Dark Angel

‘And afterwards? Did she try to get in touch with you?’

‘According to my siblings, she thought that I had treated her terribly. In her words: That’s not how anyone should treat their mother. I refused to phone her. After a month or two she started sending me letters. Long furious tirades in which she described all the things she had done for me and how grateful I ought to be. I read the first couple and then tossed the others out. I didn’t even bother to open them. She had always been on my back, and it was so liberating to break off all ties with her. It’s the smartest thing I ever did. The best present I ever gave to myself and to my husband and children. Even though I know how awful that must sound.’

Mikaela Hammar spoke in a firm voice, but her hand was shaking as she lifted her coffee cup. For a moment no one said a word. Knutas could easily picture the scene in his mind. He sipped his coffee.

‘Considering how long it has been since you communicated with each other, I can understand that it might be hard for you to say anything about possible threats to your mother’s life. If that’s what we’re actually dealing with, that is.’

‘In reality, I think any of us could be pushed so far that we might want to kill her. That’s how hard she has stomped on us, abused us and exploited us. Plus she has always kept certain things secret. Has either of my brothers told you anything about Mats?’

SHE HADN’T SET foot outside the house since coming home from hospital a week ago. She got up every morning, ate breakfast, read the paper, and listened to the local radio station. Then she waited for lunch, which usually consisted of soup or a salad. Around two in the afternoon she had coffee, and she ate dinner in front of the TV, watching the news. The hours in between meals dragged along. She couldn’t concentrate on anything. Had no interest in doing any cleaning or painting or pottering about in her little garden, which was what she usually did at this time of year. She felt frozen. As if waiting for something, but she had no idea what it might be. The days passed, and she longed for the cabin that no longer existed. The realization that it was gone had hit her suddenly, making her sob for hours. She lay on her bed like a child, shaking all over. She felt overwhelmed by fear, but no one came to her rescue. Viktor was dead, and none of her children answered the phone when she rang. She was utterly alone.

The fact that she couldn’t get hold of Simon was something she’d grown accustomed to over the past few months. But what about Andreas? He had changed lately. His tone of voice was harsher, less amenable. And he wasn’t as easy to reach as he had been before. Maybe because he’d met someone. There were clear signs in his house. She’d found an eyeliner pencil in the bathroom, a hair clip on the hall table. All of a sudden he had plain yoghurt in his refrigerator. And he never picked up the phone when she called.

This morning she was feeling even more anxious than usual. She got up and went through her usual morning routine, but she was filled with nervous energy. She wandered through the rooms of her small house, then went out in the courtyard and tried to read the paper. But she couldn’t sit still. She washed her hair, but that kept the anguish at bay for only a brief time. She tried to do a crossword puzzle but her thoughts kept drifting in different directions. She couldn’t focus. Nothing held her attention for long. When she decided to have her afternoon coffee, she was dismayed to discover that there were only a few grounds left in the bottom of the tin. And there wasn’t another one in the cupboard. Andreas still wasn’t answering his phone. She was going to have to go out. She gave a start when she saw her own reflection in the mirror. She needed to do something about her appearance.

She spent almost an hour fixing herself up. She chose an elegant white trouser suit that was probably a bit excessive for a walk to the ICA supermarket, but what the hell. She carefully put on her make-up and then spent time blow-drying her hair, which was getting too long. And the roots were showing. She needed to get her hair coloured and cut.

When she studied her transformation in the mirror before leaving the house, she was definitely satisfied. She looked almost like her old self.

The pressure in her chest returned the minute she stepped out on to the street. She cast a surreptitious glance in both directions. Not a soul in sight. No police car either. The surveillance had been stopped. The police chief had explained that they just didn’t have the resources to continue it. No resources. The thought was appalling. Viktor had been murdered, and she herself had almost been killed by an arsonist. Was the threat really over? On the other hand, she couldn’t very well spend the rest of her life locked inside her house. The situation was both incomprehensible and frightening. She simply couldn’t imagine who would want to harm her; she had never hurt a fly. She’d spent her whole life helping others and standing up for her fellow human beings, without giving a thought to herself. She had devoted herself to her children, colleagues, neighbours, friends and acquaintances – and received nothing but ingratitude in return. That was the bitter lesson she’d learned. But who on earth would want to kill her? She could think of only one person, and that was Viktor’s widow, Elisabeth Algård. Who else could it possibly be? Elisabeth had gone completely berserk when he told her that he wanted a divorce. Later he’d also said that his wife was crazy with jealousy.

Veronika couldn’t understand why the police hadn’t arrested her. She hoped they were at least keeping an eye on her and it was just a matter of time. Maybe Elisabeth was being escorted over to the station at this very moment. The idea gave her renewed strength as she walked along the deserted street. So far there were still very few people in Visby, but soon the hordes of tourists would invade the town. She wouldn’t be able to retreat to the cabin this summer, but eventually it would be rebuilt. For now she would have to make do with staying at Andreas’s farm for the summer holiday. At least it was out in the country, even though it was rather far from the sea.

What if she stopped for coffee at Rosengården before she did her shopping? It was her favourite café, and she hadn’t been there in weeks. Besides, she was desperate for a cup of coffee, and they had the best espresso. She came to the entrance and, without further hesitation, went inside.

The usual waitress smiled at her, saying how nice it was to see her. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ replied Veronika. She ordered her coffee and a piece of carrot cake. A few customers had taken seats on the outdoor patio. A couple of tables were occupied, but she avoided looking at the people sitting there.

She chose her favourite table at the very back, close to the garden. It stood next to a small lilac bower, which was already starting to bloom. From there she had a good view of the Botanical Gardens and all the flowers. This was an oasis and one of the few places in town where she could relax, even when she was alone.

A few minutes later the waitress came back carrying a tray, clinking and clattering. Veronika thanked her and then took a sip of the strong coffee, feeling her energy level revive. Everything was going to be fine. She refused to give up. The birds were chirping, having a calming effect on her. The carrot cake she’d ordered was big and moist. As she raised the fork to her mouth, a man entered the restaurant. She thought he looked familiar.

But she just couldn’t place him.

