Dark Angel

Suddenly she jumped, startled by a rustling sound in the grass right behind her. For a moment ice-cold fear raced through her veins, until she realized that it was just a rabbit darting past. She watched it run off until it disappeared into a burrow in the ground. Her nerves were wound tight. The air was hazy and damp, and dusk had begun to close in around her. A flock of swans, flying in formation, streaked past in the dark sky. Echoing shrieks issued from their long necks. She found the sound sinister. Like death cries.

She didn’t notice the man standing up on the plateau right above her, watching every move she made.

The man lowered his binoculars and started walking towards her summer house.

THE MEMBERS OF the investigative team were giving top priority to finding Veronika Hammar, but that didn’t mean that they had dropped all other avenues that might still be of interest. Knutas didn’t want to focus on her as the only possible suspect. Even though it seemed unlikely, there might be an explanation for why she was at the crime scene but hadn’t alerted the authorities. After nearly thirty years on the police force, he had learned that people were capable of behaving in the strangest, most irrational ways. Anything was possible.

For that reason, the police were working on other potential leads. One of them was Viktor Algård’s former competitor Sten Bergström. Because he suffered from painful lumbago, he was unable to come to the police station, so Knutas and Jacobsson had decided to visit him at his home on Tuesday afternoon.

For the second day in a row they drove south towards Sudret and Holmhällar. Granted, several years had passed since Algård’s biggest competitor had gone bankrupt, but old grudges might have resurfaced.

Bergström lived alone on a farm out in the country, close to the Holmhällar rauk area. After they passed Hamra, the houses became sparser as the landscape grew more rugged. The distance between farms increased. Most of the homes were used only during the summer holidays, so the area seemed even more desolate in the off-season. They’d been instructed to turn right at the exit for Holmhällar and head for Austre. The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds filled the sky, and it looked as if the downpour might start up again at any moment.

‘Nothing but shuttered summer houses,’ Jacobsson sighed wearily as they passed one empty cottage after another. They didn’t see a living soul.

‘I’m starting to wonder if we’re going the right way,’ muttered Knutas.

Jacobsson peered at the map.

‘This is the only turn-off. We have to take another right when we come to a row of letter boxes, right across from the road leading down to the shore. There’s supposed to be a sign.’

She had barely uttered these words before they reached their destination. Sten Bergström had sounded surprised when Jacobsson phoned him on the previous day, but he was cooperative and willing to meet with them. He lived in a two-storey, whitewashed wooden house that had definitely seen better days. There were also several ramshackle outbuildings on the property, along with a garage that had no door and seemed to hold nothing but junk, including a rusty old car. On the bonnet sat a black cat, watching them.

They rang the bell, but it didn’t seem to be in working order. Knutas pounded his fist on the door. Nothing happened. They stood there, waiting. Knutas knocked again, while Jacobsson walked around the side of the house. Clearly no one was at home. Suddenly they heard a dog barking from the road. They turned to see a tall, lanky man walking towards them, his shoulders stooped and his back bowed. He seemed to be in pain. He wore a windbreaker, a cap and rubber boots. Trotting along beside him was a stately Afghan with beautiful golden hair. The man raised his hand in greeting.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d get here so soon. Have you been waiting long?’

He shook their hands. The dog kept a wary eye on the officers, showing no sign of wanting to make friends.

‘It’s no problem,’ said Knutas. ‘We just arrived.’

Sten Bergström led the way into the house, ushering them into a living room with a huge bay window facing the garden. The wood floor was worn and bare of any rugs. The window had no curtains. The furniture was sparse but solidly built, the type that might have been bought at one of the countless farm auctions held at intervals on the island. Bergström offered his visitors coffee and homemade sponge cake. Knutas and Jacobsson sat down on the kitchen bench, but Bergström remained standing. He explained apologetically that his bad back prevented him from sitting.

Knutas was having a hard time forming a coherent impression of Sten Bergström. On the one hand, the man seemed to live a rather shabby and simple existence; on the other hand, he personally emanated style and elegance. His striped shirt and light cotton trousers were clean and freshly pressed, and his home was neat and tidy. His dog could have been photographed for the cover of Castles and Manor Houses, with a duke or baron holding the Afghan’s lead.

‘We’re here with regard to the murder of Viktor Algård,’ Knutas began after the coffee was served and a slice of sponge cake was sitting on the plate before him. ‘It may seem strange that we’re interested in talking to you, but we’re looking into the victim’s past and checking everything that might give us a lead in the investigation. Even though it might seem like a long shot.’

‘I see.’ Bergström smiled as he leaned against the door frame. ‘I understand.’

‘When did you last have contact with Viktor?’ asked Knutas.

‘That was years ago.’

‘What sort of relationship did the two of you have?’

‘It’s no secret that we were bitter enemies. He ruined me and forced me into bankruptcy.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘I began arranging parties on a small scale about five or six years ago. They were very successful, so I started my own company. The first conflict we had was over the name. I called my firm “Goal Gotland”, since I was planning not only to arrange events for local clients, but also to entice customers from the mainland to hold their weddings here, as well as birthday parties and so on. There are an awful lot of mainlanders who spend the summer here. Viktor thought the name was too close to his own company name, so he decided to sue me. But that was one battle he lost. There was nothing he could do about the name. At any rate, I continued doing event planning and gradually took over a significant number of his clients.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘I don’t think they were dissatisfied with his efforts, and there was certainly no reason for complaints. He was highly professional. However, there were periods when he was booked up, which meant there was room for other event planners. I filled that gap. Plus my prices were lower, so more and more people chose my company instead, and then they became steady clients, returning whenever they needed my services. It’s rather like when people change hairdressers. If their own hairdresser doesn’t have time, they try somebody new. If they’re happy with the results, they don’t see any reason to go back to their former hairdresser. People are remarkably disloyal when it comes right down to it,’ said Bergström pensively as he stirred sugar into his coffee. He never took his eyes off the officers, merely shifting his attention back and forth between Jacobsson and Knutas, with an interested expression on his face.

‘What sort of contact did you and Viktor have with each other?’

‘Nothing personal. Only by phone and letter. He accused me of stealing his clients. He ranted and carried on over the phone, and I’m sorry to say this, but he was extremely rude. I did my best to explain that the people in question had come to me on their own initiative. If certain clients preferred my services, there wasn’t much I could do about it. But Viktor refused to listen. He was truly unreasonable, as a matter of fact. I must say that I thought his behaviour was uncalled for. He still had more clients than he could realistically handle.’

Jacobsson had to hide a smile. Sten Bergström seemed so out of place in this tumbledown house in the middle of nowhere. He had a bombastic way of speaking and carried himself almost like a nobleman. His surname ought to be something more aristocratic, such as Knorring or Silfversparre, she thought.

‘So what did you do?’

‘Nothing. I just let him scream and shout and contact various authorities while I tended to my business. And he couldn’t touch me, which no doubt made the poor man even more frustrated.’

‘Why did your company go bankrupt?’

Sten Bergström’s face took on a distressed expression.

‘Unfortunately a few parties got out of hand. There was a lot of trouble with drunken guests and brawls. It tarnished my reputation, and people began talking behind my back. My clients fled and my revenue dropped dramatically. Finally it all went to hell. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that Viktor was behind what happened. But I didn’t have the energy to pursue that theory. And besides, I’d lost any desire to go on since I no longer had the confidence and trust of my clients.’

Bergström suddenly looked as if he were in terrible pain.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to lie down,’ he said with a moan. ‘I can’t stay on my feet any longer. Is there anything else you’d like to know at the moment?’

He pressed his hand to his lower back and then, with an effort, got down on his knees. The dog began whimpering.

‘Would one of you be kind enough to bring over a chair?’

Jacobsson watched in astonishment as the elegant man lay down on his back on the floor and held up his legs. Knutas helped him to prop his feet on the chair so his legs were at a 90-degree angle to his body. Knutas knew exactly what was going on. Lina had suffered from intermittent back pain for years.

The dog eagerly licked his master’s face, clearly happy to have him down at his own level on the floor. Bergström didn’t share his enthusiasm. He ordered the dog away and the Afghan immediately retreated to his basket, curling up with a sigh of resignation.

‘Thank you so much for your time,’ said Knutas. ‘We’ll get back to you if there’s anything more.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Bergström faintly. He closed his eyes. ‘Goodbye.’

As they left, closing the door behind them, the dog stared after them.

ALL OF TUESDAY passed with no progress in locating Veronika Hammar. By the time it was six thirty and Knutas realized that he’d been on the job for twelve hours straight, he gave up.

There was nothing more he could do, and besides, he’d promised to take care of dinner. Lina was again working the night shift at the hospital and wouldn’t be back until the early morning hours. He stopped on his way home to buy pizzas. The children had each requested a pizza topped with fillet of pork and Béarnaise sauce. He shuddered when he ordered the food. How could anyone come up with such a combination? Pretty soon they’ll be serving pizzas with shrimp and sweet-and-sour sauce, he thought. Or a Thai pizza with chicken and red curry. And why not a dessert pizza with saffron in the dough, topped with almonds and raisins?

As soon as he stepped inside, he could tell that something was wrong. The house was dark, with not a single light turned on.

‘Hello,’ he called from the hall. No answer. He set down the pizza boxes and went upstairs.

‘Hello,’ he called again. ‘Anybody home?’

He opened the door to Petra’s room. The only light came from a pair of thick scented candles on a tray on the nightstand. Several sticks of incense in a porcelain jar were spreading a heavy musk fragrance through the air. On the computer screen he saw flickering images of scantily clad teenagers against the Manhattan skyline, while incomprehensible hip hop music thudded through the room. His daughter was lying on the bed with her legs stretched up against the wall, her eyes on the ceiling as she talked on her mobile.

‘Shhh,’ she hushed her father, gesturing with annoyance for him to leave the room.

‘It’s time for dinner and-’

‘Shhh!’

Knutas closed the door. Feeling discouraged, he tried the next room. It was pitch black inside, but he could hear the crashing of hard rock music from his son’s iPod.

‘Hi,’ he said, switching on the ceiling light. ‘What are you doing?’

Nils quickly turned to face the wall, but not before Knutas saw that his eyes were red. It looked as if he’d been crying.

‘What’s wrong?’ He took a few steps towards the bed.

‘Nothing.’

‘But I can see that you’re upset about something.’ Cautiously he sat down on the edge of the bed. Nils had his back turned and pulled away until he was even closer to the wall. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, I said. Leave me alone. Get out of my room.’

‘But, Nils.’ Knutas gently touched his son’s head. ‘Won’t you tell me what’s going on?’

‘Cut it out.’ He pushed his father’s hand away. ‘Just leave me alone,’ he snarled, his voice cracking.

‘But I bought pizza for dinner.’

‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ said the boy, his tone now much less aggressive.

Feeling powerless, Knutas left the room. Pushed away again. Locked out. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t very well force Nils to open up to him if the boy didn’t want to. That sort of thing had to be based on trust.

Disappointed, Knutas went down to the kitchen and began setting the table. He was so respected and decisive at work, but his teenage children regarded him as a pitiful old man. He really had no clue how to deal with them. At the same time, he felt hurt and sad. Don’t they like me? he thought.

He heard the stairs creaking. Petra came into the kitchen. As if she sensed how he was feeling, she gave him a brief hug.

‘Sorry, Pappa. But I was on the phone, and it was a really sensitive conversation.’

‘Anything you want to tell me about?’ he asked cautiously, encouraged by the meagre gesture of affection that she’d shown him.

‘Alexander died.’

‘What did you say?’ Knutas felt an icy stab in the pit of his stomach. He stared at his daughter, uncomprehending.

Slowly it sank in that what she had said was true. All hope was gone. Then his brain began whirling like a centrifuge filled with questions. He immediately thought about Alexander’s mother, Ingrid, and his sister, Olivia.

‘I was talking to Olivia on the phone,’ said Petra, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘They just found out. She’s completely devastated. I promised to go over to see her after dinner.’

‘I didn’t know you were such good friends.’

‘We are now. After what happened over the past few weeks.’

Again it occurred to Knutas how little he knew about his children these days.

Nils came into the kitchen to join them.

‘Do you know what’s happened?’ Knutas asked. ‘Do you know that Alexander is dead?’

Nils and his sister exchanged glances.

‘Yes,’ said Nils without looking at his father.

They ate dinner in silence. Knutas didn’t know what to say, other than to reiterate how awful it was, and that he felt terrible for Alexander’s mother and sister.

The case had largely been solved, with three sixteen-year-old boys under arrest, charged with aggravated assault. Now the charge would have to be changed. All three of the boys denied involvement, but the evidence was against them. Alexander’s blood was found on their clothes and shoes, and a couple of witnesses among the crowd of kids that had been present at the time had dared to single them out.

It’s not just the fact that assault cases are becoming more frequent and severe, and increasingly involve younger kids, thought Knutas. But people are also less willing to testify.

It was an alarming development.

After dinner both children left the table and went out to the hall to put on their shoes.

‘Are you both going out?’ Knutas asked as he filled the dishwasher.

‘Yes,’ they answered in unison.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked Nils.

‘He’s coming with me to see Olivia,’ Petra said before her brother had time to answer.

‘Why?’

‘Oh, Pappa,’ said Petra, giving him a look of pity as she shook her head.

The door closed after them.

Knutas took a deep breath, sat down at the kitchen table, and picked up his mobile to call Ingrid Almlöv.

THE SWIMMING HALL was deserted when Knutas arrived the following morning. He was there at six thirty when the doors opened, and for the first fifteen minutes he enjoyed the luxury of having the whole pool to himself.

Nothing helped him to unwind as much as swimming. He powered his way through one length after another, his body moving mechanically as if steered by a robot. Clarity was restored to his brain in the calm water, in the silence whenever his head dipped below the surface. The news of Alexander’s death had temporarily pushed aside the perplexities of the homicide investigation. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to lose a child. What if the same thing had happened to Nils or Petra? He hardly dared complete the thought. We need to take care of each other, he thought. While we’re still here. Everything can change in an instant.

Knutas had talked with Ingrid, Alexander’s mother, on the phone for a long time last night. Both of his own children had chosen to sleep over at the Almlöv home, mostly for Olivia’s sake. He was touched that they cared so much and that they were capable of such empathy. At the same time, he was feeling guilty for having neglected Ingrid over the past few years. He hadn’t been in touch with her except right after the events that had led to her husband’s death. Then life had continued on. And now Alexander was also gone.

He came to the end of the pool and turned, realizing that he’d lost count of how many lengths he’d already swum. He glanced up at the clock and decided it didn’t matter. Half an hour was enough. Two elderly women in bathing suits appeared at the edge of the pool and then climbed down the ladder, their legs dimpled and unsteady. They grumbled a bit and then with a titter sank down into the water, choosing the lane furthest away from Knutas, much to his relief.

His thoughts returned to Veronika Hammar. Was she still on the island? He cursed himself for not detaining her immediately after that first interview. From the very beginning her explanation for not coming forward had seemed like a feeble excuse.

They now had evidence that she had actually been at the crime scene, although she hadn’t mentioned it during the interview. Veronika Hammar might well be guilty of murder. The important thing now was to find her.

JOHAN WAS SITTING in the editorial office with a dull weight in the pit of his stomach. Over the past few days he’d been so focused on the murder at the conference centre that he’d put the assault case aside. Now that he’d received word of the boy’s death, he felt ice cold inside, and his heart ached. The sixteen-year-old had lost his life because of a completely meaningless dispute. What a shitty deal. Something that had lasted only a few seconds had put a halt to his future and destroyed his family’s life. The whole thing was the result of several kicks to the head. It was incomprehensible.

At that moment Johan decided to concentrate all his efforts on the series of reports that he and Pia had planned about the current state of youth violence in Sweden – its causes and consequences, as well as what was being done to stop it from getting even worse. Later in the day they were expected to deliver a news story about Alexander’s death, along with a follow-up report on the Algård murder. At the moment talking about the boy’s death seemed more urgent.

Johan was roused from his melancholy thoughts by Pia’s arrival. She didn’t say anything, just gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as she walked past and noticed what was on his computer screen.

They had coffee together and discussed the assault case.

Alexander had been in his first year at the Rickard Steffen secondary school in Visby. They decided to start there.

When Johan and Pia drove up to the school, they saw the flags fluttering at half-mast in the springtime sun. On the phone the principal had told Johan that the teachers would not be following the normal curriculum for the day. Instead, they would be talking about Alexander with their students. A memorial was planned for eleven o’clock in the school auditorium. They got there just in time. Every seat was already taken. It was clear that the students, teachers and other school staff members were not the only ones who had gathered. Parents and siblings were also present. Pia and Johan found room to stand at the very back of the hall. Traditionally the principal would have been the first to speak but, surprisingly enough, that was not what happened. When the lights went out in the auditorium, and a single spotlight shone on the stage, the audience saw a thin teenage girl standing there. She wore jeans and a black camisole under a pink hoodie. Her long dark hair fell loosely to her shoulders. Goosebumps appeared on Johan’s arms at her first words.

‘My brother is dead.’

In a low, carefully controlled voice, Olivia Almlöv then spoke about her brother Alexander and what he had meant to her. How they had grown up together and what sort of things they had done – ordinary, everyday events. About Alexander’s interests and dreams for the future. How they had got ready for the party on that Friday evening, what they had talked of and what they had done when they arrived at the club. He sometimes liked to sneak a cigarette, she said, and the last she saw of him was when he went outside to have a smoke with a couple of his friends.

He never came back.

Half an hour later she saw her brother beaten beyond recognition and lying in a pool of blood on the ground.

That was how Alexander ended his days, and her own life would never be the same again.

Everyone in the auditorium was deeply touched by what she had said, and here and there people could be heard weeping.

Afterwards, the principal spoke about the importance of not allowing Alexander’s life to have been taken in vain. About the necessity of regarding this as a wake-up call – for the young people, their parents and society as a whole.

Both Johan and Pia were deeply moved by what they’d heard.

‘We need to talk to some of the parents,’ said Johan. ‘We haven’t heard anything from them in a while.’

‘Sure. How about that couple over there?’

Pia nodded towards a middle-aged man and woman leaving the auditorium hand in hand.

Johan cautiously tapped the man on the shoulder and then introduced himself.

‘Why are you and your wife here?’ was his first question.

It was the man who answered.

‘Because our son was a witness to the assault, and we wanted to offer our support. To Alexander’s family, but also to the boys who were responsible and to their families. They are victims too.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, who’s the winner here? Nobody. Everyone loses. And what is the whole thing really about? A mere few seconds that have lifelong consequences for umpteen people. Anger sparked by an ill-tempered word, an obscene gesture, a nasty look. When I was young, these sorts of quarrels were resolved with a fist fight. In the worst-case scenario, it turned into a brawl that ended at the first sign of bloodshed or when your opponent fell to the ground. But what happens nowadays? The person on the ground gets kicked – in the head! Several boys gang up on an unconscious kid. Why aren’t there any boundaries any more? Is a human life of no value to these kids? Do they think they have the right to kill someone just because they feel insulted or humiliated? Why do our children have so much anger inside? Where does that come from? Those are the sort of questions we need to be asking.’

Johan simply held out the microphone, without saying a word, as Pia filmed. They were standing outside the auditorium in the schoolyard and, one by one, people stopped to listen to the man’s tirade. A crowd started to form around them.

