The Dangerous Game

IT WAS A warm day in May, and she was strolling alone through the streets of Milan. After a while she came to a large, paved piazza in front of a church. The square was filled with pigeons. White, grey, and some that were almost a shimmering blue. The birds fluttered around each other in a sort of lustful mating dance. Some strutted about contentedly on the sun-warmed paving stones, here and there casually pecking at a few crumbs. Lining the big open square were park benches bolted to the ground. A mother with a baby in a pram was trying to read the newspaper while her two little girls raced about. They were playing with multicoloured rubber balls, bouncing them on the pavement as they laughed merrily. A young man with rolled-up shirtsleeves stood at the sole vendor’s stand, selling burnt almonds in little paper bags. He was sweating in the heat, and his curly hair stuck to his forehead. He kept mopping his face with a handkerchief. The sweet scent of the almonds wafted towards her, prickling her nostrils. She was hungry and had plans to meet someone for lunch in the old part of town. That was where she was now headed, yet she took time to pause and enjoy the scene. A group of schoolgirls wearing green-checked uniforms had sat down on blankets placed in a circle to listen to their teacher, who, with sweeping gestures, seemed to be recounting the history of the church. A couple obviously in love sat on one of the benches, kissing. Seated on another were three elderly black-clad women, chatting in the shadow of the cypress trees. Surrounding the entire piazza were well-maintained blocks of flats with brightly painted window frames. She smiled to herself as she crossed the square and continued along the winding lanes in La Brera, the oldest neighbourhood in Milan.

Several hours later she was back at the same piazza, on her way to meet with her agent. She was in a hurry. The lunch with her new male acquaintance had been unexpectedly pleasant and lasted longer than anticipated. She was almost feeling a bit infatuated. She looked forward to the time soon to come when she would be working in this Mecca of the fashion world. Her head was brimming with thoughts about the man she’d just met.

When she reached the square, which had previously been so lively, she stopped short and looked around in bewilderment. The scene had dramatically changed. On the ground lay several dozen pigeons, lifeless and bloody. It was alarmingly quiet. The elderly women, the playing children and the amorous couple were gone.

She took in a deep breath. It looked like a war zone, just minutes after a massacre. With one blow the harmony had been replaced by devastation and death. The beautiful pigeons lay scattered about, their plumage stained with blood. Their eyes were closed, their throats limp, their beaks resting on the ground. Under one bench she saw a ball that had been left behind. She raised her eyes and discovered that the pigeons who had survived were huddled close together, perching on the window ledges of the surrounding buildings. The birds were utterly silent. Not a sound could be heard. She looked down, and noticed a red spot on one of her shoes. She stared at it with revulsion. Was that pigeon blood? Her cheeks flushed with an inexplicable feeling of shame.

In distress, she grabbed the coat sleeve of a man who happened to walk past, asking him what had happened here. He shrugged. Didn’t he understand what she’d said?

Before she rushed off to go to her meeting, she cast one last look at the dead pigeons. Her mouth was dry, and her head was throbbing. She couldn’t comprehend how all that effervescent life on the square could have been so cruelly replaced by such bleak destruction.

THE TAXI PULLED up in front of the Grand Hotel and smoothly came to a halt. The hotel was located in the heart of Stockholm, with a view of Gamla Stan, the old part of the city, and the palace, across the water. The magnificent baroque castle was one of the largest in Europe, but right now half of it was hidden by the November haze. And dusk had begun to settle in. The dark, cold water of Strömmen was teeming with ducks, swans and seagulls hoping for breadcrumbs from the passers-by. Lined up along the quay were the white boats with names like Norrskar, Solöga and Vaxholm – a bittersweet reminder of the now-distant summer when these boats took passengers out to the archipelago.

The man in the back seat paid the cab driver in cash without saying a word. Under the black overcoat he wore a leaden-grey Armani suit, a silk tie in the same hue and a white shirt with a starched collar. He had on sunglasses even though the weary, late-afternoon light barely penetrated the clouds. Maybe he’s on drugs, thought the doorman who hurried to receive the guest. Or it could be that he simply didn’t want to be recognized. Maybe he was just another of the countless publicity-shy celebrities who had come and gone during the almost 150-year history of the hotel.

The doorman, impeccably outfitted in his black frock coat and top hat, opened the back door of the cab.

‘Good afternoon, Sir. Welcome to the Grand Hotel.’

He bowed and took a step back.

The passenger fumbled with the change he’d received from the cab driver and grabbed his briefcase before getting out.

A second later he dropped his wallet, but he was so quick to pick it up that the doorman had no chance to assist him. When the man bent down, his flawlessly pressed trousers hitched up to reveal that he was wearing tube socks with his custom-tailored suit. White tube socks. The doorman frowned. A clear breach of style. Not a VIP, after all, more likely some yokel trying to blend in, though without being entirely successful. The lack of baggage probably meant that the man was on his way to the bar, or that he was meeting someone for an early dinner. He watched with interest as the man disappeared through the glass doors of the hotel.

The doorman liked to amuse himself by making up stories about the guests. They came from every corner of the earth. Arabian princes, American pop stars, Greek ship-owners, government ministers and heads of state, kings and queens. Celebrities as varied as Albert Einstein, Martin Luther King, Grace Kelly, Charlie Chaplin, Nelson Mandela, and Madonna had stayed at the hotel. For thirty years the doorman had stood sentry at the entrance to the city’s most famous hotel, and by now he was used to almost anything. Yet he never tired of thinking about the guests – their lives and cultures, and where they’d come from.

He went back to his post behind the stand just inside the entrance.

Through the big glass windows he had a clear view of any approaching guests. He kept an attentive eye on all the passers-by on the street, looking for anyone who might be heading for the hotel.

It wasn’t long before the man with the sunglasses returned from the lobby. He seemed to be in a hurry and came striding towards the exit with his gaze fixed straight ahead. There was clearly something odd about him, something that didn’t seem right. It was the way he was moving. His gait was tightly controlled, almost stiff, giving the impression that he was unusually reserved or suffered from aching joints. Or, for some other reason, he was either unable to move naturally or chose not to do so. He seemed nervous, but harmless enough. A poor guy who had ended up in a setting where he felt extremely uncomfortable. No cause for concern.

The doorman smiled as he thought about the tube socks and reached for one of the evening newspapers that had been placed in the side compartment of his stand. Absent-mindedly, he began leafing through the paper.

The next minute he had completely forgotten about the man in the taxi.

ONLY A FEW hours before the launch of Stockholm Fashion Week, things were fairly chaotic in the improvised dressing room behind the stage in the winter garden of the Grand Hotel. A dozen long-legged models were crowded together with hairdressers, make-up artists, stylists and assistants helping the models into their clothes. Everyone was busy pinning up hair, curling lashes, fastening belts, tying laces and adjusting the drape of the garments.

Jenny Levin was perched on a bar stool, having her face powdered as she observed the confusion. She enjoyed the seething activity and nervous frenzy before a show, the hectic atmosphere in which everyone involved focused a hundred per cent of their attention on specific tasks. She was a newcomer, having worked as a model for less than a year, but she already felt right at home. As if I was born to do this, she thought, casting a satisfied look at herself in the mirror. Her coppery red hair had been drawn up into a big loose knot on top of her head, with a few tendrils hanging down here and there. It looked as if the strands had come loose by accident but, like everything else, that was merely an illusion. Every little detail had been carefully designed and styled.

Jenny knew that her face was considered beautiful. She had high cheekbones, almond-shaped green eyes and a fair, unblemished complexion with a light sprinkling of freckles.

She opened her mouth slightly as the make-up artist applied red gloss to her lips. Jenny stood five foot eleven in her stocking feet. Her childlike face gave her the look of a fifteen-year-old, even though she was already nineteen. Her innocent, fresh beauty, combined with an indefinably mysterious look in her eye, prompted people to think of a wood nymph, which was perfect for the current trend. Ideally, a model was expected to look like some sort of creature that had sprung straight out of nature.

Growing up in farming country on the Swedish island of Gotland, Jenny had suffered from a complex about her height and her skinny figure. But now she’d developed a whole new view of her appearance. Attributes which in her former life had been considered anything but attractive were suddenly being hailed as lovely.

After her lipstick was done, she suppressed a yawn and stretched out her long, slender legs. She hadn’t had much sleep last night. Thinking about the reason for this, she felt a spark of heat in her nether zone.

In the middle of the room the hair stylists were all working hard on their assigned models, supervised by their boss, André, who was casting a critical eye over their work. It was his job to make sure that each hairdo was exactly as the designer and stylist had intended. He was a short Frenchman, dressed in baggy jeans, a black T-shirt and suede sandals. With hairbrushes stuck in his back pockets, spray bottles gripped between his knees, and hairpins poking out from the corner of his mouth, he confidently and professionally added last-minute touches to make each hairstyle perfect. All the models had long, thick hair that required several steps to bring it under control. First, their hair had to be carefully brushed out, blow-dried, and subjected to a flat-iron, then sprayed and combed back with impressive vigour. The young women patiently sat in their chairs, their faces impassive. Occasionally, one of them would be asked to stand up while André applied the hairspray. That caused him a certain amount of difficulty, since he barely reached even to their shoulders.

As a final touch, each model was given the most amazing shiny hair extensions, which were either skilfully fastened to the hair piled high on their head or allowed to flow freely past their thin shoulders.

Along one wall of the room, every single bar stool was occupied in front of the team of make-up artists who were busily applying mascara and blusher and lipstick. They had been directed to keep the make-up toned down and discreet in order to create a more natural look. The focus was supposed to be on the lips, which were being painted a strong red under layer after layer of gloss to give them as moist and drenched an appearance as possible. ‘Think fish,’ the stylist had said when she issued her instructions. A great deal of time was also devoted to applying the base foundation, since the models had to have a smooth and even complexion. Any blemishes were concealed, eyebrows plucked, a bruise on a thigh was covered with make-up, a spot carefully hidden with the most expensive cream available. And a lustrous lotion was rubbed on the legs of all the models to give them an attractive gleam on stage.

Along the other walls stood dozens of clothes rails mounted on wheels, each one labelled with a model’s name and photograph. This was where their outfits for the evening had been hung, in the order in which they would be worn. Jackets, dresses, trousers, scarves, belts, hats and caps, as well as jewellery stowed in plastic bags. Lined up in neat rows on the floor underneath were shoes and boots – different ones for each creation. A stunning mix of bright-blue suede sandals with stiletto heels, coral-coloured platform shoes, grey thigh-high boots, and screaming-pink plastic shoes with blocky heels. The shoes were adorned with rivets, buckles and glittery gemstones. All the heels were at least four inches high, which meant that most of the girls stood close to six foot three when they were dressed and ready to go.

The models moved with accustomed ease from make-up to hairstyling to wardrobe. From time to time, they were forced to take brief breaks while waiting for assistance. During that time one model might pick at a salad, while another talked on her mobile phone, and someone else simply sat idly, looking bored. Others would get deeply immersed in a conversation, as if they were sitting in a café, and totally ignore the commotion going on around them. One dark-eyed beauty was merrily cavorting in front of a mirror, wearing shorts so skimpy that her legs seemed to go on for ever; another, who was critically examining her fringed, pink suede dress, wore neon-coloured nail polish that shone against her dark skin.

Garments and accessories were put on at the last minute. Nobody paid any attention to the fact that so many bodies were constantly being clothed and unclothed. Bare breasts and thongs were revealed without the slightest embarrassment. All the models had boyish figures with straight shoulders, flat stomachs, tiny breasts, and narrow hips. Long arms, long legs, big feet. Hollowed cheeks, protruding collarbones, muscular backs.

Having finished with make-up, Jenny Levin was squatting down in the middle of the room, wearing only a thong as she buckled her elegant snakeskin shoes with the sky-high heels. She stood up and looked around for the woman who was supposed to help her put on the stunning and glittery bandage dress that was to open the show. No bra. The designer wanted the contours of her breasts to be visible under the tight-fitting garment. At that moment, the woman showed up, and together they managed to get Jenny into the glossy sheath without disturbing her hairdo.

Sometimes, Jenny was seized with a feeling of unreality in the midst of everything. She found it hard to comprehend how her life could have changed so completely and so quickly. Only a year ago she had been just an ordinary schoolgirl. Each day was like all the others. She took the school bus to the secondary school in Visby, went to classes, and stopped for coffee with a few of her classmates in the city before heading back home. At the weekend she went riding, and in the evening she went out with friends. Often a bunch of them would hang out together and watch videos. Or if someone’s parents were away, they’d have a party at their house, drinking strong beer and home-distilled alcohol.

With one blow her whole life had changed. Suddenly, she’d become used to the most expensive champagne in the hottest nightclubs – places that she’d previously read about only in magazines. Now, she was frequently seen in photographs mingling with celebrities. She wore the most beautiful clothes and was greeted with admiration wherever she went. It was incomprehensible.

When only ten minutes remained before the start of the show, the tempo behind the scenes escalated. Even in the dressing room everyone was aware that the audience members were beginning to take their seats on the other side of the curtains. Suggestive techno music was pulsing from the loudspeakers, adding to the air of anticipation.

Jenny went over to the wall one last time to check the list showing the order in which the models were to appear. She was first, and of course she knew why. There was no doubt that she was the star of the group. And this was particularly exciting because, tonight, he would be sitting out there. She had decided to pretend not to notice him, as if he had no effect on her.

In her mind she went through the eight different garments she would wear during the course of the show. She cast a quick glance at the rack of outfits assigned to her; everything seemed to be in order.

The stylist gathered all the models, by now giggling and giddy, for one last run-through. Lined up behind the curtains, they looked like women depicted by the nineteenth-century French artist Toulouse-Lautrec. With their elaborate hairdos, extravagant dresses and bright-red lips, they could easily have stepped out of a painting of the red-light district in Paris more than a century earlier.

The stylist sternly admonished the glittering beauties to stop whispering and urged them to focus on the task at hand. It was almost time. She put on a headset so she could stay in contact with the technicians. A minute to go. On the other side of the curtains they could hear an expectant hum of voices from the six hundred invited guests.

The make-up artists quickly moved among the models, doing some last-minute touch-ups, as the hair stylists sprayed and poked at their hairdos.

Jenny was caught up in the mood; she loved this moment. Seconds before the show started, her mind cleared of all thoughts. She stared attentively at the stylist, waiting for her cue. Then the curtains parted and she stepped out on to the catwalk. A gasp passed through the audience when they caught sight of her. She paused for a moment and couldn’t help smiling. She looked for his face and found it at once.

Then she moved forward.

A PALE NOVEMBER light strained to make its way through a few gaps in the heavy cloud cover. All the stones worn smooth by the water lay untouched on the shore. No one had walked along that stretch of beach in a long time. The sea was grey, with hardly a ripple. Far off in the distance, leaden waves lapped steadily at the scattered boulders that seemed to have been randomly tossed into the water.

Anders Knutas, who had just stepped out on to the front porch of the summer cottage, shivered and pulled up the collar of his jacket. The air was fresh but raw, and the damp cold seeped through his clothes. There was almost no wind. The bare branches of the birch tree down by the gate didn’t move. They were covered with drops of water that sparkled in the morning light. The ground was spongy with tiny yellow leaves that had fallen when the autumn chill crept in. But a few roses were still blooming in the garden, glinting like red and pink will-o’-the-wisps against all the grey; they were reminders of another season.

He headed out along the muddy gravel track that wound its way parallel to the sea. Their cottage was a couple of kilometres beyond Lickershamn, an old fishing village on Gotland’s north-west coast, also called the Stone Coast. Nowadays, it was a summer paradise with only a few permanent residents. At this time of year it was peaceful, and he enjoyed the quiet.

Knutas, who was a morning person, had slipped out without waking Lina. She was sleeping soundly, as usual. It was no more than eight o’clock on this Saturday morning, and he had the road all to himself. It was uneven and muddy, with countless potholes that had filled with water after a night of rain. Lying upside down on the grass-covered strip of land next to the sea were several flat-bottomed rowboats, one of which belonged to Knutas. He loved to go out fishing, and he was a long-standing member of the Lickershamn fishing association. Brown trout, salmon, flounder, cod and turbot were plentiful in these waters. He usually went out with his neighbour Arne, who was a fisherman and one of the few people who lived here year round.

Along the road grew reeds that had now yellowed and withered, a few bushes with beautiful, gleaming red rose-hips, and a gnarled apple tree with a dozen or so yellow apples still clinging to its branches.

Further away, steep chalk cliffs rose dramatically out of the sea. The big rauk called Jungfrun, the Maiden, was sharply outlined against the sky, keeping watch over the small harbour, where only a couple of fishing boats and a few rowboats were now moored. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

On Friday afternoon, Knutas had left police headquarters early and picked up Lina after her shift on the maternity ward of Visby Hospital. Then they had driven out to the cottage. Arne had phoned to tell them that a tree on their property had fallen in the latest autumn storm, which had swept over the island with such violent force a few days earlier. So they had decided to spend the weekend cleaning up. Their marriage had been going through a lengthy rough patch, and they were both making a real effort to find their way back to each other. And, lately, things seemed to be going well.

During the past year, he’d sometimes thought that divorce was inevitable. Lina had become withdrawn and didn’t seem to need him in the same way as she had in the past. She did more things alone, took weekend trips to Stockholm, and spent time with her female friends. She and Maria, who was a photographer, had spent all of October on the West African islands of Cape Verde, documenting the high rate of mothers who died in childbirth. Maria wrote the report and took the photographs, while Lina contributed in her capacity as a midwife and researcher. When Knutas offered some mild objections to Lina taking the trip, she had angrily declared that in the developing countries the death rate among women giving birth was an enormous problem that deserved attention. He shouldn’t even try to stop her going.

Knutas had never imagined how lonely it would be without Lina. Their twins, Petra and Nils, were seventeen and seldom at home. Petra had always been sports-minded and loved outdoors activities. She’d been playing floorball for years, but her biggest passion was orienteering, to which she devoted almost all her free time. Several evenings a week she went to track practice, and when she had no floorball matches at the weekend, she went with her friends to Svaidestugan, outside Visby. That was where the local orienteering community had a clubhouse, and there were also a number of different types of training trails. Healthy hobbies, of course, but recently Knutas had hardly seen her at all.

Nils was the exact opposite of his sister. He was totally uninterested in anything having to do with sports or exercise. He belonged to a theatre group and played drums in a band that practised every evening. Knutas was glad that his children had so many interests. And both of them did well in school, so there was no real reason to complain. They were in the process of separating from him and Lina, which also meant that they, in their role as parents, had to do the same. Lina didn’t seem to think this was a problem. She had adapted to the situation and at the same time had found new activities to keep herself busy.

Like that trip to Cape Verde, which, for Knutas, had been sheer torture. On that first evening when he came home from work, he’d felt as if the walls were echoing with emptiness all around him. Outside the windows the autumn darkness had settled in even though it was only four thirty. He’d switched on all the lights in the house and turned on the TV, but he’d been unable to fend off the feeling of being abandoned. And it got worse each day. If the children were spending the night somewhere else or didn’t come home for dinner, he lost any desire to cook or even make a cup of coffee for himself.

He had suffered through the silence of that month, without fully working out whether the empty feeling was because he was missing Lina in particular, or because he missed having someone else’s company in general.

The day before she was due back home he was suddenly seized with a great surge of energy. He cleaned the whole house, filled the refrigerator and pantry with food, and bought fresh flowers, which he put in a vase on the kitchen table. He was determined to do his utmost to be loving and considerate.