THE CAFÉ WAS on the outskirts of Visby, with a view of the Botanical Gardens. The sun was shining and it was a warm day. Emma wanted to go someplace where she could sit in peace and think. And it had to be outdoors so she could smoke. Over the past few years she had sometimes smoked a lot, sometimes not at all. She had stopped when she was pregnant with Sara and Filip and while she was breastfeeding. But afterwards she had started smoking again. The same thing had happened with Elin. As soon as she stopped breastfeeding, Emma had resumed smoking even though she had actually weaned herself of the habit. Lots of her friends and acquaintances thought it was odd for her to be so addicted to nicotine. She worked out several times a week, taught young children and loved to take walks in the woods. In fact, she was considered a real outdoors person. Emma couldn’t explain why she smoked. Right now she needed to think, and that meant being able to light up a cigarette.

She walked through the gate in the ring wall to the garden café and looked around. A dozen or so tables had been placed outside among the blossoming apple trees and lilacs. Here anyone wanting both shade and solitude could find a place. Three tables were occupied. At one of them sat an elderly man working on the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, with a cup of coffee and a piece of marzipan cake in front of him. At another table sat two teenage girls drinking lattes from oversize cups. They had their heads together, deep in conversation. At the third table sat a young man with a salad and a book. Emma couldn’t see the title. He was the only one who looked up as she went over to the counter to place her order. She asked for a double macchiato and her favourite dessert: Italian almond biscotti dipped in chocolate. She chose a table at the far end of the garden where she could sit in peace without being disturbed. The sun was so warm that she took off her jacket and draped it over the back of the chair next to her. Then she sipped her coffee and lit a cigarette.

She didn’t think it would do any harm, this early in the pregnancy. And besides, she wasn’t positive that she wanted to go through with it. She wasn’t going to tell Johan yet. Another child. What would that mean? When she saw the results on the pregnancy test she’d done at home this morning, she was seized with panic. To make things worse, her ex-husband Olle had rung the doorbell thirty seconds later. It was his turn to take care of the children. She had tossed the test in the waste-paper basket, covered it with some toilet paper, and then splashed some water on her face before going to the door. She had managed to pull herself together enough to send Sara and Filip off with the usual hugs and kisses, reminding them to phone her to say goodnight before they went to bed. But the test results had shocked her. She had to get out of the house and have time alone to think about the unexpected situation she now found herself in. Her friend Viveka was willing, as usual, to take care of Elin for a few hours. Emma hadn’t even dared tell Viveka about her condition. Not yet.

As she drove to town, her head was a whirl of contradictory thoughts. The idea of yet another pregnancy, yet another child, made her feel sick. The next instant she was ashamed of herself. Shouldn’t this kind of news make her happy? She was thirty-eight years old, married, with a good job and a wonderful husband who loved her. They had all the prerequisites for welcoming another child into their lives, and she assumed that Johan would be overjoyed.

Feeling dejected, she had parked the car near Stora Torget, bought a pack of cigarettes and the evening paper at ICA, and then walked over to the Botanical Gardens.

Now she was sitting here in the shade under the apple trees with the newspaper open in front of her so it would look as if she was reading. Silently she cursed herself. How could she have been so careless? Birth-control pills made her feel sick, and using an IUD didn’t work for her, so they had used condoms, but a few times they’d forgotten and had unprotected sex. Which was irresponsible, of course, since she got pregnant so easily. She had been foolish enough to think that it wouldn’t happen this time because she was getting older. She was almost forty.

She ran her hand over her stomach. A new life had taken root inside. What should she do? She was on the verge of tears, and that made her feel even more ashamed. She was a grown woman, after all.

The teenage girls had apparently finished their conversation, because they got up and left. The man reading the book followed close behind. The elderly man doing the crossword puzzle was still there, deeply engrossed in trying to find the right word, which he entered with a trembling hand. Then he took a sip of his coffee. Emma was grateful that the café was so empty. There weren’t many places she could go for some peace and quiet. As a teacher, she knew so many people, and wherever she went, she ran into parents and students.

An elegant woman came into the restaurant and paused for a moment to take a look around. She was in her sixties, petite and slender, wearing a white trouser suit. Her blond hair was cut in a pageboy style, and her lips were painted bright red. There was something glamorous about her, and Emma guessed that she must be a celebrity whose name she ought to know.

The woman sat down at an out-of-the-way table, half hidden by a lilac bower at the far end of the garden. Emma lost interest and absently leafed through the newspaper.

After a while someone joined the woman at her table. A man who looked about the same age as Emma came in and strode over to the woman sitting in the bower. He was tall and well built, wearing jeans and a shirt. Blond with a beard and dark sunglasses. He seemed very tense and somehow unpleasant. Emma forgot about her own problems for the moment as she surreptitiously studied the man and woman while she pretended to read the newspaper. Something had stirred her curiosity. She had the feeling they weren’t there to drink coffee and share a friendly conversation. There was something strained about them. In spite of the obvious age difference, she thought they might be lovers who had quarrelled.

The old man with the crossword puzzle finished his coffee, slowly got to his feet and left the café. Now Emma and the odd couple were the only customers. She could see the man only from the side, and his body practically hid the woman from view. He was leaning forward, speaking in a low voice. It was clear that they were talking about something important. She couldn’t make out any words, but she could hear the urgency in the man’s voice. Maybe the woman wanted to end the relationship, and he was trying to convince her to stay? Or was he the one who wanted to call it quits, and he was an offering a lengthy explanation? Wanting her to understand his decision? The woman said very little. Emma lost interest and went back to brooding over her own thoughts. Suddenly the woman stood up. She went over to the waitress and apparently asked for a key to the toilet, which the girl handed to her. The man remained sitting at the table, barely visible behind the lilac bushes. He must have changed position because now Emma could no longer see him clearly. Her mobile was ringing. It was Johan.

‘Hi, sweetheart. Where are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m in town, running some errands.’

‘Oh. Because I called the house and nobody answered.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘How’s Elin?’

‘She was tired, so Viveka is babysitting her. I thought it was best for her to stay at home in peace and quiet. So I left her with Viveka.’

‘Really?’ Johan sounded surprised. ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘No, not at all. I just needed to take care of a few things. It’s nice to have a little time to myself.’