The man went on: ‘And it’s not a simple matter of putting all the blame on violent computer games and the brutality shown on TV and in films. That does tend to desensitize viewers, but it’s not the core of the problem. No, it has to do with the whole structure of society. The grown-ups work too hard and are too stressed, so they don’t have time for their kids the way they used to in the past. And don’t misunderstand me – I’m not advocating that women should be forced back into the kitchen. But all parents, both men and women, need to spend more time with their children. Kids are too often left to their own devices; they have to manage too much on their own. And just look what happens.’

He threw out his arms in a gesture of helplessness, and then fell silent as he shook his head. After that he walked straight through the crowd and across the asphalt of the schoolyard.

Johan slowly lowered the microphone, watching the man and his wife, who was hurrying to catch up. Everyone else was shifting nervously from one foot to the other, and a few slunk away. Others remained where they were, as if they didn’t really know what to do.

I have to ring Grenfors, thought Johan. We need to interview an expert in the studio about this topic. Maybe several.

His thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping him on the shoulder. He glanced up to see a young, lanky teenage boy with curly red hair, peach fuzz on his upper lip and a spotty complexion.

‘Are you the reporter called Johan Berg?’ the boy asked.

Johan nodded.

‘I think you know my dad. My name is Nils Knutas.’

I ALWAYS BICYCLED home from school. Even in winter, when the snow was piled high in drifts. On that particular day in March, most of it had melted away, and crocuses and snowdrops were peeking up along the side of the road. Our class had been allowed to go home early because the woodwork teacher was sick, and we were supposed to have had an extra hour in that class at the end of the day. I was relieved.

As usual, I hurried to my locker before anybody else, got out my backpack, and then was the first to leave the school building. I headed straight for the bicycle racks and unlocked my bike. To my horror, I noticed that I’d forgotten my English textbook. I needed to take it home with me since we had a test the following day. Shit. The last thing I wanted to do was go back inside.

When I reached the break room where our lockers were located, Steffe and Biffen were both there. They were talking to some girls from another class. Everybody turned to look at me. I avoided their eyes and went over to my locker, fumbling with the keys. To my dismay, I dropped the key ring, which clanged as it hit the floor. In a flash, Steffe dashed over and grabbed it. He waved the keys in the air. Clinking and clanking. ‘Come and get it, if you can.’ He grinned wickedly, and the thick wad of snuff that he’d shoved under his lip made black streaks in the spaces between his teeth.

Scattered laughter from the others, along with remarks about the ‘little guy’, and ‘that wimp’. My cheeks were flushed and my ears burned. Normally they paid no attention to me, didn’t even give me a thought. And that’s what I preferred. My mouth was dry and I couldn’t manage to utter a single word. Just waited. The keys swung back and forth, right in front of my face, but just out of reach. I raised my hand, tried to grab them. Steffe, who was two heads taller than me, took a few steps back. He began circling around me. ‘Come on, come on.’ The others drew closer, forming a tight circle. I needed those keys. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a teacher in the corridor. But he merely rushed past.

Steffe held the keys above my head. The clinking sound echoed in the room as he swung them back and forth. My body felt as heavy as lead as I clumsily made several more fruitless attempts to grab the key ring. The girls giggled. ‘Did you see his ears? They look like stupid wingnuts.’

Swoosh. The key ring sailed past and disappeared behind me to land in a wastepaper basket. ‘Go get it, you worm. You worthless little vermin.’ I ran over and found the key ring lying in the middle of a soggy mess of banana peels, wads of snuff and old chewing gum. I reached down to pull it out.

At that moment Biffen and Steffe were on top of me, pressing my head down. The edge of the metal container cut into my throat as they forced my head into the rubbish, and the smell of rotting food filled my nostrils. I tried to turn my head but I couldn’t budge even an inch. I was locked into position as if held in a vice. I panicked. It was impossible to breathe. ‘What a bloody retard you are.’

I heard the girls’ voices behind me. ‘Stop it, let him go. Take your sodding keys and run home to Mamma. Just don’t pee your pants.’ One last shove before they released their grip. ‘You fucking weirdo.’

My legs were shaking as I cycled home. I refused to cry. I was never going back there. I’d kill myself first. A big lorry rumbled past on the wide road. For a few seconds I considered pulling in front of it, right in the middle of the street. Anything to avoid going back to school. To escape all that shit. And my worthless life.

When I parked my bike round the back and opened the door, I immediately heard the sobbing. I went into the living room, and there she sat. In a corner, with her legs pulled up, weeping.

‘What’s wrong, Mamma?’ I asked. ‘Did something bad happen?’

I knew perfectly well what her answer would be. Nothing ever happened. She just cried all the time. She was always finding new things to cry about, new problems. A fuse might blow, she might drop a glass on the floor, or the car could refuse to start. It might be because a bill was more than she’d expected, or because she’d burnt the dinner, or because she had lost her keys. There were endless annoyances every day. And they all represented a catastrophe. Nothing was allowed to go wrong.

I’d lived with her sobs all my life. I felt like a container filled with her tears. I was aware of them sloshing around inside me from the moment I got out of bed in the morning. I had no idea what I was going to do when they overflowed one day.

‘No,’ she whimpered. ‘I’m just sad.’

A lump formed in my stomach; the black curtain descended in front of my eyes.

Cautiously I approached. She smelled of perfume and a slightly stale, stuffy odour. Her face was wet, swollen and bright red. She looked grotesque.

‘Come here, my boy. Come here and comfort your mother.’ Her voice was whiny.

I bent forward but avoided looking her in the eye. She stretched out her arms and pulled me close. As usual, I didn’t know what to say to make her stop crying. I couldn’t think of any words. She was sniffing and snuffling. Her tears ran down my shirt.

‘Oh, it’s all so awful. I work so hard, you know. It’s not easy being a single mother. I’m so lonely. And I have to do everything myself. I just can’t handle it any more.’

She began sobbing loudly, howling and wailing, making no attempt to restrain herself in front of me.

I was filled with both disgust and sympathy. I didn’t know what to feel or say.

‘Now, now, Mamma. You have us, you know,’ I ventured.

‘Yes, I know, and I’m so lucky,’ she sniffled. ‘What would I do without all of you? I’d fall apart. You’re all that I live for.’

She didn’t notice the bruise on my forehead or the smell of rotten banana peel in my hair.

She had enough to do just taking care of herself.

THE DEATH OF Alexander Almlöv turned the focus away from the homicide investigation on Wednesday.

Even though Knutas wasn’t in charge of the assault case, all the journalists wanted to ask him questions, since he was head of the criminal police. The story of the close friendship that had once existed between Knutas and Alexander’s father just added to their interest. He spent the entire morning on the phone.

At the same time, one question kept nagging at the back of his mind: Could the motive for killing Viktor Algård be found in the case involving the assault on Alexander? The interviews the police had conducted at the club had produced very little, although it was likely that there were more witnesses to the beating who hadn’t yet come forward.

Could someone close to Alexander have exacted revenge on the club owner? Knutas had seen Algård speak to the media several times about whether he considered himself responsible for some of the out-of-control behaviour among local teenagers. Each time he had brushed aside all criticism. That sort of thing might really infuriate people. Maybe somebody had finally had enough.

Knutas still hadn’t paid a visit to the club in person after the incident. He needed to do that soon. Possibly even this afternoon.

He went over the latest findings with Rylander, his colleague from the NCP. The skinny detective folded his lanky body into a chair in front of Knutas’s desk, holding a thick file folder containing a stack of documents. He placed the folder on the desk.

‘This isn’t an easy task, let me tell you. Not with so many damn people involved.’

‘I know,’ said Knutas sympathetically. ‘We have two murders now, with no obvious connections, other than the fact that they were both committed brazenly in the midst of a crowd of partygoers. It’s one of the hardest things for the police to handle – having to interview people who were more or less drunk when a crime was committed.’

‘You’re right about that,’ Rylander agreed. ‘We just have to do the best we can. So far, the interviews that we’ve conducted haven’t brought us much further. This is the most interesting of the lot.’

He pulled a page out of the folder.

‘One of Algård’s closest colleagues, the pub manager called Rolf Lewin, was also at the dedication festivities at the conference centre. He was helping out at the bar.’

‘And?’

‘Maybe that’s not so strange. Viktor usually brought in the same staff for his events. But during the interview it came out that Rolf and Viktor had had their differences. It might be worthwhile having another talk with the pub manager.’

‘What else do you know about him?’

‘A typical superannuated biker, if you want my honest and highly biased opinion. Lives alone in a two-room flat in Visby. Unmarried. No children. He’s about forty-five, with straggly hair that sticks out in all directions. Wears an earring and always has a cigarette between his lips. From the broken blood vessels on his nose I’d assume he drinks too much.’

‘OK, I guess I’ll go out and see him,’ Knutas muttered. ‘Anything else?’

‘Not much. The two bouncers don’t exactly have a spotless past, but there’s nothing to indicate that they had anything to do with Algård’s murder. Besides, both of them have watertight alibis.’

‘Which are?’

‘That they were at home with their wives and kids on Saturday evening. They didn’t set foot outside their houses all night.’

By the time they finished, it was one o’clock and Knutas could feel his stomach growling. After his morning swim he was extra hungry. He knocked on the door of Jacobsson’s office and asked if she’d like to go out for some lunch. He needed fresh air and wanted to stretch his legs. The noisy lunchroom at police headquarters didn’t seem very appealing.

There weren’t many lunch places to choose from in Visby during the winter, but the Café Ringduvan, located near the eastern gate in the ring wall, was a pleasant place. At the counter they each ordered the special of the day and then sat down at a table outside. The sun felt gloriously warm. Jacobsson lit a cigarette.

‘Have you started smoking again?’ asked Knutas.

‘You should talk. You with your pipe.’

‘But I never light it.’

‘Of course you do.’

He was well aware that Karin smoked only when she was worried about something.

‘By the way, you said that later on you’d tell me what’s been bothering you. Is this a good time?’ asked Knutas.

‘Definitely not. We need to talk about work. And besides, I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to talk to you about this particular problem. It’s way too serious.’

Knutas placed his hand on top of hers. ‘I’m your friend, Karin. Don’t forget that.’

‘But just how good a friend are you?’

He looked at her in surprise, startled by the question. ‘A very good friend. Probably much better than you even know.’

‘OK. I’ll think about it.’

‘Do that.’ Knutas sighed. ‘It feels like we’re just treading water. With the homicide case, I mean,’ he clarified so that she wouldn’t think he was talking about their personal relationship. Although in some ways he actually was.

‘I know,’ Jacobsson agreed. ‘The investigation into the assault hasn’t produced much yet. There’s nothing to indicate that it has anything to do with the murder of Viktor Algård. It’s just so awful that the boy died.’

‘I’ve been thinking a lot about his poor mother, Ingrid. I talked to her on the phone last night. She was completely beside herself, of course. Losing a child must be the worst thing that can happen to a person.’

Knutas shook his head. He took a sip of his light beer and looked at Karin. She was staring straight ahead with a blank expression.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m not feeling very good. I’ve got to go to the loo.’

She put out her cigarette, got up unsteadily and disappeared inside the café.

A frown of concern crossed Knutas’s face as he watched her go.

THE BUILDING HOUSING the Solo Club, which was so popular with young people, was located on the edge of the harbour district, squeezed between a family restaurant and a bicycle-hire shop. Knutas had made an appointment to meet the pub manager there at three o’clock, but he was a little early. The bartender offered him a cup of coffee and invited him to sit down to wait.

After a few minutes Rolf Lewin arrived. He matched perfectly Rylander’s description of him. He was tall with a boyish physique, dyed hair that stuck straight up and pierced eyebrows. He wore a black T-shirt with a drum set printed in gold on his chest and a long gold chain. On his feet he wore a pair of black Converse trainers, just like the ones that Nils owned. But Rolf had an open, friendly face, and he smiled as he introduced himself.

‘As you know, we’re investigating the murder of Viktor Algård,’ said Knutas. ‘Since a boy was assaulted here right before the murder and he has now died from his injuries, we consider the incident to be of interest to our investigation.’

‘OK, but the police have already been here several times.’

Knutas held up his hands as if to ward off any further objections.

‘I know. But right now we’d like to hear what you think about a possible link to the murder. Have you seen or heard anything suspicious? Have you noticed whether anyone has displayed a particular hatred for Algård?’

‘Everybody liked Viktor. He was a cheerful guy. He had good intentions, but he really had no idea what he was getting into when he started arranging special evenings here at the club for the younger kids. That’s when things went wrong. He refused to see that there were any problems. His only concern was the money he expected to make.’

‘So what was his reaction to the problems?’

‘There was trouble right from the start. There’s no use trying to hide that fact. Lots of kids were stewed to the gills even before they got here. They also smuggled in booze and drank outside the club. The bouncers did the best they could, but it was impossible for us to control everything that was going on. So of course there was a lot of drinking and fighting. We had to deal with plenty of violent incidents even before Alexander Almlöv got beaten up. But Viktor just brushed it all aside. He thought things would calm down after a while.’

‘What sort of violent incidents?’

‘Fights between pumped-up boys who’d had too much to drink. Brawls. One time a chick claimed that she’d been raped in the ladies’ room, but no one took her seriously. I wasn’t on duty that night, but I heard about it afterwards,’ Rolf hastened to add, giving the detective an apologetic look.

Knutas frowned.

‘And it was never reported to the police? The rape, I mean?’

Rolf shook his head.

‘I know this sounds strange, but nobody knew who she was. Not even her name or where she was from. She just came outside crying and talked to the bouncers. Her clothes were a mess and she had several cuts on her face, but she was really loaded, and then she left with a friend who was trying to comfort her. The bouncers thought the kids were just going around the corner and would come back, so they’d have another chance to talk to the girl. But she never returned.’

‘And they just let her go, even though she said she’d been raped?’

‘Afraid so. But like I said, there’s been so much trouble here during these club nights for teenagers that we just can’t control everything that goes on. It’s too much. I tried to explain the problem to Viktor, but as I mentioned, he didn’t want to hear it. We have three more of those kind of club events that were booked ages ago, but after that, it bloody well has to stop.’

‘Are you the one who’s in charge now that Algård is dead?’

‘For the time being, yes.’

‘And you’ve always been against holding these parties for teenagers?’

‘Not at first, but I quickly realized that they were getting out of hand. Even though they brought in a lot of money, it wasn’t worth the trouble. We’ve got to think of the kids too. We’ve got a responsibility, damn it.’

‘So you and Viktor didn’t agree about this?’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘When did this rape incident occur?’

‘It was on Lucia evening, December the thirteenth. Almost four months ago.’

‘And you still have no idea who the girl was?’

‘No, I haven’t got a clue.’

‘You were working at the bar during the dedication festivities at the conference centre, isn’t that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘They needed help, and I have nothing against making a little extra money.’

‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary during the evening? Anyone who seemed suspicious?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘We now know that Viktor was having an affair with Veronika Hammar. Did you happen to notice them together? She was at the party too.’

Rolf Lewin’s face lit up.

‘Actually, yes. They were standing at the bar, talking. Just briefly. I even served them drinks.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Well, to be precise, I mixed a drink for Veronika Hammar. I remember because it was at the request of a secret admirer.’ He rolled his eyes.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Knutas.

‘Well, there was this guy who came over and ordered an alcohol-free strawberry daiquiri, which he wanted to give her.’

‘And you gave the drink to Veronika?’

‘Yes.’

‘This man who ordered it – what did he look like?’

‘Hmm. I don’t really recall. There wasn’t anything remarkable about him. Tall, in his forties, wearing a grey suit, I think. Blond hair, a bit straggly. He wore glasses with black frames. They looked like Armani.’

‘But you didn’t recognize him?’

‘No. I’d never seen him before. I don’t think he was from around here.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I’m not sure. Just a feeling I had.’

Considering Rolf claims not to have remembered anything about the guy, his powers of observation are certainly impressive, thought Knutas. Then another thought occurred to him.

‘What time was this?’

‘The stage show had just started, so it must have been right after midnight.’

‘Did you see whether Veronika drank the cocktail?’

‘I don’t think she did. She handed the glass to Viktor. Then he went downstairs, while she went off in another direction. There were so many people, and I was busy filling drink orders, so I didn’t give it another thought.’

‘Do you recall what the man said?’

Rolf paused to think.

‘Let’s see now. First he ordered the drink, without saying anything in particular. After I mixed the cocktail and served it, he paid with cash and gave me a big tip.’

‘Try to remember exactly what happened,’ Knutas told him. ‘Did he give you exact change?’

‘Good Lord, how in hell am I supposed to… Wait a minute. Now I remember. He paid with a five-hundred-krona note. The drink cost eighty-five, and he told me just to give him four hundred back. That’s right. Fifteen for a tip.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well, when I handed him the change, he asked me to give the drink to Veronika Hammar.’

‘How far apart were they standing? I mean, Veronika and the stranger?’

‘They were at opposite ends of the bar, so maybe ten metres apart or so. And there was a big crowd there. I told Veronika that the drink was from an admirer, but when I turned to point him out to her, the guy was gone.’

Knutas had listened to Rolf’s account with growing interest. He realized that the bartender’s story meant that the murder investigation was about to take a new and surprising turn.

He thanked the man for his time and then hurried out of the club.

As soon as Knutas got back to police headquarters, he asked Jacobsson to come to his office. He explained his theory, based on what he’d just learned from the pub manager. Jacobsson sat in silence on his visitor’s sofa, listening with an increasingly surprised look on her face.

‘So you think that Algård was killed by mistake? That the cyanide wasn’t intended for him at all?’

‘Exactly. It was meant for Veronika Hammar.’

‘So we’ve been on the wrong track the whole time.’

‘The man who ordered that drink is the one we need to be looking for.’

‘What about the glass?’

‘We’re going to have to search the entire building again. Look in every damn rubbish bin, and every nook and cranny in the vicinity of the conference centre. The perp obviously took the glass with him.’

‘So how did the poison get in the cocktail?’

‘Emptying a vial into the drink could be done in a flash. It wouldn’t take more than a few seconds. He could have done it while the bartender was getting change for the five hundred kronor.’

‘This turns everything upside down,’ said Jacobsson. ‘We’re going to have to start from scratch.’

‘Definitely,’ Knutas agreed grimly. ‘Let’s get everyone together for a meeting.’

THE CABIN COULDN’T be described as luxurious. It was a typical weekend cabin from the sixties with dark brown wood panelling, a tumbledown chimney and spartan furnishings. The front door opened on to a narrow hallway. A row of hooks on the wall held jackets, coats and various bags and purses. On the floor underneath were rubber boots, wooden clogs and slippers. A couple of walking sticks leaned against the wall in one corner. The small kitchen had a window that faced the forested area on the hill. A cheap rug on the floor, wallpaper with brown flowers. A laminate countertop, a small sink and a stove that looked at least thirty years old. Further along the hall was a large bedroom with a double bed, dresser and photographs of several children on the wall. The living room had a hardwood floor and a simple fireplace. The furniture consisted of a sofa, coffee table, bookshelf and a spinning wheel.