And it had worked. They’d started talking more to each other. Their relationship seemed deeper, more intense, and they’d drawn closer.

On Friday afternoon they had cleared the toppled tree from their property, then raked up leaves and burnt them on a bonfire. They ended the day by cooking a good meal together, and then sat in front of the fireplace, drinking wine and talking. Before going to sleep, they had made love. It almost felt like old times.

Knutas drew the fresh sea air deep into his lungs and continued walking. He passed the home of one of the permanent residents and saw smoke coming from the chimney. Off in the distance, he noticed light in a window. A flock of black jackdaws was perched in the treetops. With a loud shriek they all took off at once when he approached. The sea birds, clustered on rocks out in the water, reacted the same way. As they rose up into the sky, he realized how many there were.

The fishermen’s huts that were lined up down by the harbour were all empty. Some of the larger ones had been turned into summer homes with kitchenettes and bunk beds.

Knutas sat down on a bench and gazed out at the sea. One evening in September, they’d gone swimming here on their last visit to the cottage. He thought about Lina’s voluptuous body and soft white skin. Her long, curly red hair, her smile and warm eyes. He was still very much in love with her.

When he got back, he saw her sitting on the porch wearing a long grey cardigan and thick socks, with her pale, freckled hands wrapped around a coffee mug. She waved and smiled at him as he came walking along the road. He waved back.

WHEN THEY REACHED the road that connected the peninsula of Furillen to Gotland’s north-east coast, Jenny rolled the car window down halfway and breathed in the sea air. She hadn’t been here in a long time, and she’d forgotten how beautiful it was. Solitary, barren, and nothing but sea, sea, and more sea. In the distance she saw several wind turbines reaching towards the sky, their blades turning slowly in the light breeze. The beach was deserted, the road bumpy and dusty, the landscape bare and rocky; the higher up they drove, the more stripped everything looked. Like a moonscape, devoid of all traces of civilization.

The photographer Markus Sandberg was driving; she sat next to him in the passenger seat. There were two other people in the rental car: Maria, the make-up artist, and Hugo, the stylist, who were both going to work on the photo shoot, which was expected to last three days. They were quietly talking in the back seat and seemed to be completely absorbed in their conversation.

So much the better. That meant Jenny could enjoy the company of her companion in the front seat. As often as she dared, she let her eyes rest on Markus. She couldn’t believe how attractive he was, so mature, so worldly. He was one of the fashion industry’s most sought-after photographers and a favourite of the agencies. He’d travelled the globe with all the most famous models and stylists, working for the best magazines. He was nicely suntanned, with several small tattoos on his muscular arms and a silver bracelet on one lean wrist. He had a dark stubble on his cheeks, full lips, and intense, deep-blue eyes. His hair was thick and almost black, with no hint of thinning, even though he was close to forty. But that was hard to believe. Jenny thought he looked much younger. Maybe thirty at most. Markus was careful about maintaining his appearance. He worked out at the gym, shaved only enough to be fashionable, and spent a lot of time in front of the mirror styling his hair. ‘I’ve devoted my whole life to appearances,’ he’d cynically explained when she teased him about being so vain. ‘Both professionally and in my personal life. If I don’t take care of how I look, what would I take care of? It’s the only thing I know how to do – making myself and other people look our best. Beauty is my great passion in life.’

At first glance, the clothes he wore seemed casual and thrown together, as if everything he’d put on just happened to look right. A scarf wrapped around his neck, a pair of jeans faded in the proper places, a seemingly simple print shirt. But, on closer inspection, his clothing turned out to be from one of the foremost designer labels. He looked fabulous even with no clothes at all, she thought, longing for night-time, when they would share a bed. Markus had insisted on staying in one of the separate cabins that belonged to the hotel and were intended for guests who wanted to be left in peace. Personally, she wasn’t exactly thrilled about the arrangement. It didn’t sound especially appealing. Markus had told her that the cabins had been built at some distance from each other and about a kilometre from the hotel itself. They were barely visible because of the surrounding shrubbery and trees. They had no electricity or running water, with only paraffin lamps for light and wood stoves for heat. She had promised to sleep there with Markus. The one positive thing was that it would be easy for her to slip out, spend the night in the cabin, and then return to her room in the hotel early in the morning without being seen.

So far, their relationship was a secret. She wondered how long it would be before they could show their love openly. Markus was a bachelor, and he had no children. When the other models talked about him, they always claimed that he’d stay single for ever. They also pathetically agreed that he was completely unreliable. In the past, he’d photographed girls for various men’s magazines, and he’d developed a reputation for constantly changing girlfriends. At first, Jenny had been bothered by the fact that he’d taken nude photographs, but now she no longer cared. Everybody had to start somewhere, after all. Although she did try to avoid looking at his old photos of those girls with the big boobs. The models looked like they were eager to have sex with the photographer at any moment. She’d also felt a bit shy in the beginning, since he was so used to seeing such shapely women naked. She was embarrassed, and that made it hard for her to relax when she was with him. But he’d managed to convince her that none of that mattered; it belonged to his past, and he wasn’t proud of that work. Plus, she was more beautiful than any other woman. So she had decided to ignore all the spiteful gossip about Markus. Including the fact that he had never had a serious relationship with any woman.

She studied his handsome profile. Maybe it was simply because he’d never met the right person. In her mind, Jenny pictured the two of them sitting together on the veranda of a huge luxury hotel near the sea with several little children playing around them. What if she was the one to finally snare him? She laughed at the thought.

‘What’s so funny?’

Markus’s eyes were smiling behind his sunglasses. A dimple appeared in his unshaven cheek.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all.’

She turned to look out of the window again. It was wonderful to come out here after the hectic fashion week in Stockholm. What a contrast to the noise of the big city. Right now, they were passing the abandoned limestone quarry where water had formed lakes in the huge pits. Far below, she could see the hotel, which looked so small and insignificant from this distance. The Hotel Fabriken had been built on the grounds of a former limestone factory. It stood in the middle of an expansive gravel-covered lot, surrounded by pyramid-like heaps of crushed limestone. A few factory buildings remained, reminding visitors of the industrial operations that had once been carried out on the property. Still present were an old stone crusher, a warehouse and the solidly constructed wharf that stretched out into the water, from which ships loaded with limestone had headed out to sea in the old days. In the middle of everything stood a caravan shaped like an egg, with shiny aluminium panelling. It looked out of place, like some sort of vessel that had just landed from outer space. She wondered if it was available for hotel guests.

An efficiently run business had operated on this site into the early seventies. After that, the military had largely taken over the land, and for the next twenty years or so Furillen had been a restricted area of Gotland, and foreigners were not permitted access. By now, most of the barbed wire had been removed, and the old radar stations remained as memorials to a bygone era.

When she was a child, Jenny had sometimes come out to the peninsula with her parents. They would take hikes in the barren landscape, walk along the deserted shoreline, or pick strawberries in the woods. Her mother knew a secret place where they could always find plenty of berries.

Now Jenny had returned for a completely different purpose. Who would have believed that the next time she set foot on the peninsula it would be as a celebrated fashion model?

A year ago, she’d been discovered by a scout from one of the biggest modelling agencies in Stockholm. She’d gone to the city with her family, and the scout had stopped her on the street to ask if she’d be willing to pose for some fashion photos. Feeling both surprised and flattered, she’d gone with him to the agency office and had auditioned during a photo shoot that very afternoon. The next day, the scout had phoned to invite Jenny back to the agency along with her parents, since at the time she was under eighteen. Her mother and father were impressed by the agency and its intentions, so they gave their permission, and with that the matter was settled.

Jenny quickly became popular, and it wasn’t long before her diary was fully booked. Since the modelling was going so well, she quit school after Christmas and started working full time. She travelled to Milan, Paris and New York, each photo session more successful than the last. Everyone seemed to appreciate her unique look. She was soon a well-known Swedish name within the international fashion world. And after being photographed for the cover of the Italian edition of Vogue, which was the most prestigious magazine of all, she became one of Europe’s top models. The money poured in, and the amounts were greater than she could have ever imagined.

Now she was sitting here in this car, on her way to an exclusive photo shoot with one of Sweden’s foremost photographers. Not to mention that she was in a romantic relationship with him. Markus had stressed that they needed to be cautious at first. It was a sensitive matter, since he’d recently broken up with a model from the same agency, and she seemed to be having a hard time accepting the fact that she needed to let him go. Diana would sometimes phone in the middle of the night, and he would have long-drawn-out conversations with her. So things weren’t exactly without complications at the moment. Markus thought that if they made their romance public, Diana, who was very temperamental, might hit the roof. It was better to wait.

Now the road was heading down a steep slope. Again Jenny turned to look at Markus. Of course she could be patient.

‘I CAN’T BELIEVE it’s that late!’

Karin Jacobsson threw off the blanket and climbed out of the big double bed. She was naked, and her short dark hair stuck out in all directions.

‘What?’

Her companion sat up, looking startled. He squinted at the glare when she turned on the ceiling light.

‘I can’t understand how I could have overslept. That never happens!’

Karin kept on grumbling as she dashed for the bathroom. He couldn’t help casting an admiring glance at her lean, supple body before the door closed behind her.

‘Could you make some coffee?’ she called. ‘I’ve got to have a cup or I’ll die.’

The next second he heard the shower go on. How could anybody move so fast? She was like a little ferret, he thought as he plodded off to the kitchen. An extremely sexy ferret.

Five minutes later they were sitting across from each other in Janne Widén’s big, bright kitchen in Terra Nova, a residential neighbourhood outside Visby. It was on this very street that they’d first met, six months earlier.

Karin tapped in Knutas’s number on her mobile. As usual, he answered at once.

‘Listen, I’ve overslept,’ she said. ‘Yes, really. No, but it’s true. Once in a while even I have to… Okay, okay, never mind. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Oh, is that right? So there’s no hurry? Not really, but… So I can take my time? That’s great. See you later, then. Okay? I’ll get there when I get there. What? No, nothing special… Just a little tired. Mmm. No, it’s no problem.’

She ended the conversation and looked at her new lover who was sitting across the table. She smiled, showing the gap between her two front teeth. When she spoke the tone of her voice had completely changed.

‘So. The meeting with the county police commissioner was cancelled. I’ve got nothing on my schedule until lunchtime.’

‘What luck! And all I have to do is stay here and pack.’

‘What time does your plane leave?’

‘Six o’clock. Then I change planes in Stockholm. And that plane leaves at eight thirty tonight.’

‘I can drive you to the airport.’

Janne was going to Spain for a week with one of Sweden’s most famous pop singers to take some PR photos. He poured more coffee into Karin’s cup.

‘He sure asks a lot of questions, by the way. Your boss, I mean.’

‘Oh, he was just surprised. He and I always used to be the first ones to arrive at the station in the morning. I don’t think I’ve ever overslept before. Not once in the fifteen years I’ve been on the force.’

‘That’s incredible! You’re so bloody disciplined. I have to say that it’s liberating to know that even you can muck things up once in a while, my little Miss Perfect.’

‘Cut it out,’ she said, smiling. ‘Just because I like things to be neat and tidy. And, besides, I have to set a good example.’

Karin Jacobsson was the assistant superintendent of the criminal police in Visby and the closest colleague of Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas. They were good friends and had worked together for many years, but they almost never socialized outside working hours.

The autumn had been relatively calm, with no major incidents; everything seemed to be proceeding smoothly. To be honest, Karin had been doing her job more or less on autopilot. For the first time in ages she’d met a man with whom she felt comfortable, and now she’d even fallen in love with him. So she wanted to spend as much time with Janne as possible. As if that wasn’t enough, she’d also taken steps to renew contact with her daughter, Hanna, whom she’d given up at birth for adoption. And their relationship had its complications.

When she’d eaten the last bite of toast, Janne stood up. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he picked her up and carried her back into the bedroom.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, laughing.

‘It’s only nine o’clock. We need to make the most of the time before I leave. And you said you don’t have anything until lunch, right?’

THE INTERIOR OF the hotel was designed in an austere, modernist style that presented a stunning contrast to the details remaining from its factory days. They entered a lobby with a gleaming stone floor and a ten-metre-high ceiling. A lovely blonde woman standing behind a small counter built into the wall welcomed them and handed out the room keys. Then they each went off in a different direction. Markus was going to scout photo locations with Sebastian, the art director. Jenny barely had time to drop her things in her room before she had to head to make-up. Every minute counted.

Two hours later, she was ready for the photo shoot, for which she would model ten different outfits. Markus was waiting for her in the main lounge, where he would take the first pictures. As luck would have it, at the moment there were no other guests staying at the hotel, so they could work in peace.

It was a large grey room that seemed to exude quiet harmony. The furniture consisted of severe-looking steel-framed armchairs upholstered in a leaden-grey woollen fabric, low concrete tables, stainless-steel lamps, and white leather sofas. Black curtains, white limestone walls. A beautiful shimmer of light flooded the room from one wall that was covered from floor to ceiling with little glass cubes. Outdoors, a few scraggly pine trees were visible on the rocky shore, and beyond was the sea – dark, foaming, and at the moment inhospitable. Along the walls of the room stood heavy log benches with sheepskins in various hues of grey. In one corner of the bright room a black bicycle had been parked; in another stood a big fan on wheels. A large TV was fastened to the wall. From the ceiling hung an overhead crane with long chains, recalling a time when the building had housed a factory.

Markus wanted to use only natural light. He needed daylight for these photos. Nothing else. The photos were for a fashion spread to be published in one of Sweden’s biggest fashion magazines. Jenny was wearing a short checked skirt and a purple top with a wide belt around her waist. Grey tights and purple suede boots that reached to her thighs. She wore a light amount of eye make-up and clear lip gloss. Her hair had been curled to look natural and had then been classically styled.

Jenny was the only model, and everyone was giving her their full attention. Hugo, the stylist, checked every fold of her clothing. He wore a belt that held safety pins, tape and various clips. Maria, the make-up artist, had to stand on tiptoe in order to touch up Jenny’s lip gloss and to dab a bit more powder on her face. Jenny was cheerful and relaxed, happy to let everyone do their jobs, whistling softly and chatting as she stole glances at Markus. He took a few test pictures of her in the room. The purple of her outfit stood out nicely against all the grey.

Then the photo shoot officially got started, and the change in mood was instantly noticeable. There was a different vibe as everybody focused on what the model was doing. Jenny’s eyes took on an intense look as she stared into the cold lens of the camera. She struck various poses and flirted with the camera, sometimes with a trace of a smile and a mocking expression. In between shots the make-up artist and stylist stepped in to powder her face, to push back a strand of hair that was out of place, or to straighten a fold of her skirt. Occasionally, Jenny would hum and dance, clowning around to keep up her energy. She didn’t want to freeze up. Although there was no real risk of that happening with Markus as the photographer. He inspired her. They were a perfect team. With small, delicate movements, she altered her poses, moving her hand from her hip, raising one leg, changing the way she sat on the edge of the leather sofa. The grey, modern furniture, the industrial setting, the high ceiling, the polished floor, the sheepskins, the concrete – everything provided an effective contrast to her tasteful elegance. As soon as the camera began clicking, something changed in her. She lit up from inside, glittering so brightly that sparks practically flew all around her, and the charm she radiated had a strong effect on the rest of the team. Everyone became even more meticulous and finicky about the details, even more anxious for the photos to be as good as possible. The hours flew by. They moved to other rooms, then went out into the forecourt. An old Opel from the fifties was driven into place and Jenny lovingly leaned against it.

She willingly obeyed all the directions that Markus gave her.

THE DOOR OPENS and she hears the usual hearty voice say, ‘Good morning. Seven o’clock. Time to get up.’ Without looking at her, the nurse comes in, turns on the ceiling light, and opens the curtains. It’s still dark outside, but light shines in from the other buildings, reminding her that she’s in hospital, that she’s not well, that she is not part of normal life in the world. The buildings loom like ominous grey monsters outside her window. The hospital is so big that it even has its own street name in the neighbourhood.

Agnes turns on to her other side. Away from the light, away from reality, evading all reminders that there’s a world out there, a life that’s continuing, a life that she could have been living, but it’s about to run away from her. At least that’s how it feels right now. Even though she’s only sixteen.

This is the worst part of the day. Waking up. All she wants is to stay asleep and not have to wake up to yet another hell. The battle to eat as little as possible and to get rid of as much energy as she can, without the nurses noticing.

She doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to keep doing this.

Agnes wishes that she could stay in bed under the covers, yet she’s painfully aware that she needs to hurry and get up in order to jump at least thirty times in the bathroom before breakfast. Otherwise, it will be unbearable to force down enough yoghurt and toast to satisfy the nurse.

For a moment she wrestles with the dilemma, and then, with a great effort, she sits up and gets out of bed. She sticks her feet in the fleece slippers and casts a glance at her room mate, Linda, who is lying in bed with her back turned. She never says much. Agnes goes out to the corridor and into the bathroom. So far, she’s still one of the lucky few who are allowed to close and lock the door when using the toilet. For some inexplicable reason, they still trust her, even though they think it’s taking a long time for her to gain any weight. They don’t seem to have worked out what she’s been doing.

The bathroom is cramped, with only enough space for a toilet in front of a small sink. There is no window or mirror. After she finishes peeing and washing her hands, she gets started. It’s not easy with so little space. She can’t do her arm exercises in here; that has to wait until the afternoon in the warm room. Here she can only bounce up and down. She pushes off with both feet, jumping straight up, as high as she can manage. After only a few jumps she’s out of breath. Her heart is hammering in her chest as if protesting such rough treatment. Her legs ache; they’re fragile after such a long period of malnutrition. Agnes grits her teeth and keeps counting, whispering the numbers to herself: ‘Ten, eleven, twelve.’ The whole time she’s scared that a nurse might knock on the door. If she’s forced to interrupt her exercise, it won’t have the same effect, even if she continues later on. She needs to jump at least thirty times in a row, otherwise she’ll be lost.

Soon, she’s sweating profusely and breathing even harder. She perseveres, fighting so much to keep going that she tastes blood in her mouth. They say that she’s emaciated, that she’ll die if she doesn’t put on weight. Right now, she has no idea how much she weighs, because that’s not something they ever discuss in here. The patients are weighed once a week but aren’t told the results. The last time she checked her weight back home in Visby, the scale showed ninety-five pounds. Since she is five foot nine, that meant her BMI was fourteen. She doesn’t think that sounds dangerous. There are plenty of girls who are much thinner. ‘Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three.’ No one has knocked on the door yet, but she knows there’s a great risk that soon she’ll be interrupted. She closes her eyes for a moment, as if that might make it harder for anyone to discover what she’s doing. She makes a great effort to quiet her breathing so she won’t be heard. She’s starting to feel dizzy, and her heart is pounding in her fragile chest. ‘Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine.’ She has reached her goal of thirty, so she sinks on to the toilet. Leans back, shuts her eyes. Waits until her racing pulse calms down. When she has recovered sufficiently she gets up and splashes cold water on her face. She takes off her nightgown and rinses her armpits. She won’t have time for a shower. She usually does take a shower in the evening before going to bed. That gives her the chance to do her last exercises for the day. When she finally opens the bathroom door, she breathes a sigh of relief. Now she’ll be able to handle breakfast.

DINNER WAS SERVED in the dining room, which had been furnished in a discriminating modern style that matched the rest of the hotel.

Filled with anticipation, they all took their places, hungry after the long day’s work. Jenny looked at the others seated around the table. Hugo had turned out to be a steady rock. Always on hand to offer assistance, from safety pins to fabric glue to accessories that suddenly seemed essential because the light was coming in at an unexpected angle and required something other than what had been planned. He was the consummate professional and always understood precisely what Markus meant when he talked about the fold in a garment, a polo-neck, or the heel of a boot. At the same time, he had his own self-assured view of things. If, on occasion, he disagreed with Markus, Hugo would persist in arguing until he got his way.

