The Dead Of Summer

TUESDAY, 25 JULY

IT FELT UNREAL to be waking up in the double bed in Roma next to Emma. It took Johan a moment to comprehend that he was really there. Only now, as he lay in bed, did he realize how intense his longing had been. She lay on her side, turned away from him. Gently he stroked the small of her back. How fragile she was, both inside and out. Suddenly he felt so strong. And then he had a great yearning to see Elin. He wanted to drive out and get her at once. But his work was waiting for him; they hadn’t sent over another reporter from the national news, so he was responsible for the continuing coverage of the murder of the explosives expert.

In the shower, he thought about the homicide. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Morgan Larsson had been killed at the Cementa site in Slite, so close to the harbour where the sale of illegal booze took place. Booze that Peter Bovide had also purchased. There had to be some sort of connection: the Cementa factory – the transactions at the harbour – Russia. Everything fitted together. Plenty of indications that the key to the motive for the murders would be found down at the harbour. The first thing he had to do was to find a link between Peter Bovide and Morgan Larsson.

His thoughts were interrupted when Emma appeared in the doorway to the bathroom and let her dressing gown fall to the floor. How beautiful she was. Although thinner than usual. He held out his hand.

‘Come here.’

He’d never found it so difficult to leave her. It was as if the time they’d spent apart had now brought them closer together than ever before.

‘What’s happened to your mouth?’ he asked with a laugh when they kissed on the way out to his car. ‘It’s like a suction cup.’

‘You should talk.’

He took her face between his hands.

‘I love you, Emma.’

‘I love you too.’

‘I want to see Elin. When can you bring her home?’

‘I’m driving out there today, so why don’t you come back here after work and spend the night?’

‘When can I move in?’

‘Now.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

She looked so serious he had to laugh.

‘Too bad we can’t get married tomorrow.’

AT FIVE THIRTY, the alarm clock rang. Karin Jacobsson felt as if she hadn’t slept more than an hour. She had to make a real effort to get herself out of bed. Outside the window it was utterly quiet. She packed her rucksack, drank a cup of coffee and forced herself to eat a couple of sandwiches. She was definitely not a breakfast person, and she didn’t much like eating anything so early in the morning, but the words of the ranger were still echoing in her ears. She had a long hike ahead of her, and there was no food to be found along the way.

The rising sun was just becoming visible between the trees, but it was still the early light of dawn as she set off. There wasn’t a sound in the woods; all she heard was the soft tramping of her own feet.

On the map, she’d seen where the chapel was located, and she caught sight of it after only a few minutes. The door stood open, and she went inside, sat down in one of the back rows, and let her eyes scan the blue-painted wooden pews. The furnishings were simple, and a lovely light came in through the windows. She wondered if there was some special reason Morgan Larsson had always come here.

She lit one of the candles that were affixed to the pews, studying it for a moment before she blew it out, and then left the chapel.

The hike through the woods took longer than she’d thought. On the other side, the beach called Las Palmas opened up before her. She’d read that the name came from a Spanish ship which had capsized long ago.

The shore was rocky and uneven, which made it difficult to walk. When she reached Säludden, she fought an inner battle with herself. Either she could choose to follow the instructions on the little sign and turn right so as not to disturb the seals, or she could ignore what it said and continue along the water. The decision was easy to make. If for once in her life she was going to see seals in their natural habitat, then she wanted to see them up close.

As she approached, she saw big, ungainly shapes moving slowly back and forth, way out in the sun-glinting water. She raised her binoculars to her eyes and was amazed when she counted fifteen chubby grey seals frolicking in the morning sun. Soon she could see them with the naked eye.

She sat down cautiously at the very end of the promontory, took out the sandwiches she’d brought along, and then poured herself some coffee. The seals were swimming, playing and drying themselves off in the sun. Even though she was breaking the law, she didn’t regret for a moment coming this way. She sat there for half an hour, fascinated by the spectacle. Just her and the seals.

After walking for three hours, Franska Bukten opened out before her. It was hard to imagine that a young woman had been raped and murdered in this peaceful spot.

In the middle of the beach, Karin stopped, stripped off her clothes and walked naked into the water. She knew she was alone. Presumably, she’d left long before all the others, and it was at least a three-hour walk from the campsite. Nobody was going to turn up for at least an hour.

After her swim, she lay down on the beach to dry off. She drank a bottle of water and looked at the map. So it was here that she’d find the Russian cannons from the sunken ship. She looked around, but couldn’t see anything. According to the map, they were a bit higher up on the shore, near the Russian cemetery.

She pulled on her shirt and shorts and walked up towards the woods. There it was. Slowly, an idea was taking shape in her mind. She stopped short. The Russian cemetery. Of course. The murders had nothing at all to do with illegal workers or Russian coal transports. The key was here, on Gotska Sandön. Right in front of her eyes. How could she have been so stupid? She ran down to the beach and grabbed her things.

She thought about Morgan Larsson’s visits to Gotska Sandön. When was it he’d come here? Always on the same date, over the past fifteen years. She got her notebook out of the rucksack. He was usually here between 21 and 23 July. When was Tanya murdered? It was in the summer, but she couldn’t remember the exact date. She cursed herself for not writing it down. She pulled out her mobile to ring the head ranger. It was dead. No coverage. Shit. That meant she couldn’t ring Knutas either.

She checked the map to find the quickest route back to camp.