‘I know what you mean. It was a rough night, but it won’t last much longer, sweetheart. And she’ll never have whooping cough again. At least that’s a relief.’

‘Yes.’

Emma thought about the child inside of her, and all sorts of images raced through her mind. Another birth, more breastfeeding, getting the child used to the day-care centre, dirty nappies and more illnesses. Just the thought of all that made her panic.

Suddenly she heard a clattering sound from the table where the man and woman sat. Or had been sitting. At first she couldn’t see either of them. Then she heard a whimper and caught sight of an arm flailing about, chopping at the air. The younger man had left the table. Their eyes met as he passed Emma.

The older woman was also on her feet. But there was something odd about her. She looked as if she felt sick.

‘Johan, I have to go. I’ll call you later.’

MIKAELA HAMMAR POURED HERSELF more water and drank half of it.

‘None of us had a clue that we had a half-brother until Mats contacted us. Mamma had never said a word about him. Then one day the phone rang, and it was a man named Mats Andersson. He said that he was my half-brother, and he wanted to see me, so we agreed to meet at a café in Norrtälje. Of course I didn’t know whether he was telling the truth. Yet I had no reason to doubt what he said.’

‘How long ago was this?’ asked Knutas.

‘Almost exactly two years ago. In May, to be precise. I remember that we sat outside to drink our coffee because it was a warm day.’ Her face lit up in a smile. ‘And it was an incredible meeting. I knew as soon as I saw him that he was telling the truth. He looks so much like Mamma and my brother Simon that it’s ridiculous. The same eyes and mouth. The same narrow face and high cheekbones, dark eyebrows and naturally red lips.’ She ran her hand over her own face to show what she meant. ‘Unfortunately, I wasn’t blessed with the same colouring. He also showed me his birth certificate.’

‘Who was his father?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘It didn’t say. Mats doesn’t know who his father is, and Mamma refuses to tell him.’

‘So he’s been in contact with her?’

Mikaela sighed bitterly.

‘He’s tried to meet her several times, but she doesn’t want anything to do with him. She pretends that he doesn’t exist. The first time she refused to see him, he was only thirteen. Can you imagine anyone doing such a thing? Giving away her child and then refusing to see him?’

Knutas cast a quick glance at Jacobsson. He put his hand on her arm.

‘Are you feeling all right? Should we take a break?’

‘No, it’s OK.’

Mikaela gave them a surprised look but didn’t comment.

‘So how did this all start?’ asked Knutas.

‘Mamma got pregnant the first time when she was only fifteen. Long before she met Pappa. It was a brief fling with a guy who just disappeared afterwards. And then she had Mats in 1966. She didn’t want to keep the baby, but she didn’t give him up for adoption. She placed him with a foster family. Mats has had really bad luck and ended up with several different foster families, staying with each of them for only a few years before being forced to move. Because of that, he has never dared get really attached to anyone. His life has been very lonely and rootless. He was forced to keep moving during his whole childhood. And she never cared about him.’

‘Why didn’t she give him up for adoption?’ asked Jacobsson tonelessly.

‘That’s a good question. Maybe her parents advised her not to. I have no idea. But it certainly would have been better for Mats. Then he would have had a real family, someone he could call Mamma and Pappa.’

‘But then he got in touch with you. Did he also contact your brothers?’

‘Yes, all three of us thought it was great. It was like getting an unexpected gift. And Mats is an easy person to like. He’s so warm and sensitive. We talk on the phone several times a month if not more. Before midsummer we had a party here, and Simon’s family came too. It was wonderful. Mamma didn’t know about it. She was travelling abroad.’

‘Do all three of you have a good relationship with Mats?’

‘Yes, I think so. Especially Simon. They’re so alike, and they took to each other right away. They have the most contact. Mats actually lives very close to Simon, in Söder. I think that’s a good thing right now, since Simon is having such a hard time.’

Knutas gave Mikaela a long look.

EMMA JUMPED UP from her chair and ran over to the other table. The older woman was blue in the face. She was gripping her throat with both hands, gasping for air. Her eyes were filled with terror, and her body was shuddering with convulsions. All of a sudden she collapsed and fell to the ground.

‘Help!’ Emma screamed at the top of her lungs. ‘Help! Come here! This woman needs help!’

‘What’s wrong?’ The young waitress appeared, staring at Emma in bewilderment.

‘Call an ambulance! Now!’

The waitress nodded in alarm and ran off.

Emma had vague memories of a first-aid course that all teachers were required to take, but that was aeons ago. The woman didn’t look as if she were breathing, so Emma decided to try CPR. She tilted the woman’s head back and leaned over her. She pinched her nose with one hand and opened her mouth with the other. When she pressed her lips over the woman’s she instantly recoiled at the terrible smell. She couldn’t identify what it was.

Then Emma steeled herself and began blowing into the woman’s mouth.

THE CALL CAME in at 3.27 p.m., and within ten minutes the first police officers were on the scene. By then the medics had already declared the older woman to be dead. The younger woman who had administered CPR had collapsed and was rushed off to the hospital in an ambulance. A large number of officers descended upon the café, including a unit with dogs. The perpetrator had only just left the scene of the crime, so he might still be in the vicinity. Jacobsson and Knutas had gone to Stockholm, and neither of them answered their mobiles, presumably because they were on the plane returning to Visby.

Wittberg and Sohlman arrived a few minutes later. Wittberg brought the police car to a screeching halt in front of the café, and then they both jumped out and ran into the garden. A pale and upset waitress who looked to be no more than twenty was sitting on a chair with a blanket around her shoulders, smoking a cigarette.

‘It’s just awful. She comes here so often. She’s one of our regular customers,’ she said, her voice shaking.

‘The woman who died – what’s her name?’ asked Wittberg, while Sohlman hurried past him to have a look at the victim.

‘Veronika Hammar. She comes here a lot. At least several times a week, sometimes every day, although not lately.’

Wittberg swore. Veronika Hammar.

He sank down on to a chair next to the young girl, pulling a notebook and pen out of his pocket.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘She came in and ordered a double espresso and a piece of carrot cake. Then she sat down at her usual table.’