He had straggly hair that stuck out all over, and he wore glasses with heavy black frames. He chose elegant clothes, displaying an infallible sense of style that was striking without being garish. And he was always so upbeat, which rubbed off on the others. He had told Jenny that he’d recently become engaged to his boyfriend, whom he’d known for only a few months. Maybe that was the reason for his good humour.

When everyone had a glass of wine, Hugo gave a toast to celebrate the excellent work they’d done that day. Sebastian Bigert, who was the art director, and Anna Neumann, the producer, raised their glasses and smiled. They seemed nice, although Jenny hadn’t talked to them much. Kevin Sundström, the photographer’s assistant, was a young guy on his first photo shoot outside the studio. For that reason he was a bit confused and over-eager, but a real charmer who looked after her needs. He was constantly running off to get Jenny coffee and water. He was always asking her if she wanted anything else, his eyes flirting with her from under the black fringe of his hair. Jenny had met Maria Åkerlund eight days ago during Stockholm Fashion Week, when Maria had done her make-up several times. She had a confident and steady air about her, even though she wasn’t very old. Twenty-five at most, Jenny guessed.

Everyone was sitting at the dinner table, except Markus, but they weren’t going to wait for him. He was usually late. The three-course meal consisted of new beets with a locally produced goat’s cheese, grilled turbot with potato purée, and chocolate trifle for dessert.

Jenny ate everything with good appetite. Hugo raised his eyebrows when he saw her empty plate.

‘That’s the way she is,’ Maria explained. ‘She can eat almost anything, and she never gains even an ounce. No wonder she makes people mad.’

She gave Jenny a big smile and then raised her glass in a toast. The Amarone tasted fabulous, and they all drank several glasses of the red wine. Jenny started feeling the effects, which made her giggly and lightheaded.

Several times during the meal she had discreetly checked her mobile. The others were sure that Markus would turn up at any moment, if for no other reason than he must be hungry. There was no food in the cabin where he was staying.

Jenny went outside to smoke a cigarette and give him a call, but she couldn’t get through. When she asked the desk clerk about this, she was told that the mobile coverage at the cabins wasn’t good. The guests could seldom be reached by phone, and that was the reason why most of them wanted to stay there. To get away from the outside world.

When it was close to eleven, the party broke up.

‘He probably fell asleep,’ said Hugo. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Jenny’s pulse quickened as she thought about Markus. It seemed so unlikely that he would simply have fallen asleep out there. He must be longing for her as much as she yearned for him. Earlier in the day he had whispered to her that he could hardly wait to be alone with her. What if he’d decided to skip dinner and had been waiting for her all this time? He’d told her that he had brought along a bottle of champagne, which he’d stowed in an insulated bag in the car. She felt weak-kneed at the thought of how considerate he was. He cared too much about her to have simply written her off this evening.

Jenny hurried to her room to touch up her lipstick and spray on more perfume. She slipped her toothbrush into her handbag and put on a warm jacket. It wasn’t really cold – the temperature was several degrees above freezing – but she could hear the wind blowing outside the window.

When she stepped outside, she saw that it was pitch dark beyond the dimly lit forecourt. The old stone crusher up on the hill looked ghostly and frightening in the darkness. She couldn’t make out much of the sea, catching only a glimpse of the black expanse as she listened to the roar of the waves. The remaining massive piles of crushed limestone loomed against the sky.

She found a women’s bicycle among the row of ungainly military bikes lined up along the wall of the hotel. Several of them had toppled over in the wind.

The gravel appeared white in the dark; the feeble glow from the bicycle lamp wasn’t much help in finding her way. Far off on the horizon she saw a few faint red dots of light.

She tried not to think too much about her surroundings, focusing instead on her riding. Markus had said that it wasn’t far to the cabin.

She soon found herself approaching the wind turbine on the hill. Its powerful white tower disappeared into the dark sky. She could hear the huge blades spinning; the sound of their rotation penetrated through the rush of the wind and the roar from the sea down below. The closer she got, the louder the sound. She heard a steady swishing, a rhythmic whooshing. As she passed directly underneath, the three arms turned overhead like knife blades slicing through the night air. The base of the tower stood right next to the road, and she could have almost touched it if she’d reached out her hand. It felt as if the wind turbine was a great roaring beast, very much alive. But she had to ride past; there was no way to avoid it.

She pedalled as hard as she could and felt a certain relief once the wind turbine was behind her. Now she entered the woods. The road levelled out, and the wind wasn’t as strong among the trees. Tightly packed on both sides of the road were spruce trees, pines, shrubbery and dense thickets. She happened to cast a glance into the woods and noticed a menacing dark strip of sky with patches of grey. The faint moonlight that managed to filter through the trees created sinister shadows. ‘Don’t look,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Don’t look to either side. Keep your eyes on the road. Don’t look into the dark.’

The road out to the cabin was longer than she’d thought. By now she was regretting the whole venture. She had sobered up and wanted to turn around. She looked over her shoulder, but she could no longer see the hotel, which was somewhere far below her. It was almost midnight, and they all had to get up at six in the morning to work. What was she thinking? Finally, a blue shed appeared at the side of the road. Relief made her dizzy. She had to be close. And the cabin lights could supposedly be seen from outdoors. She tried to remember what Markus had said.

‘Leave the bike at the shed. The path is too rough for a bike. Walk twenty metres to your right and down the slope towards the sea. Be careful. It’s really steep. You’ll see the light from the paraffin lamps and the fire burning in the fireplace through the window. The light will guide you.’

She jumped off the bike and leaned it against the shed. She couldn’t hear the wind turbine any more. The sound was drowned out by the increasing roar of the sea. She walked down the slope and glimpsed a faint light a hundred metres away. That was lucky. Otherwise, she would never have dared go through what seemed like impenetrable thickets. She had a hard time making her way forward. Several times she stumbled over roots and loose stones. Branches slapped at her face, and she bumped into trees that she couldn’t see in the dark.

Suddenly, without warning, the light went out in the cabin, and it was pitch black all around her.

JOHAN BERG JOLTED awake. He was lying in bed in Roma, feeling sweaty from the nightmare he’d been having. In his dream he’d started smoking again. How banal. Reluctantly, he climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Emma. The stone floor felt cold under his bare feet. He used the toilet and then went out to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water and looked at the digital clock on the cooker. It was a quarter past midnight. A sense of uneasiness still lingered from his dream, and he was too restless to go back to bed. He looked in on the kids. All four were staying with them this week. They were sound asleep. Eleven-year-old Sara and Filip, who was ten, were Emma’s children from her previous marriage. They came to stay every other week. Johan and Emma also had two children together: Elin, who was three and a half, and Anton, who would soon have his first birthday.

Johan sat down on the sofa in the living room and looked out at the garden. It was partially lit by the white glow of the street lamps. The apple trees had lost almost all their leaves. He was not looking forward to winter. He listened to the wind blowing outside the window. That damned wind. He still wasn’t used to the winters on Gotland. They seldom had what he considered a real winter. The paltry amount of snow usually lasted only a few days before melting and disappearing. Elin and Anton had really had only one chance to play in the snow, and that was when they’d gone to visit his mother in Rönninge, a suburb south of Stockholm where Johan had grown up. In a few years he was hoping that they’d be able to go to the mountains at least once a year. That was something he’d done before he met Emma. She, on the other hand, had never been skiing.

He yawned. He ought to go back to bed, because he had to go to work in the morning. Johan liked his job as a reporter in the local Visby office of the Regional News division. He was back at work now, after taking a six-month paternity leave, and he had to admit that he looked forward to every single workday. Of course, he had enjoyed being at home with Anton, and also with Elin on those days when she wasn’t at the day nursery. But all the daily chores, the lack of stimulation and little contact with other adults had taken their toll on him. Much more than he’d ever imagined. Maybe it was different for men who took leave from work to stay at home with the children. Women were better at networking and making contacts. And many mothers had got to know each other at the prenatal clinics. But for men, it was easy to end up feeling isolated. He’d felt very lonely as he pushed the pram through Roma, going from the Konsum supermarket to the nursery, to the playground, and back home.

Yet, right now, very little was going on at the editorial office. There was hardly any news worth reporting. They found themselves in a strange in-between period, here in the middle of November. All Swedes should really go into hibernation, he thought. At least for a month. In December, they had the Christmas holidays to look forward to, at any rate. At the moment life was nothing but dreary darkness. Everybody looked pale and worn out, sniffling with colds and generally morose. He was at heart very fond of Pia Lilja, his camera woman, but this past week they had ended up quarrelling several times at work. They were the only staff members of the news division in Visby, and sometimes they acted like an old married couple, grumbling about nearly everything. Pia was also feeling frustrated, in terms of both her work and her personal life. Her affair with a shepherd from Hablingbo, which was the longest relationship she’d had so far, had recently ended. And a temporary job in Stockholm that she’d been hoping to get had gone to someone else.

Something needs to happen, thought Johan. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as we can have some story to work on. Otherwise, Pia was going to scratch out his eyes with her long, turquoise-coloured fingernails.

He sighed, then got up and went into the bedroom. Emma was wrapped up in all the covers. He lay down, put his arm around her and fell asleep.

SHE NEEDED TO stay calm. Not lose control. It was only darkness. Out here in the middle of nowhere, she was all alone. Just her and nature. Like back at home on the farm in Gammelgarn. Nothing dangerous about it. Jenny could feel that her cheek was bleeding. No doubt they would give her hell for getting all these scratches on her hands and face.

Then she worked out what must have happened. Markus had turned off the paraffin lamp because he’d given up hope that she might come out to the cabin. He probably hadn’t been able to resist sitting down to go through the day’s photographs, and then he’d forgotten all about the time until he realized that it was too late for dinner. And then the battery on his computer had run out, or he’d simply felt too tired to do any more work and decided to go to bed.

Her courage bolstered, she continued on.

Suddenly, she could make out the wall of a building a few metres away. The cabin stood in the midst of thick undergrowth and, nearby, a big rock jutted up from the hillside like a rauk. Now she remembered. Markus had laughed and pointed to the tag fastened to his key. His cabin was called ‘The Rauk’. So she was in the right place. It was a cabin with unpainted wooden cladding and a slender chimney made of sheet metal. There was only one window. She called Markus’s name several times. No answer.

Jenny stepped on to the porch and found a padlock on the plain wooden door. She felt hope slipping away as she yanked on the door handle.

She was worn out and freezing, and now the bloody door was locked. A padlock on the outside. Wasn’t Markus even here? At that moment she felt drops of rain on her face. She peered into the darkness but could barely see anything at all. Then she noticed another small hut a short distance away.

Hunching forward as the rain started coming down harder, she stumbled over roots and stones as she headed in that direction. She held out one hand and ran her fingers over the wall. A hasp. She opened the door, and a faint, unpleasant smell wafted towards her. It was the outdoor latrine. At least she could get out of the rain. She sat down on the closed lid. What the hell should she do now? Why had the light vanished if Markus wasn’t even inside the cabin? Maybe the fire in the fireplace had died out, or the flame of a paraffin lamp had gone out on its own. But would he have left a light burning if he was going to leave the cabin? She didn’t understand.

Raindrops were pelting the metal roof. Where was Markus? The most likely explanation was that he’d gone over to the hotel when he realized that she wasn’t coming to see him. In that case, she was all alone out here in the wilderness.

That realization brought her to the verge of tears, but the next instant she got hold of herself. She was a big girl now; she could take care of herself. She considered her options. In reality, there were only two choices. She could cycle back to the hotel, take a hot shower, dry herself off and then crawl into bed. Then she would at least get a few hours’ sleep. But she shuddered at the mere thought of stumbling over the rough terrain in the dark and the rain.

The alternative was to try to get inside the cabin. If Markus had gone over to the hotel, he would find her room empty and realize that she was here.

She would need some sort of tool to pick the lock. She searched her pockets and found a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. She’d forgotten all about them. She lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs. She looked up at the ceiling and listened. It wasn’t raining nearly as hard. Thank God for that. She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to one. This was insane. She had to be in make-up by six o’clock. She pushed that thought away; it was too stressful at the moment. She took another drag on her cigarette.

Jenny rummaged through her shoulder bag. In her make-up bag she found her toothbrush and birth-control pills, as well as a couple of hairpins. To her great relief there was also a pair of tweezers. Now she should have a good chance of picking the lock. It seemed like a small and simple padlock. She opened the door of the latrine and tossed out her cigarette butt. The cabin was only a few metres away. She was wet and cold. All she wanted was to get indoors.

She made her way back to the cabin and stuck a hairpin in the lock. She cursed as she twisted it in every direction, but the lock was stubborn and refused to budge. Then she tried the tweezers, wiggling them back and forth. Finally, with a little click, the lock opened.

He was lying just inside the door, on his stomach, face down on the floor. She stared at his body in horror. She recognized Markus instantly, even in the dim light. With a sob she reached for a shelf near the door and found a box of matches. She struck a match and lit the paraffin lamp hanging close by on the wall. The minute the light filled the room, she screamed. He had a deep wound in the back of his head, and blood had gushed out on to the floor. The small cabin was a chaotic mess with things tossed all about, a toppled chair and smashed cameras littering the floor. Markus had big gashes in his arms and hands. There was blood everywhere.

Panic-stricken and sobbing, she dug her mobile out of her bag. Her hands were shaking as she tapped in Maria’s number, but the call didn’t go through. Shit. That’s what the desk clerk had said. There was no signal out at the cabin.

THE CALL CAME into the police station at 1.17 a.m. A nearly incoherent woman spoke to the officer on duty. After it had been checked with the hotel owner out on Furillen, her confused report turned out to be true. The famous fashion photographer Markus Sandberg, who was working on a photo shoot there, had been found gravely injured in the cabin where he was staying. Sandberg had been assaulted with an unknown weapon, but he was still alive.

An hour later, Anders Knutas and Karin Jacobsson were in the first vehicle to arrive at Hotel Fabriken. From there they were to be escorted to the cabin where Markus Sandberg had been found.

As soon as they pulled into the gravel courtyard in front of the entrance, the owner came out to take them to the crime scene. He was a well-known figure on Gotland. He had once been a fashion photographer himself, but he’d left the profession to open the hotel in this isolated location. Knutas had met him several times before under various circumstances. Right now, he looked paler than usual.

‘Hi.’ He greeted them curtly. ‘The ambulance just left with Sandberg and that model, Jenny Levin. Damn, this is so awful. Follow me in your car. I’ll lead the way.’

Before they could say anything, he jumped into an SUV and started up the engine. Knutas and Jacobsson dashed back to their car as Knutas shouted instructions to their colleagues in the other vehicles.

‘Sohlman, you come with us. And the dog unit, too. The rest of you stay here and take care of things in the hotel.’

Several minutes later they parked as close as they could to the cabin. There they found a path that only a few people knew about. The rain had stopped, but the ground was muddy. As cautiously as they could, they made their way through the undergrowth. Their torches provided only scant light. They soon reached the remote cabin.

Knutas peered inside the open door. The interior had been ransacked, and blood was spattered all over the floor and walls. Crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman came over to stand next to Knutas.

‘Jesus, what a mess. It won’t be light for hours. And it wouldn’t make any sense for us to start our technical work until then. We don’t want to risk disturbing any evidence.’ He ran his hand through the red mane of his hair as he looked around. ‘We should focus on catching the perpetrator. Whoever the madman is who did this.’

AN IMPENETRABLE DARKNESS had settled over the little community of Kyllaj, a lonely outpost with only six permanent residents located right on Gotland’s east coast. In the old days it had been a fishing village, but over the years it had become transformed into a summer paradise for tourists. There was a short sandy beach, a row of boathouses and a marina for small boats. Now that it was November, the hustle and bustle of the summer seemed a distant memory. The place was deserted. No shops, kiosks, or any other form of commerce. Only houses that had been closed up for the winter, standing there like abandoned stage sets waiting for the springtime sun and their owners to return.

On the outskirts of the village was a larger house made of limestone that belonged to a local family. They had gone abroad, so the house had been rented out to an author who wanted to get away from civilization to write in peace and quiet. He couldn’t have chosen a better place. Kyllaj’s isolation suited him perfectly. He was thrilled when he discovered the advert in the newspaper: ‘Limestone house on Gotland for lease for an indefinite length of time. Modern amenities, located in Kyllaj. Sea view and large garden. Free rent in exchange for gardening and general maintenance.’ The timing couldn’t have been better. He had just gone through a difficult separation, and at the same time had been awarded a grant that he was planning to use to write his next book. He needed to get away from the city, away from his daily routines. He needed a quiet place to write. And the house had turned out to be exactly what he was looking for.

The dog was his only companion. She never nagged him or interrupted, and she didn’t care when he ate or slept. She simply adapted to whatever he did. When he sat down in front of the computer for yet another writing session, she would obediently curl up under the desk, heave a big sigh and fall asleep. She was a quiet and undemanding companion who gave him constant and unconditional love. Thanks to her, he went out every day for long walks that helped him to clear his head while also getting some fresh air and exercise without needing to sweat. At night she lay at his feet, which he found comforting on those occasions when he felt too alone in this isolated setting. The dog was definitely an author’s best friend.

By now, Olof Hellström had been living in the house for six months. And his book was practically finished. At Christmastime, he would go back to Stockholm.

He was spending this particular night writing. That was often the case. There’s no one else I need to consider, he thought, rather bitterly. He was sitting at the kitchen table, with only a candle for light as he worked on the last chapter. He was astonished that, once again, he’d actually managed to write a whole book. The months in this house had done him good. His publisher would be pleased and he was ready to face the big city again.

Every once in a while he would look out at the darkness. The house stood close to the sea, its black and endless expanse visible outside the window. Now and then, the moon would peek out from the clouds and cast a white glow over the lawn leading down to the water.

He heard a sound outside. A faint clattering, like the sound of a boat motor. He gave a start. Who the hell could that be? Hardly anybody came out here in the winter.

The dog growled from under the table. She sensed that something wasn’t right. Olof hushed her, then decided to leave her in the house. On his way out, he put on his jacket and grabbed a pocket torch.

The night air was cold and fresh, with almost no wind. The boat motor was now clearly audible. He walked briskly across the grass, soft with night-time dew.

The clattering sound had slowed, sounding intermittent, as if the motor might be shut down at any second. That meant the boat was about to dock. And even if it was an ordinary fishing boat, that would be odd. Those boats always left from the small-boat marina, which was further away. Here the shore was rocky, and there was only a private dock that belonged to the house. Olof Hellström suddenly felt uneasy. He didn’t want to get involved in anything.

A two-metre-high stone wall ran along the shore on this side, hiding him from view. He turned off his torch well before he came to the wall. The fact that a boat had arrived here in the middle of the night was so unexpected that he didn’t want to make his presence known. When he reached the end of the wall, he cautiously peered around it.

Down by the water a beacon emitted a red light towards the sea to guide boats into the harbour. In the glow from the beacon he saw a man pull up next to the dock and climb out of a small fibreglass vessel that was hardly bigger than a rowboat. Surprised, Olof watched as the stranger shoved the boat back out to sea instead of tying it to a mooring post. The man wore dark clothing and seemed in a hurry. He dashed across the wooden planks and headed for the road. Olof Hellström was puzzled and didn’t know what to do. Should he shout, or not? He decided not to. Then the man stopped and turned around.

