visible – a nature reserve that was now off-limits to visitors. Out there the seabirds bred by the thousands.

Close to the water, at the very edge of the shore, stood the fishing village, a group of boathouses made of stone with slate roofs. They were several hundred years old, remnants of the era when the island’s farmers were forced to supplement their livelihood by fishing. Back then they would arrive from their inland farms to fish for several days, staying in the cramped boathouses, which had only small slots for windows facing the sea. The quarters stank of tar and kelp.

She walked along the rocky shore, taking care not to stumble on roots or loose stones. The sea was grey, and a strong wind was blowing. Above the rauk area stretched an expansive plateau with a meadow of billowing grasses filled with the bright yellow flowers of pheasant’s eye, which looked like little suns, and dark violet pasque flowers. A few juniper bushes and gnarled trees stunted by the harsh storms continued to defy the wind, stubbornly holding on to the stony ground. The landscape was barren and desolate at this time of year, with not a soul in sight. The gusts brought tears to her eyes. She turned her face away from the sea and looked up towards the plateau and the woods beyond.

When she reached the other side of the rauk area, she saw the sandy beach spreading out before her. This was where she usually spent the summers. Now the water was icy cold after the long winter. It looked dark and inhospitable, with the waves restlessly rolling in and then retreating. She turned round and headed up towards the summer houses at the edge of the woods. There were about ten cottages scattered over quite a large tract and set at a discreet distance from one another. The bed and breakfast, which stood a bit further away, was closed for the season, and the other buildings were all empty as well.