The girl pointed to the spot at the end of the garden which was now cordoned off with police tape.

‘That table set for four. Over there near the arbour. She liked sitting there by herself. After a while a man came in and ordered coffee and a bottle of Ramlösa mineral water. When I came out later to clear away some of the dishes I noticed that he was sitting at her table. A few minutes later she asked me for the key to the toilet.’

‘Did you recognize the man?’ asked Wittberg.

‘No, I’ve never seen him before.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Tall, stocky but not fat. Muscular. And older. Around forty.’

‘Did he have a moustache or a beard? Was he wearing glasses?’

‘Actually all of the above. And he had really thick hair, kind of tousled-looking.’

‘What colour?’

‘Blond.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘I don’t really remember. Something blue, I think. A jacket and jeans. Nothing special.’

‘Did he say anything? I mean, did you hear him talking?’

‘No, he didn’t say anything except to place his order.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Well, I don’t really know. She went to the ladies’ and brought back the key. Then she went back to her table. It wasn’t busy so I went out to the kitchen to help the cook who makes the smörgåsbord, and then I got a phone call. Just a few minutes later I heard someone screaming. When I came out, the man was gone, and Veronika was lying on the ground.’

She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if trying to shake off the memory.

‘Oh, it was horrible. A woman who was here by herself shouted at me to call the police. So that’s what I did. I didn’t dare look, but I know that Veronika died almost instantly, even though the other woman was trying to revive her with that mouth-to-mouth method. She kept blowing and blowing, and then she fell over too. The next second the ambulance arrived.’

‘And you don’t know who that woman was? The one trying to help?’

‘No, I’ve never seen her before.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Linn.’

‘Can you stick around for a while? Is that OK?’

‘Sure. That’s fine.’

Wittberg went over to Sohlman, who had squatted down next to the dead woman. The crime tech looked up at his colleague.

‘The same shit as before. Without a doubt. You can smell it.’

‘Bloody hell.’

Someone tapped Wittberg on the shoulder. It was the young waitress.

‘The woman who was hurt and was taken to the hospital? This is her bag.’

She handed Wittberg a handbag, which he opened eagerly. When he took out the wallet with the woman’s ID, he gave a start.

Emma Winarve. Johan Berg’s wife. Emma, who had almost been killed in a drama that had played out on Fårö a few years back.

And now her life was in danger again.

KNUTAS’S MOBILE STARTED ringing the minute he turned it on after they landed in Visby. He and Jacobsson were on their way to baggage reclaim.

It was Wittberg, reporting on the dramatic events of the past hour. Veronika Hammar had been murdered just as they were boarding the plane in Stockholm. Knutas had to sit down. He felt as if the air had been knocked out of him, but he also felt a growing anger. He had tried in vain to persuade the county police commissioner to continue surveillance for Veronika Hammar, at least till the end of the week. Now it was too late.

He and Jacobsson took a taxi to police headquarters.

A crowd of journalists had gathered outside, but Knutas had no comment. He hurried past, promising them a press conference before the night was over. He realized that would be unavoidable.

The café and surrounding area had been blocked off and the tech guys had gone over everything with a fine-toothed comb. The police had interviewed the neighbours, as well as several witnesses who had seen a man walking away down the street just after the murder was committed.

The investigative team met in the conference room as soon as Knutas and Jacobsson arrived at the station.

Wittberg began by describing the course of events.

‘Linn Blomgren, the young waitress at the café, gave us a very clear account of what happened. Just after three o’clock, Veronika Hammar came in alone. She’s a regular customer at the café, although she hadn’t been there for a while. She seemed tense and exchanged only a few words with the waitress. She ordered coffee and a piece of cake and then sat down at a table at the back of the café’s garden. The table is almost hidden by a lilac bower. A few minutes later the man turned up, bought coffee and a bottle of Ramlösa, and paid in cash. Then he sat down at Veronika Hammar’s table.

‘At that time there were six people in the café – four customers, Linn Blomgren, and a cook who’s in charge of the smörgåsbord in the kitchen. The customers were Veronika Hammar and the unidentified man, an elderly man sitting at a table doing a crossword puzzle, and Emma Winarve. The man with the crossword puzzle left the café first. Which means that Emma was the only witness to the crime. When the murder was committed, the cook was busy in the kitchen and Linn had received a phone call and was still talking when the unidentified man passed by her and disappeared. The next instant she heard someone screaming in the café garden. It was Emma, who had discovered that the woman sitting at the other table had collapsed. Linn called an ambulance.’

‘What a brazen bastard that man is,’ said Smittenberg. ‘To think he had the guts to do something like that.’

‘Ice cold,’ Sohlman agreed. ‘Why does he choose such public places for his murders? Is he the kind of perp who gets off on the risk of being caught?’

‘Very possibly,’ said Knutas. ‘Both of these murders certainly point in that direction. He seems to crave attention. But we’ll come back to that later. First I want to have all the facts on the table. What can you tell us, Erik?’

Sohlman told his colleagues about what had been found at the crime scene.

‘The perp succeeded in what was apparently his goal right from the start. Judging from what we know so far, Veronika Hammar died from cyanide poisoning, just like Viktor Algård. The poison was put in a glass of Ramlösa that stood on the table. She died in a matter of minutes. Emma Winarve, who administered CPR, ingested enough of the cyanide gas to make her lose consciousness. She’s in intensive care, in a serious condition. Veronika Hammar’s body has been taken to the morgue, and I’m hoping to have a medical examiner here by this evening. We’ve been having trouble locating one. The man came into the café just a few minutes after Veronika Hammar. They apparently knew each other. Maybe they had agreed to meet there, or else he was following her. Unfortunately, we had called off the police surveillance. And in this instance, Veronika didn’t have much use for the security alarm we had installed at her home,’ he added sarcastically.

‘There was no real evidence other than the glass and its contents,’ Sohlman went on. ‘No fingerprints on the Ramlösa bottle or on his coffee cup. According the waitress, the man was wearing thin leather gloves, typical driving gloves with little air holes, the kind people used to wear in the sixties, if you’ll recall. The perp sat there for about ten minutes, tops, before he vanished without leaving behind so much as a strand of hair.’