Olof stood there as if paralysed, and waited. He now regretted not bringing the dog.

DREAD WRIGGLES ITS way like a poisonous snake through her stomach as time for the next meal approaches. A voice screams inside her that she won’t. But no one hears. No one is listening. No one cares. What she feels or wants is no longer taken into consideration. She has become dehumanized, degraded into some sort of living doll that must get fatter at all costs. Just so that the staff on the ward can improve their statistics and boast of the results. As a human being, she is worth nothing.

She and her personal nurse, Per, trudge down the corridor towards the dining room. There they will pick up their lunch and carry it on trays to the food lab, which is a room that is used by those who can’t handle eating with the rest of the patients in the dining room. Agnes has brought along a device that tells her how much she should put on her plate and how fast she should eat. It’s like a little computer attached to a plate that functions as a scale. Everyone on the ward has their own device. Agnes calls hers the Widget. Each food portion weighs 250 grams and has to be eaten in twenty-five minutes, in accordance with the guidelines that have been individually designed for her. If she eats too slowly, the voice of the actor Mikael Nyqvist issues from the device, telling her that she has to speed up. Usually, it takes her an hour to finish the food. Mikael Nyqvist gets to speak several times.

The patients had been allowed to vote on which voice would speak from the Widget. The choice was Rikard Wolff or Mikael Nyqvist. And Nyqvist won. She doesn’t know why. Maybe he was asked first. At any rate, he agreed to be the human voice for seriously ill patients suffering from anorexia. Maybe it was his way of doing a good deed. Sometimes Agnes turns off the sound when she can’t stand listening to his admonishments any more. But usually she appreciates his company. It’s almost as if Nyqvist is right next to her in the room and she doesn’t have to be alone with the nurse, who is always sitting across from her like some sort of prison guard.

The room is small, windowless and claustrophobic. A pine table and two chairs, one on each side, are the only furniture. A clock on the wall ticks relentlessly, demonstrating with the utmost clarity what a wretchedly long time it takes for her to eat the food. The colourful runner on the table jeers at her. The chairs scrape on the floor as they sit down. Per sits across from her. He’s the nurse she likes best in the clinic. She guesses he must be about twenty-five, but she has never asked. Sometimes she can’t bear his presence either. On certain days he seems preoccupied, like today. Then it’s easier to fool him.

Agnes stares at her tray. A glass contains 8.25 millilitres of milk, and she has to drink every drop. Milk is difficult, as are all dairy products. It feels so fatty and thick. As if the milk settles in a layer inside her guts and stays there. Making her heavy.

The lunch is in an aluminium container. She lifts the lid and stares at the fish. It’s in a creamy sauce. Dread seizes hold of her. How in the world is she going to eat that? She turns on the Widget, taps in her password, and instantly hears Nyqvist saying, ‘Set the plate on the scale.’ She does as he says. ‘Serve the food.’ She begins spooning out the contents of the aluminium box until the digits on the display reach one hundred and turn green – a hundred per cent. No more, no less. If she puts only ninety per cent on the scale, the Widget goes on strike and won’t continue. There’s no use trying to cheat.

As always, she’s amazed at the huge amount of food in front of her. It rises up like an unconquerable mountain. A heap of mashed potatoes, a piece of cod with egg sauce, two wedges of tomato, several slices of cucumber and a couple of lettuce leaves. She also has to get down a glass of milk and a piece of white bread with Bregott cream cheese. All this food in twenty-five minutes.

Unconcerned, Per starts eating while, inside Agnes, a war commences in which obsessive thoughts wrestle with each other. The battle is right in front of her. What matters now is to eat as little as possible without drawing Per’s attention.

Agnes has become an expert at finding topics to talk about. She is able to distract a nurse by starting up a conversation that becomes so lively that he or she forgets to stay on alert every second. She’s very good at chatting when she’s in the right mood.

And all she needs is a second to get rid of at least part of the serving of food. At first, when the nurse is paying closest attention, she proceeds cautiously. She starts by cutting up the fish into tiny pieces. She stirs the mashed potatoes with her fork, dabbing at them and moulding little bits into various shapes. If she divides up the food as much as possible, maybe it won’t stay inside her body as long. Maybe it will burn off more quickly. Everything depends on getting the horrible stuff out of her body as fast as possible.

Carefully and discreetly, she moves the glass of milk, making drops spill down the outside. She clanks her fork and knife on the plate for extended intervals before putting a tiny little piece of food in her mouth. She chews for a long time, frequently pushing out a dab of mashed potato and sauce on to her lips. Quick as lightning, she wipes it off with her napkin. Agnes wipes her lips many times during the meal. Every bit she avoids eating is a victory. The spilled sauce is a triumph.

But Nyqvist protests when she eats too slowly. ‘Eat a little faster.’

Agnes chats eagerly about all sorts of things in order to distract Per. Breadcrumbs land on the floor as she urgently makes a point about something. When Per looks down at his plate to take another bite of food, a piece of fish swiftly disappears into the pocket of Agnes’s hoodie. She leans forward a bit as she talks, managing at the same time to poke her finger into the mashed potatoes, which she then wipes on the underside of the table. She pretends to scratch her head, but what Per doesn’t notice is that at the same time she sticks the rest of the bread and cream cheese on to the back of her neck, underneath her hair. And she keeps on in that way. By the time they leave the room an hour later, Agnes has managed to sneak away almost a third of the designated portion of food. It has gone better than expected. Per must be tired today, preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Her anxiety has diminished. At least for now.

THE PHONE WAS ringing and it was only five thirty in the morning. Fear gripped Johan as he rushed to take the call. In a matter of seconds he managed to remind himself that all the children were staying with them so, no matter who was ringing, it couldn’t be about his kids. He felt a flash of relief before he picked up. It was one of Emma’s closest friends.

‘Hi. It’s Tina,’ said an agitated voice. ‘I’m sorry to wake you, but something terrible has happened.’

‘What is it?’

A moment of hesitation before she said apologetically, ‘I think I should talk to Emma first. It’s about my daughter, Jenny.’

‘Sure. Let me get her.’

Johan hurried to the bedroom to wake Emma. For once, she came wide awake immediately, as if she could hear in his voice that something serious had happened.

Johan went out to the kitchen to make coffee as he waited. When Emma had finished talking on the phone, she came into the room and sank down on a chair.

‘Tina is at the hospital with Jenny. She was doing a photo shoot on Furillen, and very early this morning she found that the photographer, Markus Sandberg, was lying injured in his cabin. He’d been assaulted.’

‘Good Lord. Was he badly hurt?’

‘He’s alive, but his injuries are life-threatening. They took him by helicopter to the hospital in Stockholm.’

‘How’s Jenny?’

‘In a state of shock, of course. But she’s not hurt. By the time she turned up, whoever attacked Sandberg had disappeared.’

‘Did some sort of quarrel lead to the attack?’

‘No, everything was normal at the photo session yesterday. But Markus didn’t make it to dinner, so Jenny went looking for him and found him lying on the floor, beaten to a pulp. Nobody knows who did it.’

‘Where did she find him?’

‘In a cabin on Furillen. One of those little remote cabins that belong to the hotel. The police want to interview Jenny when she feels up to it. Apparently, the doctors have given her a sedative.’

The next second, Johan was on his way back to the bedroom to get dressed. The fact that Markus Sandberg was the one who’d been assaulted made the news a much hotter story than if the victim had been unknown to the general public. Sandberg had an odd career behind him. He was one of the few photographers in Sweden who was a household name, largely because of his reputation as a scandalous porn photographer, and because he’d been the host of a controversial TV programme on a commercial channel. The programme was accused of being sexist and demeaning to women, and it didn’t last long. But enough episodes were broadcast that the name Markus Sandberg became etched into the public’s consciousness. There was no mistaking his personal appeal: with his warmth, humour and charisma, he was a big hit among viewers. And even though the programme was cancelled, he continued to turn up on various game and quiz shows on TV. He always acquitted himself well, and gradually people forgot about his dubious past. He then shifted gear to become a full-time fashion photographer, and suddenly he was appearing in all sorts of contexts. He was a judge for various fashion and beauty contests, and he published a photography book that catalogued Swedish fashion through the ages. Markus Sandberg had certainly succeeded in building a new brand for himself, and that had been irrefutably confirmed in the summer when he became a regular interviewer on the radio station P1.

Johan eagerly tapped in Pia Lilja’s phone number. Since she answered at once, he assumed that she’d already heard what had happened. He quickly told her what he knew.

‘I was just about to ring you,’ said Pia. ‘Julia, a girl that I know, called to tell me about it. Her mother is a cleaner at the hotel. Are you going to contact the police?’

‘Yup, although I thought we might as well head for Furillen first. We can always interview the police later, but we need to get pictures.’

‘Definitely. I’ll gather up my equipment and we can leave as soon as you get here.’

BY 7 A.M., after Sandberg had been discovered out on Furillen, the investigative team was already gathered at police headquarters in Visby. Knutas noted that his colleagues looked tired and pale in the merciless white glare from the fluorescent ceiling light. November certainly was a gloomy month.

The most important team members were all present: Assistant Superintendent Karin Jacobsson; Detective Inspector Thomas Wittberg, who was a real charmer; and the somewhat reserved spokesperson, Lars Norrby. Technician Erik Sohlman would stay for part of the meeting, but then he had to return to the crime scene on Furillen. The forensic work would get started as soon as there was enough daylight. Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg had also been called in. Knutas had great confidence in the prosecutor and liked to have him participate from the very outset.

‘Well, friends,’ Knutas began, ‘you’ve all been awakened in the middle of the night, and we now have an unusual case in front of us. Early this morning the photographer Markus Sandberg was the victim of a murder attempt by an unknown assailant at the Hotel Fabriken on Furillen. Do all of you know who Sandberg is?’

Everyone sitting at the table nodded.

Knutas went on. ‘The perpetrator attacked the victim, possibly using an axe, but that hasn’t yet been verified. This information is based on a statement from the medics. I plan to talk to the doctor at the hospital as soon as we’re done with this meeting. What we do know is that Markus Sandberg was seriously injured, and it’s unclear whether he’ll survive. He was taken by helicopter to the neurosurgery division of Karolinska University Hospital. He has been heavily sedated and will be undergoing surgery soon, if that hasn’t already happened. All right, then. Sandberg was found by no less than Gotland’s own Kate Moss – the Swedish celebrity and fashion model Jenny Levin, from Gammelgarn. Does everyone here know her?’

Again, they all nodded.

‘He was found inside a small cabin that belongs to the hotel. It’s about a kilometre from the main building, and he was supposed to spend the night there. When he didn’t turn up for dinner, Jenny got worried, so later she cycled over there to check on him. And that’s when she found him.’

‘Check on him?’ Wittberg queried, raising his eyebrows. ‘I’ve seen those cabins. They’re called “hermit retreats” and are deep inside the woods. What time did she get there?’

‘A few minutes past one. The call came in at 1.17, but it took a while for her to find a place where she had mobile coverage.’

‘Why would she go out in the dark so late at night to “check on him”? Was it purely out of concern for a colleague? I doubt it.’ Wittberg shook his head with the golden curls.

‘She was worried. I think the whole crew was probably a bit concerned. As I mentioned, Sandberg never turned up for dinner.’

‘Right,’ snorted Wittberg, looking at his fellow officers seated around the table. ‘Those two are having an affair. She was going to spend the night with him. That’s obvious. And Jenny Levin isn’t just anybody, let me tell you. She’s probably the hottest model in Sweden at the moment. She was discovered only a year ago, and her rise has been nothing short of meteoric. I was just reading about her in Café.’

‘Of course you were,’ said Jacobsson caustically.

‘She’s bloody gorgeous,’ replied Wittberg, laying it on thick as he grinned at Jacobsson. He loved teasing his colleague.

‘Maybe so, but that has nothing to do with the matter at hand,’ said Knutas sharply.

It was well known that Wittberg was a real playboy. Almost every woman who worked at police headquarters had at one time or another been in love with the suntanned and buff ladies’ man. Except for Karin Jacobsson. They often worked together, and she always kept Wittberg at a safe distance, although the two of them couldn’t help bickering. Sometimes they behaved just like siblings.

Knutas continued, ‘At the moment Jenny Levin is in hospital. We’ll have to wait to interview her. So far, we have no specific leads regarding the perpetrator. None of the hotel staff noticed anything out of the ordinary. Nor did any of the crew doing the photo shoot, and they were the only guests at the hotel. But we’ll see. After Sandberg was discovered, everybody out there was upset and confused, of course, and no one was thinking clearly. Right after this meeting, we’ll start by conducting the necessary interviews. Hopefully, they’ve all had a chance to calm down. Four staff members sleep at the hotel: the hotel owner and his wife, the restaurant manager and a cleaner. They were all questioned at the scene, but they’ll be coming here this morning, along with the other staff. We’ve cordoned off a large area around the cabin, and a dog unit is patrolling the site. We need to start knocking on doors as soon as possible.’

‘Knocking on doors?’ said Norrby. ‘How many permanent residents live on Furillen?’

‘None, as far I know. But there are a few homes in the area around Lergrav. The question is: How should we handle the press? This is going to attract a lot of attention. Markus Sandberg is a very well-known photographer, and as soon as the reporters get wind of the fact that Jenny Levin was the one who found him, they’ll be after us like sharks. What do you think, Lars?’

‘I suggest that we hold a press conference as soon as we can,’ said Norrby, giving Knutas a challenging look. ‘That’s essential, given the situation.’

There had been a certain tension between the two men since Norrby had been passed over for promotion a few years earlier. Knutas had chosen Jacobsson for the position instead.

‘Okay. We might as well take on the whole bunch at once,’ Knutas concluded, slapping the palm of his hand on the table as if to underscore his words.

‘Who was on the crew at the photo shoot?’ asked Wittberg.

Knutas put on his reading glasses and leafed through his notes.

‘There were five people in addition to Jenny and Markus. A stylist by the name of Hugo Nelzén, an art director named Sebastian Bigert, a photographer’s assistant named Kevin Sundström, a producer, Anna Neumann, and also Maria Åkerlund, who’s a make-up artist. So seven people in all.’

‘How well do they know each other?’

‘I have no idea. That’s something we’ll find out today. Everyone is on their way over here to be interviewed.’

‘Were there any other models?’ asked Wittberg. ‘If so, I’d be happy to interview them.’

‘You’re hopeless,’ said Jacobsson, but she couldn’t help smiling.

Knutas was starting to get a headache, and his stomach was growling. He rubbed his forehead and then glanced at his watch. Seven thirty. He’d been up since one thirty but hadn’t yet had anything to eat.

Sohlman stood up. ‘If there’s nothing else, I need to go. I’ve got a lot of work to do out there.’

‘Okay.’ Knutas looked intently at everyone seated around the table. ‘Our colleagues have been searching all night for the perpetrator, and they’ve set up roadblocks at several places in the area. More officers are also on their way out to Furillen right now. The dog unit will continue to search. Who knows? Maybe the assailant is still there, hiding out someplace. As I mentioned, we’ll do a door-to-door in the vicinity this morning. It’s important for us to talk to as many people out there as possible. Those of you staying here at headquarters will help to conduct the interviews. As far as the press conference is concerned, I suggest we hold off on that for a while.’

Norrby frowned and looked as if he wanted to protest, but he restrained himself. He settled for muttering his displeasure.

‘For now, the media will have to make do with a press release,’ Knutas went on. ‘We need to find out more about what happened before we talk to any reporters. It remains to be seen what we’ll learn today, and whether the victim even survives. I’ll stay in contact with the hospital. The media interest is going to be huge, so we need to be prepared,’ he said, turning to look at Lars Norrby, who didn’t always find it easy to deal with journalists when the pressure was on.

Jacobsson stopped Knutas as he was heading for the door.

‘How come you know who Kate Moss is?’

‘Why shouldn’t I know who she is?’ he remarked, giving her an inscrutable look.

‘I can’t imagine that you’d be interested in fashion.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. I’m a virtual fashion maven,’ said Knutas, plucking at the checked shirt that he’d bought at the Dressmann menswear shop five years ago.

Jacobsson couldn’t help laughing.

‘Shall we grab a bite to eat?’ she asked.

‘Sure. But I don’t want to eat too much. I have to think of my figure. I’ve heard that, this winter, thin is in.’

IT WAS STILL dark when Pia Lilja headed for Furillen in the TV van. Johan sat in the passenger seat, talking to the duty officer on the phone. No other police officer was available. When he finished the conversation, Johan turned to look at his colleague.

‘He would only confirm that an incident of aggravated assault took place in a cabin that belongs to the hotel, and that the victim has been taken to hospital. Of course, he refused to identify the victim or give any details about the attack. At any rate, the police are on the scene, but they can’t do much until daylight. So far, no one has been arrested.’

‘Aggravated assault,’ said Pia, snorting. ‘I think it sounds more like attempted murder. Apparently, it was a real bloodbath, according to Julia’s mother. And Markus Sandberg isn’t just anybody. Right now, he’s hovering between life and death. It might well turn out to be murder.’

‘Nothing on the TT wire service yet. We’re probably the only ones who know the identity of the victim. I’m going to ring the morning editor.’

Johan phoned the main editorial office of Swedish TV in Stockholm and explained the situation. The editor told him to report back as soon as he knew more. For the moment they would put out a simple statement on the news wire. They would wait until later to publish the victim’s name.

When Pia and Johan pulled up outside the hotel, they could see at once that something major had happened. Lights were on throughout the building, and several police vehicles were parked nearby.

They went into the lobby and were met by a uniformed policeman, who stopped them from going any further.

‘No journalists in here. The hotel is off limits.’

‘Can you tell us what’s going on?’ asked Johan.

‘No. I need to refer you to our spokesperson, Lars Norrby.’

‘Is he here?’

The cop gave him a weary look.

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Is there anyone on site that I could interview?’ Johan was trying to quell his irritation.

‘No, not at the moment. Right now, the investigative team needs to do its work in peace and quiet. We’re dealing with a serious crime here, and we need to catch the perpetrator.’

‘So you haven’t arrested anyone?’

The cop pressed his lips together. Then he said, ‘I can’t comment on the state of the investigation. I need to refer you to Lars Norrby, our spokesperson.’

Johan cast a glance around the hotel lobby, which was deserted. They went back outside.

‘What a sodding sourpuss,’ sniffed Pia. ‘Julia’s mother, Birgitta, has worked here as a cleaner and breakfast waitress for several years. She sleeps at the hotel at night. She said we should wait for her here.’

They sat down at a table that was made of concrete so as to withstand the elements year round. Johan looked about.

‘Damn, what a creepy place.’

He surveyed the dimly lit gravel forecourt and the stone crusher on top of the hill. A feeling of doom hovered over the place.

Suddenly, they heard footsteps approaching across the gravel. A blonde woman in her fifties appeared.

Pia jumped up to give her a hug.

‘Hi, Birgitta. How’s it going?’

‘Oi. What a horrid thing to happen. Especially out here, where it’s so quiet. The most peaceful place you could imagine. We’re all really upset.’

Birgitta shook hands with Johan.

‘It’s probably best if we get started right away,’ said Pia. ‘Could we go somewhere else to do the interview? Otherwise, there’s a risk that Mr Police Officer in there will try to stop us.’

‘Sure. Come with me.’

They walked around to the side of the building, and Birgitta opened a door to an empty room. There were no corridors inside the hotel; all the rooms were entered from the outside. It was a lovely room, sparsely furnished. A generous-sized bed with fluffy pillows dominated the space. The whitewashed walls were bare. Several sheepskin rugs were spread out on the stone floor.