It was getting cold. She had heated up some soup for dinner and eaten it with a couple of open sandwiches on rye bread. Outside the window, it looked as if a big lamp had been switched off over Gotland. It was pitch dark. At night, not a single light was ever visible over the countryside, except for the moon if the sky was clear. Then it would spread its bluish glow over the treetops, glinting on the wings of bats as they fluttered overhead whenever she made her way to the outside privy. Tonight she stayed sitting at the table after she finished eating. She was staring at the flame of the candle that she’d set in the wrought-iron candlestick.

All day long she’d had a strange feeling that someone was watching her, but she had no idea why she felt that way. At first she’d thought it was the cat. He’d been gone since morning, and he hadn’t appeared when she called his name. Maybe he was staring at her from some hiding place, enjoying the fact that he’d managed to elude her. Letting her stand there and call his name in a vain attempt to entice him back inside.

She’d come out here to this isolated cabin even though she hated being alone. In the summer it was a paradise, when the other homeowners brought life to the area and the Swedish nights were bright. In the wintertime it was hell, with the darkness, solitude and strong winds. But she’d had no other choice. She had to get away, escape everything that had to do with Viktor and the police investigation. Not to mention everybody’s prying stares.

Feeling on edge, she listened tensely for any sound, but she heard only the roar of the sea and the wind rushing through the trees. What could it be that was making her so uneasy? Maybe it was just her imagination.

She glanced at the doorway leading to the hall. Then she got up to make sure that she had locked the front door properly. Yes, it was locked. Even so, she stared nervously at the key sitting in the lock. How much would that really help? Any guy with sufficient muscle could easily kick in the flimsy door. She had to admit that she was completely unprotected, vulnerable to anyone who might decide to start breaking into the cottages in this remote area.

She made the coffee and switched on the TV. The programme Ask the Doctor was on channel 2, while channel 1 was rerunning a drama series that she’d already seen. A show for kids was on channel 4. She sighed and went back to channel 2 and a discussion about prostate cancer. At least it was reassuring to have some background noise, voices to keep her company and hold bad thoughts at bay. She went into the kitchen to pour herself some coffee. Then stopped abruptly. She had glimpsed something moving outside in the dark. Like a shadow slipping past the window. All of a sudden she was uncomfortably aware of how visible she must be from outside as she stood in the brightly lit kitchen. She fumbled for the light switch.

When the room went dark, she had a better view of the outdoors. She crept over to the small window to scan her surroundings, looking from one side of the property to the other. She saw the lawn, which was covered with withered leaves, pine needles and branches that had come down during the winter storms. She saw the toolshed, the playhouse and the privy. Nothing. She went back to the living room, turned off all the lamps and blew out the candle. If someone was out there, she didn’t want that person to be able to see every move she made. She also turned off the light in the hall. The house had no curtains or blinds. She had decided that window blinds were unnecessary since she usually came here only in the summertime. She loved it when sunlight flooded the small cabin, both day and night. Curtains merely gathered mildew, and besides, they blocked the view. But right now she would have given anything for some sort of window covering.

Her heart was pounding hard. Who in the world could be after her? She’d never done anyone any harm. But she was starting to wonder if she might be wrong about that. She turned off the TV and listened intently, straining all of her senses. All she heard was the wind. She sat down on the sofa in the dark living room and waited. Half an hour passed. Then another. Nothing happened. She was growing more and more annoyed. Should she keep sitting here like a rat in a cage? To make matters worse, she badly needed to pee, but unfortunately she had no chamber pot. She refused to consider peeing into a bowl that was used for food. After yet another half-hour passed, she gave up. She couldn’t hold it any longer. And by now anger had taken over. She wasn’t about to let fear keep her trapped inside her own house. Well, it wasn’t really hers, but the cabin had always been available to her because her friends who owned it lived abroad. They wanted to keep the summer place in the family, so they had let her use it ever since her children were small. She’d made it her own, and she loved the cabin more than anything.

She put on her jacket and pulled on her boots, hesitating a moment with her hand resting on the door handle.

Then she turned the key and opened the door.

THE REST OF the world faded away and then vanished entirely as Knutas watched the Regional News programme on TV in the police break room that evening. The top story wasn’t about Viktor Algård but about the death that had resulted from the assault outside the Solo Club. He was deeply moved by the interview with the father of one of the witnesses, and the statements made by Alexander’s sister, the school principal and a few students. When he suddenly saw his own son appear on the screen, his breathing faltered.

In a voice-over Johan Berg proclaimed: ‘Several young people were witnesses to the drama. One of them was Nils Knutas. Out of fear of reprisals, he previously hasn’t wanted to say anything about what he saw. But today he has decided to come forward.’

Nils was shown standing at the scene of the assault, pointing to show where he and his friends had been, only a few metres away. They had watched as Alexander was severely beaten. None of them had dared intervene. He talked about his sense of guilt and about how scared he’d been, how powerless he’d felt. When the assault was over and the perpetrators had fled, he’d gone over to Alexander. He’d felt how faint the boy’s pulse was, and he’d seen all the blood. While his friends had phoned the police and the medics, he had simply walked away, leaving the scene without doing anything to help.

‘Why have you decided to talk about this today?’ asked Johan.

His expression sombre, Nils looked straight at the camera as he replied: ‘Because of what Alexander’s sister, Olivia, said in the auditorium. If she has the guts to stand up there in front of hundreds of people and say what she knows, then how could I remain silent?’

With that, the story was over. It was followed by a studio discussion with several participants. Knutas saw them through a fog, not taking in who they were or what they were saying. He sat on the sofa as if frozen, incapable of moving. Jacobsson, who was sitting next to him, patted him on the shoulder and got up without saying a word.

After she left the room and closed the door, something happened that hadn’t occurred in years.

Knutas wept.

KNUTAS OPENED THE door to his house on Bokströmsgatan, filled with a sense of doom. He was overwhelmed by despair. For weeks Nils had kept quiet about having been a witness to the assault. Knutas didn’t know whether it was his role as a father or as a police officer that had prevented Nils from confiding in him. Or which was worse.

He had tried to phone Lina, but he got only a busy signal on the landline, and she hadn’t answered her mobile.

He hung his jacket in the front hall without calling out his customary ‘hello’. The TV was on in the living room. It was some kind of quiz show. Lina was sitting in a corner of the sofa with the reading lamp on, the newspaper spread open on her lap. She glanced up when he stepped into the room.

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ she said gently. ‘Come over here and sit down.’

He realized at once that she’d seen the Regional News report.

‘Where’s Nils?’

‘Upstairs in his room.’

‘Have you talked to him?’

‘No. I wanted to wait for you.’

Knutas shouted at the top of his lungs: ‘Nils!’

‘Calm down,’ Lina urged her husband. ‘This isn’t easy for him either.’

Knutas chose to ignore her. He was glaring at the stairs. He heard a door slowly open, and then a voice said: ‘What is it?’

‘Come down here.’

‘But I’m doing my homework.’

‘Get down here this minute!’

Nils appeared at the top of the stairs. His face was pale, his expression serious, his curly red hair more tousled than usual. His T-shirt was wrinkled and there were holes in the knees of his jeans.

‘What is it?’

‘Don’t play dumb with me. Come down here.’

Knutas immediately regretted the harsh tone he’d taken, but it was too late now.

Knutas led the way into the living room, turned off the TV and sank down on to the sofa next to Lina. He motioned for Nils to sit on the armchair across from them. Anger overtook the sorrow he felt at not having the right expertise to deal with the situation. He felt as if he were adrift on an ice floe, floating on some distant, ice-cold and bottomless sea.

‘Can you explain to me and your mother why you haven’t said a word to us this whole time about being a witness when Alexander was assaulted? Yet the minute a reporter waves a microphone in your face, you spill out the whole story as if you were getting paid to talk.’

Nils gave him a defiant look. His eyes were filled with contempt.

‘Neither of you ever asked me about it.’

The words were so unexpected that Knutas was left speechless. He cast a glance at Lina. She merely shook her head and then hid her face in her hands.

‘But we’re always asking you how you are and what’s going on. You never want to tell us anything, but we keep trying-’

‘You’re always so busy with your own stuff. You don’t really care how I am or what I have to deal with! You just pretend to take an interest, but the only thing that’s important to you is that fucking cop job of yours!’

Knutas was shocked. He was utterly unprepared for such an accusation. He’d been naive enough to think that Nils would be remorseful and apologize.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t care about me. All you ever talk about is yourself and your sodding investigations, and I don’t give a shit about them. Why should I tell you anything? You pretend to care about me and Petra, but the only effort you ever make is to drag us along once in a while to do something you think is fun. Like when we went to the golf course. We just went along for your sake, even though you acted like you were the best father in the world who was doing something really great for his kids.’

Knutas felt his cheeks flush with indignation, but he forced himself to remain calm.

‘I think you have to agree that you’re being unfair. OK, I admit that there are times when I talk a lot about my work, but that’s only when I’m in the middle of an important case. And that’s not really surprising, is it? And think about all the fun things we’ve done together over the years. You don’t really think it was all for my sake, do you? All those excursions we’ve taken you on, ever since you and your sister were kids? I can’t even count how many times we’ve been to Kneippbyn and Vattenland. We’ve gone to Legoland and to the Astrid Lindgren theme park, and I’ve even gone riding on Iceland horses with you and Petra – and you know how scared I am of horses. Have you really forgotten all those things? I think you ought to show a little gratitude once in a while and not be so bloody sullen and selfish all the time. Your mother and I are doing the best we can!’

Nils stared at his hands, not once looking at his father. He said in a low voice: ‘It’s not Mamma that I’m mad at. She has always come through for us. Unlike you.’

Knutas looked at his son in bewilderment. He couldn’t believe his ears. He swallowed hard. No one else spoke as he searched for words.

‘I really don’t understand what you mean, Nils. I never come through for you? How can you say that?’

‘OK, maybe once in a while. And more often when we were little kids. But nowadays you never have time.’

Knutas leaned back on the sofa. The room began slowly spinning around. He took several deep breaths, blinked away a tear. Lina was silent, her face still buried in her hands.

This conversation with Nils wasn’t going to end with the family reconciliation that he had hoped for. He was shaken to the core by his son’s scorn.

‘But why didn’t you say anything?’ he ventured. ‘Why didn’t you tell us that you were there?’

‘Because I didn’t want to.’

‘Didn’t want to? Don’t you realize how serious this is? You’re a witness, for chrissake!’

‘Take it easy,’ Lina protested. ‘You’ve been a police officer for seventeen years, Anders. You, of all people, should understand how hard it can be for someone to admit that he saw something but either couldn’t or didn’t dare intervene.’

Nils glared at his father.

‘You’ve just made it horribly clear that the only thing you care about is your job. You’re a witness, for chrissake!’ he said, his voice filled with resentment as he repeated his father’s words. ‘You don’t give a fuck how I feel, or how I’m doing after watching those pricks beat the shit out of Alexander.’

Nils’s face was rigid with anger, and his eyes flashed as he looked at Knutas.

‘Why should I tell you anything? Give me one good reason!’

He leaped up and ran out of the room.

A few seconds later the front door slammed.

IN SPITE OF the long workday, Johan didn’t feel tired, and he had no desire to go home to the empty house in Roma. Emma had gone with Elin to visit her parents on the island of Fårö. They were sitting in front of the fireplace drinking Irish coffee when he phoned. Emma complimented him on his report, which she’d watched on the news, and hearing her praise made him happy.

Pia had left the editorial office right after they had finished, presumably to go and see her sheep farmer. The relationship seemed to be serious. Usually she wasn’t so enthusiastic about her boyfriends.

Johan sat in front of his computer, spending the next few hours aimlessly surfing the Internet. Then he found himself pulling up the website for the Solo Club. They were open. Of course he’d already done several reports from there about the assault case, but he’d never visited the club in the evening when it was actually filled with young people.

It was just after ten o’clock when he left the TV building. He walked through town, heading for the harbour. He found Skeppsbron swarming with teenagers, and many of them looked younger than eighteen.

A long queue had formed outside the Solo Club, where it had all happened just a couple of weeks ago. The guy at the door recognized Johan and waved him through. Inside, the noise level was deafening and the dance floor was packed. He was surprised to see what the young girls were wearing. Many of them were scantily clad, to say the least, in minuscule tops and shorts that barely covered their bottoms. Some of them wore only lacy knickers with a top, and one big-busted girl was dancing around in her bra. Johan could hardly believe his eyes. Was this the latest fashion for teenage girls? It was alarming, and that alone made it worthy of a news report. The boys wore more familiar attire, most of them jeans and a T-shirt. A few were going around shirtless.

Johan ordered a beer and stood at the bar. It wasn’t long before several girls who didn’t look older than fourteen or fifteen came over to order Cokes. One of them wore only a bra and a pair of mini-shorts. He leaned towards her, forced to shout to be heard over the music.

‘Why are you dressed like that?’ he asked.

She giggled and stared at him, uncomprehending. Her eyes were almost invisible behind a thick coating of mascara. Her face was covered with tanning cream, her lips were smeared with a white ointment, and her hair stuck out every which way, sticky with hairspray. A typical fourteen-year-old.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why are you out in public in your underwear?’

She tittered uncertainly, and then moved away and went back to talking to her friends. Johan saw one of them take a little bottle out of her bag and pour something into her Coke. So that’s how it’s done, he thought. Lots of the kids in the club were noticeably drunk. He signalled to the bartender.

‘Has this place changed since the assault happened?’

The bartender shrugged.

‘Not really. The first couple of weeks it was kind of quiet, but now there are just as many people as before, and they’re all just as drunk. As if it never happened.’

‘How can you make sure that kids under eighteen aren’t drinking?’

‘We can’t. All we can do here at the bar is ask for a valid ID before we serve anybody alcohol. But there’s nothing we can do about it if the kids drink before they get here, or if they hide the booze in the shrubbery and then go outside, supposedly to have a smoke, or if people outside the club sell them alcohol.’

‘There must be some kids who smuggle booze inside, right?’

‘Sure. But we can’t frisk everybody. That’s just how it is.’

He shrugged again and went back to work.

Johan finished his beer and left.

Outside it was just as lively as inside. Teenagers stood around smoking. A bunch of boys were laughing loudly as they tossed around a beer bottle. One young couple was wrapped in a tight embrace, kissing and not caring who saw them. And a little girl sat a short distance away, her head in her hands. She looked as if she wasn’t feeling well. Johan sat down next to her.

‘How’s it going?’

Cautiously he placed a hand on her thin shoulder. When she looked up, he gave a start. The girl wore dramatic make-up but she didn’t look older than twelve or thirteen. Her eyes were half-closed, and her face was very pale.

‘I feel sick.’

She didn’t manage to say anything more before she threw up. He helped her clean herself up. She started crying, and he did his best to console her.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Pernilla.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Hemse.’

Good Lord, thought Johan. What kind of parents would let a young girl like this stay out late at night so far from home? And, to cap it all, drunk. He searched her jacket pockets and pulled out a mobile that showed several missed calls from her mother. He rang the number. He heard loud music in the background and a laughing woman’s voice answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, my name is Johan Berg, and I’m sitting here with your daughter, Pernilla.’

‘Yes?’

‘We’re in Visby, and I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter is extremely drunk.’

The voice now sounded worried.

‘What? Are you sure?’

‘It would be best if you came to get her. She can’t make it home on her own.’

Now he heard several agitated voices in the background.

Christ. Pernilla’s drunk. Who can drive? We’ve all been drinking. Susanne, she’s pregnant. She’s the only one who could drive right now. We shouldn’t have let them go into town. I told you we shouldn’t let them go. Where are the others? Where did they get the booze from?

After a minute the woman was back on the line.

‘OK, my husband is coming. Where are you?’

Johan gave her directions to the Solo Club.

The girl threw up a few more times. She had no idea where her friends had gone. When Johan asked her how old she was, she said she was twelve. Good Lord, he thought. That means she’s just a year older than Emma’s daughter Sara. Is Sara going to be sitting here like this a year from now?

He stayed for almost an hour, helping Pernilla vomit up all the alcohol she’d consumed. Finally a car pulled up and parked. A man his own age got out, dressed in jeans and a shirt, looking stressed. Right behind him was a very pregnant woman. She was the one who had driven the car.

‘Oh, sweetie,’ cried the man, taking the girl in his arms. ‘How are you feeling? Come on, let’s get you home. Where are Agnes and Mimmi?’

He got her into the car as he continued to ask questions. He briefly thanked Johan for his help before they sped away.

Feeling depressed, Johan walked back through town to the office. He pictured Sara’s sweet, innocent face. She had already started to use make-up once in a while. Was this what awaited her, right around the corner? He shuddered at the thought. At the same time, it seemed disturbing that the partying at the Solo Club was going on as usual, only a day after Alexander Almlöv had died.

Exactly as if the assault had never happened.

SHE WAS AWAKENED by a fit of coughing. A suffocating smell. Her eyes were running. She immediately jumped out of bed, realizing to her horror that she was surrounded by thick smoke. When she went to bed, she had deliberately closed the bedroom door since she had nearly scared herself silly imagining that someone was outside.

The smoke was coming through the gaps around the door, and the heat was unbearable. For a moment she closed her eyes as she shut her mouth tight. The bedroom was at the very back of the cabin, behind the kitchen. Her first thought was to tear open the door and get out, but as soon as she touched the metal door handle, she knew that the rest of the house must be in flames. Instead she picked up the floor lamp and rammed it against the window to break the glass. Her eyes were burning so badly that she could hardly keep them open. The smoke was making her dizzy. She tried to breathe in as little as possible. Then she plunged headlong out of the window and on to the lawn. Feeling sick and in shock, she began crawling away, trying to get as far from the fire as she could. She didn’t dare turn around until she’d made it all the way over to the privy. She sat on the ground, leaning against the wall, and watched, dumbfounded, as the drama unfolded before her. The cabin was totally engulfed, the flames shooting high up into the air, an angry inferno against the night sky. There was nothing she could do but sit there as the house, in which she’d spent so many summers and which had given her so many good memories, burned to ashes before her eyes. She hadn’t managed to take a single thing with her. Her mind and her body were both numb; she didn’t dare allow herself to feel anything.

There was no one else around. It was just her and the fire. She had no means of communicating with the rest of the world. She had no mobile, and the nearest neighbouring farm was several kilometres away. For a moment she drifted off, feeling as though she might fall asleep.

Only then did she hear the sirens.

KNUTAS COULDN’T SLEEP. He tossed and turned in bed. After several hours of fruitless attempts, he finally gave up. He slipped out of bed and went downstairs to the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of milk and got out a packet of biscuits. With a sigh he sat down at the table. The cat hopped up next to his plate and rubbed his hand, wanting to be petted. At least you like me, he thought morosely. The argument with Nils had proved a brutal wake-up call. He’d had no idea that the distance between them was so great. He cursed himself. How could he have been so clueless? So selfish?

The children provided a crystal-clear mirror that ruthlessly exposed every flaw and defect that he possessed as a parent. The degree of trust, love and solidarity the children displayed was a manifestation of his success as a father. How did they behave at home? What were they willing to share without being asked? How much love did they voluntarily express? He had merely walked about, blind to what was going on around him. It was Lina who took the kids out to the country on weekends; she was the one who drove them to football matches and practice sessions; she was the one who did most of the cleaning and cooking. He had been so wrapped up in his job that he hadn’t been paying attention.