‘Did the waitress talk to him?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘No, he didn’t say a word after paying for his coffee. We do have a good description of the perp, although it sounds as if he was wearing a disguise, so I’m not sure how much the statements from the witnesses can really tell us,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But there’s one thing we do know, at any rate. The killer is a man. The question is: Who is he?’

‘Just a minute,’ said Knutas.

He got up and pulled down the white screen at the front of the room. Jacobsson, who sat closest to the switch, turned off the lights. Knutas used his computer to project an image on the screen. He’d had only a few minutes to tell Wittberg about his theory. No one else knew the identity of the killer they were looking for. The silence in the room was palpable.

A face appeared on the screen. It was a passport photo of a man in his forties. He was blond with dark eyes and an open, pleasant-looking face. It was obvious that he bore a striking resemblance to Veronika Hammar. The man was clean-shaven, and his hair was cut short. He looked like rather a decent person as he mustered a vague smile for the camera. Hardly the image of a double murderer. Knutas clicked to bring up another photo of the same man.

This one had been culled from the police records, taken fifteen years earlier. An unshaven young man with a crew cut and a wild look in his eyes, staring with hostility at the camera. Two very different portraits of the same man.

‘This is the eldest brother, Mats. According to his boss, he’s been in Mallorca for the past two weeks. But that’s not true. The charter company says that Mats never showed up at the airport to check in for his flight. Instead, he’s been shuttling back and forth between Stockholm and Gotland. I think this is the man we’re after.’

The news caused a ripple to pass through the room.

‘So it’s the half-brother. The one who grew up with foster families,’ said Smittenberg with a sigh.

Everyone was staring at the photo on the screen. Knutas told them what Mikaela Hammar had said about Mats Andersson and then added more details.

‘He’s forty-one years old and lives in Södermalm. Veronika gave birth to him at Visby Hospital in 1966. She was only fifteen at the time. Nobody knows who the father is. The birth records list the father as “unknown”. Mats is a bachelor with no children. He works at a silver-plating company in the industrial district of Länne in Haninge.’

‘A silver-plating company? What the hell is that?’ asked Wittberg.

‘They apply the finished surface to metal. And according to the CEO, there’s a specific substance that’s needed for the manufacturing process. Potassium cyanide.’

Knutas paused for effect as his colleagues digested this piece of information.

‘The man has quite a troubled past. He grew up with a whole series of foster families, and has been convicted of assault on numerous occasions. He has also been arrested for receiving stolen goods and for petty theft. But he’s had a clean record for the past ten years. Seems he’s been behaving himself.’

Sohlman looked at his watch.

‘It’s seven fifteen. The murder was committed around three thirty. So where is Mats now?’

‘He hasn’t left Visby, at least not using his own name,’ said Knutas. ‘The boat for Nynäshamn left Visby at four forty-five, and he could have easily made it on board. It arrives in Nynäs at eight o’clock, and we’ve asked to have all the passengers remain on board until the police search the whole ship. It’s going to cause a big ruckus, but that can’t be helped.’

Memories of the previous year’s hunt for a murderer flickered through Knutas’s mind. On that occasion the police had also been forced to delay a Gotland ferryboat, but their search had proved fruitless, even though the killer was actually on board. Knutas cast a surreptitious glance at Karin. A searing pain passed through his body as he remembered what a dilemma he was in. Was he really going to keep her secret?

Then he went on. ‘Our colleagues in Stockholm have been to his flat, but he wasn’t there. They’re also going to see if he might be visiting his brother Simon, since Mats has the most contact with him. And they live just a stone’s throw from each other, on either side of Slussen.

‘The question is: Where has he been staying when he comes to Gotland?’ said Knutas. ‘I’ve asked all the hotels, B and Bs, hostels, cabin rental agencies and campground owners to look through their records. Unfortunately, it’s going to take time before we hear back from all of them.’

‘He has a brother here on Gotland,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Who’s to say he’s not staying with Andreas?’

JOHAN’S MOBILE RANG as he and Pia were on their way to the café where Veronika Hammar was murdered. As soon as Johan took the call, Pia could tell that something was seriously wrong.

The doctor told him that Emma was in intensive care. She had been found at the very café they were on their way to visit. But she was just running some errands, Johan thought in bewilderment.

At that moment they had entered the roundabout at Norrgatt; Pia was driving towards the northern gate in the ring wall.

‘Go to the hospital!’ he shouted, still holding the mobile to his ear. ‘We have to go to the hospital!’

Pia quickly turned the steering wheel the other way, casting a startled look at her colleague.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Emma’s in intensive care. She was at the café when Veronika Hammar was killed, and she tried to save her. Now she’s in a serious condition herself.’ He pounded his fist on the side of the passenger door. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

Pia brought the car to such an abrupt stop at the hospital entrance that the tyres shrieked against the asphalt. As Johan jumped out of the car, she yelled after him: ‘It’ll be OK. She’ll be fine!’

She could hear how hollow her words sounded.

WHEN THE MEETING of the investigative team was over, Knutas sat down at his desk and punched in the phone number for Simon Hammar in Stockholm. No one answered. The phone rang and rang, echoing in his ear. He sighed and went out to the corridor to get himself a cup of coffee from the vending machine. The whole station was buzzing with activity, and a nationwide alert had been issued for Mats Andersson. Knutas speculated what his motive could be. Was he so eager to kill his mother because she’d abandoned him when he was a newborn? If so, why had he decided to do it now, at the age of forty-one?

Thoughts of Karin and her baby flitted through his mind. It was impossible to ignore the similarities. At the same time, there were distinct differences. Mats had tried several times to contact his biological mother, to no avail. Karin had never heard from her daughter. And Mats had not been put up for adoption. Instead, he’d been sent to live with various foster families. And what role did his newfound half-brothers and -sister play in the drama? Again he tried to phone Simon at his temporary address in Gamla Stan. He was just about to give up when someone picked up. But the voice wasn’t Simon’s.

‘Hello?’

‘This is Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas. I’m looking for Simon Hammar.’

‘Anders Knutas? What in God’s name is going on?’

There was no mistaking that deep, morose voice. Knutas had worked on several cases with Inspector Kurt Fogestam of the Stockholm police.