‘Okay. This is fine,’ said Pia. ‘Let’s get going.’

The camera began to roll.

‘What were your thoughts when you heard about what happened?’ Johan began the interview.

‘I was shocked. Couldn’t believe it was true. I never would have imagined that something like that would happen here on little Furillen. It’s terrifying.’

Brigitta looked around, as if afraid that the perpetrator might be hiding in the bushes in the dark outside the window.

‘What’s the mood like inside the hotel?’

‘Everybody thinks what happened is really awful, of course. So it’s not exactly cheerful here at the moment. Nobody can believe it. This is the calmest and most peaceful place you could imagine. At the same time, it’s lucky that we don’t have other guests at the hotel at the moment. But, as I said, the mere thought that an assailant has been sneaking around in the bushes… We’re really shaken up. All of us.’

‘What can you tell us about the victim?’

A slight blush appeared on the woman’s cheeks, and she fidgeted a bit.

‘I know Markus Sandberg because of… well, because of that TV programme he once had. I know it wasn’t very good, but I still couldn’t help watching it, because everyone was talking about the show. Plus, he’s been out here several times for work.’

Johan let her talk, even though he wasn’t sure that they would reveal the victim’s identity when the report was broadcast. It might be too soon for that. On the other hand, they were dealing with a photographer who was well known to the public. But, naturally, his family needed to be informed first. The decision to make his name public or not would come later.

‘What do you know personally about the attack?’

Birgitta grimaced and shook her head.

‘From what I’ve heard, he was seriously injured. Covered with blood and badly beaten. I don’t know whether the weapon was an axe, but it was something like that.’

‘So the attack occurred inside the cabin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who found him?’

‘Jenny was the one who found him. She cycled out there.’

‘Why would she do that?’

Birgitta shrugged and didn’t comment.

‘Then what happened?’

‘She rang the police, and the officers and medics were here in no time.’

‘Have you personally noticed anything strange or different out here lately?’

‘There is one thing. About a week ago a man phoned. Sometimes I work on the reception desk. In a place like this, you have to be able to do a bit of everything, especially in off-season.’

‘Oh, really?’

Johan automatically moved closer.

‘Yes. The man asked some odd questions. He wanted to know how many guests were staying at the hotel right now and how many we expected in the coming week. And then he asked if there were any special events planned. So I told him about the fashion photo shoot and the fact that certain parts of the hotel would be off limits for a few days. Then he wanted to know more details, and he actually got a bit rude. Finally, I asked him who he was and whether he was a reporter. But he hung up without answering.’

KNUTAS WENT BACK to his office after having breakfast with Jacobsson. That had done the trick. His headache was gone, and he was feeling much better. He phoned Karolinska University Hospital and was put through to the doctor in charge, Vincent Palmstierna.

‘Markus Sandberg has suffered very serious injuries,’ Dr Palmstierna began. ‘We’re doing all we can but, unfortunately, I have to tell you that the prognosis is uncertain. There is every indication that he was attacked by someone wielding an axe, using both the blunt part and the blade.’

‘What are his chances of survival?’

‘It’s hard to tell right now. He is heavily sedated, and we’re keeping his body cool in order to regulate the cerebral metabolic rate and reduce the swelling. He has been given multiple blood transfusions, and he’s probably going to need quite a lot of surgery.’

‘How would you describe his injuries?’

‘He suffered several cerebral haemorrhages where the axe struck the skull. Unfortunately, so-called subdural haemorrhage also occurred, meaning there was bleeding under the brain’s dura mater. He has lost his right ear, and his jaw was shattered. He also has defensive wounds on his arms, where the assailant struck him with the blade of the axe. He has some nasty, deep gashes on his hands – at the base of the thumbs and on the tops of his fingers. Also on the outside of both his upper arms and his forearms.’

‘Christ.’

Knutas grimaced. He pictured again the chaos they’d found inside the cabin and imagined the struggle that must have caused it. Then he went on, ‘What happens now?’

‘As I said, we’re going to need to perform several operations, and we have to reduce the swelling in his brain. A number of surgical procedures will be carried out to deal with his crushed jaw, and also his ear. He’ll be under heavy sedation for at least a week, maybe longer. Provided he manages to hold on, which isn’t guaranteed.’

‘But, if he does survive, will he remember anything about the attack?’

‘We should probably hope that he doesn’t recall much about the event itself. On the other hand, total memory loss is quite unusual. I mean, when it comes to his life as a whole. But it’s reasonable to expect that he’ll have partial amnesia.’

‘Is it possible that he’ll make a full recovery?’

‘To be honest, it’s much too early to speculate about that, especially since we don’t yet know whether he’ll pull through. But, in general terms, I can say that, given the nature of his injuries, it’s highly unlikely. He will probably suffer some hearing loss and have difficulty articulating his thoughts. He may have long-term problems with headaches, difficulty concentrating, an inability to handle stress and, as I mentioned, partial amnesia. On top of everything else, he’ll have permanent facial damage. There’s no doubt about that.’

Knutas thanked the doctor and ended the call. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair. So there was little hope that Markus Sandberg would be able to identify his assailant. They would have to direct their efforts elsewhere. Even though Furillen was one of the most isolated places imaginable in winter, it still seemed reasonable that someone must have seen or heard something. A perpetrator always left behind evidence of some kind.

He had just taken out his pipe and was filling it with tobacco when the phone rang. It was the officer on duty. He sounded as if he had urgent news.

‘I’ve got a man on the line who has something to tell you. Just to warn you: he’s rather long-winded.’

‘Okay, put him on.’

‘Hi. My name is Olof Hellström, and I’m calling from Kyllaj. I’m renting a house out here. Well, I live in Stockholm, but the thing is, I’m a writer and I’ve been staying out here to work on my new novel. I’ve just reached the final stage and am doing some last-minute revising, and-’

‘Okay, okay. Get to the point,’ said Knutas brusquely. He might as well make the man realize from the start that this was no time for lengthy explanations.

The man on the phone sniffed to show he was offended but went on.

‘I think I saw the guy who attacked that person out on Furillen last night.’

Knutas took a deep breath. Could it really be true?

‘What makes you think that?’ he asked tensely.

‘I was sitting up late last night, writing. Then I heard the sound of a motor out on the water below my house. I got curious, so I went down there to see what was going on. A small boat pulled up to the dock. A man jumped out, and I was very surprised to see that, instead of tying up the boat, he shoved it back out to sea. I had left my dog up at the house. I have a golden retriever, but I thought that-’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, anyway… The man ran off the dock and then disappeared. I didn’t see which way he went.’

‘And you didn’t try to follow him?’

‘No. And I didn’t let him know I was there either. The whole scene made me nervous. I didn’t know who he was, or what he was up to. And, at the time, I had no idea that anything had happened out on Furillen. But then I heard the news on the radio and thought there might be a connection.’

Knutas had got out a notepad and pen while Olof Hellström talked.

‘What did the man look like?’

‘Normal build, a little shorter than average, maybe five foot nine or ten. He was wearing dark clothing.’

By this point, Hellström seemed to have grasped that it was best to keep his answers brief.

‘What kind of clothing?’

‘I don’t know. I only caught a glimpse of him.’

‘Did you see his face at all?’

‘No. I’m afraid not.’

‘Do you have any idea how old this man was?’

‘Hard to say. He seemed youngish. Not an old man, by any means. I’d guess in his thirties, or maybe even close to forty.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘No. At first I thought he did, because he stopped and turned around. But then he disappeared. I stayed where I was for several minutes, but he didn’t come back. Then I went down to the dock and looked for the boat, but it had already drifted away.’

‘Do you know what time it was when you saw this man?’

‘Hard to say. I don’t keep track of the time when I’m working. But it was night-time and, since I was still feeling wide awake, it couldn’t have been very late. I’d guess one o’clock, maybe two.’

‘Okay. As I’m sure you realize, this is very important information, and I need to ask you to come down to headquarters as soon as possible.’

‘No problem. I can leave right now.’

JENNY LEVIN ARRIVED at the police station after lunch on Tuesday. She had recovered from the shock and was ready to give her statement. Jacobsson and Knutas, who were going to handle the interview, went to meet her in the reception area.

In her high-heeled boots, Jenny was even taller than Knutas, and she was more than a head taller than Jacobsson. With her long red hair, freckles and pale skin, Jenny reminded Knutas of Lina as a young woman. Her eyes were bright green. Her hand felt cool and limp, her handshake fleeting. She sat down in the chair they offered her, crossing one long, jeans-clad leg over the other. Knutas noticed that her thighs weren’t much wider than her calves.

There was something magnetic about the young woman sitting before him; she possessed a radiance that was irresistible. Her movements were lithe and graceful.

Jacobsson sat in a corner of the room. She was present as a witness to the interview and would refrain from speaking.

Jenny Levin seemed nervous. Her eyes flitted about, and her hands didn’t stop moving. She kept clasping and unclasping her long fingers.

‘How are you feeling?’ Knutas asked kindly. He filled a glass with water and slid it across the table towards her.

‘Not so good,’ she said, looking at him unhappily. ‘I’m really worried about Markus.’

She took a few cautious sips of water.

‘I understand.’ Knutas gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Can you tell me what happened yesterday evening, after all of you had finished working?’

‘We worked pretty late. It was six o’clock by the time we stopped. Everybody was tired and wanted to rest before dinner, so we decided to meet again at eight. Markus didn’t turn up, but we thought he’d arrive at any moment. He was staying a short distance from the hotel, in that cabin.’

‘Why was he staying out there?’

‘He’d been to the hotel before on a photo shoot, but he hadn’t stayed in a cabin, and this time he wanted to try it.’

‘So how long did the dinner last?’

‘A long time. We had a proper three-course meal, which meant it went on for several hours. We also drank a lot of wine while we talked.’

‘Didn’t you think it was strange that Markus never appeared for dinner?’

‘Yes, we did. And we tried to ring him, but there’s no mobile signal out at the cabins. We thought he was probably working on the photos and forgot about the time, or maybe fell asleep.’

‘Do you know what time it was when you finished dinner?’

‘Not exactly. Eleven, or maybe twelve.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘I tried to phone again, and I also sent a text, but he still didn’t answer. The others went to bed, but I decided to cycle out to the cabin and check on him.’

‘Why did you decide to do that?’

Patches of crimson appeared on Jenny’s throat. She bit her lower lip.

‘Because I… was worried about him. I was wondering what had happened to him.’

‘So when you set off on the bicycle it was close to midnight. Is that right?’

‘I think so.’

‘What time did you have to start work in the morning?’

‘The photo shoot was supposed to start at eight, but I had to be in make-up two hours before that.’

‘So, six in the morning? And yet you went off in the middle of the night to see how Markus was doing?’

Jenny began to fidget again.

‘I suppose that might sound odd, but I was worried and I didn’t think it was very far away.’

‘How did you know where to go?’

‘Markus told me how to get there.’

‘I see.’

Knutas frowned and jotted down a few words on his notepad.

‘What happened after you set off for the cabin?’

‘It was much further and more difficult to find than I’d thought. If I’d known how bad the road was, how dark it was going to be, and how hard the place was to find, I’d never have gone out there. But after a while I found the cabin. The door was locked from the outside, but I used a pair of tweezers to pick the padlock. Markus was lying inside on the floor, and he was covered in blood. I turned on a paraffin lamp and saw what a mess the whole place was. It was horrible.’

She shuddered and folded her arms, hugging herself as if she were freezing.

‘Take all the time you need,’ said Knutas in a soothing voice. ‘I know this is difficult. But it’s very important that you try to recall everything you saw in the cabin, every single detail, no matter how irrelevant it may seem.’

Jenny sighed heavily before going on. Her voice was fainter as she spoke.

‘Markus was lying on his stomach, so I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was him. The whole back of his head was bloody. And his arms and hands were covered with big gashes. It looked like somebody had been hacking at him with something… I didn’t really take in that many details. A chair had been overturned, and I noticed broken glass on the floor. A lot of smashed camera equipment and a broken paraffin lamp. I ran outside and tried to find someplace where my mobile would work. Then it didn’t take long before the hotel owner came out to the cabin, along with the producer for our crew. The three of us waited together for the ambulance to arrive. It took a long time. Maybe an hour. I’m not sure.’

‘Forty-five minutes, according to the police report.’

‘Oh. Then the medics took care of Markus, but he was in really bad shape. So it was a while before they could put him on the stretcher.’

‘Okay,’ said Knutas. ‘Try to remember if there was anything else you happened to notice earlier in the day. Was there anyone you didn’t know hanging about? Was someone acting strangely? Did you see a car or a motorcycle?’

‘No, nothing. There was nothing unusual about the photo shoot, and nothing special happened.’

‘Do you know if Markus has ever been threatened in any way?’

‘No. Never.’

‘How well do you know him?’

It was obvious that Jenny didn’t want to answer that question. Now the red patches spread from her throat to her face.

‘We haven’t known each other very long,’ she replied evasively. ‘I’m new to the fashion business.’

‘How long have you worked as a model?’

‘About a year.’

‘Do you work full time?’

‘Yes, now I do. I quit school. Temporarily. I’ll go back to it later.’

‘How many times have you met Markus?’

Jenny licked her thin lips. She seemed to be considering the question. And was reluctant to answer.

‘Hmm. I don’t know. It’s hard to say. The agency I work for often hires him.’

‘And you’ve only met on the job?’

‘What do you mean?’

Knutas stared intently at the young woman, who was obviously nervous.

‘Isn’t it true that you and Markus Sandberg have been having an affair?’

Jenny sighed, looking resigned. She seemed to have been expecting to hear him say those words.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said quietly. ‘We’ve been seeing each other. But we didn’t want anyone to know. Not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘It doesn’t matter to me, but he wanted to wait.’

‘And what’s his reason for that?’

‘He said it would interfere with our work, that the agency might not send us out on assignments together if they knew about it. Robert, who’s the boss, has made it clear that he doesn’t like people who work for him to have romantic relationships with each other. And Markus has a difficult ex-girlfriend who refuses to accept that it’s over between them.’

Knutas’s ears pricked up.

‘A difficult ex? What’s her name?’

‘Diana Sierra. She’s been a real pain. Won’t let him go. She keeps ringing him all the time, and sending text messages.’

‘Is she a model, too?’

‘Uh-huh. Unfortunately. And for the same agency. Luckily, she does a lot of work abroad, so I haven’t run into her yet, and I hope I never do.’

‘I understand. That should be all for now. Thank you for coming in,’ said Knutas. ‘We’ll let you know if we need to ask you any more questions.’

‘Do you have any idea who did this?’

‘Not yet. But we have plenty of leads to follow up. Don’t worry. We’ll solve this case.’

Knutas patted her on the arm.

He hoped that he was right.

THE CORRIDOR EXTENDS through the entire ward. Agnes jogs mechanically from one end to the other. She has a hard time sitting still. She needs to work off as much energy as possible, even though the opportunities for doing so are very limited here. Much to the annoyance of the staff, she is always coming up with new excuses for getting up and moving about. For instance, she needs to fetch the newspaper she’s left on her nightstand. When she comes back to the communal lounge she stands there reading an article for two minutes, then returns to her room to put the paper back. Then she continues on to the art room, stares at the felt-tip pens for a few minutes, and heads back to the lounge. There, she rummages about in the games cupboard but doesn’t find anything of interest, then remembers that she has a pack of cards somewhere in her wardrobe and she could play patience. Back to her room again, where she looks through her belongings until she finds the cards, but by then she has lost any desire to play. Maybe she could knit something. So once again she returns to the art room and looks at all the different kinds of yarn, but she can’t make up her mind which to choose. Now and then, one of the nurses says to her, ‘Sit down.’ Agnes complies, but the next second she jumps up again. She has thought of something else.

Finally, her list of excuses runs out, and she makes do with plodding back and forth along the corridor. When Per appears, she stops and pretends to be studying a picture on the wall.

‘How’s it going?’ he asks.

‘Okay. I’m just a little restless.’

‘I can understand that. It’s not so strange.’ He glances at his watch. ‘I’ve got meetings right now, for another hour or so. But how about a game of backgammon later on? And, this time, I plan to win.’

‘Sure.’

Agnes gives him a wan smile. It’s lucky he’s here. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to stand it. Per gives her a quick hug before he disappears into his office and closes the door. She sighs and continues her endless wandering.

They’ve made an attempt to spruce up the decor so the place won’t seem so depressing. The walls are painted a warm yellow, the curtains have a pattern of different-sized red circles against a yellow background. The chairs are also covered in a colourful fabric. And the framed posters on the walls show scenes of rugged mountains, a deep-blue sea, a sunset, and a summertime meadow filled with fiery red poppies that remind her of Gotland.

She doesn’t like the way they’ve tried to make the ward more cheerful. As if that would help anyone who’s being held here. They’re trapped in this hell. The patients move like automated zombies from the food lab to the communal lounge, from the art room to the warm room. Her life has come to a standstill; she is imprisoned in her obsession and sees no way out. Anxiety frequently threatens to suffocate her. Sometimes, she can’t breathe and, occasionally, she is seriously convinced that her heart will stop beating. That she’s going to die in this place. The warm, yellow interior feels like a slap in the face. It’s like a children’s hospital, she thinks, where kids with cancer or some other terminal illness lie in bed surrounded by stuffed animals and cheerful drawings. It’s too bloody macabre.

She reaches the end of the corridor and turns around. Passes the art room for what must be the tenth time. She sees Linda and Sofia sitting there, making beaded trivets. Beaded trivets! That’s what little kids make in childcare centres. The one thing they want to do here is diminish the patients, she thinks. Make us non-people. And she does feel like a nonperson. She has lost all hold on real life, can hardly remember what it’s like. Sometimes, she tries to recall what things were like before, to remind herself that she really did have a perfectly ordinary life, just like everybody else. She has nothing to do here, so the only sensible thing is to think about life outside. Transport herself there in her mind. Think about things that she used to do before she came here, about the friends she had, and about school.

Yet she avoids thinking about Mamma and Martin. As soon as they appear in her mind, she tries to escape and think about something else. It’s too painful.

But now, as she walks along the corridor, the memories come back, whether she likes it or not.

The accident happened on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday in February when she was only thirteen. The weather had changed overnight; the temperature dropped and the roads were slippery. Mamma was going to pick up Martin in Stenkumla, where he’d been visiting a friend. Agnes remembers the conversation as if it were yesterday. She was the one who had picked up the phone when Mamma rang from the car. Her happy, eager voice saying, ‘We’ll be home soon, just need to swing by Atterdags and pick up some shopping. We’ll eat at seven. Meatballs and potatoes with gravy and lingonberries.’

But that dinner never happened. One minute after they said goodbye to each other, a long-distance lorry coming from the opposite direction had skidded into a vehicle, veered into the other lane and then run head-on into her mother’s car. The police said afterwards that she had had no chance of avoiding the collision. They died instantly. Both Mamma and Martin.