The guilt that he felt was almost too much to bear.

MAYBE IT’S THE regular conversations that are causing the haze before my eyes to disperse. The fog is starting to lift. My vision is clearer, even though I feel worse. The headaches clamp even more tightly around my forehead.

We’re sitting in that room, as usual, resting in the silence for a while.

If I turn my head and the light slants in from the side, the plaster rose in the ceiling looks like a person with a huge mouth. Maybe it’s my mother’s jaws that just keep getting bigger the more things you try to stuff inside. Her sense of dissatisfaction grows with each day, month and year that passes. She always has something new to complain about. New problems, new obstacles, new spanners thrown into the works. It’s the end of the world the minute life doesn’t flow smoothly. She’s constantly searching for new sources of wood to throw on her bonfire of wretchedness. Hungrily she swings her axe at the smallest thing that might sustain her misery. Sometimes it feels as if my brain is about to boil over.

She takes up so much space. I can always feel her presence, whether I like it or not. She’s been transformed into a thick pulp that has forced its way up inside me to settle in my throat. The only thing I want is to spit out that crap once and for all. To vomit her up. Make her leave my body, which she has invaded from the day I was born. It’s sick. I know it is.

Now I’m back with the person I’m talking to.

The window is slightly open. The sun is shining, and it’s warm outside.

‘The last time we met, you left rather abruptly. What happened?’

‘Sometimes I feel so filled with my so-called mother that I end up overflowing. Then I either have to throw up or take a shit, almost as if I’m a rubbish bin and she’s the rubbish.’

‘Can you describe what it feels like when that’s about to happen?’

‘Sometimes I just can’t stand the thought of her, and then it feels like something takes me over.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘As if my body takes control. It reacts on its own, takes on its own life, and it’s impossible to control. It’s a form of protest. As if it’s rebelling against the fact that she’s eating me up from the inside, like a fucking parasite. Taking up residence and getting bigger and bigger until one day she’ll be the death of me. Against my will, she’s the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing on my mind when I fall asleep. There’s nothing I can do about it, no matter how hard I try. She is always there, like my guilty conscience.’

‘How does that affect you?’

‘Well, all my life I’ve always felt guilty if I did anything fun on my own, without her.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The minute I decide to take a skiing holiday or go to a concert or do anything else fun, I hear her complaints about how she’s longing to do exactly the same thing. If only I could… Even when I had a family, I would feel guilty when we sat at the table with the candles lit, having a pleasant dinner. And I’d think to myself that I should have invited my mother. Not that it was particularly nice having her visit. I remember when Daniel was a newborn and we had moved to the new flat. Mamma used to come over on Sundays. Even before she’d taken off her shoes in the front hall, she would ask: “Is the coffee ready?” in that shrill voice of hers. Then she’d sit down on the sofa and stay there, as if glued to the cushions, until it was time for her to leave again. The coffee would grow cold in her cup as she babbled about one thing or another. If I happened to mention that Daniel was having trouble sleeping or if Katrina said that he was suffering from colic, my mother would merely dismiss our concerns as unimportant. Then she would turn to Katrina and start telling her how wonderful her own children had been. They’d never had any stomach troubles or problems with eating or sleeping. And the implication was: You’re a failure as a mother. My children were always perfect, but that’s because I was their mother, of course. I mostly kept quiet or tried to smooth things over, but that just made matters worse. It gave Mamma even more fodder for her criticisms, and her barbs were vicious. Usually Katrina would end up leaving the room to potter about in the kitchen until Mamma left. I’m ashamed that I behaved so spinelessly.’

‘Why did you act that way?’

‘I don’t know. When I think back, I can’t for the life of me understand why I allowed Mamma to have so much power over me. Even as a grown man with my own family to take care of, I acted like a frightened little boy. It’s as if she always makes me feel guilty. As if I ought to be paying her back.’

‘It must be a way of maintaining control. And continuing to stand in the spotlight.’

‘And the gods only know that’s what she wants. Whenever she comes to visit, all other activity has to stop. Everyone is expected to immediately drop whatever they’re doing and devote all their attention to her. And after we’re done with coffee, she has to have help with everything. Do you have a phone book? A nail file? Can you help me book theatre tickets on the Internet? Do you have a sewing machine? I want to sew a pair of trousers. I need to dye my hair – can I do it in your bathroom? Can I borrow the phone? How does my mobile work? Can you read the instructions out loud so we can go over them, step by step?

‘And she’s completely oblivious to the fact that we might have other things to do. If I tell her I’ve had a tough day at work, she waves it aside. Be glad you have a job, she’ll say. Or if, in a weak moment, I ask for her support because Katrina and I have quarrelled, she’ll tell me: Be glad you have a wife – that there are two of you. Just think about me. I’ve always been a single mother. She forgets, of course, that she was always the one to dump every single boyfriend she ever had while we were growing up.’

The person I’m talking to is starting to look more and more puzzled. As if it’s hard to believe that what I’m saying is true. But it is. Every word of it. And now I’m really getting started. Even though it hurts, it’s great to say all this shit out loud. I’ve never done that before.

‘The worst thing is that no matter what I do for her, she’s never satisfied. If I help her with her shopping, then drive her home and unload all the groceries, she still asks me to stay and cook dinner. If I refuse, I know that she’ll be unhappy with me when I leave. If I go to visit her and bring along a bottle of wine as a surprise, she’ll curse me for not bringing a whole case. No matter what I do, it’s never enough. The strangest part is that the more I serve her, the more dissatisfied she is.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The more she gets, the more she wants. Her demands increase the more effort I make. She doesn’t think like a normal person would: OK, now I’ve received so much help that I can be content for a while. She just can’t do that. As soon as one task is finished, you have to start on the next one.’

‘Why do you keep on doing things for her? You’re just encouraging her behaviour. Why don’t you ever say no?’

‘I don’t know. That’s just the way it’s always been. And I’ve learned not to protest. The minute I disagree with her or offer any sort of objection, she gets furious. She can’t stand to be contradicted. Then she raises her voice and gets more and more worked up. She talks non-stop, her voice gets louder and louder and she repeats herself like a parrot. It’s so unpleasant and she’s so unreasonable that I’d rather not have that happen. I learned that early on.’

‘Can’t you explain to her how you feel?’

‘I’ve dreamed of doing that. Mamma’s inability to listen has sometimes made me fantasize about tying her to a chair, taping her mouth shut and forcing her to hear me. Then I would tell her everything. What my childhood was like and how I felt about her behaviour. I would give her concrete examples so she would understand. She would have to sit on that chair, her hands and feet bound and with thick duct tape over her mouth, and she’d be forced to take in every word.’

‘Why do you think you have this fantasy?’

‘Deep inside I may still have a naive hope that everything will be OK. That she will finally see me, understand me, and show me some respect. That we will connect somehow.’ I hear myself sigh heavily. ‘Soon I won’t be able to stand this any longer.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just what I said. I won’t be able to stand it.’

‘And what are you going to do about it?’

‘I have to do something. That much I know.’

‘What do you have to do?’

I see the nervous expression but choose not to answer.

THE FIRE OUT in Holmhällar confirmed Knutas’s suspicions. The perpetrator they were looking for was after Veronika Hammar and no one else.

The entire investigative team was present at the morning meeting, and there was a charged atmosphere in the room when Knutas began.

‘At two fifteen this morning, a call came in, reporting that a cabin was on fire out near Holmhällar. It was a neighbour named Olof Persson who made the call. He has a farm a couple of kilometres away. He saw the glow of the fire in the sky and drove over to find the cabin completely engulfed in flames. One person was injured in the fire, and it was none other than Veronika Hammar, the very person we’ve been looking for. She was suffering from smoke inhalation and was taken to hospital. The reason we didn’t track her down at the cabin is that she’s not the owner. She merely uses the place, although apparently she’s been going there for more than thirty years.’

‘Has anyone interviewed her yet?’ asked Smittenberg.

‘Yes, but only briefly. She says that she was woken by the fire. By then the whole cabin was in flames. She could think of only one thing, and that was to get out, which she managed to do, and without suffering any burns. She breathed in a lot of smoke, but apparently she’ll be released from hospital later today.’

‘How is she doing?’ asked Wittberg.

‘She’s upset and in shock. She didn’t manage to save any of her belongings, and she lost a lot of possessions that had sentimental value for her. She’s also scared. She says that she saw someone on the property a few hours before the fire started.’

‘Someone who didn’t want to be seen?’

‘Exactly. The techs are out at the cabin now, although it’ll be a while before they’re able to make a more thorough search. But they’ve already phoned to say that they found a petrol can and some rags, so we have to assume that it was arson.’

‘Are there any witnesses?’ asked Smittenberg.

‘No, none so far, except for the farmer who called the police. And Veronika’s cabin was the only one in the area that was occupied, at least as far as we know.’

‘I’m going out there as soon as the meeting is over,’ said Erik Sohlman. ‘It’s quite a big piece of land. It might be possible to find evidence scattered around, if it hasn’t been destroyed by the firefighting efforts.’

For a moment no one spoke.

‘OK,’ Jacobsson said then as she looked at her colleagues seated around the table. ‘Shall we focus our efforts on the theory that Veronika Hammar is the sole intended victim? That Viktor Algård died by mistake?’

‘And we stop working on any aspects that only have connections with Algård, right?’ Wittberg added. ‘Including the assault at the club and the conference centre?’

‘Yes, at least for now,’ Knutas agreed. ‘We need to concentrate on finding the person who seems to have some motive for harming Veronika Hammar.’

‘What about the wife?’ asked Wittberg. ‘Elisabeth Algård. How should we deal with her?’

‘She’s still a person of interest, of course,’ Jacobsson replied. ‘She could very well be a prime suspect, trying to get rid of her rival.’

‘Sure,’ said Knutas. ‘Let’s bring her in for another interview, right after the meeting.’ He turned to Jacobsson. ‘Have you found out anything new about Veronika Hammar?’

‘Not really, although we already know quite a lot about her,’ said Jacobsson, leafing through her notes. ‘As we found out before, she’s been divorced for many years. Her ex-husband died in a car accident twenty years ago. They were already divorced by then. She has four grown children. Two of them live here on Gotland, and two of them live in Stockholm. She’s friends with one of her neighbours, and she has two sisters, one on Gotland and one in Stockholm, whom she sees once in a while. She has a few colleagues who are also personal friends.’

‘OK, we need to interview everyone in Veronika’s family and social circle. Including neighbours and artist friends. She probably belongs to some sort of art society or association. Also the people who live in the summer-house area in Holmhällar. We may find an important lead out there. I’m planning to go and see Sten Bergström. He lives right nearby, so I want to talk to him again. As far as her children are concerned, we need to interview them as soon as possible.’

JOHAN WAS WOKEN by someone shaking him. He blinked at the light, and at first he had no idea where he was. Then he remembered. Last night at the Solo Club.

Afterwards he’d gone back to the office and crashed on the sofa. He was staring up at a face black with soot. It took him a second before he recognized who it was.

‘Wake up. I’ve been ringing and ringing your mobile. You’d probably just go on snoozing even if the sky was falling.’

‘Calm down,’ he groaned.

He sat up, yawned and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He had a terrible taste in his mouth. Then he stared in surprise at Pia.

‘Have you seen what you look like?’

‘Some people have been working while you’ve been lying here dreaming. Did you go out on the town last night? Or to some party?’

‘I wish. No, I was at the Solo Club, taking care of drunk little girls. What’s going on?’

Pia’s face was as black as the eyeliner she used. Her hair stuck out even more than usual, and her clothes were wrinkled and covered with black specks. The streaks on her neck matched her black mascara.

‘A cabin burned down out near Holmhällar.’

‘And?’

‘It was arson, and a woman was injured. I thought we could at least get some pictures for the wire service. I was awake when the call came in, and I happened to be down by Sudret, so I managed to take pictures while the cabin was still burning, plus I interviewed the fire chief. Then I waited for the crime techs to arrive and got one of them to confirm that they’d found a petrol can on the property along with several rags. Unfortunately, I missed the ambulance that came for the injured woman.’

‘Do you know how serious her injuries are?’

‘The fire chief thought she was just suffering from minor smoke inhalation. I called the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell me anything, of course. And by the way, it turned out to be a lucky break that I went out there.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The cabin doesn’t belong to just anybody, let me tell you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Veronika Hammar was living there. You know – the artist who does those sheep paintings that they sell at Stora Torget? Sheep out in the pasture, back-lit sheep, sheep on the beach…’

‘Oh, right. Sure, I know those paintings.’

‘Well, she’s the one who was injured. And do you know who she was having an affair with?’

‘No.’

‘Viktor Algård. She’s the secret mistress.’

Johan slowly put down his coffee cup.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘How sure?’

‘Absolutely positive. I have a reliable source.’

‘We need two sources. Independent of each other.’

‘I don’t know whether that’s really necessary in this case.’ Pia had a sly look on her face.

‘Why not?’

‘My source is very close to the individual in question. I got the information from Andreas. You know – the sheep farmer.’

‘So?’

‘His last name is Hammar.’

Johan stared at his colleague, dumbfounded.

‘You’re dating Veronika Hammar’s son?’

‘Your powers of deduction are impressive.’

Johan turned on his computer and read the wire service news. All of the newspapers had printed pictures of the fire on the front page. Nowhere did it say that the cabin belonged to Veronika Hammar or that there was any connection between the fire and the murder of Viktor Algård.

‘But if the cabin belonged to Veronika and she was his secret girlfriend, then it sounds like the fire could have been attempted murder,’ said Johan. ‘Which means that the person who killed Algård is now after Veronika Hammar.’

‘Very smart, Sherlock. Now you get it.’

Pia turned to her computer to upload the pictures.

VERONIKA HAMMAR HAD A private room at the far end of the corridor. The ward nurse had warned Knutas that the patient was exhausted and would probably be kept in hospital another day for observation. He gently knocked on the door before entering the room. He gave a start when he caught sight of the woman lying in the bed. Veronika looked as if she had aged ten years since he last saw her. She wore no make-up, her hair was uncombed, and she had on a white hospital gown that was partly visible above the yellow blanket. She seemed to have shrunk even smaller, looking like an injured little bird with no strength left. Her throat was wrinkled, her lips chapped. She lay there motionless with her eyes closed as he came in.

‘Hello,’ he said quietly.

No reaction. He patted her hand. She gave a start and opened her eyes.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you. My name is Anders Knutas, and I’m head of the crime division here. We’ve met once before.’

‘I know who you are. I may be suffering from smoke inhalation, but I haven’t lost my memory.’ Her voice was sharp and dry.

Knutas pulled over a chair and sat down.

‘Could you tell me what happened?’

The frail woman sighed and pushed herself up into a sitting position, motioning impatiently for him to help her put two pillows behind her back. Then she rang for the nurse and asked for a glass of water.

‘The fire woke me up. It was horrible, just horrible. The room was very hot, and I saw thick smoke seeping in around the door. I broke the window and climbed out. After that, all I could do was sit and watch the whole house burn to the ground. With everything inside. All of my things, all of my memories…’

She didn’t look at him as she talked. She kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Tears began running down her cheeks. Knutas waited before asking any more questions. The nurse came in with the glass of water and then left again. He shifted nervously on the chair. This was an uncomfortable situation, but since Veronika showed no sign that she would stop crying, he continued with the interview.

‘Did you see or hear anything suspicious? Did you notice any strangers in the area?’

‘I went out to the cabin the day before yesterday. I was worn out after everything that had happened – with Viktor dying and then the police interview and all the neighbours staring at me and whispering. It was too much. I went out there to escape, and I didn’t tell a soul where I was going. I don’t usually set foot out in the country until Whitsun because I hate being alone, so I’m sure nobody thought that’s where I’d go. But right from the start I had the feeling that someone was out there. Both when I took a walk and later when I went back to the cabin. Last night, before the fire started, I was convinced that there was a prowler on the property.’

‘Did you see anything?’

‘No, but it seemed that a shadow passed by outside the window. It made me nervous, and I know that I can always trust my intuition. Someone was out there. I’m sure of it.’

‘What’s your interpretation of what happened?’

‘Some madman is out to get me. There’s no doubt in my mind.’

‘How can you be so sure about that?’

Finally the woman lying in bed turned to look at him. Her expression was incredulous.

‘Surely it has to be obvious, even to the police,’ she said caustically. ‘Someone set the cabin on fire while I was inside. That means the arson was intended to kill me. I was supposed to die in the blaze. My first thought was that it had to be Viktor’s wife, Elisabeth, who did it. First she killed her husband and then she tried to kill me.’

‘That leads me to my next question,’ said Knutas. ‘During the party at the conference centre you were given a drink from an unknown admirer. Do you remember that?’

Veronika Hammar looked confused.

‘Yes, I think so,’ she said uncertainly.

‘It was a strawberry daiquiri, non-alcoholic.’

‘So?’

‘Did you taste the drink?’

Silence filled the room as Knutas tensely studied the woman. She bit her lip and turned to look up at the ceiling again.

‘I don’t really remember… Did I? I had the drink in my hand, but then I had to go to the loo, so I gave it to Viktor. I don’t think I even took a sip.’

‘And then you parted and didn’t see each other again. Is that right?’

‘That’s right. I… do you mean that…?’

‘The drink was probably poisoned.’

‘So it was intended for me?’ Veronika pressed her hands to her chest. She looked stunned, and her voice shook as she went on: ‘So you’re saying that the murderer was after me right from the start? That Viktor died by mistake? That’s terrible!’

‘Why didn’t you tell us about this before, at the first interview?’

‘It simply didn’t occur to me. I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘You said that the last time you saw Viktor was when he took your drink and you went to the ladies’ room. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you didn’t see him again that night?’

Veronika shook her head. Knutas didn’t take his eyes off her.

‘Then can you explain to me why the crime scene is practically covered with your fingerprints?’

Veronika’s reaction was instantaneous and unexpected.

She stared at him in dismay for several seconds before she shrieked: ‘Stop it! I can’t take this any more! I’m a fragile person. I can’t handle this sort of thing!’

Tears poured out, and now she was wailing, not just crying. The woman’s unexpected outburst nearly frightened Knutas out of his wits.

‘All right, take it easy,’ he urged her, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything. You must realize that we need to know exactly what happened.’ He patted her clumsily on the back.

‘First somebody kills the love of my life, then someone sneaks up and sets fire to my cabin, and now you’re trying to make me a suspect! There bloody well has to be a limit to what a person has to endure. There has to be a limit even for me!’

‘Come on now,’ said Knutas in his gentlest tone of voice. ‘I’m not accusing you, but you need to tell me what you were doing in that room. Did you find him there?’

Veronika sniffed and coughed. The door opened and a nurse stuck her head in.

‘Everything all right in here?’

‘Yes, we’re fine.’ Knutas waved her away.

The nurse cast an enquiring glance at Veronika, who nodded. That seemed to satisfy her, and she closed the door again.

Knutas refilled Veronika’s glass with water from the small sink in the room. Then he tore off a piece of paper towel.

‘All right now,’ he murmured, as if speaking to a child. ‘Dry your tears and then let’s work this out, once and for all.’

‘OK,’ she whimpered. ‘I didn’t do anything. It’s just been too much to take.’

‘I understand.’