‘Kurt? I might ask you the same question. Why are you answering this phone? It’s urgent that I speak with Simon Hammar.’

‘Well, he’s here all right,’ said Fogestam glumly. ‘But I’m afraid you’re too late. Simon Hammar is dead.’

Knutas’s jaw dropped.

‘We just got the call. He fell out of a fifth-floor window. Landed on Kornhamnstorg here in Gamla Stan. The square that faces Slussen, you know? We’ve got a huge problem on our hands at the moment. Traffic is at a standstill, and a big crowd has gathered in the square. We haven’t even removed the body yet. It looks like murder. There are signs of a struggle in the flat. I can call you back later. But why are you looking for Simon Hammar?’

‘His mother was murdered here on Gotland just a few hours ago. She was poisoned with cyanide, just like Viktor Algård at the conference centre.’

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’

A PARALYSING SENSE of inadequacy settled over Knutas as he put down the receiver after talking to Kurt Fogestam in Stockholm. The police seemed to be always one step behind. By all indications, Mats Andersson had first murdered his mother and then his brother. Had Simon known that he was the killer and threatened to expose him? Was that why he’d been silenced? It sounded as if Simon’s death had come suddenly, the result of anger. Knutas reasoned that if a murder were premeditated, this would not be the preferred modus operandi. Mats Andersson seemed to crave an audience, yet not to the extent that he wanted to get caught. Surely it would be almost impossible to toss a man out of a fifth-floor window in the middle of Stockholm without being seen. And Simon must have put up a lot of resistance; he was both tall and muscular. Unless he was first drugged or poisoned, of course. But why throw him out of the window? Couldn’t Mats have killed him with cyanide, just as he’d killed his other two victims?

Another puzzling element was the fact that the murderer had been able to leave the building and vanish without getting caught.

Knutas didn’t think for a minute that the perpetrator would have purposely chosen to make things so difficult for himself. No, the decision to kill Simon must have been made in great haste.

Was it even possible for the same person to have committed the two murders within only a few hours of each other? He did a quick calculation in his head. The flight between Stockholm and Visby took only thirty minutes. A taxi ride from Bromma airport in Stockholm to Gamla Stan took about the same amount of time.

Knutas wondered again what the motive could have been for killing Simon. Was Mats in the process of murdering all of his half-siblings? Or had he already done so? Andreas Hammar lived alone out in the country, and his body might easily go undiscovered for days. Suddenly Knutas was filled with dread.

He jumped up, grabbed his service weapon, and then knocked on Jacobsson’s door.

‘Get in touch with Stockholm!’ he shouted to Rylander as they rushed out of the station. ‘Make sure the sister on Vätö has police protection. ASAP!’

Silent and grim-faced, Knutas sat in the passenger seat as Jacobsson stomped on the accelerator, racing south. Mikaela had told them that Simon and Mats were in the habit of having lengthy, heart-to-heart talks. Simon had told his sister how much these conversations meant to him, and what a support Mats had been. Was this what had prompted the murders? Andreas Hammar wasn’t answering his phone and Knutas’s anxiety grew. Mats couldn’t possibly have reached the sheep farm after killing Simon, but he could have gone out there earlier.

Jacobsson sped towards Hablingbo, screeching around the curves. The siren was on and the other cars on the road obediently got out of their way. Knutas’s mobile rang again. It was Inspector Fogestam.

‘Anders, I have to tell you that we’ve decided this wasn’t a homicide after all. We assumed it was because several chairs had been toppled. But now we’ve found more than one suicide note. And several reliable witnesses have independently confirmed that they saw Simon Hammar jump from the window.’

‘Really? What do the notes say?’

‘There are four of them. They were on the mantelpiece, addressed to different people.’

‘Who?’

‘One for Veronika, one for Katrina, one for Daniel, and one for Mats.’

‘Could you fax them over to us as soon as possible? Have you read them?’

‘Yes. I’ve had a quick look at them. Simon writes that he’s sorry for doing what he’s about to do, but he sees no other option. The letter to his mother is quite nasty. He seems to be blaming her for the fact that he can’t bear to live any longer. Apparently her demands were so great that he couldn’t take it any more.’

‘And now she’s dead too. She died at just about the same time, damn it.’

‘Yes. It’s terrible. I’ve got to go. But I wanted you to know what we found out.’

IT WAS DARK by the time Jacobsson parked in front of the farm in Hablingbo. The yard was deserted. No barking dogs. Not a soul in sight. The red pick-up that Andreas had driven the last time they visited him was gone. Knutas glanced at his watch. It was ten fifteen.

Cautiously they approached the house. No one seemed to be at home, and no lights were on. Knutas crept up on to the porch and tried the door. It wasn’t locked. With their guns drawn, they slowly made their way from room to room, but they soon realized that the house was empty.

The gravel crunched under their feet as they walked around the side of the main building. As they searched the property, more police vehicles turned up.

The officers gathered in the yard and then split up to continue the search. Knutas and Jacobsson got back in the car to drive over to the lambing shed and the pasture where they had previously interviewed Andreas while he was weighing the sheep. Maybe that was where they would find him, together with Mats. Knutas fervently hoped that they wouldn’t arrive too late.

They turned on to the road, which was cloaked in darkness, and headed for Havdhem. There were no streetlights and very few buildings. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of lights shining from a distant farm. They drove in silence, as if they were both expecting the worst.

‘Do you remember where to turn?’ asked Knutas.

‘Yes. It’s right up ahead.’

Jacobsson turned on to the narrow gravel road, but they hadn’t gone more than a few hundred yards before a flock of sheep blocked their way. Karin was forced to stop the car.

‘What the hell is this?’ she said with a sigh.

More and more sheep came crowding on to the road. All of them were bleating loudly. The sound grew to a deafening cacophony. With their open mouths and blank stares, they looked ghostly in the glow from the car headlamps. Jacobsson honked and tried to inch the car forward, but the sheep refused to budge. They surrounded the vehicle, pressing against it, as if the vehicle were their only refuge.

‘What do we do now?’

‘It can’t be that far to the lambing shed,’ said Knutas. ‘Let’s get out and walk.’