Agnes heard the news less than an hour after she’d talked to her mother on the phone. Someone rang the bell, and her father went to the door. Agnes was upstairs in her own room, so she didn’t hear what was said. She remembers only seeing her bedroom door open a short time later, and Pappa’s face. How he came in, as if entreating her, his hands held out, his lower lip quivering, terror in his eyes. Yes, that was what she saw. Pure terror. No grief, no despair. It was too soon; all of that would come later. She knew at once that something serious had happened. She stared at his mouth, his trembling lips. He tried to say something. He reached for her hand; his own was shaking. She remembers his voice. It sounded metallic, hollow. ‘Something terrible has happened, Agnes. Come here and sit next to me.’ He took her arm and walked her over to the bed, where he sat down. She sank on to the bed beside him. A sound had started up in her head, way in the back, but it was getting louder by the second. A wave of resistance surged inside her. No, she refused to hear what he was going to say. She didn’t want to know. She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t do it, she wouldn’t. She wanted to escape, run as far away as possible. She was looking at the bedspread through a blur. She was already crying, even though her father hadn’t yet told her anything. She didn’t want this to be happening. She was only thirteen years old, just a child. Wasn’t prepared for something like this. She wanted to shut her eyes and cover her ears. Why weren’t Mamma and Martin home? Why didn’t she hear her mother’s cheerful voice downstairs in the front hall, as usual? Why wasn’t Martin pulling off his shoes and jacket and opening the fridge, like he always did the minute he stepped in the door?

‘There’s been an accident,’ her father said. He squeezed her hand. Tears were now falling on to her fingers. ‘Mamma and Martin were in a car accident.’ She stared angrily at the bedspread. The pattern billowed before her tear-filled eyes, moving up and down, back and forth. The sound in the back of her head was getting louder. ‘It was a lorry. It was a bad crash, Agnes. They didn’t make it. They’re dead. They’re both dead.’ His voice broke and she broke and the whole world broke. At that very instant. Right there and then. She hardly remembers what happened after that. Somebody came. They drove to the hospital. White coats, worried eyes, cautious gestures. Someone took them into the room where Mamma and Martin were lying. Two metal-framed beds, next to each other. Each of them lying under a blanket. Their bodies and faces covered. Her mother and brother. They no longer existed, and yet there they lay. She remembers noticing the clock on the wall. It was seven o’clock exactly. Right now, they should have been eating dinner, the four of them sitting at the kitchen table. Just like always.

Meatballs and potatoes with gravy and lingonberries.

THE INVESTIGATIVE TEAM met for a second time late on Tuesday afternoon. They had a lot of material to share and go over. During the day, everyone had worked on the Hotel Fabriken interviews. Officers had been sent out to knock on doors, and Sohlman had returned from Furillen after spending the whole day supervising the technical examination of the crime scene.

Knutas started the meeting by giving his colleagues an update on Markus Sandberg’s condition. He had undergone surgery and was heavily sedated. So far, he was alive, but his condition was still critical. Knutas then reported on the latest developments in the case, especially what he had learned from the writer Olof Hellström in Kyllaj. The witness thought that he had seen the perpetrator with his own eyes.

‘How reliable is he?’ asked Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg.

‘I see no reason to doubt what he told me,’ said Knutas.

‘But there’s no real evidence supporting his story,’ Jacobsson interjected. ‘We’ve inspected the dock where the man supposedly came ashore. There are no traces of blood, no footprints or anything else that might confirm the author’s claim.’

‘Didn’t he wait to ring the police until after he found out about what happened on Furillen? He could just be a crank,’ said Wittberg.

‘What about the boat?’ asked Norrby. ‘If he’s telling the truth, we should be able to find it.’

‘It’s still missing,’ said Knutas with a sigh. ‘Tomorrow we’re sending out a helicopter to look for it. Right now, there’s none available.’

‘Any tyre tracks?’ asked Sohlman, who hadn’t had time to get involved in the search that had been done in Kyllaj.

‘We found a lot of tracks, but it’s hard to make any sense of them. It rained overnight, you know. And people sometimes drive down there to take a walk or let their dogs run about. Things like that. We’ll have to see. So far there are no solid leads.’

‘Are there any other witnesses of interest in Kyllaj or in the vicinity?’ asked the prosecutor. ‘Besides Olof Hellström, that is.’

‘No, there are only a few permanent residents, and nobody who lives on the road saw anything unusual last night. As far as we know, at least. We haven’t been able to get hold of everyone yet.’

‘What about the axe?’ the prosecutor went on. ‘Has it been found?’ Sohlman shook his head.

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘He could have thrown it into the sea, of course,’ said Jacobsson, sighing. ‘I don’t think we’re going to find it any time soon.’

‘I’m afraid you’re probably right,’ Knutas admitted. He turned to Sohlman. ‘Okay, Erik, we’d like to hear more from you. What can you tell us?’

Sohlman got up and pulled down the screen at the front of the room as he began talking.

‘First, I’d like everyone to see what it looked like inside the hermit’s cabin. I think that’s important so you’ll understand what sort of person we’re dealing with here. Or at least what his state of mind must have been when he launched the assault.’

He signalled for Jacobsson, who was sitting nearest the wall, to switch off the light. The first picture showed a modest cabin, not much bigger than an ordinary garden shed, with unpainted wooden cladding. There was one window and a door. A plain metal roof and a thin metal pipe for a chimney. In front stood a simple wooden bench. Underneath was a small, blue insulated bag.

‘Do you see that bag there?’ said Sohlman pointing. ‘Inside is a bottle of Dom Pérignon and two champagne glasses. Apparently, he was expecting a visitor. And I assume it was Jenny Levin.’

The steps leading up to the door consisted simply of two logs that had been placed upside down in the gravel. Surrounding the cabin stood bare trees with white, ghostlike branches, a few withered juniper shrubs and some dwarf pines whose boughs had been twisted by the wind. Visible a short distance away was the latrine, along with a rauk jutting up from the undergrowth. The photograph revealed nothing of the drama that had been played out inside the cabin.

The next picture was also devoid of drama. It showed a forged-metal plate with six hooks fastened to the wall. From the hooks hung a wooden washing-up brush, a couple of clothes hangers, a dark-blue linen hand towel and a pair of old-fashioned scissors. But, in the next picture, which was a close-up, they could see that there was blood on the hand towel and also spattered on the wall. The next photo showed the entire interior of the cabin. It was a room with dark, greyish-brown wood panelling, an unmade bed in one corner, a small table next to the window and a beautifully designed chair, which had toppled over. There was also a wood stove made of black cast iron. On the light-coloured pine floorboards lay a sheepskin rug, and next to the stove stood two brownpaper sacks containing neatly stacked wood, with sections of newspaper stuck in between. On the floor lay a shattered paraffin lamp and other pieces of glass. Several smashed cameras were strewn about. There was blood everywhere – on the wood in the sacks, on the ceiling, on the window facing the sea. On the sheepskin rug and on the floor.

‘It was a vicious assault, as you can see,’ Sohlman went on. ‘We’ve found strands of hair, crumpled balls of paper and cigarette butts that we’ve sent to the crime lab in Linköping. There are lots of fingerprints in the cabin, of course, but they could be from any number of individuals. There are footprints in the gravel outside but, unfortunately, they’re not very clear because Jenny Levin and our own officers have walked through the area. But there are a few clear prints from an old rubber boot, size seven and a half. Sandberg’s camera equipment was smashed to pieces, but his computer survived. It was stowed away inside a cupboard. His wallet was on the windowsill, untouched, with cash and credit cards inside. His mobile phone is missing but, if it’s turned on, we should be able to trace it. The weapon used by the perpetrator was most likely an axe. We haven’t found it at the scene. This was clearly a crime committed by someone in a state of intense rage.’

‘What about the door?’ asked Prosecutor Smittenberg. ‘Was there any sign of forced entry?’

‘No. It could be that the victim and the perpetrator knew each other. I can’t say. But why would Sandberg even bother to lock the door way out there in the woods? There doesn’t seem to be any reason to do that. But the perpetrator fastened the padlock on the door when he left, so Jenny Levin had to pick the lock with a pair of tweezers. Here’s something interesting that we found.’

The photo on the screen showed a close-up of a piece of jewellery. A shiny green stone shaped like a beetle, with tiny legs and antennae.

‘This earring was found on the floor under the victim’s body. Markus Sandberg does not have pierced ears. We need to find out whether it belongs to Jenny or any of the hotel staff. The cabin hasn’t been used in months, but it was thoroughly cleaned after the summer season. Of course, it’s possible that the earring was left there by a previous guest, but it could also belong to the perpetrator.’

He paused for dramatic effect.

‘I’ve been saving the best for last,’ he added, with some irony. He reached for his glass of water and peered solemnly over the rim at his colleagues seated around the table.

‘Now that you’ve seen the cabin, I’m going to show you the victim. Be prepared for the worst. These pictures are not very pretty. We got them from the hospital. So here is Markus Sandberg as he looked when he arrived.’

Everyone was paying rapt attention. Jacobsson closed her eyes halfway. She still had a hard time looking at victims who were seriously injured or dead. After fifteen years on the police force, she realized that she probably would never get used to it.

Even though the officers in the room were all very experienced, they gasped when the pictures of Sandberg appeared on the screen. He was unrecognizable. His face was swollen and lacerated, his jaw crushed, leaving a gaping wound with teeth and bone fragments sticking out of the remaining pieces of flesh. One side of his skull was covered in blood, and his right ear was missing. He had deep, nasty gashes on his hands, upper arms and forearms.

No one said a word as the photos were shown. Afterwards, they all continued to sit in silence. Not even Sohlman said a word. What kind of person would do something like this? Who were they looking for?

KNUTAS WOKE AT five in the morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. Lina’s side of the bed was empty. She was working the night shift at the hospital. Feeling restless, he got up and made some coffee. Gloomily, he stared at the total darkness outside the window. Winter lay ahead, a grey, cold haze that would last four months, with the days getting shorter and night falling sooner, only a few hours after lunch.

The cat purred and jumped up on to the kitchen table, wanting to be petted, then slipped outside when Knutas opened the front door to fetch the morning paper. The November chill made him wince. It had been a cold night. He steeled himself, then hurried down to the letterbox, still wearing his dressing gown. Back inside the warm house, he sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself a cup of coffee. The entire front page was devoted to the assault out on Furillen. Knutas was startled to read that the police suspected the weapon used was an axe. The article referred to last night’s Regional News report, which had been broadcast on TV. Johan Berg again. That man had an infernal ability to dig up more details than the police wanted to reveal. Even though Knutas was annoyed, he couldn’t help feeling a certain admiration for the reporter. And there was really no harm done. The information was bound to leak out sooner or later, and in the best-case scenario, it might bring in more tip-offs to the police.

He quickly scanned the rest of the article. Nothing noteworthy, nothing that the police hadn’t made public. He managed to listen to the news on the local radio station before he had to leave for work. It was largely the same as he’d read in the paper.

He put on warm clothes and set off. It took him twenty minutes to walk to police headquarters on Norra Hansegatan. He enjoyed this part of the morning, before the city awoke. He was all alone on the quiet streets. Snowflakes were drifting down from the sky, melting the moment they touched the ground.

The only visible lights on in the police station were on the ground floor. As usual, Knutas greeted the officer on duty and exchanged a few pleasantries. Then he went up two flights of stairs to the criminal division. The light was on in Karin Jacobsson’s office.

‘Hi,’ he said in surprise when he saw her sitting at her desk. ‘You’re already here?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

He paused in the doorway.

‘Any special reason?’

‘No. Just the usual ghosts.’

‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Sure. That’d be great.’

Knutas came back with two cups, setting one down in front of her before taking a chair across the desk from her.

‘Did you see the news on TV last night?’ he asked.

‘No, we were busy with other things.’

‘Apparently, Regional News reported that we suspect an axe was used in the assault.’

‘I saw that in the morning paper. Not totally unexpected. Berg must have gone out to Furillen and talked to someone. Everybody who works at the hotel knew about it.’

‘I can’t believe that people have such a hard time keeping their mouths shut.’ Knutas shook his head. ‘Anything new?’

‘Not really. Except that the earring that Sohlman found in the cabin keeps getting more and more interesting. Nobody seems to want to claim it. Evidently, it doesn’t belong to Jenny Levin or to any staff member or previous hotel guest. That particular hermit’s cabin was recently built, so very few people stayed there before Sandberg. And the very cooperative and efficient receptionist has managed to contact almost all of them. At the moment, all indications are that the earring belongs to the perpetrator.’

‘So we know one thing about him,’ said Knutas dryly. ‘He has at least one pierced ear.’

‘As for Sandberg’s computer, it’s going to be examined today,’ Jacobsson went on. ‘Let’s hope that it can tell us something useful. I’ve also started going through all the interviews and I’ve found at least one interesting thing. The cleaning woman who works at the hotel, and sometimes works on reception as well, reported that a man phoned the hotel about a week before the attack and asked some strange questions. When he heard a photo shoot was scheduled at the hotel, he asked detailed questions about the arrangements. The cleaning woman thought it was a bit odd, so she asked if he was a reporter. He hung up without answering.’

‘Did he give his name?’

‘No.’

‘We need to trace that phone call. Does she remember what day he rang?’

‘Actually, she does, because she was brought in when a staff member called in sick. Not last Saturday, but the previous Saturday. She’s positive about that. She even remembers what time he phoned, because she was listening to Melodikrysset on the radio and was annoyed at being interrupted.’

‘Bravo. Could you follow up on this today?’

‘Of course. We also have the reports from our colleagues who knocked on doors in the surrounding areas on Furillen, but they don’t tell us much. There are so few houses that are occupied this time of year, and the only people we were able to contact didn’t see or hear anything. An old man who lives right near the road claims that he definitely would have woken up if a car or motorcycle went by during the night. He’s a light sleeper. But all he heard was the ambulance. By the way, we still haven’t found the boat, but the helicopter will go out there as soon as it’s light. And no boat has been reported stolen. Today we’ll continue to search around Lergrav, Valleviken and the other communities in the vicinity. We’ll also try to talk to anyone who wasn’t at home yesterday in the houses along the road to Kyllaj.’

Jacobsson clasped her hands behind her head and stared up at the ceiling. Knutas looked at her for a moment without speaking. She was thin and petite, with short dark hair and big brown eyes. He noticed that she looked unusually pale, with dark circles under her eyes. But she’d said she hadn’t slept well. He liked her face. It was so sensitive. He’d been working with her for years, ever since she’d arrived as a trainee at police headquarters in Visby. He was almost fifteen years older than she was, but he never thought about the age difference. That’s so typical for a man in late middle age, he thought, with a good dose of self-contempt. We never want to admit how old we are. We’re constantly deceiving ourselves. But what did he know about Karin’s perception of things?

‘Do you often think about the age difference between us?’ he said, surprising himself by asking such a question out of the blue. He hadn’t intended to say anything. The words just slipped out.

Her cup banged as she set it down on the desk.

‘What did you say?’

‘Oh, er, I was just wondering if you think that… well, if you notice that there’s almost fifteen years between us,’ he said, embarrassed.

‘What do you mean? Are you asking me whether I think you’re old?’ She broke into a smile, revealing the gap between her front teeth.

‘Just forget it,’ he said, getting up.

She grabbed his arm.

‘Anders, seriously, what do you mean?’

‘It just occurred to me that I never think about the age difference between us, but maybe you do.’

‘It’s not something that I do think much about, I have to admit. Not often, at any rate. And we’re just co-workers, after all. If we were together, it would make a huge difference.’

She laughed annoyingly and gave him a poke in the side. Knutas felt like an idiot. There was something about Karin, something that he’d probably never fully understand.

THE WIND WAS gusting harder across Kyllaj on this cold November morning as Eduardo and Dolores Morales drove towards the sea in their rental car. They had come to Gotland a few days earlier from their home in Seville in southern Spain to take part in a conference dealing with the depletion of fish stocks in Europe’s inland seas. Since they shared a keen interest in the history of fishing in various countries, Kyllaj was one of a string of fishing villages along the Gotland coast that the couple intended to visit. They wanted to take pictures that would become part of their ever-growing collection of photos from similar communities all over the world.

They got up early, enjoyed a hearty Scandinavian breakfast in the dining room of their hotel in Visby, and then set off to the north-east. Kyllaj was first on their list; then they would visit Lergrav, before continuing north to Bungeviken and Fårö.

They parked the car near the small-boat marina, which was deserted. All the boats had been taken in for the winter. Dolores Morales pulled up the zip on her heavy jacket before getting out of the car. The wind nipped at her cheeks, making her eyes water. The cold and the dark in these regions were indescribable. At this time of year, the sun set by four in the afternoon, and then it was pitch dark. She couldn’t for the life of her understand how the Swedes could bear it. It was beyond comprehension that anyone had come up with the absurd idea of settling this far north. Right now it was 3 degrees Celsius, with a north wind. The receptionist at the hotel had said this was nothing. Winter hadn’t even started yet. The truly bitter cold would arrive in January and February, when the seawater surrounding the island had cooled down completely. Then the temperature might drop to minus 10 degrees Celsius, or even minus 15, although that didn’t happen often on Gotland. Dolores Morales and her husband were experienced travellers, so they’d had the good sense to bring along appropriate warm clothing.

The fishing village consisted of a row of sheds down by the water, a small harbour with room for a dozen boats, and several wharfs. A few racks for drying fishing nets stood side by side, and two posts held beacons that came on at night to guide boats into the harbour.

As a matter of course, they headed off in different directions and methodically began to document what they saw. There was a feeling of complete desolation about the place, as if they found themselves at the world’s end, far from any real civilization. They peered in the windows of those sheds where the curtains were open and saw, as expected, mostly fishing gear, nets, and various tools.

Dolores was just about to suggest that they go back to the car and have a coffee break when she discovered that the padlock on one of the sheds was open. When she got closer, she could see that it had been cut. Someone had used pliers to cut off the lock. She looked around for Eduardo but didn’t see him. She called his name but, apparently, he didn’t hear her. Curiosity got the better of her, and with some excitement she opened the door to the shed.

It was dark inside, and the air was musty and damp. She looked about. Shelves loaded with tools and all sorts of fishing gear covered one entire wall. Hanging on another wall was a clumsily painted portrait of a smiling, bearded fisherman with a pipe in his mouth. She saw a rickety table with a paraffin lamp, a box of matches and a mug with dried coffee dregs in the bottom. On the floor stood a battered chest. She lifted the lid and found inside weekly tabloids and magazines that seemed to be forty or fifty years old. Many of them had cover photos of smiling women, some bare-breasted, some wearing bikinis. Somehow, they looked so innocent. She read the word Se, which was printed in white inside a red circle, and guessed that it must be the name of the publication. The date was 1964, which proved that she’d guessed right about the age of the magazines. She smiled at the sense of nostalgia that the covers conjured up in her. Those were the days.

She and Eduardo had met in the Basque country in the small town of San Sebastián. The fight for independence in that region of Spain had been heating up, and they were both only twenty years old. She had been so naive back then. Such an idealist. And what was she doing now? Documenting old fishing villages. Why, and for whom? she thought as she let go of the lid of the chest so that it closed with a dull thud. But the sound was loud enough to startle a mouse out of the shadows and send it racing across the floor. Dolores Morales was certainly not the type of woman who would be upset by something like that; she couldn’t care less about the mouse. But what did it have in its mouth? Something long and yellow. The light was dim inside the shed, and the mouse had quickly disappeared into a corner. But it had definitely been carrying something. She found a torch on a shelf, then glanced out of the window, but Eduardo was nowhere in sight. By now, he must be wondering what had happened to her. She switched on the torch and began searching for the mouse. She didn’t see it, but she did hear tiny claws scratching at the wooden floor. She aimed the beam of the torch at the floor and then at the walls lined with shelves. Ashes in the wood stove, a rusty drill, a saw, a glass jar containing freeze-dried coffee, a tin that she was curious enough to open. She smelled something sweet, although the tin was empty except for a few crumbs in the bottom. She recognized the fragrance of cinnamon and ginger. Then she realized what it was. Those typical, crisp biscuits that the Swedes served at Christmastime. Pepparkakor. As she looked around the space a little more, she finally realized what the mouse had been carrying. Next to the biscuit tin was a fruit platter with several old banana skins. Looking more closely, she saw that they weren’t that old – maybe from a few days ago, at most. Someone had been here recently.