He handed her the glass and she drank the water greedily.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘At the end of the party – at the conference centre, I mean – I went to get my coat from the cloakroom, and then I looked around for Viktor. I got lost in the corridors but finally I found the room downstairs where we were supposed to meet. I went inside and saw a light coming from the lift a short distance away. The doors were open.’

She covered her face with her hands, stammering out the words.

‘And there he was. Lying on the floor. Not moving. I went over, thinking that he was alive. His face was turned away. But when I got closer, I realized that he was dead.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I panicked. I yanked open the nearest door and rushed home. I was terrified. I thought the murderer might still be in the room and would come after me.’

‘But you didn’t think about calling the police?’

‘I was drunk and exhausted. I wasn’t thinking straight. No one knew about our affair, and I couldn’t see why everybody should have to find out about it. And nothing could change what had already happened. My Viktor was dead.’

‘If what you’re telling me is the truth, it casts a whole new light on the case.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The fire, your explanation of why your fingerprints were at the crime scene, and everything else. It strips away any suspicions we may have had about you.’

‘What do you mean? That I’m no longer a suspect?’

‘That’s right,’ said Knutas, puzzled to see that the woman lying in the bed suddenly seemed to cheer up. ‘In fact, I’d say you’re free and clear.’

‘Are you saying that you seriously thought I was behind all this? Responsible for killing the love of my life? The man I’d finally met after an entire lifetime of dealing with miserable jerks? Because that’s what you are, the whole lot of you! It’s a chilling thought that the police would come to such an infantile conclusion: that I was a cold-blooded murderer who would kill my own dream. Unbelievable!’

Veronika Hammar was now sitting up in bed, shouting at the top of her lungs. Suddenly she didn’t seem fragile at all.

‘How dare you come here and accuse me of first one crime and then another! Here I am, suffering from smoke inhalation, the victim of arson, and I could just as easily have died in that fire. And you have the nerve to barge in here and accuse me of murder! Get out! I want you out of here! Get out, and I don’t ever want to set eyes on you again! You fucking cop! Go to hell!’

Knutas was astonished not only by the woman’s sudden outburst but by the strength of her voice.

Within seconds two nurses came running into the room and tried to calm their patient, who continued to scream and cry and wave her arms about.

They glared at Knutas but didn’t say a word to him.

In the midst of all the commotion, he left the room, relieved to make his escape.

ELISABETH ALGÅRD WAS INTERVIEWED by the police on Friday, but nothing new came of it. She had an alibi for the night of the fire since she was in Stockholm with her children. They had gone to see a film, then to a restaurant, and she had stayed overnight with her daughter. Knutas had never believed that she had had anything to do with the murder; there was something about her that made him doubt she could be the killer. And his gut feeling was usually right. At least when it came to his work.

No one had witnessed the setting of the fire, but the techs found ignition points at several different places inside the cabin. They had also recovered a petrol can and some rags. A neighbour who was out walking his dog had noticed a motorcycle parked outside the Pensionat Holmhällar, which was just a stone’s throw from the cabin. The bed and breakfast was closed at this time of year, and the car park was usually deserted. Unfortunately, the man couldn’t identify the model of the motorcycle, nor was he able to recall the licence number.

Veronika Hammar had been discharged from the hospital and was given an escort to her home on Tranhusgatan inside the ring wall. The police had installed a security alarm and added an extra lock to her front door. For the next few days she would be under police surveillance around the clock. An unmarked police car was present at all times outside her home. The authorities were hoping that the perpetrator might turn up over the weekend when he realized that once again he had failed to kill her.

As soon as the meeting was over, Knutas and Jacobsson left to interview Veronika’s son, Andreas.

Andreas Hammar owned one of the biggest sheep farms in southern Gotland. His property was on the road between Havdhem and Eke. His house wasn’t built in the typical Gotland style; instead, it was a stone villa that looked more as if it belonged in Provence. The yellow stucco was flaking off in places, and the roof needed to be replaced. In front was a beautiful veranda with stately pillars and a flower garden. Two border collies were lying on the front lawn, keeping an eye on the chickens pecking at the ground.

Knutas had called ahead to tell him they were coming. Andreas Hammar said that he was very busy weighing the ewes, so they’d have to meet in the farmyard and talk as best they could while he continued to work. He didn’t have time to take a break.

When Knutas and Jacobsson parked, the collies began barking and a large man appeared from around the corner of the house. He wore blue overalls and heavy boots. He peered at them from under the visor of his cap and gave them a less than enthusiastic greeting.

‘Follow me in your car,’ he told the officers.

They drove along a tractor path into the fields next to the house and then stopped near a gate. Hundreds of sheep were out in the pasture and they came trotting from all directions, making an enormous din. Knutas watched in fascination as the huge flock gathered in a matter of minutes and came running towards them en masse. More disciplined than soldiers, he thought. A lorry was parked near the field. Inside the pasture, two smaller areas had been fenced off. The two dogs helped herd the sheep into the first enclosure. Andreas then shoved one sheep at a time through a chute that was covered with chicken wire and into the next pen, which was so small that there was barely enough room for the single sheep with its thick coat of wool. On the floor of the pen was a scale. It was a matter of getting the sheep to stand still for the few seconds required to register the animal’s weight. Jacobsson helped to steer the sheep into the chute and then hold them still while Andreas wrote down the weight in his notebook. Then he pushed the sheep back into the pasture. Some of the animals submitted to the procedure without protest, while others panicked and did everything possible to get away. Occasionally a sheep would go berserk and look as if it might break its spindly legs in a vain attempt to escape. Jacobsson had her hands full trying to help, and after a few minutes she was soaked with sweat.

‘That’s what happens,’ Andreas explained. ‘They panic as soon as they’re alone. They’re sensitive animals, highstrung, but smarter than most people think.’

Feeling impatient, Knutas began the interview.

‘Why didn’t you mention that your mother might be at the summer house when we told you that we were looking for her?’

‘It never occurred to me. She never goes out there until the Whitsun holiday, because she’s terribly afraid of the dark. She hates being there unless other people are around.’

Knutas cast a dubious glance at the farmer, who continued working unperturbed. For the moment he decided to accept the man’s explanation and went on: ‘What sort of relationship do you have with your mother?’

‘Parents are parents.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You don’t have a choice who your parents are, do you? So there’s really not much to think about.’

‘And your siblings?’

‘I hardly ever see them, and these days none of them spends much time with Mamma. Mats and Mikaela never see her at all, and Simon is depressed and has shut everyone out of his life. Including Mamma, as much as he’s been able to. Mats grew up with a foster family and never had any real contact with Mamma. My sister Mikaela broke off all communication with her years ago.’

‘That’s what we heard. But why?’

‘Hmm. I suppose she just couldn’t take it any more. My mother is… how should I put it? Extremely demanding.’

‘In what way?’

‘She doesn’t really have a life of her own, so she expects her children to fill the void. She phones every five minutes, asking for help with all sorts of things. As if she constantly needs to be acknowledged. But the problem is that even if you do a lot for her, it’s never enough. She always wants more. She also interferes in our lives and has an opinion about absolutely everything, from what to name a child to which curtains are best suited to a kitchen. I think Mikaela finally had enough. It’s as simple as that. Mamma takes up a lot of room and sucks up too much energy. My sister couldn’t stand it any more. She has her own family to think about, her own children. She needs to spend her time and energy on them.’

Knutas was surprised at how well the farmer was able to express himself. The next second he was ashamed for having such a stereotyped view of the man.

‘What about Simon?’

‘Well, he has his own story. A while back he split up with his live-in girlfriend Katrina, and after that he sank into a deep depression. He’s been living temporarily in a flat in Stockholm that belongs to a friend. I don’t think he’s capable of doing much of anything at the moment.’

‘Do you know where he is right now?’

‘I have no idea. Sometimes he disappears for a while. No one knows where he goes.’

‘So what about you? How do you deal with your mother if she’s so difficult?’

‘Who said that I deal with her? I don’t think anybody can handle that woman.’

He shook his head as he leaned forward to check the tag on the ear of the next sheep to be weighed.

‘It’s nothing but constant trouble with Mamma, and it never ends. Whenever one problem is solved, the next one arrives like a letter in the post.’

‘How often do you see each other?’

‘Every once in a while, usually only if I stop by to have coffee with her. We talk about meaningless things for an hour, and then I leave. I just let all her drivel run off me like water off a duck’s back. Simon and Mikaela have had a harder time of it. They’re like sponges, soaking up all her complaints. They end up feeling annoyed and insulted. They have a symbiotic relationship with her. If she feels bad, they do too; if she’s happy, then they are too. It’s never been like that for me.’

‘Why do you think that is?’

‘Maybe because I’m older and had time to get to know Pappa before my parents were divorced and he disappeared out of our lives. I managed to form my own impression of him, and of Mamma and their relationship. I’ve always known that things weren’t nearly as one-sided as Mamma tries to make them out to be.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t explain it. And I don’t really want to talk about it.’

‘Do you know whether your mother has ever received any threats, or whether someone would want to harm her?’

‘Threats? I’ve never heard about anything like that. And she would have mentioned it, because she always wants to get us involved in the smallest details of her daily life. Like telling us that she burned the soup or that she can’t find her slippers.’

‘What about someone who might want to harm her?’

Andreas gave Knutas an inscrutable look.

‘A person may have the will, but that’s not always enough,’ he said tersely.

Then he went back to his work. The next sheep was waiting to be weighed.

WALPURGIS EVE WAS the most beautiful it had been in years. Usually the day was cold with a strong wind, but this time the sun was shining and it was so warm that it felt as if summer was just around the corner.

Johan had worked all weekend putting together reports for both Regional News and the national news broadcasts, so he’d been given the day off. It had been hectic for both Johan and Pia after Alexander Almlöv died. The outcry about the assault case had overshadowed the murder of Viktor Algård. Big demonstrations were staged in Visby, protesting against violence and the politicians’ lack of interest in providing services for young people. Instead, they had voted to shut down recreation centres, lay off school counsellors and cut funding for education, after-school programmes and sports activities. The investment in the new conference centre had once again come under fire. How could anyone justify spending millions of kronor for that sort of building when the island’s young people had nowhere to go when they weren’t in school?

Johan and Pia had compiled reports that were broadcast as part of the national news seen all over Sweden. The series they had planned was now put on the fast track; at the same time, it was given much more space in the news programmes than they could ever have imagined. Johan noted with satisfaction that so much attention was being focused on youth violence that now all the editorial pages and news programmes were concentrating on how to deal with the problem. But everything came at a price. This time it had cost a sixteen-year-old boy his life.

Johan had hardly even had time to miss Emma and Elin. But now that he was on his way out to Fårö, he could barely contain himself. He stood on the deck of the ferry with the sea wind blowing in his face, finally relaxed enough that he could stop thinking about work. He was going to devote himself to what was most important – namely, his family.

Emma’s parents lived at the northernmost tip of the island, near the great sand dune called Norsta Auren. Their white limestone house stood all alone, with only a low wall separating the property from the beach. On one side was a bird promontory, which attracted ornithologists wanting to study the enormous number of seabirds that occupied the spit of land. On the other side of the house was the long, sandy beach, which extended for several kilometres. The light-coloured, fine-grained sand on the beach, which was several hundred metres wide in places, reminded visitors of sun-drenched July days in the Caribbean or South Pacific. The shoreline curved in a gentle arc, reaching all the way to the lighthouse, which was Fårö’s furthest outpost.

When Johan turned his car on to the bumpy, narrow road leading to the house, Emma and Elin came walking towards him, hand in hand. He stopped the car and jumped out. He saw Elin’s joyous face and Emma’s warm eyes. He pulled both of them into his arms, giving them a big hug.

After dinner with Emma’s parents, they took a bike ride out to Ekeviken, a lovely beach and summer-house area about a kilometre to the south. All the preparations for Walpurgis Eve had been carefully made, and the bonfire would be lit at eight o’clock. During the past month, people who lived in the vicinity had gathered wood for the pyre, which now loomed, tall and stately, in the middle of the beach. The entire island was involved in the celebration. Small booths set up along the shore were selling sausages, coffee and Gotland specialities such as leg of mutton, saffron pancakes, honey and blue raspberry jam. The vendors were also offering lambskins, ceramics and other handicrafts made on the island. Children dashed about, tossing as many branches as they could find on to the pyre before it was lit.

A choir of young people wearing their white graduation caps was singing ‘Winter Spills Out of Our Mountains’. Not that there were any real mountains on Gotland. The highest point was Lojsta Heath, which was no more than 82 metres above sea level.

Johan squeezed Emma’s hand. This holiday was something he sorely needed.

The last notes of the song faded, and then a former cabinet minister, who lived on Fårö in the summertime, climbed up on the improvised stage. He was a tall, blond and athletic man in his forties who seemed to have everything going for him. He was youthful, charming and also terribly handsome, at least according to the ladies, including Emma. The hundred or so people who had gathered fell silent, turning their attention to the stage. Even the kids who had been romping around with their dogs stopped to listen. There was something magical about the man; with his golden locks and hand-knitted sweater, he seemed the very epitome of the healthy, sporty and confident Swede. As if he’d stepped right out of the pages of a Dressmann catalogue, thought Johan sourly.

Of course his speech was a big hit, filled as it was with warmth and a sense of commitment. Johan was amused to see that Emma looked utterly enraptured as she applauded along with everyone else.

The former cabinet minister concluded his performance by tossing the first burning torch on to the pyre while the choir sang another rendition of their springtime song. Everyone joined in, and an enchanted mood settled over the crowd. The fire rose up towards the sky, which had now grown dark, and the flames glittered in the reflection on the water’s surface. The words of the song drifted out over the sea, and Johan was again filled with the joy of being a family man. He hadn’t been to a Walpurgis Eve celebration since he was a boy. He put his arm around Emma and kissed the top of her head.

Her hair smelled of shampoo and wood smoke.

EARLY AFTERNOON. THE rain is beating against the windowpanes.

I was woken a moment ago by the insistent beeping of a refuse lorry backing up. It was entering the ugly alleyway outside my bedroom window.

I have a merciless encounter with my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My face is mute and blank. I’m trying to spare myself. My eyes are two black stones, without intensity or life. My lips are dry and cracked from not speaking or having contact with anyone else. The pills I take dry out my body from the inside, and my skin feels more taut every day that passes. My hands are chapped. As my body dries up, my brain is also shrivelling. I’m finding it increasingly hard to keep my thoughts straight; they keep merging, creating incomprehensible patterns inside my head, impossible to dissect. In most cases, I just leave them there in a tangled heap, like a ball of yarn that has unrolled and then become hopelessly snarled. Impenetrable.

I’ve been sitting in the kitchen, watching the refuse lorry and all the activity surrounding that rumbling behemoth that is now blocking the entire street. The kitchen window faces the same alley. Sometimes it’s liberating not to look at the view that’s visible from all the other windows in the flat.

Two men in overalls come out of the back door of the restaurant. They fling big black bags into the maw of the lorry. Imagine if you could do the same thing with your own shit. Just dump it somewhere and then start over afresh. Shit you never asked for, which was simply foisted upon you. And there was nothing you could do to escape it.

On the other side of the alley I can see people in the windows. Office drones at their desks, staring at their computers. Every now and then they pick up the phone, lean back and stare listlessly out of the window. They drink endless cups of coffee, pick their noses, unaware that they’re being watched. One man has a habit of sticking his hand down his crotch while he talks on the phone. Inside the waistband of his dapper-looking suit trousers. Then he holds his hand up to his nose. People are disgusting.

What sort of lives do they have, those people in that office? Who is loved or not loved? Are any of them happy? Do they like each other? I doubt it. People meet, have dinner together, go to various social functions, but how many of them really enjoy spending time with one another?

Like Mamma and my siblings. Birthday parties, Christmas Eve celebrations, the obligatory flower bouquets, comments, compliments. I used to think they were fun, but now I see things much more clearly. Do my siblings share my view? When I was younger, I took that for granted. Now I see reality differently. There are too many obstacles. We were never encouraged to take care of each other, to support one another. Instead, Mamma split us apart, making us feel like three isolated islands without any connection to each other, which made us all the more dependent on her.

Of course that was exactly what she wanted.

I don’t know how many times she has told me how wonderful my sister is and how much she loves her. More than anyone else. ‘She’s the apple of my eye,’ she once said to me, giving me an intent look. Then what does that make me? How does she expect me to respond? What does she want me to say, feel, think?

On the other hand, she doesn’t hesitate to complain, loud and clear. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand how he could say something like that to me, his own mother. Can you understand it? When I went to visit him, at the dinner table I asked him for some pickles, and all he said was: They’re in the fridge. Can you imagine that? I was supposed to get up and go and look for them myself in the refrigerator! I would never have treated my own mother that way. Another time I asked your sister to return the rug that I gave her because I decided it would look so nice in the living room now that I’ve had it repainted. But she got furious and told me it was hers to keep. Good Lord, after all I’ve done for her, and that’s the thanks I get?’

One day I have to listen to how adorable my siblings are; the next day I’m expected to comfort my mother because they’ve treated her so badly. And worst of all, they show her no gratitude. The same story, year in and year out. It never ends.

On top of everything else, we’re expected to put up with her constant reminders of what she has done for us. We’re supposed to be so bloody grateful, because of all the sacrifices she has made.

Mamma has always made it perfectly clear that she could have been a big star if it weren’t for us. She once sang on the radio, after all. If she hadn’t given up her career for her children, she could have been another Birgitta Andersson or Lill Lindfors. She was so gifted when she was young. A great dramatic talent. And she could really sing. She was simply amazing – none of her siblings could measure up to her. She was special. But no one saw her greatness, and no one discovered her glory. She received no encouragement at home. And we felt sorry for her, of course. How awful that nobody realized what a promising artist Mamma was. What an awful fate to give birth to us and then be forced to live on a desolate island in the Baltic, far from all the glamour and opportunities in the capital. The fact that things had gone relatively well for all of us – meaning that we had jobs and hadn’t ended up as drug addicts – was solely due to her efforts. If she hadn’t sacrificed herself like a lamb on the altar and squandered her unique talents on three snot-nosed kids, well…

In spite of how self-absorbed my mother was, for years I felt a great admiration for her. I hate duplicity. Even today, it’s not something I’ve been able to master.

I picture her in my mind. My beautiful mother who would hug me and kiss me and love me. And in the next second crush me. A remark, a glance, an expression of disapproval. She had dreams; she encouraged me to travel, to experience things and enjoy life. She was ill but she still helped me with my homework. Stroked my hair. Made me hot cocoa. What happened to all that?

We enjoying clowning around as we cleaned, and Mamma would laugh so hard that she had to double over when I teased her with the hose of the vacuum cleaner. I loved to play the buffoon for her. The best thing I knew was making her laugh.

She used to dance in the living room to Miriam Makeba’s song ‘Pata Pata’. Turning and spinning, her eyes closed as she twirled the skirt of her dress. She loved Mikis Theodorakis, Lill Lindfors and Gösta Linderholm. She sang loudly as she did the cleaning. And she looked so cute with a chic scarf wrapped around her blond hair, with those dark eyebrows of hers, and those pink lips.

She was always short of cash, but she liked to set the table with nice things and make it cosy with lighted candles. She made pizza capricciosa, she baked rolls, and she booked a holiday in the mountains even though we really couldn’t afford it. She wanted us to learn to ski, she said.