JOHAN SAT IN the waiting room outside the intensive care ward at Visby Hospital. He hadn’t yet been allowed to see Emma. A nurse had offered him something to drink, but he found himself barely able to speak. His body felt anaesthetized; his mind was empty. He just sat there, utterly still and staring at the floor. He didn’t want to move until they came out and told him that Emma was going to be OK.

Suddenly the door to the waiting room opened. Johan didn’t even lift his head to see who came in.

Somebody sat down on the chair next to him.

‘How’s she doing?’

He recognized the voice, but hadn’t expected to see him here. It was Emma’s ex-husband Olle.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know anything.’

The clock on the wall was ticking monotonously. The minutes plodded along. Both men, who were the fathers of Emma’s children, sat next to each other in silence and waited, not knowing what to expect.

Olle drummed his fingers on his leg. Johan stared at his veined hands. The ring finger which, for so many years, had worn a wedding ring given to him by Emma. Those hands that had held Emma, changed the nappies of their two children, cooked meals and built the house in Roma. In the past such thoughts had always made Johan feel angry or jealous. But this time he felt a strange sense of solidarity. Emma was important to both of them. He would never be able to erase the years that Olle and Emma had shared. And why should he? The faces of Sara and Filip flitted through his mind. This was their father sitting next to him, burying his anxious face in his hands. Johan closed his eyes.

Neither of them spoke.

BODIES EVERYWHERE. WHITE, woolly, bulky, warm. And all those eyes. Hundreds of eyes staring at him. He saw nothing in their expressions. And yet there was something reassuring about them. They were clustered together in one corner of the pasture, closest to the building.

He had jumped on the motorcycle and driven into town. He had left the café and the dark angel in the throes of death. That had always been his secret name for her: the dark angel. When he was a boy, he saw her as a bright and beautiful angel who would one day come to rescue him. But she wasn’t the person he thought she was. She was a malicious, evil destroyer. He had done the right thing.

The relief he felt made him dizzy and nearly forced him off the road. He steeled himself. He had to get away, and quickly. He was on his way home. For him, home meant the three people who were the only ones who cared about him. Genuinely cared. They had opened their arms to him, taken him in, welcomed him warmly. His three siblings. It was a new feeling, and it had profoundly changed how he viewed the world. Suddenly he had a real reason for living.

Right now he longed to tell Simon what he’d done, but first he was going to talk to Andreas, since he lived so near. He couldn’t help himself. He would burst if he didn’t share the news with someone.

For the first time in his life, he felt that he had a purpose.

He passed the harbour terminal with the big white ships, which later in the evening would take him away from here. But before he left, he wanted to see his siblings one more time. It might be a while before he had another opportunity to visit them.

His heart warmed at the thought of them. Andreas was the strong, confident brother he could always turn to. With Mikaela he felt an intense connection. She had spoken to him with great candour, telling him about her eating disorder and how she had started to cut herself as a teenager. And about the problems that she’d had in relating to other people, never daring to trust anyone. Things had finally turned out well for her. She had found a husband who loved her with all his heart.

But he felt the closest to Simon. From the very beginning he had shared a special connection with his youngest brother. They belonged together. They’d had so many long conversations. At first Simon mostly listened, as if understanding perfectly what he was trying to say. Simon took everything he said to heart, encouraging and supporting him. Listening to all the shit he’d been carrying around for years. Suddenly he no longer had to bear the burden alone. He could share it with someone else, and the sense of relief he felt was enormous. He had found his family.

Then Simon had broken up with Katrina, and the roles were reversed. He’d been surprised to hear about everything Simon had endured as a child. Utterly alone, without support from anyone at all. He was struck by how isolated and vulnerable his three siblings had been, even though they had a mother, had their own family. The grief stripped him of all strength. Then he was seized by anger. He was the one who needed to make things right. Above all, he needed to save Simon, who was sinking deeper and deeper into a terrible depression.

Their regular conversations had made him desperate. In an attempt to get Simon out of the borrowed flat into which he’d practically barricaded himself, he had forced his brother to come over to his place. Just to talk, and at least once a week. As the picture of their mother gradually emerged, hatred began growing inside of him, getting stronger and stronger each day. Along with a desire for revenge.

He had watched as his newfound little brother fell apart, bit by bit. Simon was the only one who hadn’t yet managed to break free. And the more time that passed, the more details he heard, the more convinced he became. There was only one way to set Simon free and give him a chance to live his own life. He was certainly entitled to that much.

There were obvious similarities between them. Both harboured something deep in their hearts that kept them at a deadlock, preventing them from living fully. He himself was forty-one years old and had never managed to sustain a long-term relationship.

He felt an urgent need to save Simon from going under.

At the same time, his brother started hinting that he no longer wanted to live. That had made the whole matter even more pressing.

He took a deep breath, and then slowly exhaled through his nose.

Things were going to be different now. With their warm and loving reception, his three siblings had made him believe that he was actually a worthwhile person, in spite of everything. That there might even be someone for him to love.

His real life was finally about to begin. He had saved his brother and made peace with himself. He listened for police sirens but heard none. There wasn’t a single police car on the road. But he wasn’t afraid any more.

When he reached the farm, he parked the motorcycle and hurried towards the house. He rang the bell. No one answered, and the door was locked. The dogs weren’t out in the yard, and he couldn’t hear any barking from inside the house. Andreas’s car was not in the driveway. That meant there was only one place he could be.

He jumped back on the motorcycle and drove off, spraying gravel in his wake.

KNUTAS AND JACOBSSON made their way forward in the dark. The sheep had followed them for a short distance but gradually fell behind after realizing that they weren’t going to get any food, no matter how much noise they made. Someone must have let the animals out, either deliberately or by mistake.

The two officers hurried across fields and meadows. Because it was so dark, they couldn’t move as quickly as they would have liked. The ground was uneven, covered with stones and stumps, and Knutas had already tripped several times.

Jacobsson’s heart was pounding hard. All the recent events flitted through her mind as they jogged along. Three faces kept appearing: Andreas, Mikaela and Simon. Each of them marked by sorrow and loneliness. And then there was Mats, the man with two faces. The boy who had been handed over to strangers, just like her own daughter, whom she had known for only a few minutes. But those minutes had affected the rest of her life and everything she did. She raced along as fast as she could. She was determined to save him. She had to save Mats before he did something crazy again. If only they could get there in time.