She turned around and discovered an old America-trunk that was slightly open. The lid was crooked and hadn’t been closed properly. Hesitantly, she went over to lift it. A suffocating smell rose up, forcing her to take a few steps back. Inside was a bundle of clothes, and Dolores couldn’t believe her eyes when she picked up one garment after another: a pair of bloodstained jeans, a blood-soaked T-shirt, a sweatshirt, a down jacket, a pair of gloves and a knitted cap. The jacket, T-shirt and pullover were not only covered with blood, they also seemed to be soiled with what looked like vomit. Her suspicions were confirmed when she lifted the jacket closer to her nose. Her stomach turned over.

That was as far as she got when she heard a thud and something scraping at the window. Dolores screamed when she saw her husband’s face pressed against the pane, and then a man tackled him from behind.

The next second she was looking into the eyes of a stranger.

THE WHOLE FAMILY was having breakfast when the phone rang. Johan took the call, since Emma was always so stressed in the morning. She had to be at work earlier than he did, so she was usually in a hurry. It was Tina. He asked her how Jenny was doing.

‘Okay, considering the circumstances. Thanks for asking. She’s home now, and she’ll be staying here for a few days. She needs time to recuperate.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Johan. ‘But there’s something I’d like to ask you.’ He cleared his throat and paused for a moment before telling her what he’d been thinking about, wondering how best to approach Tina. ‘This may seem a bit intrusive right now but, since I’m a journalist, I have to ask whether you think Jenny might agree to be interviewed. She’s an important person in this story, as I’m sure you realize. And I promise not to ask any questions that she doesn’t want to answer. You can also look at the piece before we broadcast it. And you can be present during the interview, too, if you like. I actually think it might be good for her to talk to me. Then she can always refer to the interview if other reporters start pestering her. She can tell them she has already said as much as she’s going to say. And it’s better if I do the interview rather than someone else. Don’t you agree?’

There was a brief silence before Tina replied.

‘I don’t know,’ she said doubtfully. ‘This whole thing just happened yesterday. I need to ask Jenny, and I want to hear what Fredrik thinks, too. Can I get back to you in a few minutes?’

‘Of course.’

‘I was actually calling to talk to Emma. But she’ll be home for a while yet before she has to leave for work, right?’

‘Sure. And I really appreciate it that you’re willing to ask Jenny about this.’

Johan hung up the phone, saying a silent prayer that she’d come back with a positive answer. Just then, Emma came into the kitchen.

‘Who was on the phone?’

‘Tina. She wanted to talk to you, but she’ll call you right back.’

‘Oh?’

‘Uh-huh. I asked her if I could interview Jenny, so she was going to talk to her and let me know in a few minutes.’

‘You just couldn’t resist, could you?’

He heard a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Emma had never had much patience for the way journalists were always on the hunt for the next big scoop. Or their irrepressible delight when they were the first to break a news story. She had personally been subjected to a media onslaught, and she wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy. Luckily, she had benefited from Johan’s ability to handle such situations. Although, when it came right down to it, he was just as hungry for a good news story as his colleagues were. She could see the gleam of anticipation in his eyes as he thought about how close he was to snagging the one interview that every reporter in Sweden was hoping for at the moment. Like a bloodhound on the trail.

Ten minutes later Tina rang again. Jenny had agreed to do the interview.

The farm was in Gammelgarn in the eastern part of Gotland. Located as it was, high on a hill, the buildings were visible from the road. Johan and Pia turned off on to a straight gravel road with expansive fields, lying fallow now during the winter, spreading out on either side. The old farm was built in the typical Gotland style of greyish limestone, with a main house, a sheep barn and a big old barn used by the family as a shop selling sheepskins during the tourist season. Johan had been here many times before. Tina and Emma had been friends for ages, ever since teacher training college. Johan liked Tina and her husband, Fredrik, and enjoyed their company. The two couples got on well together, and regularly met for dinner.

As Pia parked the car in the yard at the front, Tina came out of the house and waited for them on the porch. Two lively Border collies raced about at top speed, wagging their tails in greeting.

Johan gave Tina a hug, thinking that she looked a bit worn out.

In the kitchen, they found Jenny sitting at the table holding a cat on her lap. She got up to hug Johan and shake hands with Pia.

Jenny looked more beautiful every time he saw her. It had to be at least six months since they’d last met, because she’d been doing so much travelling recently. Her hair hung over her shoulders in a thick, shiny red curtain. Her almond-shaped, inscrutable green eyes had an intense look to them. Long, thin legs in jeans, and a simple V-necked red jumper. She wore no make-up, no watch or any jewellery.

They filmed the interview in the kitchen. Jenny sat there with the cat curled up on her lap, a lit candle on the table, a fire crackling in the wood stove. Outside the window sheep with heavy woollen coats could be seen scattered over the fields, grazing. The collies lay under the table and sighed.

With much emotion, Jenny told Johan about the terror and panic she’d felt as she wandered in the woods, trying to find the hermit’s cabin in the night. Her shock when she discovered Markus and all the blood inside it. Her uncertainty about whether he was dead or alive. Her fear of the assailant, not knowing whether he might still be out there somewhere in the dark. And how she had sat in the latrine, feeling so alone and vulnerable.

And, in no time, they had the whole story, as told by the key person in the drama.

‘What is your relationship to Markus Sandberg?’ Johan asked at the end.

‘I’m in love with him,’ she said, quite candidly. ‘We’ve been seeing each other for a while, but not for very long. Only a few months. We wanted to keep it private for a while.’

Johan gave a start. What the hell? He hadn’t heard anything about this before. He cleared his throat and tried to restrain his glee.

‘Why is that?’

Jenny blushed. She was clearly reluctant to answer the question.

‘It’s not something I want to discuss on TV.’

‘So why have you decided to say anything about the relationship now?’

‘Because, er… because of what happened to Markus. I feel like I might as well tell everyone what the situation is. So that…’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well… you never know…’

‘What do you never know?’

‘Whether the man who did this… I mean… whether it had something to do with our relationship.’

‘Are you saying that jealousy might have been the motive?’

‘I don’t know, but…’

Jenny Levin fell silent and turned to look at her mother. It was obvious she wanted to end the interview.

Tina was sitting in the corner, listening. She stood up at once.

‘I think that’s enough now. Okay, Jenny?’

She nodded. Johan put down the microphone.

‘Sure. Of course. You can stop the camera,’ he said, turning to Pia.

‘But I need a few still photos,’ she told him.

‘Okay, but let’s wait a few minutes.’

She turned off the camera and set it on the tripod before going outside to the front porch to have a smoke. Pia hated it when Johan told her what to do.

‘Sorry,’ Johan said to Jenny. ‘Was I too tough on you?’

‘Not really, except for the last part…’

‘About your relationship with Markus?’

‘No, about why I’ve decided to talk about it now. It’s because I’m so scared. Scared that this has something to do with us.’

‘You mean that Markus was attacked because he’s with you?’

‘Uh-huh. I think that might be one reason.’

‘We’re not filming this, right?’ Tina interrupted them.

‘Of course not,’ said Johan. ‘And, as I said, we won’t use any material that you’re not comfortable with. If you like, you can come over to the office and watch the report before we broadcast it.’

‘No, that’s okay,’ said Tina, patting Johan on the shoulder. ‘I trust you.’ Johan turned back to Jenny.

‘Are you thinking of someone in particular who might react to the fact that you’re together, you and Markus?’

‘Not really,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Not really.’

‘Do you have an ex-boyfriend who might be jealous?’

‘No. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve only had one long-term relationship, and it ended six months ago.’

‘Did he break it off, or did you?’

‘I did, actually. But he was fine with it. There wasn’t any drama or anything.’

‘How long were you together?’

‘About a year.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘David Gahnström. He’s from here in Gammelgarn. We’re neighbours. If you step outside you can see his parents’ farm over there.’ She looked out of the window and pointed. ‘But he’d never do anything like this.’

‘Are you still in touch with each other?’

‘Uh-huh. I always see him when I come here. He’s one of my best friends, and he still means a lot to me, but not in a romantic way. We grew up together, so we have a special relationship.’

‘Okay. What about Markus?’

‘I know that he’s had a number of girlfriends, including one named Diana, and she’s been really difficult. She keeps ringing him up. She works for the same modelling agency but, luckily, she does a lot of photo shoots in New York.’

‘Does Markus still have much contact with her?’

‘Er… I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s over between them. Or he broke it off, at least. But she seems to be having a hard time accepting the fact.’

Jenny turned to gaze out of the window.

‘Are you worried about your own safety?’

She looked at Johan again.

‘I don’t really know. Maybe a little.’ She shrugged her thin shoulders.

‘Do the police know about all this? That you and Markus are together?’

‘Yes. But you’re the only reporter I’ve talked to.’

‘Thank you, Jenny. I really appreciate the fact that you let me do this interview.’

Johan glanced at his watch. ‘Okay, we hope that Markus gets well soon.’ He gave Jenny a hug. ‘Could we take a few photos?’

She nodded. Pia had finished her cigarette and come back into the kitchen. She gave Johan her sweetest smile and her voice dripped with sarcasm as she said, ‘So why don’t you go outside and say hello to the sheep in the meantime. You’ll just be in the way here. And I’m sure you and the sheep will get on famously together.’

THE MAN WHO had Eduardo Morales in a neck lock looked surprised when Dolores came storming out of the shed, but he didn’t let go of the slender Spaniard.

Dolores spoke excellent English, since she’d been an environmental activist for Greenpeace. Now, she shouted angrily, ‘What are you doing to my husband? Release him at once!’

She rushed over to the stout Swede and made a futile attempt to yank his arm off Eduardo. But the man didn’t budge.

‘Are you out of your mind? Let him go, or I’ll call the police!’

At the word ‘police’, the man did loosen his hold slightly. He turned to look at Dolores.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, in faltering English. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘We’re Spanish tourists, and we’re studying various fishing villages on Gotland. My name is Dolores Morales, and this is my husband, Eduardo. We’re from Seville.’

Now, the man finally released Eduardo and offered to shake hands with Dolores.

‘Please excuse me. My name is Björn Johansson. I live over there, in Lergrav.’ He pointed a rough finger towards a spot along the shore. ‘There are good fishing houses there, too.’

A smile appeared on his wrinkled and weather-beaten face.

Dolores was still cross, and Eduardo was coughing as he held one hand to his throat, as if to emphasize that the attack hadn’t gone unnoticed.

‘Why did you attack my husband?’ she demanded to know, glaring at Björn with her brown Spanish eyes. ‘Are you in the habit of assaulting tourists?’

The man waved his hands in a dismissive gesture.

‘No, no, not at all. Something terrible has happened. Over there on the peninsula. You can see it from here. Furillen.’

‘Furillen?’ Dolores said. It was one of the strangest names she’d ever heard. ‘What happened over there?’

‘Last night, a man was beaten almost to death. Someone hit him again and again with an axe, and the police think that the murderer got away in a boat and then came over here.’

Dolores opened her eyes wide in alarm. Her husband tapped her arm, and said something in Spanish.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I need to translate what you said for my husband. He doesn’t speak English.’

Dolores rattled off a long stream of Spanish, waving her arms about as she did so. That prompted an even longer and equally incomprehensible volley of words from Eduardo.

‘I need to show you what I’ve found,’ Dolores then said, tugging at Björn Johansson’s jacket. ‘Come inside.’

The burly man followed them into the shed. Cautiously, Dolores opened the lid of the America-trunk to show him the contents.

The Swede didn’t touch the clothes. One glance was enough for him to realize what he was looking at.

Without a word, he took out his mobile and dialled the number for the police.

THE INVESTIGATIVE TEAM was having a meeting when the next important call came in from Kyllaj. The discovery of the bloodstained clothing was such a spectacular find that Knutas wanted to go out there in person. The Spanish couple and the neighbour who had made the call were asked not to leave until the police arrived. This discovery bolstered the theory that the writer who was staying in the fishing village really had seen the perpetrator.

‘Now the question is: Where’s the boat that he used?’ said Knutas in the car.

Jacobsson was driving, as usual.

‘No one has reported a boat stolen anywhere on Gotland during the past month,’ she said. ‘On the other hand, a lot of people don’t really keep an eye on their boats in the winter. It’s very possible someone might not have noticed their boat was missing.’

‘Kyllaj,’ said Knutas, then he paused before going on. ‘It’s been a while since you and I were last out there. Do you remember?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Jacobsson, feeling her face flush. She knew all too well what he was referring to.

‘They’ve slipped through the net again. Vera Petrov and Stefan Norrström. I’d give anything to know where they’re hiding.’

‘Uh-huh.’

For obvious reasons, Karin Jacobsson avoided talking about that particular subject. Because of her, the couple who were on all the international lists of wanted criminals had escaped. This was something that only she and Knutas knew. Vera Petrov was suspected of committing two murders on Gotland several years earlier. Her husband, Stefan Norrström, had also been involved. They had fled abroad and had last been seen in the Dominican Republic. Knutas had thought the police were close to catching them but, for some inexplicable reason, they had again managed to get away. He hadn’t heard anything more for the past few months, and he was starting to lose hope that they’d ever be caught. Their house in Kyllaj had stood empty ever since they had disappeared.

By the time Knutas and Jacobsson reached the small-boat marina, the crime-scene techs had already arrived. Police tape had been put up, keeping out a few nearby residents who had noticed all the activity going on down at the harbour.

‘It won’t be long before we have reporters hounding us,’ said Knutas with a grimace as he lifted the blue-and-white plastic tape and slipped underneath.

Inside, Jacobsson studied the contents of the trunk without touching anything. She frowned.

‘Why didn’t the perpetrator make a better attempt to hide the clothes? Why didn’t he dump them in the sea or burn them? He should have realized they’d be found eventually. And, of course, they’re full of his DNA. But what’s that smell?’

Sohlman appeared behind them. He stepped forward and, using a pair of tongs, lifted up the T-shirt so his colleagues could see it.

‘See that? There’s vomit on the T-shirt. Also on the sweatshirt and the jacket.’

‘Puke?’

‘That’s another way of putting it,’ said Sohlman dryly. ‘Maybe the perpetrator got seasick on his way over here from Furillen. The wind was blowing at fifty-four kilometres per hour in the daytime on Monday, so the backwash would have been considerable. Probably really rough seas.’

‘Or maybe the vomit is a result of what he’d done,’ said Knutas thoughtfully. ‘I can only imagine what it was like in that cramped little cabin, with blood spraying all around. It would make anybody sick to their stomach.’

‘Stop, for God’s sake,’ Jacobsson said, her face turning white.

‘Sorry.’ Knutas sat down cautiously on an overturned beer crate. ‘But what does this mean? The assailant must have planned his escape in advance, presumably by stealing a boat. He parked his car somewhere in Kyllaj, most likely fairly close to the harbour, since he’d want to get out of here as fast as possible. How long would it take to cross the water from Furillen?’

‘According to that writer, Olof Hellström, the boat was very small,’ said Sohlman, scratching his head. ‘Maybe half an hour?’

‘To be honest, I haven’t a clue,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I know nothing about boats.’

‘We’ll need to find out, at any rate,’ said Knutas, getting up. ‘Right now, I want to talk to that Spanish couple. We’ll leave you here to work in peace.’

He nodded to Sohlman and went out.

The man from Lergrav had taken Mr and Mrs Morales to a cabin that he owned near the harbour. They both had blankets draped over their shoulders and were warming themselves in front of the fireplace, drinking hot chocolate. They looked pale and blue with cold. Poor souls, thought Knutas. They’re not used to our Swedish winter. And it hasn’t even started yet.

Jacobsson did most of the talking, since Knutas’s command of English was far from sufficient to carry on a conversation, much less an official interview. With much emotion and vigorous hand gestures, Mr and Mrs Morales described what had happened to them, the two of them frequently talking at the same time. The husband didn’t speak English, but he kept on wanting to interject remarks in Spanish and add details, which his wife translated.

The interview took twice as long as it should have.

When Knutas and Jacobsson returned to headquarters, they were greeted by the police spokesperson, who was in an agitated state.

‘We’ve been inundated with reporters,’ Norrby complained, throwing up his hands. ‘Apparently, Rapport used its noon broadcast to reveal that Markus Sandberg was having an affair with Jenny Levin. And the news got out that the police have made a macabre discovery in Kyllaj. Now everybody is asking whether the news about the romantic relationship is true, and they want to know what we found in Kyllaj.’

‘Okay,’ said Knutas grimly. His stomach was growling with hunger. He looked at his watch. ‘Call a press conference for an hour from now. In the big meeting room.’

ONE OF THE routines that Agnes hates most in the clinic is the mandatory sessions in the warm room. She has tried to talk to Per about it, asked to be excused from the requirement, but he says there’s nothing he can do. It’s the same for everyone.

There are five warm rooms lined up in a row along one corridor. On the wall outside are shelves holding baskets, each assigned to a specific person. Every basket has a pink label with a patient’s name on it. Linda, Erika, Josefine, Sofia, Agnes… This is just like in a childcare centre, too, thinks Agnes as she reaches into her basket to take out her own sheet and pillowcase. She has to put them on the bed in the room before lying down. The room is small and has no windows. It reminds her of a prison cell with a round peephole in the door. The nurses can peer inside whenever they like. The room is furnished only with a low bed with a heated mattress, an electric heater and a stool, which is used by a nurse if the patient happens to be feeling particularly anxious. The thermostat next to the door shows that the temperature is 40 degrees Celsius. A lamp with a frosted shade casts a soft glow over the room. And there’s not a sound, as if the walls were padded.

She is expected to lie here for half an hour without moving as the warmth spreads through her body. Twice a day, after lunch and after dinner. Thirty minutes of total silence after she has been forced to eat a huge amount of food. The nurses claim that the heat is good for her, that it will decrease the level of her anxiety. To hell with them. Agnes knows all too well what the sessions in the warm room will mean if she follows their orders. With her heart pounding, she opens the door. She hates how diminished she feels in this place, hates how they force her to do things. Do they really believe she’s so stupid that she’d agree to lie in this room for a whole thirty minutes and allow the food to invade her body? If she stretches out her legs as she lies on the bed she can even see how they start to swell up from the treatment. They get fatter and fatter with each passing minute.

The first thing she does when she enters the room is to turn off the light so the nurse can’t see what she’s doing. Since there are no windows, the room is pitch black. She tells them that she finds it much easier to relax when it’s dark. Then she turns off the heat and spends the half-hour doing physical exercises. She tries to do sit-ups, but her vertebrae jut out and scrape against the floor. The pain is unbearable. She lies down on the bed and does her sit-ups there instead. Then she raises and lowers her arms and does leg lifts until she runs out of steam. She is soon sweating and out of breath. Her joints ache, making her weep, but she keeps on going. She is locked into these compulsory exercises and can’t stop, even though what she wants most is to relax. As she lies there in the dark, frantically exercising, she thinks about how all of this began. How she ended up in this nightmare.

About a year after her mother and older brother died, plunging her into a grief that was as black as night, she started going out and seeing her friends again. One evening in May they happened to go to a club for teens in Visby, and on that particular night there was a modelling contest. On impulse, Agnes decided to enter, and she ended up winning. The grand prize was a trip to Stockholm and a photo shoot with a professional fashion photographer working for the Fashion for Life agency, which had sponsored the contest. Agnes went to Stockholm, where a room had been booked for her at a fancy hotel in the city centre. After checking in, a cab took her to the agency. She was both scared and impressed to see it was so flashy and exclusive, the walls covered with photos of models, all of them unbelievably beautiful.