On Saturdays we would go into town to shop for groceries and buy a treat at the pastry shop. Mamma would buy fancy clothes for herself in the boutiques. We were allowed to drink Cokes through a straw and eat coconut buns. She laughed loudly, she always sang in the car, and she made delicious ham sandwiches to take to the beach. I loved to place my ear against her flat stomach, which always gurgled merrily. And she smelled so good. The skin under her chin was soft and smooth, and I felt so warm when she hugged me.

Her sobbing was heartbreaking. It split me apart.

When I was little, I thought she was perfect – an ideal human being. I was never ashamed of her. And everyone thought she looked so young. In my eyes, she was the most magnificent person in the whole world.

I don’t know what happened after that.

Whenever Mamma calls, I’m filled with sorrow, tenderness and loathing. I have to stop myself from slamming down the phone when I hear her voice. I force myself to suffer through the conversation. Limit my replies to a few words. Allow her to dump all of her complaints on me, as usual. I hold the receiver several centimetres away from my ear and try to think about something else. But my patience is wearing thin. The conversations have been getting shorter. I can’t stand to listen to her voice.

Soon I won’t be able to control myself any longer.

That inescapable thought keeps rumbling in the back of my mind, like an approaching thunderstorm. I dread what might happen when the storm breaks loose. When the lightning flashes in the sky and the clouds open up to send rain down upon us. Then there will be no turning back. Then all hope will be lost.

And then there will be only one option if I’m going to be free.

KNUTAS CELEBRATED WALPURGIS Eve with his family at the cottage in Lickershamn. They had a relaxing holiday playing cards, making a fire in the fireplace, eating good food, and taking walks along the shore. Just the four of them.

Normally they spent the Walpurgis holiday with good friends, but this year he and Lina had declined all invitations. Much to the disappointment of his elderly parents, they had even decided against the traditional 1 May dinner at their farm. And the twins weren’t allowed to bring along any friends, as they usually did. Knutas and Lina had agreed that they needed to shut out everything else so the family could spend some time together.

Knutas was nervous before they left, anxious about how things would go. He was uncertain how to act in order to regain Nils’s trust. If that was even possible. The stunned despair that he’d felt immediately after the big scene with his son had gradually subsided. But Nils’s words had left deep wounds, and he wondered if they’d ever heal.

After the fight they had both been polite but cautious towards each other. Knutas didn’t know if it would be wise to broach the subject again, or whether that might just make matters worse. He wished that Nils would take the first step towards reconciliation. When the kids were younger, he’d made sure he had a talk with them after he had yelled at them or they had argued. It was his responsibility as an adult to make things good again. He had always thought that the process of reconciliation was very important. But now he was unsure what would be best. It felt as if everything had been turned upside down. Deep in his heart, he probably thought that Nils should apologize for his cruel words. Provided he hadn’t really meant what he’d said, of course. But maybe he did. Knutas felt ill at the thought.

He wondered how this breach of trust had come about. He and Lina seldom fought, he didn’t have any sort of addiction problem, and he wasn’t a violent man. They had a good life together; he did his job and paid the bills. There was always food on the table, and they always attended the parent-teacher meetings at school. The family took a holiday trip every year, and they spent time at their summer cottage. They seldom said no if the children wanted money for the cinema or asked if they could invite friends home. How much could realistically be expected of parents?

He thought that he was always willing to listen to his kids. He made a point of asking them about school and sports practice. But he couldn’t very well have deep, therapeutic conversations with the kids every night before bed. That would be intolerable.

Apparently Nils had an entirely different view of things. Maybe even different from Petra. Knutas hadn’t yet dared ask his daughter about that. All he could do at the moment was to try to be as nice a father as he could be. Without acting too pushy.

He was sure that with time things would get better.

At any rate, the Walpurgis holiday had been pleasant and calm. There were no arguments, not even any minor spats between the twins. It was as if they were both feeling a bit subdued after what had happened. They played cards in the evening, and Nils even laughed once in a while. Each time he did, Knutas felt happy for a moment, but then his uneasiness returned. He noticed every gesture and glance, and tried to interpret each one.

He was finding it hard to really relax.

ON THE FIRST day back at work after the holiday, Knutas walked from police headquarters over to where Veronika Hammar lived on Tranhusgatan. The sun was out, and Visby’s streets were practically deserted. At this time of year the city is at its loveliest, he thought as he passed the high cliff. From there he had a view of the sea and the horizon. In the foreground stood the magnificent cathedral amid a cluster of picturesque buildings, medieval ruins and winding lanes. He went up the cathedral steps and continued along Biskopsgränd, past the ruins of St Clemens and over to Tranhusgatan, which ran parallel to the Botanical Gardens. Veronika lived in a small, whitewashed house that looked as if it had been built in the early 1900s. There was no one in sight. The police surveillance had been discontinued on the previous day, even though Knutas had tried to convince the county police commissioner to keep it in place until the end of the week. He was given the usual answer: lack of resources.

Knutas was dreading this meeting with Veronika Hammar, considering her outburst the last time he’d seen her. But he had still decided to go alone. If there were two officers, she might feel at a disadvantage, and he realized that with this particular woman it was essential to tread lightly. He had phoned her yesterday to say that he would be coming to see her. She had sounded friendly and amenable, as if she’d completely forgotten how their last meeting had ended.

He went up to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. He rang three more times and was just about to give up when the door opened a few inches.

‘I wanted to make sure who it was first. They took away the police surveillance, those stingy bastards,’ explained Veronika Hammar, looking at Knutas with a dull expression. Her hair was limp and lank. She was wearing an ugly pair of sweatpants and an old spotted cardigan that was missing its belt. This woman who was usually so elegantly attired looked as if she’d simply given up.

He greeted her politely, hoping that she wouldn’t see how concerned he was about her appearance. She led the way into the house. They walked through a lovely living room with ceiling beams and floral-patterned curtains and continued out to the terrace at the back. The sun was shining on the small courtyard, and they sat down at a patio table.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

Veronika smiled wanly.

‘Well, I’ll live. At least I hope so.’

Knutas studied her in silence as she served the coffee from an old-fashioned ceramic pot adorned with roses. He noticed that the cup she handed him wasn’t quite clean, but he took a sip anyway as he gathered his thoughts. Veronika seemed almost bewildered. The coffee was weak and barely lukewarm.

‘How have things been going since you got out of hospital?’

‘Fine. Thanks for asking.’

Knutas frowned. The impression he was getting from Veronika indicated that things were far from fine.

‘Have you noticed any strangers around here, or anything suspicious?’

‘You wouldn’t believe how many strange and unsavoury people there are wandering about. I haven’t wanted to leave the house since I got back from hospital.’

‘So how have you been managing?’

‘I ask my son, Andreas, to get groceries for me. He’s the only child that I have here on Gotland.’

She pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering. Then she pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her cardigan pocket and lit one. Knutas noticed that her hand was shaking.

‘Well, it was actually your children that I wanted to talk to you about. How would you describe your relationship with them?’

‘I live for my children and always have. They’re a real blessing, and I’m so lucky to have them. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t have lasted this long.’

Knutas shifted position uneasily.

‘Why don’t we start with Andreas. How do you view your relationship with him?’

‘It’s wonderful. He’s my safety net. I can always count on him, no matter what happens. He’s been a bachelor all these years since he moved away from home, but we’ve always had each other, and that has been a great support for me.’

‘So you’re saying that you’ve been single all these years too?’

Veronika gave him a disapproving look.

‘More or less, after I got divorced. Yes, I think you could say that.’

‘But weren’t you having an affair with Viktor Algård?’

‘My dear inspector, that had been going on for only a couple of months. We’d just met.’

Knutas stared at her pensively. When they last spoke, she had described Viktor as the love of her life and claimed that they were on the verge of getting married.

‘What about your other children? Simon, for example?’

‘He’s the one I’m closest to. We think so much alike, Simon and I. We understand each other.’

‘But he lives in Stockholm now.’

‘That’s just temporary. He had to get away for a while, you see. Away from that awful Polish woman he was living with. Or was she Hungarian? She treated him horribly, to tell you the truth. I could tell from the start that it wasn’t going to last.’

‘Why was that?’

She grimaced, her expression almost spiteful.

‘Well, my dear. First of all, they were polar opposites. Simon is a gentle and open person, just like me. But that Katrina was harsh and silent and uptight. Always sullen and surly. I’m really glad he’s rid of her.’

‘From what I understand, he’s not doing very well.’

‘And no wonder. She broke his spirit over the years. She was terribly domineering, and he was always having to dance to her tune. She ruled that home with an iron hand. You could see that the minute you stepped in the door. I’m sure he’ll be feeling better soon. And then he’ll come back here where he belongs. I’ve told him that he can live with me. I have plenty of room, you know.’

‘How often do you speak to each other?’

‘Every day on the phone.’

‘Every day?’

‘Yes. Ours is a special relationship. We understand each other. We’re on the same wavelength. He always knows what I mean. But it’s not good for him to be all alone over there in Stockholm.’

‘If you get along so well, why doesn’t he move in with you now? Then he’d be closer to his own son. What’s stopping him?’

‘My dear sir, that’s not really so surprising, is it? Simon is suffering from depression. He needs peace and quiet for a while. But soon he’ll be back on his feet, and then he’ll move back over here. I’m convinced of that.’

‘How long has he been gone?’

‘I don’t really remember. Now wait a minute, I think it’s been since Christmas.’

‘So over four months.’

Veronika Hammar didn’t reply. Her lips were pressed so tight that they were no more than a thin line.

‘What about your daughter Mikaela? How often do you see each other?’

‘Ah, yes, Mikaela.’ She sighed a bit and then smiled again. ‘My little daughter. She’s always gone her own way.’

‘She lives quite a distance from here. Is it difficult to stay in contact?’

‘Difficult? Why should it be difficult? Some people have children living in Australia.’

‘From what I understand, you never see each other. Is that right?’

‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be in touch with my daughter? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.’

She stood up abruptly and gathered up the coffee cups. Without a word she carried the dishes into the house. Knutas waited as he tried to decide how to proceed without risking another outburst. The sun was hot, and he was sweating under his jacket. He suddenly felt trapped in the small courtyard and wanted to leave. There was something very unpleasant about Veronika Hammar. She was unpredictable. It was impossible to foresee how she was going to react. Why had she denied so strongly that her daughter had broken off their relationship?

That was as far as he got with his muddled thought before Veronika appeared in the doorway, her expression tense.

‘I’d like you to leave now,’ she said, sounding stressed.

‘But I do have a few more questions,’ Knutas said. ‘How are things with your eldest son, Mats?’

A cloud passed over Veronika’s face. She had to gasp for air before she repeated her demand.

‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Get out of my house. Now,’ she snarled, spraying saliva.

Knutas stared at her in astonishment. He saw a hint of insanity in her eyes. This woman is off her rocker, he thought.

He stood up and slipped past her.

‘Thanks for the coffee,’ he said quietly.

AFTER HIS MEETING with Veronika Hammar, Knutas rang Jacobsson at the police station. She told him that everything was going smoothly, and his presence wasn’t immediately needed. He decided to pick up his car at headquarters and drive out to have a look at the site of the fire near Holmhällar. The techs had finished their search of the area without finding anything new, other than to reinforce the theory that the fire was the work of an arsonist. It had apparently started in the kitchen, which indicated that the perp had also been inside the cabin.

Knutas was frustrated by the fact that they didn’t have the faintest lead on a possible suspect. The perpetrator’s shadow kept dancing before his eyes but he couldn’t distinguish any features. There was no pattern. First a man was poisoned to death, and by all indications it was the wrong victim who had died. Now they were dealing with an attempted murder by arson. This was clearly not someone who was a hardened criminal or a cunning murderer. In fact, all the circumstances pointed to someone whose actions were prompted by intense emotions, someone who had a strong personal connection to Veronika Hammar. Maybe it’s one of her children, thought Knutas. Or else she has a relationship with somebody that we don’t know about yet. He needed to talk to her again. And her children too. He would have preferred to meet all four of them in person, but her son Simon refused to answer any phone calls. And both Mats and Mikaela were still away.

Knutas drove south along the coast road. It was a beautiful day, offering a hint of the summer that would soon arrive. The birches were sprouting leaves, and spring flowers were just starting to come up along the road.

As he approached the exit for Holmhällar, he happened to think about Sten Bergström. Had anyone interviewed the man again? Knutas reminded himself to check with Rylander. Viktor Algård’s former competitor lived only a kilometre or so from the summer-house area where the fire had occurred. Was that just a coincidence? Maybe Bergström’s fight with Algård over clients was not the only thing he was hostile about. He was about the same age as Veronika Hammar, and they were practically neighbours out here in the country. When they interviewed Bergström, he and Karin had confined their questions to the conflict between the two companies owned by Algård and Bergström. Could there be something else behind their animosity?

There was one other person that he kept thinking about: Elisabeth Algård. After the initial interview, he had essentially crossed her name off the list of potential suspects. She did have an alibi for the night of the fire, but was it possible that he had let her off too easily? He was well aware that it could be disastrous for a detective to lock himself into one line of thought at the beginning of an investigation.

The police in Stockholm had finally got hold of Veronika’s son, Simon, and had gone over to talk to him. The interview had produced very little. The officers reported that he seemed physically weak and in a much too fragile psychological state to have committed a murder. That’s one way of looking at it, thought Knutas sarcastically. Normally the conclusion would be just the opposite. People committed murder precisely because they were in a fragile psychological state.

Before reaching the Holmhällar bed and breakfast, he turned on to a narrow forest road. The area around the cabin was still cordoned off.

Knutas spent a long time walking through the rubble on Veronika Hammar’s property. All that remained of the cabin were the soot-covered foundations. He looked in the direction of the sea. It wasn’t visible from where he stood, but he could hear the roar of the surf. Knutas tried to conjure up the image of Veronika in this setting. Her contorted face appeared before him, as she’d looked during her outburst at the hospital. An emotionally unstable woman. Unpredictable and perhaps dangerous. Could she be the person behind all of this? He toyed with that thought as he made his way over to the charred remains of the cabin. A woman could easily have killed Viktor Algård. Death by poisoning required no physical strength and it was quick and effective, with no blood.

Veronika had a complicated relationship with her children, and that was putting it mildly. Her parents were dead, as was her ex-husband who was father to three of the children. When Jacobsson had looked closer into Veronika’s family history, she had been unable to find out who was the father of the eldest son, Mats. Veronika had attended the party at the conference centre, and she had just started having an affair with the victim. Her art studio was located in the courtyard where Algård had his own pied-à-terre. She had definitely been at the crime scene, since her fingerprints were everywhere. She could have staged the whole episode with the cocktail. It was true that the bartender had confirmed that he’d served her a drink, but who was to say that Veronika hadn’t asked someone to make the request and then doctored the drink herself?

And she might have a good motive. Maybe Viktor Algård had changed his mind and decided to stay with his wife. Jealousy was a common reason behind a murder.

An enraged woman who felt hurt, insulted, and betrayed – and on top of all that was emotionally unstable – might be capable of anything. That sort of person could be seriously dangerous.

Knutas scanned the scene of destruction. Had Veronika Hammar gone so far as to sacrifice her own cabin in order to fool the police?

Questions whirled through his mind.

Feeling discouraged, he walked back to his car.

WHEN KNUTAS RETURNED from his expedition to Holmhällar, he ate a late lunch at his desk, wolfing down two cheese sandwiches with a cup of coffee. Then he slowly spun his chair as he filled his pipe. He was trying to gather all the impressions from the day, all the thoughts he’d had about Veronika Hammar’s odd personality.

The police had interviewed two of her sons. Neither of them had an alibi. What sort of motive could Andreas possibly have?

The relationship between him and his mother seemed basically chilly and sporadic, but it wasn’t any worse than in many other families. He hadn’t been willing to say very much during the interview.

Through an aid worker in Bolivia, Jacobsson had finally managed to get in touch with the daughter, Mikaela. She seemed to have left behind both Gotland and her mother for good. A few years back she had broken off all contact with Veronika and had never tried to resume their relationship. She said that she simply couldn’t take any more of her mother’s martyr act, which wreaked havoc with her own life and had done so ever since she was a child. Of the four children, she was the most candid, explaining that her mother had nearly annihilated her. Veronika lacked any sense of boundaries, and she had prevented Mikaela from living her own life. Or rather, a decent life, as the daughter expressed it.

As a teenager, Mikaela had started cutting herself, and she had also been anorexic for many years. She didn’t want to risk developing any more psychological problems now that she was responsible for her own children.

Was it possible that she might have decided to take her revenge? She’d been away ever since her mother’s cabin had burned to the ground. Was that merely a coincidence, or was it actually part of a carefully devised plan? Knutas still hadn’t met her in person. She was expected home on the following day. Veronika’s eldest son Mats was also supposed to come home from his trip abroad within the next few days.

The youngest son Simon was perhaps the most likely candidate. He had closed up like a clam when the police in Stockholm had tried to interview him, but his former live-in girlfriend, Katrina, had been more than willing to talk about him. She said that she’d left Simon several months ago because she realized that his mother occupied too big a place in their life. And he was too weak to free himself from Veronika, always giving her priority over Katrina and their son Daniel. Finally she had come to the conclusion that things were never going to change. Simon then fled to Stockholm, where he was living in a borrowed flat. And he had sunk into a deep depression.

Knutas felt a strong urge to meet Veronika Hammar’s other children. He was literally itching with impatience.

He glanced at the clock. It was four fifteen.

There was still time.

I‘LL NEVER FORGET that day. The day when everything fell apart. I had left work around four in order to pick up Daniel from the day-care centre by four thirty. It was already dark. Christmas was approaching and everyone had lit the Advent stars that hung in the windows. To the delight of the children, it had been snowing for several days. Daniel was completely worn out after playing outside all day. They had gone sledding on the little hill behind the centre and made snowmen that were lined up in the snow-covered yard.

Daniel was allowed to sit in the pushchair all the way to the Konsum supermarket. We had to buy groceries because I was planning to make Falun sausages with macaroni. When we got home, I put my son in front of the TV to watch cartoons while I cooked. Katrina came home just before dinner was ready. When I gave her a hug in the doorway, I noticed that she looked pale and tired. But who doesn’t these days?

After dinner she let me relax while she cleared the table and filled the dishwasher. I watched her in silence. We never really talked much to each other. I thought that was just fine. I worked as a mechanic and she was a personal assistant. We lived a quiet life in a flat on Bogegatan. Katrina was from Hungary and had been in Sweden only six months when we met at the home of one of my co-workers. She was dark-haired and beautiful. The first thing I noticed about her was her smile. Those red lips and the dark eye make-up. Women on Gotland didn’t usually wear that much make-up. She was tall and slender, and she smiled at everyone. I’d never had a long-term relationship before, and hadn’t really been interested in having one. I liked doing my own thing without interference from anyone else. I enjoyed the silence in my flat and the solitude of eating my meals in front of the TV. At work, I kept to myself. I was doing fine, and nobody complained. I spent much of my free time at the gym, working out for several hours every other day. Those gleaming machines were my best friends. I exercised so hard that my body practically screamed, but I enjoyed the feeling of straining my muscles to the limit. That was how I could empty my mind of all thoughts and relax completely. Bodybuilding was my lifeline. Maybe it was my body that Katrina fell for. I can’t help thinking that was the case, even though I know it sounds bitter and most likely wasn’t true at all.