Then they saw the lights of the lambing shed. Thank God. It wasn’t far now. It was a wooden building, nearly a hundred metres long, with a corrugated metal roof. It was divided into stalls where the ewes could have their lambs in peace and quiet. The lambing season was over, so the ewes and their offspring had been sent out to graze.

Several sheep in an outdoor pen began bleating as they approached. Both the red pick-up and a motorcycle were parked outside the building. The door was ajar, but it was dark inside. Knutas crept over to the door and stuck his arm inside, attempting to turn on the light switch. Nothing happened. The light was broken. The door creaked as they stepped inside. The faint light that seeped in through the dust-covered windows allowed them to fumble their way forward. The only sound was an occasional mournful bleating from the sheep outside.

Slowly they moved past the rows of stalls. Suddenly Knutas gave a shout.

‘I see something! Come over here!’

Among the bales of hay inside one of the stalls they saw the figure of a man lying on his back on the ground.

‘Damn it to hell!’ exclaimed Jacobsson. ‘We’re too late.’

To her embarrassment she felt tears well up in her eyes. Stop it, you idiot, she thought to herself. You don’t even know these people.

Knutas cautiously opened the stall door and stepped inside. He gasped when he looked at the man’s face.

It wasn’t Andreas.

JOHAN HAD NO idea how much time had passed when the door finally opened. He saw a man wearing a white coat and glasses, his expression sombre. Johan’s vision blurred, as if he were looking through a fog. As he watched the doctor coming down the long corridor towards them, all sorts of memories flashed through his mind. Fragments of his life with Emma.

Her hand frantically clutching his when she gave birth to Elin; her smile when she said ‘I do’ in the church; her fevered expression when they made love. A minor quarrel at the breakfast table a few days ago; Emma wearing a white bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her head after taking a shower and then making coffee in the kitchen.

The doctor had reached them now. He stood very close. Johan didn’t dare look up.

‘It’s over now. The worst of it, anyway. She’s out of danger, and she’s going to be fine. The baby too.’

‘The baby?’ whispered Johan.

KNUTAS STOOD MOTIONLESS, trying to gather his thoughts. He recognized Mats from the photographs. Now here he lay, looking up at the ceiling, his eyes unseeing, his body limp. But he was breathing.

‘Mats, my name is Anders Knutas and I’m a police officer. You’re under arrest for the murder of Viktor Algård and Veronika Hammar. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

He crouched down and shook Mats by the shoulder. No reaction. The man seemed almost catatonic.

The next moment two people appeared in the doorway, carrying torches. They stopped abruptly, surprised to see the police officers. Knutas looked in confusion from one person to the other. He couldn’t make sense of what he saw: There stood the sheep farmer Andreas Hammar and the TV camerawoman Pia Lilja, hand in hand. To make matters worse, Jacobsson had fallen to the ground and was staring glassy-eyed into space. As if she were the victim of a blackout.

Then the man on the floor suddenly turned his head to look at Knutas. His expression displayed such pain that Knutas almost shrank back. Slowly Mats lifted one arm, holding something in his hand. For a fraction of a second a danger warning flashed through Knutas’s brain. Was it a weapon? The next second he was relieved to see that it was a mobile phone. Mats’s voice shook as he whispered his question: ‘Is this true?’

Puzzled, Knutas tried to make out the words on the tiny, illuminated display. The message was brief but devastating.

‘Simon is dead. Call me. Mikaela’.

KNUTAS WAS STANDING next to the window in his office, looking out at the car park, which was wet with rain. He filled his pipe as he thought about the dramatic events of the past few days.

From the very beginning this particular case had affected him more strongly than others. Maybe because it had made him think about his own role as a parent. Just before the murders occurred, Alexander Almlöv had been assaulted at the Solo Club. His own son Nils had witnessed the vicious attack but hadn’t dared tell his father, the police officer.

Over the past weeks Knutas had spent almost as much time wrestling with that issue as he had trying to discover the identity of the killer.

The fate of Mats Andersson was a tragic one, from start to finish. He had hoped to save his newfound and beloved brother from succumbing to despair by killing their mother. But before that happened, Simon had taken his own life. Knutas could understand how shocked Mats must have been to receive word of his brother’s death. Everything he had done was in vain. The plan he had spent months putting together was to no avail.

Mats had ended up recounting the whole story about his desperate attempt to free his younger brother from their mother. Ultimately it seemed to him that there was only one option. He had to kill Veronika – destroy her before she destroyed the family that he had found at last. Simon, in turn, had tried all his life to save her, to make her happy and content with her life. But that had proved to be an impossible task. Both Mats and Simon had seen themselves as angels sent to the rescue. And it had all ended in disaster.

Nobody can save anybody else, thought Knutas bitterly. Everyone has to save his own life.

It was strange that things had gone so well for Veronika Hammar’s children, in spite of the difficult circumstances they had endured while growing up with their excessively demanding mother. At least Andreas and Mikaela had succeeded in creating a satisfactory life for themselves, and they seemed reasonably happy.

They also had shown an ability to love. Was that something they’d learned from somebody else, or was it an innate part of being human?

His thoughts were interrupted by Jacobsson knocking on the door.

‘Come in.’

She sat down on his visitors’ sofa. Knutas sensed that she had something important to say, so he sat down across from her.

‘How are you doing?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

She smiled. Her dark eyes had regained their familiar alert expression. He was happy to see it.

‘I’ve decided to try to find my daughter. Lydia.’

Knutas didn’t reply. Instead, he got up and went over to sit next to her, giving her a hug. She relaxed into his arms, not moving as he stroked her hair.

He had been pondering what to do about everything that Karin had told him in Stockholm. He had agonized over the decision he needed to make. He had no idea what to do, and there was no one he could consult.

Karin had deliberately allowed a double murderer to escape. Maybe she was unbalanced. Maybe he would come to regret the decision he was about to make.

Yet, at that moment, he knew that he could never tell anyone her secret.

Never.