Everyone she met greeted her cheerfully, with polite smiles. At the same time, she couldn’t help noticing the appraising looks they gave her, casting swift, critical glances at her body. This blatant assessment of her appearance made her feel clumsy, and she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She tried to suck in her stomach, stand up straight, and look natural, even though she was shaking inside. She was ushered into a studio where she met the photographer Markus Sandberg. The same photographer who was now in hospital, seriously injured after a murder attempt on Furillen. She could hardly believe it when she saw the news on TV. But it was definitely him. In her mind, she pictures him from that first meeting. He was wearing trendy jeans with dozens of pockets and rivets. A simple white T-shirt over his buff torso. He seemed friendly but a bit stressed as he greeted her, running his hand through his unruly hair and smiling. He had very white teeth and at least a day’s stubble on his cheeks. He was cute, but old. She had only seen him before in magazine photos of celebrities. It felt unreal to be in the same room as him.

Then it was time for the photo shoot. She felt sick to her stomach at the thought of trying to pose naturally for him in that cold studio. The floor and walls were white as chalk. In the middle of the room a black cloth had been stretched out to serve as a backdrop for the photos. She wasn’t given any make-up or asked to change her clothes. They wanted her just as she was. Natural. She tried to move as easily as she could, but the whole time she was terribly conscious that she wasn’t any good. Not thin enough, not cute enough, not professional enough. Markus did his best to get her to relax. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he told her. ‘You’re super-cute. Loosen up. Pretend the camera is a guy you’re in love with.’ Agnes had just turned fifteen and had never been in love with any guy. But she did her best. Tried to imitate the models she’d seen on TV and in magazines. Twisting one way and then the other. ‘Shake your shoulders loose. Put your hand on your hip. Turn your body to the side, but look at me. Flirt with the camera.’ The dead lens blinked like an evil eye at her. How was she supposed to flirt with that? She felt stiff and awkward. All she wanted was for the session to be over. When the assistant left the room and she was alone in the studio with the photographer, she felt even more embarrassed. He must think I’m hopeless, she thought, strongly regretting her choice of clothing. Why had she worn such baggy jeans and this loose-fitting top? She probably looked grotesquely fat. As if the photographer could read her mind, he asked her, ‘Do you have anything on underneath?’ Yes, she was wearing a camisole. ‘Take off that big shirt. We can’t see how you look.’ Hesitantly, she unbuttoned the shirt and took it off, casting a quick glance down at her camisole. White, with a black bra underneath. How embarrassing. What was she doing here, anyway? Unhappy, she looked at the photographer.

Then he put down the camera and came over to her with a smile. Before she had time to react, he took her face in both hands and kissed her on the mouth. She stood motionless, with her arms hanging limply at her sides. She had no idea what to do. Abruptly, he let her go, but his face was still very close, with laughter in his eyes. Her cheeks burned. Playfully, he ruffled her hair; he wore rings on every finger. ‘You’re beautiful, sweetheart. You taste good. Don’t be offended. I just wanted to get you to relax a bit. Okay, let’s start again. Think of it as a game, because that’s exactly what it is. Not real. Just a game.’

PRESS CONFERENCES WERE a curse, equally trying every time. Afterwards, Knutas fled to his office and resolutely shut the door. The reporters had behaved like starving wolves, ravenously casting themselves upon each titbit of information the police handed out. Their hunger was insatiable. That was what bothered Knutas the most. The way they never backed down, were never satisfied. Their craving for scandal knew no bounds. Their appetite merely grew as each new fact was presented. New circumstances led to new questions, which led to even more. And always the balancing act that he had to manage, giving the reporters what they wanted so they’d think they’d got it all, but keeping the most important evidence to himself. He didn’t want to disclose anything that might jeopardize the investigation, so he had to look out for every trap, every attempt at manipulation, as the reporters tried to coax more out of him than he intended to say.

He was exhausted. He sank down on to his old desk chair and closed his eyes. He was longing for Lina. Wanting to be at home with her in peace and quiet, eating a good dinner and afterwards snuggling together on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Just sitting there, gazing at the fire and holding her close.

But it would be hours before he was able to go home. He rocked slowly back and forth in his chair. Tried to clear his mind. Out with all the non-essentials that were whirling around in there, so he could think better. The clothes that had been found in the fisherman’s shed in Kyllaj ought to give the police some leads. He’d asked SCL, the Swedish Crime Laboratory, to rush their test through. The sight of the shed and the trunk with the bloodstained contents had given him flashbacks to a case involving a serial killer a number of years earlier. In that instance, a young couple had found some bloodstained garments in the storage space under a sofa inside a boathouse in Nisseviken. The clothing had belonged to the female victims. The murderer had stowed them away, wanting to keep them because of some sort of perverse and sadistic sense of possession. This time, the police were apparently dealing with clothing that the perpetrator had discarded as soon as he came ashore.

One thing that Knutas had not revealed to the journalists was that Sandberg’s mobile phone had been traced to the Stockholm area. And, more specifically, to the suburbs south of the city.

The police had asked for help from the National Communications Centre, which had picked up the signal from a mast in Flemingsberg. It had not been possible to find out any further details. If the perpetrator lived in Stockholm, why would he have chosen to commit the assault on Furillen? It was such an inaccessible site, nor was it the easiest place to approach or leave without being noticed. If someone wanted to kill Markus Sandberg, why not do it in Stockholm, where the photographer lived and worked? Maybe the assailant had some sort of connection to Gotland, maybe he was from here. Apparently, he knew enough about the area to have managed to find his way out to Furillen without making himself conspicuous.

Knutas opened the top desk drawer and took out his pipe and a tobacco pouch. He knocked out the pipe and then meticulously proceeded to refill it as his thoughts wandered. Sandberg’s mobile was not the only thing that had been traced. The phone call from the inquisitive stranger to the Hotel Fabriken, which had been reported by the cleaning woman, had been pinpointed to the Grand Hotel in Stockholm. If the man on the phone was the assailant, this opened up completely new avenues to investigate. The man had made the call from the hotel lobby, so it wasn’t certain that he had been staying there. But it did present a strong possibility that the perpetrator had come from Stockholm. Could Sandberg’s relationship with Jenny be the motive? The police were in the process of gathering information about the photographer’s background and closest relatives, so Knutas hoped they would soon have a clearer picture of the victim’s life. He was starting to feel very impatient but, fortunately, the phone rang.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Hi. This is Pelle Broström, the helicopter pilot. We’ve spotted a boat out here, close to Sankt Olofsholm. It might be the one you’re looking for.’

Knutas felt his pulse quicken.

‘What does it look like?’

‘A small dinghy with an outboard motor, brand name Uttern. It’s tucked in among the reeds, so we almost missed it. We didn’t see it during our search this morning, but we went out again after lunch, and we happened to spot it a few minutes ago.’

‘Can you see anything else?’

‘No, not from up here in the air. It looks empty, but it’s drifting freely. Doesn’t seem to be moored to anything.’

‘Okay,’ said Knutas with enthusiasm. ‘Good job. Alert the coastguard and make sure they go out there at once to tow it back to the harbour in Kyllaj. I’ll send over the crime-scene techs.’

‘Good. Roger that. We’ll notify the coastguard.’

A couple of hours later, the police had confirmed that the boat was most likely the one used by the perpetrator out at Furillen. The floorboards were covered with bloodstains and traces of vomit. That was going to make it easy to link the boat to the clothes discovered in Kyllaj earlier in the day.

That evening, the police also received word from an individual in Lergrav who wanted to report that his boat, an Uttern, was missing from its berth in the boathouse.

THE SHRILL SOUND of a whistle raced across the soggy, muddy football pitch. The members of the Visby women’s team were practising their free kicks. Karin Jacobsson stood off to the side, watching her players. It was eight thirty in the evening, and she could sense the listlessness of the team. On a night like this, it wasn’t easy to be a coach. The women’s league was always assigned worse time slots than the men, who practised from seven to eight thirty. The women had to make do with eight thirty to ten. Equality within the sports world left much to be desired.

She tucked a pinch of snuff under her lip, shivering and stamping her feet to stay warm. The floodlights cast a cold glare over the pitch, it was drizzling, and puddles of water had formed everywhere. The surface had turned into muck that was almost like liquid cement, making it hard for the players to run with any speed. Their clothes were mud-spattered, and almost everyone had been sprayed in the face with gravel. Jacobsson was finding it challenging to keep the team motivated. The previous season had ended, and it felt like the next one would never start. Some of the players weren’t even trying; they were merely dashing about and chatting, instead of giving the practice session their full attention. Jacobsson tried to cheer them on as best she could. She had always thought that training on dirt was important. They could at least make an effort. She had divided up the players so that half were wearing blue vests, the other half red. Now they had started practising various passing manoeuvres.

While Jacobsson kept her eyes fixed on the women on the pitch, her mind wandered. Earlier in the day she had phoned Karolinska University Hospital to enquire about Markus Sandberg’s condition. He was still sedated, and as before the prognosis was uncertain. All they could do was hope. If Sandberg did pull through, Jacobsson wanted to be the one to interview him, and she had asked Knutas to allow her to do that. She might even have to travel to Stockholm. Their police colleagues in the capital would help out, of course, but it wasn’t the same as going there in person, meeting the staff at the modelling agency as well as Sandberg’s colleagues, people who knew him and might be able to provide the police with leads.

She also had another purpose in mind. She was hoping to see her daughter in the city. She felt her expression soften as she thought about Hanna.

Six months ago, Karin had met her for the first time in Stockholm. She had been forced to give Hanna up for adoption at birth, but she had always felt a great longing to find her daughter. It was like a dark void inside her heart. And that had probably contributed to her inability to love anyone. Jacobsson had never had a long-term relationship. As soon as things started to get serious and she became so attached to someone that she felt vulnerable, she would flee. Even her friendships were more or less superficial, also with colleagues at police headquarters, people she saw every day. Anders Knutas was the person she felt closest to, no doubt because he never gave up on her. And it was after a conversation with Knutas that she had dared to consider, after so many years, getting in touch with her daughter.

The previous summer, she had finally done something about it. She had already found out her daughter’s name, and her address in Stockholm. Hanna von Schwerin. The rather posh name had made her nervous.

Without giving any advance warning, Karin had gone to the address in Södermalm and sat down in a café outside the front entrance of the building to wait. At long last, a young woman and her dog had emerged. Karin knew at once that this had to be her daughter. They were so similar in appearance. Karin had started to cry.

Hanna had studied her in silence for a moment, and then she said only one word: ‘Mamma?’ She sank down on a chair on the other side of the café table and regarded her with a wary expression. All the colour had drained from her face.

‘Is that you? Are you my biological mother?’

Karin noticed how she emphasized the word ‘biological’, as if she didn’t really want to acknowledge the fact that this was her mother. But not her real mother; only her biological mother. Karin couldn’t utter a sound. She nodded and looked down at the table. Hanna had glanced over her shoulder, as if afraid that someone might hear. Neither of them spoke. Karin took several deep breaths before she dared look her daughter in the eye.

‘I want you to know what happened,’ she whispered.

‘In that case, you’ll have to come with me and my dog, Nelson, to the park. He can’t hold it much longer.’

Karin immediately stood up. They were the exact same height and had the same slender build. They both wore jeans, but Karin had put on a more expensive shirt than usual, one that she’d bought in an exclusive boutique in Visby. Hoping to fit in better, considering her daughter’s upper-class surname. Giving in to her own prejudices, she had expected to meet an elegant young woman wearing a tight skirt with slits, a blouse with a bow at the neck and a string of pearls. Hanna’s casual attire, which happened to correspond to Karin’s own tastes in clothing, made things somewhat easier. At least in those first few minutes. Clothes no longer played a role.

They had walked across Mariatorget, crossed Hornsgatan, and strolled along the promenade to the top of the hill. There was a magnificent view of the waters of Riddarfjärden, of Gamla Stan and of the city hall. But Karin didn’t even notice. With frequent pauses, she stammered through the story of how she had become pregnant at the age of fourteen and how she’d never had any contact with Hanna’s father, not even back then.

‘Why not?’ Hanna wanted to know, and Karin felt her blood run cold.

Of course, the question was unavoidable. Hundreds of times she had considered this dilemma. Should she tell her daughter that she was the result of a rape? That her father was the riding teacher in town who had attacked Karin?

For a while they walked side by side in silence. A great abyss between them. The dog named Nelson ran on ahead, eagerly sniffing at the ground. Karin slowed down.

‘You won’t like what I’m going to tell you.’

‘No?’

‘First of all, your father is dead. He died more than twenty years ago.’

A shadow passed across Hanna’s face.

‘Oh.’

Then Karin mustered her courage and recounted the whole story, from beginning to end. How her parents had convinced her that the best thing to do would be to give up the baby for adoption. How she had regretted this decision the minute she held her newborn child in her arms, but her parents had claimed that it was too late.

Hanna’s expression changed several times as she listened. When Karin finished, a long silence ensued. They kept on walking, but neither of them spoke. Karin was waiting. She didn’t know what else to say. She felt completely empty inside. Finally, her daughter spoke.

‘I need to be alone to think about everything. It’s a lot to take in at once. I need time to process all of it. I don’t want you to contact me for a while. I’ll phone you when I feel ready. I hope you understand.’

She called Nelson, then turned on her heel and left.

Karin had taken the next flight back to Gotland, her stomach churning with a dull sense of disappointment mixed with worry. Safely back home, she had replayed the whole encounter over and over. Maybe she should have written a letter instead. Given some warning. Allowed Hanna to think about the whole matter and prepare herself. But, after all these years, she had simply popped up like some sort of jack-in-the-box. She’d had so many questions she wanted to ask her daughter. But she hadn’t had a chance to do that.

Several times after that first meeting she’d been on the verge of ringing Hanna, but she’d stopped herself at the last minute. Hanna had asked her to wait. That was a request she needed to honour. But, now, her job was taking her back to Stockholm.

Six months had passed. Karin wondered if she would be able to keep her promise and refrain from contacting her daughter. She would probably have to.

THE STAIRS CREAKED as Jenny quietly made her way down to the kitchen. She knew every creak of every step, and which ones made the most noise. So many times she had crept up these stairs, worried that she might wake her parents when she came home later than she’d promised.

But, to all intents and purposes, she was now an adult. It was both liberating and frightening.

After being discovered by the modelling agency and going to Stockholm, she had left her childhood behind for good. These days, she flew all over the world between assignments and handled everything herself, while money flowed into her bank account. She had wholeheartedly enjoyed her new life, up until the fateful incident on Furillen, which had turned her world upside down. At the moment, she felt completely at a loss.

In the kitchen, she found the dogs curled up in their basket. They yawned as they peered at her sleepily and reluctantly wagged their tails. As if they weren’t quite ready to wake up.

She poured herself a glass of water and took a banana from a bowl on the worktop, then sat down at the table. It was pitch black outside, but when dawn came the landscape would be hidden under a haze. At this time of year, everything was grey. The limestone façade of the farmhouse, the bare fields with no trace of vegetation and no sign of snow yet, the cold trees stretching their naked branches upwards, as if entreating, their bark silhouetted against a dreary sky.

A week had passed since that terrifying night on Furillen. The initial shock had faded, only to be replaced by a gnawing anxiety. Not just about Markus, but also about herself. She felt a vague uneasiness, as if she had a premonition that something even worse was about to happen. That was probably stupid, and she’d tried again and again to talk some sense into herself. It was only her imagination; it was just the shock. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. The psychologist at the hospital had said that she needed to be prepared for some sort of delayed reaction. She had the psychologist’s card and phone number, and she had been urged to call whenever she liked.

In her mind, she saw Markus’s face. She remembered his laugh earlier in the day, before he was attacked, and the stolen kisses in her room between sessions. Feeling sick to her stomach, she recalled his injured body, the blood all over the inside of that small cabin, his face beaten so badly that it was unrecognizable. The terror and panic she’d felt. Would he survive? Would everything go back to normal? She thought about him all the time. Apprehension flooded over her. She needed to have a cigarette before her mother and father awoke. Even though she now considered herself an adult, she didn’t want them to see her smoking. She glanced at the clock on the wall. 5.15. They’d be asleep for a while longer.

She put on her wellingtons and her long black down coat, which she always wore whenever she came home to the farm. She dug through her pockets and found a packet of cigarettes and her lighter. The dogs realized at once that she was going out, and they stood ready at the door, eagerly wagging their tails.

She breathed in the raw cold air as soon as she stepped out on to the porch. She didn’t dare turn on the outdoor light for fear of waking her parents. The gravel crunched under her feet. The dogs paused to pee on the lawn, then followed at her heels as she crossed the front garden. The gate squeaked when she opened it. She was used to the darkness here at home; it didn’t frighten her. She knew every rock and shrub. Not a sound came from the sheep barn, or the other, older barn. Even the animals were asleep. She walked over to the corner of the sheep barn and stopped there to look out at the fields and the extensive pastures. Off in the distance was the house belonging to her friend David or, rather, to his parents. She hadn’t found time to phone him, and she wondered whether he was home. There were no lights on at their farm, and it was only because she was so familiar with the area that she even knew it was there. It was eerie, like peering into a dark void. She heard only a rustling from the bushes as the dogs nosed about. Then a flare of light as she lit her cigarette. And inhaled deeply.

She sat down on a wooden bench next to the wall of the house. This was where her father liked to drink his morning coffee in the summertime as the sun came up. She thought about Markus and felt such a longing to see him. Her parents had thought she should stay at home and recuperate for at least a week. All her assignments had been cancelled, and her boss, Robert, had been so understanding, telling her that of course she should take as much time as she needed.

And Markus was still unconscious, so there was nothing she could do. He had to get well. She had never been so in love before and, right now, her feelings for him seemed even stronger, because of what had happened. Markus was the first real man she’d ever met. What they had together couldn’t be compared to any of her experiences with the awkward guys she’d previously dated. What if the worst of all possible things should happen? What if he didn’t make it? And he died before she had a chance to see him again? Before she even went to the hospital? Would the sight of his mauled body in the cabin on Furillen be her last memory of Markus? The image of him lying there, stretched out on the floor, his body bloody and beaten? No, no. That was impossible. What was she doing here? She took one last drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out on the gravel. Then she tossed it into the bushes. She had to go back to Stockholm. She refused to wait any longer.

Taking long strides, she hurried back to the house.

THE PLANE LANDED at Bromma Airport, just outside central Stockholm, at ten thirty in the morning. Markus Sandberg had been under heavy sedation for a week and had undergone several operations, but this morning Knutas had been notified that the photographer was now awake. He had immediately decided to send Jacobsson and Wittberg to Stockholm to interview him. In spite of the doctor’s misgivings that Sandberg might not remember anything, Knutas was hoping for a miracle.

Jacobsson swallowed hard as the plane touched down. A car would be waiting to take them to Karolinska University Hospital, yet she wanted nothing more than to drive straight out to Södermalm to try to talk to Hanna. She hoped it would be worth trying again.

When they entered the arrivals hall they were met by a couple of police colleagues who were going to accompany them to the hospital. The doctor had promised to let them speak to his patient for a short time, provided that Markus was sufficiently alert. The Stockholm police could have certainly conducted the interview on their own, but Jacobsson had insisted on being present when they spoke to Markus Sandberg for the first time.