After we put Daniel to bed, we had our coffee in front of the TV, as usual. When the Swedish programme that we always watched was over, Katrina got up from the sofa and turned off the TV. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about,’ she said. I felt a jolt of excitement. My first thought was that she was pregnant again. I was eager to have another child and kept waiting for that to happen. Maybe a little sister for Daniel. A daughter. We hadn’t used any contraception after Daniel was born, and he would soon be three. I remember closing my eyes briefly, wanting to hold this moment in my heart. My eyes had filled with tears even before she came back to the sofa and sat down beside me.

She seemed to be having a hard time finding the right words. She took my hand and looked at me with a serious expression. Her face was almost translucent. I was filled with tenderness, and my gaze fell on her waist. Her raspberry-coloured T-shirt was tucked into her jeans and she wore a narrow, black belt. Very chic, as always. Nothing showed. Yet. Then she broke the silence. She spoke slowly, hesitantly. As if the words came from far away.

‘This isn’t going to work any more.’

I stared at her, uncomprehending. She looked away and swallowed hard. Then she cleared her throat and went on.

‘I love you so much. That’s not it. But we’re too different. Daniel and I aren’t a priority for you, and you allow your mother to take up too much space. She keeps worming her way into our life and I can’t take it any longer. I always have to share you with her. The minute she calls for help, you rush right over there. Every weekend she comes here. She’s poisoning our life. She never gives us any peace. Sometimes you talk to her four or five times in one day. I feel sick to my stomach every time the phone rings, because I’m afraid it’s your mother. I’ve tried to tell you this so many times before, but you never take it seriously. You just brush my concern aside. You let her intrude on our plans, you allow her to be rude to me, and you let her totally control you. I can’t take it any more. We can’t even have a holiday in peace. You’re a wonderful father to Daniel. That’s not it. It really isn’t.’

She squeezed my hand as if to underscore her words.

‘It’s because you either won’t or can’t free yourself from your mother in order to live your own life. I’m not saying that you should ignore her completely, but you need to see less of her. Not let her take up so much of your time. But you refuse to listen to me, and I don’t want to do this any more. I give up. You think she’s more important than I am. You think of her as the most important member of the family, not me and Daniel. I’ve been disappointed so many times, and it’s never going to change. I’ve been over and over this in my mind, thinking that we should stay together for Daniel’s sake, but I’ve decided that it’s not good for him if things are so bad between you and me. Children notice that sort of thing. We can share taking care of him. It’ll be fine. He can stay with you every other week. The important thing is that we remain friends even though we split up.’

The words poured out of her, as if she had planned in advance exactly what she wanted to say. Practised, as if she were giving a bloody speech. I sat there paralysed. Her words rolled over me like tanks, crushing me.

‘I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and now I’ve made up my mind. This isn’t going to work any more,’ she repeated. ‘I’m going to stay with Sanna tonight. I’ve already packed a suitcase.’ She nodded towards the front hall. ‘We’ll talk more about this tomorrow. I’ve taken a few days off from my job, and I’m going to take Daniel with me so you can think about things in peace and quiet.’

She squeezed my hand again, as if asking for my approval. Wanting to know that I agreed. That I wanted the same thing. My lips felt dry; they refused to move. Not a word came out of my mouth. When she closed the door I was still sitting on the sofa in the exact same position, staring dry-eyed at the blank TV screen.

And at my shattered world.

THE PLANE LANDED at Bromma airport at five thirty. Jacobsson had instantly agreed to go to Stockholm with Knutas, which made him happy. Whenever it was necessary to conduct sensitive interviews, it was best to have a colleague along, especially someone he trusted. And he didn’t know the officers in Stockholm very well. He’d been in contact with Mikaela Hammar’s husband to warn him that they would be paying his wife a visit the following day. That was fine, even though she was expected home from her trip to South America that same day. Her plane was due to arrive at seven in the morning. Knutas and Jacobsson were going to rent a car and drive out to Vätö, which was about a hundred kilometres from Stockholm. They agreed to meet with Mikaela around noon.

The setting sun cast a crimson glow over the capital. Their taxi crept its way through the city streets. The rush-hour traffic was heavy, so they had plenty of time to look out of the window. Everywhere they saw people sitting at outdoor cafés and restaurants.

‘I can’t believe there are so many people. It’s way too crowded,’ said Knutas.

‘Pretty soon it’s going to look like this in Visby too.’

Jacobsson gave him a crooked smile. She seemed more relaxed than usual.

The cab dropped them off at a grand-looking building on Kornhamnstorg in Gamla Stan, the old part of the city. Surrounding the square, like beads on a necklace, were countless outdoor restaurants filled with people dressed in summer attire who were enjoying a drink as they sat in the fading sunshine after work. Right across from them was Skeppsbron where the ferryboat had just pulled away, headed for the verdant island and the zoo across the water. Near the Karl Johan sluice a few boating enthusiasts, getting a head start on the season, sat in their vessels, waiting to pass into the locks. From there their boats would be lowered to the water level of Saltsjön. They were probably going out to the archipelago for the weekend since the weather was so nice.

Knutas tapped in the code on the door of the block of flats. Then they took the lift to the fifth floor.

Knutas thought Simon Hammar looked younger than his thirty-three years, and he bore a striking resemblance to his mother. He was dressed in worn jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt.

‘Come in,’ he said listlessly, and he turned to lead the way.

It was a typical early-twentieth-century flat. The high ceiling embellished with plasterwork, the wainscoting which reached halfway up the walls and the hardwood floor all suited the style of the building. The rooms were lined up along one side, providing a fabulous view of both lakes, Mälaren and Saltsjön. Knutas and Jacobsson were amazed when they stepped inside the magnificent living room. They went over to the window to look at the view.

They felt as if they were truly standing in the centre of Stockholm. Jacobsson, who knew much more about the city than Knutas did, pointed out the characteristic red-brick Laurinska building with its pinnacles and turrets situated on Mariaberget, the yellow façade of Södra Theatre near Mosebacke Square, and the statue of Karl XIV Johan seated on his horse and proudly gesturing towards the city.

The furniture in the living room, which easily measured over 45 square metres, consisted solely of a sofa, coffee table and two armchairs. An old-fashioned tile stove stood in one corner. The room was so empty that any sound echoed. They sat down around the coffee table. Even though it was hot and stuffy in the flat, their host offered them nothing to drink.

Simon Hammar immediately lit a cigarette.

‘Would it be possible to open a window?’ asked Knutas.

‘Can’t do that. Too noisy.’

Knutas and Jacobsson exchanged glances. This wasn’t going to be easy. Knutas decided to get right to the point.

‘Do you know whether your mother has any enemies – someone who might wish to harm her?’

Simon stared at the police officers, his expression inscrutable.

‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘We think her life is in danger. We have reason to believe that someone is trying to kill her. Her boyfriend, Viktor Algård, was murdered, but all indications are that he wasn’t the intended victim. We think the killer was after your mother. And then someone tried to kill her by burning down her cabin.’

‘Viktor Algård? He and Mamma were an item?’

‘Yes.’

Simon managed a lopsided grin as he shook his head.

‘You didn’t know that?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘No, she’s never mentioned it.’

‘So you are in contact with each other?’

‘Sure, but only by phone at the moment. Although it’s been a while since she called.’

‘And you haven’t called her?’

‘No.’

‘Could you describe what sort of relationship you have with your mother?’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Because we think it’s relevant to our investigation.’

Simon looked at Knutas with suspicion. He didn’t say anything for so long that both officers began to feel uncomfortable.

‘What exactly do I have to do with all this?’

‘We’re not saying that you have anything to do with it. But we’d like to know how you view your mother.’

‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ he asked heatedly. ‘How I view her?’

‘Take it easy,’ said Jacobsson, annoyed at Simon’s stonewalling. ‘We’re in the process of investigating more than one serious crime, and your mother appears to be the target. So I want you to tell me now what sort of relationship you have with her. Just answer the question.’

‘And how the hell do you expect me to answer that in five minutes? What do you want to know? How often we see each other or talk on the phone? What kind of criteria am I supposed to go by?’

‘It hasn’t escaped our attention that your sister has broken off all contact with your mother. Why did she do that?’

‘Mikaela probably wanted to be able to live her own life,’ he said quietly.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Mamma has a tendency to suffocate her children. What Mikaela did was the only right thing to do.’

‘And why haven’t you done the same thing?’

‘I suppose I’m too weak. Or too strong, depending on how you look at it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think that despite all the things she has ruined for me, I still hold on to a faint hope that everything will turn out OK in the long run. That we’ll be reconciled and that one day she’ll be happy. We’ll have a happy ending.’

His voice faded. For a while none of them spoke. Simon lit another cigarette.

‘You don’t really think that you can fix things in her life so that she’ll be happy, do you?’ Jacobsson asked at last.

‘I guess I do. I’ve always thought that.’

‘Can I bum a smoke from you?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘And how about a cold beer? I’m going to open a window, whether you like it or not.’

They stayed in that flat for several hours. Surprisingly enough, Simon decided to open up and tell them about all the difficulties he’d encountered, both in his childhood and more recently. Jacobsson proved to be very sympathetic, and she was the one who was able to encourage him to talk. Knutas mostly kept to the background, listening and watching. It was 9 p.m. by the time they left.

As they took the lift down, Jacobsson looked at Knutas and said, ‘I don’t think it’s him.’

THE MINUTE I got on the commuter train to Nynäshamn, I knew. The end was near. Mutely I gazed at the landscape rushing past outside the window. The rolling hills, horse pastures, and fields of Södertörn.

In Nynäshamn I got off, bought a newspaper and some chocolate biscuits at a kiosk, and then strolled down to the ferry terminal. It was an overcast day, and the sea looked forbidding. A strong wind was blowing at the dock, and I pulled up my jacket collar over the turtleneck of my sweater.

The weather suited my mood. I was filled with foreboding. It had to end. The boat was half empty. The tourist season hadn’t really begun yet, and it was an ordinary weekday.

I sat down on a deckchair and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to go to the cafeteria, even though I could have used a cup of coffee. But I had no desire to talk to anybody.

I am empty of all feeling, spent, used up and broken down like an old tractor. All those ruined expectations, all the hysterical outbursts and insane demands that I’ve had to fend off for as long as I can remember. I have no right to my own life. That’s what I have finally understood.

She is stronger. She has won. There is only one way that I can get rid of my tormentor, my own flesh and blood, the person who long ago brought me into this wretched life. I wonder why she even decided to give birth to me. Was it in order to torture me, suck all the life out of me, obliterate me? To pass the sins of the parents down to the children in a pattern that would repeat itself, etched into the family tree for all eternity? So that the children would be afflicted, one generation after another? Trying to keep them from having a real mother and father because you never did, you fucking bitch? No one is allowed to have anything that you never had. Your children aren’t allowed to have good relationships since you never did. Your children are trying to live decent lives, but you keep trying to stop them. You’re like a huge, malicious demon standing in the road, imbuing your children with the same hatred that fills you. And they are repeating the irrational pattern that you created.

I refuse to play along any more. There is only one way to put an end to this. And it’s finally going to happen – what I have so long yearned for. But the realization doesn’t fill me with joy or anticipation. Only a deep and profound sorrow.

I keep my eyes closed all the way to Gotland.

IT WAS A relief to get outside. Dusk had arrived, but the air was still pleasantly warm.

‘Let’s go get a bite to eat,’ Jacobsson suggested. ‘I’m starving.’

They had booked rooms at a hotel near Slussen, so they decided to walk up to the Mosebacketerrasse restaurant. It was packed, but they managed to get a table all to themselves. Soon they were enjoying lamb cutlets and a bottle of red wine.

‘What makes you so sure that Simon isn’t the killer?’ asked Knutas as he dug into his food.

‘He just seems too unstable. Do you really think he could have got hold of some poison, and then cold-bloodedly murdered Viktor while a huge crowd of people were having a party upstairs? And after that, do you think he could have gone to Holmhällar and burned down his mother’s summer cabin where he’d spent his childhood summers? I think he seems far too weak to have done any of those things.’

‘Well, maybe you’re right.’

‘Katrina, his ex-girlfriend, says the same thing. He’d never be able to do that. Even if he might want to.’

‘OK, but that’s what the wives and girlfriends of criminals always say. They never would have imagined… And he never would have hurt a fly…’

‘It must be terrible to have a mother like her,’ said Jacobsson emphatically. ‘Someone who acts like a big baby who always needs help with everything – and then is never satisfied! From what Simon told us, it sounds as if it’d be easier to fill up the Grand Canyon with water using only a teaspoon – and at least the canyon has a bottom!’

‘I agree. It seems like Veronika Hammar has some kind of mental problem. That sort of behaviour doesn’t sound healthy.’

‘In a way, all of her children really have sufficient motive,’ said Jacobsson pensively. ‘The only way they can have their own lives is by breaking off all contact with her. Or by killing her.’

‘There might be something to what you’re saying. If Simon isn’t capable of it, maybe his sister Mikaela or his brother Andreas is. Or why not Mats, who was sent to live with a foster family?’

‘But he hasn’t had any contact with her all these years. I’d put my money on the sheep farmer,’ said Jacobsson.

‘Andreas Hammar? He could certainly pull it off. And isn’t there cyanide in the prussic acid that’s used as rat poison? He must have plenty of that stuff on the farm. What do you think?’

‘Possibly. And we’re going to talk to Mikaela tomorrow. But there’s one other potential perp. And that’s Veronika Hammar herself.’

‘Why would she want to murder the man she was in love with? Or burn down her own cabin?’ asked Knutas.

‘She could be more mentally disturbed than we suspect. Maybe Viktor Algård discovered the less attractive sides of her personality and wanted to leave her. As irrational and unbalanced as she seems to be, she could have taken revenge by murdering him. Then, to divert suspicion from herself, she burned down the cabin. She could have staged the whole scene with the drink to lead us off the track.’ Then Jacobsson gave Knutas a doubtful look. ‘But that theory seems like a long shot. Maybe we’re way off the mark by deciding that it has to be someone in the immediate family. What if the killer is somebody else entirely?’

Knutas was starting to feel a bit drunk. He was worn out after all the events of the past week, and it was nice to be sitting in the midst of the Stockholm hustle and bustle, drinking wine with Karin.

‘That’s possible,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think we’re going to get any further tonight. I need to put aside everything from work and just relax. Would you like some more wine?’

‘Sure.’

On his way to the bar, Knutas phoned Lina. He was feeling guilty about going off to Stockholm the minute they got back from their holiday in the country, and on top of that deciding to spend the night in the capital. He also felt guilty because it was so pleasant to be sitting here in the restaurant with Karin, far away from everyone and everything. Annoyed, he ordered another bottle of wine. What was wrong with him? He had no reason on earth to feel guilty. During all the years of their marriage, and they would soon celebrate their twentieth anniversary, he had never been unfaithful to Lina. His relationship with Karin was strictly professional. Only on one occasion had something like a sexual attraction occurred, and that was last summer when he had ended up at Karin’s flat after a night of drinking. All they did was sit on her sofa and listen to the Weeping Willows band while they drank champagne, but suddenly there was something in the air, something new between them that had scared Knutas. It made him so uncomfortable that he had jumped to his feet, saying that he had to go home. At the door she had kissed him on the lips. Fleetingly, but it was enough to make his head spin.

When he’d elbowed his way back to the table, Karin gave him a smile. He noticed that she had touched up her lipstick.

‘By the way, I forgot to tell you. I talked to Kihlgård today. He got back the results of all the tests they did. And it was nothing. He’s fine.’

‘That’s good to hear. I was really concerned about him.’

‘The problem is that he’s overweight and doesn’t get enough exercise. So now he needs to start working out – at the gym. Can you see Kihlgård in gym shorts?’

Knutas smiled. The image was amusing, to say the least. He pictured the stout, boisterous inspector from the National Police scampering around a room with a bunch of buff twenty-year-olds.

Jacobsson lit a cigarette.

‘So what should we talk about now?’ she teased him. ‘Since you don’t want to discuss the investigation.’

‘It’s not as if I’m the one who has a hard time talking.’ Knutas took a sip of his wine, his eyes searching her face. ‘I’ve noticed that something has been weighing on you all winter. Actually, ever since last summer. Won’t you tell me what it is?’

Karin didn’t answer immediately. She took several sips of her wine while deciding what to say.

‘There are certain things that I can’t share with you, Anders. No matter how good friends we are. I thought you realized that long ago.’

‘Of course I respect the fact that you don’t want to tell me everything. But can’t you at least give me a clue? Because I can see that something is bothering you, and it’s affecting your work.’

Karin’s nut-brown eyes flashed.

‘Are you saying that I’m not doing my job properly?’

‘Come on, Karin. Of course that’s not what I’m saying. You’re an excellent police officer and you always do a good job. But you haven’t been yourself for the past six months, and I’m talking about your mood, not your professional efforts.’

‘OK, OK.’

She took another sip of wine. Knutas filled her glass. He noticed that she suddenly looked nervous.

‘Some things that happened during the murder investigation last summer stirred up old memories from my own life. Memories that I would have preferred to forget.’

‘What do you mean?’

Knutas could see how tense she was now, preparing to divulge what was bothering her. He could tell that it was something important. She sighed heavily. Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked so small and vulnerable that Knutas wished he could put his arms around her.

‘The fact is that I’ve wanted to talk to you about this for a long time. I’ve been on the verge of telling you several times. The problem is that if I do, I’m risking my whole career with the police force, and I’ll be putting you in a terribly difficult situation. I’ve wanted to spare you that.’

‘What’s this about?’

‘But I really have no choice, no matter what the consequences may be. In my heart, I’ve wanted to tell you all along. Remember Vera Petrov? She was pregnant, right?’

‘Yes?’

‘When we were searching for her on the boat, I looked in all the cabins on the upper deck. And afterwards, I told everybody that I didn’t find her. Well, I was lying.’

Knutas stared at Karin in astonishment.

‘She and her husband were inside one of the cabins when I opened the door with my gun drawn. I recognized him at once from the boat to Gotska Sandön. And I knew that Vera was pregnant. She was in labour when I found them, and I was forced to help her give birth. The baby was literally about to pop out. I acted as the midwife, and everything went fine. She had a little girl. It was a tremendously emotional experience for me, seeing the two of them and the baby. They were so filled with joy, in spite of the hopeless situation that they were in. As if nothing else mattered at that moment.’

Knutas listened with a growing sense of alarm. Vera Petrov had executed two people in cold blood. It sounded as if his closest colleague had actually allowed a double murderer to walk free. And she’d been lying the whole time, while he had worked so hard to solve the case, bringing in Interpol, trying to track down the killer. The hunt had gone on for months without success. The double murderer and her husband had disappeared without a trace. And here sat Karin, babbling about how happy they were to have a baby. It was one thing that she had betrayed him and the rest of her colleagues. But this was such a gross dereliction of duty that she’d never be able to work as a police officer again. She was going to end up in prison, maybe for several years. In all seriousness, he wondered whether Karin had gone mad.

Not noticing how upset her boss was, she went on: ‘Of course I had planned to arrest them and call for back-up as soon as the child was born. But something happened. I found myself enveloped in my own grief.’

Karin’s expression changed drastically, as if she were unbearably exposed. She looked pale, in spite of a slight suntan, and her eyes were more solemn than he’d ever seen them before. As if she were truly looking at him for the very first time. No longer hiding behind anything.

‘The thing is, I also had a baby once. I was only fifteen at the time, so that was twenty-five years ago.’

Knutas stared at his colleague in surprise.

‘Do you mean that you’re the mother of a twenty-five-year-old?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Although I haven’t seen my child since the day she was born.’ Karin’s lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears.

‘Come on. Let’s go,’ said Knutas, helping her up from the table.

He put his arm around Karin, who sobbed all the way back to the hotel. Knutas escorted her to her room, unlocking the door with the key card. He made her sit down on the bed and then put some pillows behind her back. He brought her some toilet paper so she could blow her nose and gave her a glass of water.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked.

‘Go ahead.’

It was a non-smoking room, but what the hell.

Karin lit a cigarette, her hands shaking. Knutas pulled over the only chair in the room and set it next to the bed. He cursed the wine for making his head spin and tried to gather his thoughts. He’d never seen Karin look so weak. The room was only dimly lit, making shadows fall across her face. Suddenly she looked like a stranger, and he wondered how well he really knew her. Maybe their close friendship was merely an illusion. He sat there in silence, waiting, with his hands clasped on his lap. His palms were sweaty, but he didn’t care; he clasped them even tighter, as if his hands needed to support each other because of what he was about to hear. Karin’s voice shook when she finally began to speak.

‘Just after I turned fifteen, I was raped. I was out riding my horse in the woods. The horse fell and went lame, and I had to lead him back home. On the way I stopped at the riding teacher’s farm to ask if I could use the phone. He was married and had children, but he was home alone when I arrived. We put my horse in the stable and then I went inside the house with him. Instead of letting me use the phone, he raped me, right there in the living room. I remember staring up at the big family photo over the sofa when he forced his way inside me. It hurt terribly.’

Karin turned her head to look up at the ceiling, and the tears kept pouring down her pale cheeks. Her skin looked so thin, almost transparent. Knutas felt a shiver run down his back. He didn’t want to see the images that appeared in his mind; they made him feel sick to his stomach.

She took a deep breath and then went on.

‘When he was finished, he said that he’d make a lot of trouble for me if I ever told anyone. Then he let me use the phone. I was in shock. It seemed so unreal. I asked my father to come and get me. I was ashamed. I felt so dirty. I’m sure you’ve heard it all before. I got home, took care of the horse, and then showered. We had dinner and I went to bed early. All I wanted was to go to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, it was like it never happened. I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. I thought that if I tried hard enough to pretend it was just a bad dream, then I might make it go away. That’s why I didn’t say anything, not to my parents or to anyone else. A few days later I ran into him at the post office. He smiled and said hello. As if nothing had happened. My legs buckled and I almost fainted. I was so scared of him that I nearly died. I almost wanted to die. I lost all interest in horseback riding, and my parents couldn’t understand it. I did poorly in school and kept mostly to myself. I started skipping classes, pretending to have a stomach ache or thinking up some other excuse.’

Her voice faded, and Knutas tried to digest this horrifying story. So this was the secret that Karin had kept buried all these years, the sorrow that he’d always known was there, and yet it was incomprehensible.

He glanced at her surreptitiously as she sat there on the bed, looking like a little girl. He felt guilty, as if he were intruding just by being in the room and listening. She didn’t look in his direction; her eyes were fixed on some invisible spot on the wall. Now and then sounds were audible from outside on the street, but they were of no significance. The only important thing was right here, inside the room – what Karin was saying, the words that Knutas had unknowingly been waiting to hear for so many years. She lit another cigarette.

‘Then the unthinkable happened. My periods stopped, my breasts felt tender, and I started throwing up in the morning. I continued to deny the situation. I just went on as usual, ignoring the trouble I was in. Eventually the nausea subsided, but my jeans were getting too tight. After a while I couldn’t hide my condition any longer. One morning when I went into the kitchen wearing my nightgown, my mother gave me a strange look. I remember opening the refrigerator and looking for something inside. She was standing next to the stove and I could feel her looking at my stomach. In a flash she was at my side, her hand on my belly. I’ll never forget the tone of her voice. It was ice cold, accusatory and filled with contempt – even hatred. “Are you pregnant?” she asked. I panicked. I’d been refusing to think about it for so long. She pulled up my nightgown to look at my breasts. “They’re twice the normal size. And just look at your stomach!”

‘I started sobbing as she showered me with questions. Pappa appeared, standing in the doorway as if frozen to the spot. Staring at me with horror, as if I were some sort of monster. Then I told them about the rape. Exactly how it happened. All the details. As I talked, I felt more and more ashamed. I was filled with nausea, as if I’d done something wrong. When I was finished, I just sat there, crying. And neither of my parents said a word. It felt like being inside an airless bubble. No one spoke. No one tried to comfort me. Mamma just left me there in the kitchen. And then Pappa followed her out.’

Karin fell silent. Knutas gently patted her arm.

‘Then what happened?’ he asked cautiously. ‘What happened next?’

Karin blew her nose and drank all the water in her glass.

‘What happened next?’ she said bitterly. ‘They refused to contact the police. They didn’t want to talk about it at all. Mamma took care of the practical arrangements. They decided that the child should be given up for adoption right after the birth. I agreed. I just wanted to get rid of it so I could go on with my life. Keep going to school. Keep being a teenager. I wanted everything to be the same, like it was before all this happened. I didn’t think of the baby as a real child; it was just something bad that had to go away. I managed to finish the school year, although my grades were terrible. In the autumn I gave birth to my baby. On the twenty-second of September.’

The tears were pouring out again, but Karin continued her story.

‘It was a girl. I was allowed to hold her for a short time after the birth. I could feel how warm she was, and how her heart beat against mine. Like a little bird. At that moment I regretted my decision. I wanted to keep her. In my mind I gave her the name Lydia. But all of a sudden they took her away from me, and I never saw her again.’

Her voice faded away. Karin sank back against the pillows, as if all strength had left her body.

‘But couldn’t you tell them that you’d changed your mind?’

‘What say did I have in the matter? Nothing. My parents told me that it was too late, that all the papers had been signed, even though later on I found out that wasn’t true. They lied to me.’

Karin closed her eyes.

‘I’ve never told this to anyone,’ she added faintly. ‘You’re the only person who knows.’

Knutas lit his pipe. A thick haze of smoke had settled over the small room. He was stunned, devastated by Karin’s story. The outrage he had initially felt when she confessed that she’d let Vera Petrov and Stefan Norrström escape was gone, at least for the time being. Right now he shared Karin’s suffering and was appalled at what she’d been forced to go through. He’d had no idea about any of this during all the years they had worked together. He looked down at her vulnerable face. She lay on the bed with her eyes closed. He felt overcome by a great sense of weariness. He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then he pulled the blanket over her, turned off the light, and left the room.

KNUTAS TOSSED AND turned all night, lying on the narrow hotel bed, unable to sleep. The small room was stifling. Heavy curtains in a drab, rusty-brown colour hung at the window. He could hear a fan whirring somewhere. The traffic noise was clearly audible, now and then interrupted by the siren of a police car or ambulance. Occasionally some passerby would yell or laugh out on the street. He couldn’t for the life of him understand how Stockholmers could stand all this racket. The city was never silent. He would go crazy if he had to live here.

Thinking about Karin kept him awake. At this moment he regretted insisting that she tell him what was bothering her. How strong could a friendship be? She had put him in an impossible situation. She had deliberately allowed a double murderer to go free; that was totally unacceptable. It was very unlikely that Vera Petrov would ever kill again, and any reasonable person would understand how a terribly tragic and heartbreaking episode in her past had motivated her actions. But that was no excuse. Karin could not remain on the police force. She had been his colleague for almost twenty years, but now she was going to have to leave. The thought was so alarming that it made him shiver. Imagine going to work every day and not seeing her there. She wouldn’t be getting coffee out of the vending machine or sitting at the conference table for a meeting. He wouldn’t hear her laugh or see that gap between her front teeth. Karin Jacobsson was his sounding board, both professionally and personally. He couldn’t even picture what it would be like at the station without her.

In the past he had sometimes worried that she might quit. She was still single, as far as Knutas knew, which had always seemed to him incomprehensible. She was so beautiful with her dark hair and warm eyes. He used to worry that she might meet someone who would take her away from Visby. She was so intense, so lively. Sometimes he had wondered how she viewed him. What did he have to offer her? He was just an ordinary middle-aged man with pitiful personal problems, which he never hesitated to discuss with her. He wasn’t a particularly inspiring friend.

When he thought about what she had been through – the rape, the birth, her parents’ betrayal – he was filled with anger. Finally he got out of bed, found his pipe and sat down in the armchair next to the window. He pulled aside the curtains and opened the window. It was four in the morning, and he realized it was hopeless trying to sleep.

He lit his pipe and sat there until dawn, watching the city wake up outside the window.

THE YARD IS filled with children playing. Their raincoats – yellow, blue, red, green and pink – form a colourful bouquet against the backdrop of the black asphalt and surrounding grey buildings. The rain has just stopped, but the air is dripping with moisture. Cold winds keep the temperature down. A low-pressure area has settled over Gotland, instantly and brutally dropping the temperature from 20 to 9 degrees Celsius. The change in the weather doesn’t seem to bother the kids, who are running from one side of the playground at the day-care centre to the other. A few teachers are chatting as they keep an eye on the children. Their conversation is constantly being interrupted when someone falls down and starts crying, or another child stuffs something in his mouth, or a few of the kids start fighting. The youngest toddlers, who can barely walk, are sitting in the sandbox with buckets and shovels, happily digging in the rain-soaked sand.

It takes me a minute to spot him. He’s wearing a dark blue rain jacket, waterproof trousers and a matching sou’wester hat. He’s busy with a bright yellow bucket and shovel. He’s sitting next to a friend, and they seem to be talking and playing well together.

I feel a pang in my heart. I’m having a hard time breathing, and I have to squat down. I’m hiding behind a warehouse, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

My boy. His dark hair is sticking out from under his rain cap, his cheeks are a glowing pink, and I catch a glimpse of his dark eyes. A contented child. What does his future hold? How will he be affected by what is about to happen? What will he think when he gets older? How many questions will he have? And how much will he suffer? That little boy sitting there, playing so happily in the sand. Innocent, carefree. He has the right to a safe and secure childhood. To deny him that would be reprehensible. And now here I am, about to shirk my responsibility.

But there’s no other way out of this straitjacket, none at all. Mamma will continue to plague me for the rest of my life. I will never be free. Other people die – from cancer or in a car crash. She will presumably go on poisoning the lives of everyone close to her until she’s a hundred years old. By then I’ll be almost eighty.

I once had a dream that I was leafing through the newspaper until I came to the obituary page. There I saw her name. And the only thing I felt was relief.

I stand up and look at my son one last time before I turn on my heel.

And with heavy steps, I walk away.

WHEN KNUTAS CAME downstairs to the hotel breakfast room, he found Karin sitting next to the window with a cup of coffee and the morning paper in front of her. She had dark smudges under her eyes and she was frowning. As usual, she wore jeans and a T-shirt. Around one wrist was a leather strap with a green stone. On her feet, which stuck out from under the table, she wore purple trainers. She was deeply immersed in the article she was reading and didn’t notice when he paused in the doorway to study her.

Knutas was overcome with tenderness for the slight figure sitting near the window. He felt a prickling in his hands and legs, as if tiny needles were sticking into his skin. For a second everything went black, and he had to hold on to the doorpost. He hadn’t slept a wink and his body ached with fatigue. When he left his hotel room, he had made up his mind. There was nothing else to do. He had to ask Karin to resign. To leave the police force. He took a step forward, then another. The distance to her table was about 10 metres. Moving like a sleepwalker, he continued forward, his eyes fixed on her face. Suddenly she felt his approach and looked up. Their eyes met.

No, he thought. I can’t make a decision right now. I need more time to think things through.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

‘Good morning.’

‘Listen, I’d rather not discuss what we talked about last night. I need time to think.’

‘OK. But when we get home, I plan to hand in my resignation. Just so you know. I don’t want to cause you any problems, Anders.’

Her words made him feel panic-stricken. Once before she had almost quit her job, and he didn’t want to go through that again.

‘Let’s not do anything hasty. You’re not responsible for my bloody welfare. Whatever I decide, it’ll be my decision. Please give me some time to think it over,’ he pleaded. He could hear for himself how insistent he sounded. ‘You’ve had to carry too much on your own. Try to let it all go for the time being.’

She gave him a wan smile.

They got the rental car from the Katarina garage, just a stone’s throw from the hotel. They did their best to ignore what they were both thinking about and tried to focus on the task ahead of them. Their personal problems would have to wait until later.

Knutas found it surprisingly easy to make his way through the city. At first he kept to the shoreline, driving along Skeppsbron and Strandvägen, past the TV and radio building on Oxenstiernsgatan. Then he turned on to Valhallavägen, one of Stockholm’s most fashionable streets, which was designed like a French boulevard, very wide with a double row of trees down the middle. It came to an end at Roslagtull, and from there they continued straight ahead along Norrtäljevägen. Presumably he could have taken a more direct route through the city, but at least he had found the right road. And the view was spectacular, with the water glittering in between all of Stockholm’s islands and the magnificent buildings of the royal palace, the National Museum, the Dramaten theatre, and the Nordic Museum on Djurgården, which resembled a renaissance palace with its turrets and towers.

As the investigation had progressed, Knutas had grown more curious about Mikaela Hammar. She had created a whole new life for herself away from Gotland. She had married a mainlander and moved to Stockholm’s archipelago. There she started a riding school, which she and her husband ran together. At the same time, she worked for a humanitarian aid organization.

It was quite a drive. Knutas checked his watch as they passed Norrtälje, with at least 10 kilometres still ahead of them. It was just past eleven. Their plane home left at three thirty. They had plenty of time.

When they drove across the bridge to the island of Vätö, he was reminded how different the archipelago was from Gotland. An entirely different kind of landscape. No long sand dunes here. Instead, he saw cliffs, boulders and skerries. Vätö was one of the bigger islands in Stockholm’s archipelago, with about a thousand permanent residents, shops, a post office, library and school. Many people who lived on the island commuted to Stockholm or Norrtälje. Mikaela Hammar and her family lived in Harg, at the centre of the island.

They came to a big old gate at a curve in the road and turned into a horse pasture. The car bumped along on the narrow tractor track, and then the farm appeared beyond a hill. It stood there in lonely majesty, atop a plateau with hills on one side and an expansive view of the countryside on the other.

Several Fjord horses came trotting towards Knutas and Jacobsson as they climbed out of the car.

Knutas, who was rather frightened of horses, hurried towards the gate. The farm consisted of a main building, painted Falun red, and two smaller buildings forming wings on either side of it. Further away on the property was a barn with a paddock in front. A riding track was visible beyond the barn. The front door of the house opened and a plump suntanned woman in her mid-thirties came out on to the porch holding a tray with a coffee pot and cups. She smiled and welcomed them warmly.

‘I was thinking we could sit outside. It’s such a beautiful day.’

She led the way to some patio furniture at the side of the house with a view of the hills. Cowslips and lilies of the valley were already in bloom. It was almost like summer.

‘Thank you for your willingness to meet with us right after returning from such a long trip,’ Knutas began.

‘It’s no problem. I understand that this is important.’ A trace of sorrow was evident in her voice.

‘You know what’s been going on. By all accounts, your mother was first the target of a murder attempt by poisoning, and then barely escaped an arsonist’s fire. We’re still not entirely sure whether the murder at the conference centre was actually aimed at her, but that’s what she claims. And we’ve had her story at least partially confirmed by witnesses. What’s your reaction to all of this?’

‘If somebody is trying to kill my mother, I’m not really surprised, to be quite honest.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘There’s a reason why I’ve broken off all contact with her. My mother has a talent for obliterating everyone close to her.’

‘In what way?’

Mikaela Hammar sighed. Knutas noted that she was not at all like her mother. She was tall and quite stocky, with long, wavy light brown hair and blue eyes. There was actually nothing about her that reminded him of Veronika Hammar.

‘I grew up with a mother who was so self-absorbed that she never really saw me or my siblings. I’ll stick with describing my own experience. As a child I was made to feel invisible and I was never treated with respect. Each day brought new offences, any problems were simply shoved under the rug, and my mother always acted the martyr. Our lives were filled with dishonesty. It was like living on a stage set. I went through long periods of depression, which got worse when I was a teenager. Things got so bad that I started cutting myself and developed eating problems. I would binge on food and then throw up afterwards. That went on for five years, and she never noticed a thing.’

‘How old were you at the time?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘It started when I was fifteen and lasted until I moved away from home. That’s when I met my husband, thank God. He was my salvation. Without him, I wouldn’t be alive today.’

She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, without a shred of self-pity.

‘What caused these problems?’

‘I think that I’d been suffering for a long time because no one really paid any attention to me. There were probably two reasons why I started cutting myself. Partly from anxiety and partly because deep inside I wanted someone to see me, notice me. Discover what was going on. But nobody did.’

‘What happened when you met your husband?’

‘I met him in the summer. He came to Gotland on holiday, like so many other people. Of course my mother criticized everything about him. The way he looked, the fact that in her eyes at least he didn’t have a very good job, and that he lived in Stockholm. She complained about everything. But for once I refused to listen to her. And I thank God for that. For the first time in my life I felt truly loved, and it was wonderful. Here was someone who liked me just as I was, without reservation and without making any demands. He listened to me, let me speak my mind, let me have my own opinions. Because of him, I grew as a person and I started believing in love. I saw that love actually existed and could last. I will always be eternally grateful to him for that. He healed me.’

Mikaela Hammar spoke with such genuine feeling and warmth that both Knutas and Jacobsson were moved by her words.

‘You and your mother haven’t been in touch for a while. How long has it been?’

‘It’s been ten years since we talked to each other.’

‘What exactly happened?’

‘I finally had enough. The children and I went to visit Mamma at the summer cabin. We were only going to stay a few days. That was as much as I could stand. My kids were young then. Linus was four, and Doris was two. One afternoon I needed to go grocery shopping, so I asked my mother to look after the children while I was gone. It wasn’t going to take more than two hours. She said that would be fine. Mamma never babysat for us, but I didn’t think anything could happen in such a short time. Besides, it’s so much easier to shop for groceries without having little kids tagging along. Linus was playing with his plastic cars on the lawn, and Doris was asleep in her pram when I left. When I came back, both of them were howling. Doris had blood on her cheek, and the neighbours were standing around, shouting. A huge commotion. It turned out that Linus had gone to the privy, which is a short distance from the cabin, and Mamma was supposed to wipe his bottom when he was done, but she forgot about him. So he sat there and cried for over an hour while she was inside the cabin, talking to someone on the phone. In the meantime, Doris had toddled over to the neighbours’ place and their dog bit her. That was the last straw. After putting up with my mother’s selfish behaviour for so many years, I finally told her off. Then I packed up all our belongings, grabbed my kids, and left.’