BY THE TIME Jacobsson finally reached the campsite, she was parched and drenched with sweat. She was dying for a drink of water, but there was no time for that. First she had to do two things: get in touch with Knutas, and then find out the date that Tanya was murdered. She also wanted to get home as fast as possible. Her mobile still wasn’t working. Near the rows of outhouses, she ran into a couple of young guys who were emptying the latrines. They told her that the next boat to Gotland was leaving in fifteen minutes.

She dashed into the cabin and threw all her things into the rucksack, then raced over to the museum. Luckily, it was open. Not a soul was in sight. She bounded up the stairs and grabbed the folder she was looking for. Five minutes until the boat left.

On her way down to the beach, she saw that the mobile phone signal was back, and she rang Knutas. He answered immediately.

‘Hi,’ she panted. ‘I’ve worked out how everything fits together. The murders have to do with an old case. A German girl who came here to Gotska Sandön on holiday with her family, an unsolved homicide from 1985.’

Her mobile beeped, warning her that the battery was almost used up.

‘Damn it. If we get cut off, I’ll ring from the boat. I’m going on board right now; it leaves in a few minutes. I think the father is the killer. He’s Russian.’

‘OK, start over. I’m not following you.’

‘You remember the case, don’t you? It was in the middle of the summer, a German family whose daughter was murdered, in 1985.’

‘Oh right, I do now. Although I was working in uniform back then, so I don’t recall much about it. But good God, that was twenty years ago, and the case was never solved.’

‘Exactly, but now I’ve…’

The connection was broken. The battery was dead. Karin swore as she ran down towards the boat, where the gangway was being pulled on board.

‘Wait!’ she shouted, waving her arms.

A boy standing on shore, who was tossing the last bag on to the ship’s deck, signalled to the captain.

Jacobsson thanked him as she stumbled on board, gasping for breath.

It was with relief that she recognized the captain, Stefan Norrström, from before, and she quickly went up to the wheelhouse.

‘Hi again. Could I borrow your phone?’

‘Absolutely. Has something happened?’

‘Yes, you might say that,’ replied Jacobsson as she opened the folder containing the old newspaper clippings.

She wanted to find out the date that the German woman was murdered before she talked to Knutas. The captain cast a curious glance at the folder over her shoulder.

‘I have to ring the police. My crappy mobile isn’t working.’

‘Sometimes there are problems with coverage out here.’

‘The battery’s dead, and I left the charger back home in Visby,’ she said, with a gesture of resignation.

She had reached the pages with the clippings about the murder of Tanya Petrov. In her mind, she went over what she knew. Morgan Larsson always travelled to Gotska Sandön on the same date. He’d visited the island every few years over the past fifteen years. And each time he’d been here from 21 July until 23 July.

Her eyes fell on the date of the murder. Tanya had been killed in the early hours of 22 July 1985. Her body had been found on the twenty-third. Jacobsson took a deep breath. The connection was crystal clear.

‘What do you have there?’ asked the captain as he handed her the phone. ‘Is that about the girl who was murdered out here?’

‘Yes,’ said Jacobsson curtly as she took the phone. She had neither the time nor the desire to tell an outsider about what she’d discovered.

She began punching in Knutas’s number.

‘Do you have any water?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’

Stefan Norrström got up from his chair and turned away to get a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. Jacobsson happened to catch a glimpse of his expression. It had changed completely.

AT POLICE HEADQUARTERS in Visby, Knutas contacted the German police and asked them to find out what had happened to the family from Hamburg that had spent a holiday on Gotska Sandön in July 1985. A holiday that had ended in tragedy. Could it be the father, Oleg Petrov, who had finally decided to avenge his daughter’s death?

While he waited to hear back from the Germans, he summoned to his office everyone from the investigative team who was available. He told them the facts that Karin Jacobsson had managed to tell him before their conversation was cut off.

‘So it’s the father who’s supposedly the murderer?’ said Kihlgård, sounding dubious. ‘After such a long time? Why now?’

‘Yes, that’s the big question,’ said Wittberg. ‘Something must have triggered the whole chain of events.’

‘I remember that case,’ interjected Prosecutor Smittenberg. ‘The girl went missing, and at first a search party was organized; a lot of officers from here helped look for her. Then her body was found in the water off the coast of Gotska Sandön; she’d been raped and murdered. A terrible story. There was something about some young men who had come ashore from a boat and later disappeared. They were never caught.’

‘I can’t understand why Karin hasn’t reported in again,’ said Knutas, annoyed. ‘She was supposed to ring me as soon as she was on board.’

‘Why don’t you try the boat?’ suggested Wittberg. ‘Ask them to call her on the loudspeakers.’

‘Oh, right. Good idea.’

Knutas looked a bit embarrassed, but he got the police switchboard on the line, and was connected to the M/S Gotska Sandön. A man’s deep voice could be heard over a crackling sound.

‘M/S Gotska Sandön. Captain Stefan Norrström speaking.’

Knutas introduced himself.

‘Would it be possible to contact a specific individual on board, by using the loudspeaker system, for example?’

‘Who do you want to speak to?’

‘A police officer named Karin Jacobsson.’

‘Do you want to wait on the line or ring back in a few minutes?’

‘I’d like to wait.’

‘OK.’

Knutas heard the captain announcing Karin’s name, asking her to come to the wheelhouse immediately. Then he was back on the phone.

‘If she’s on board, she should be here in a minute. This boat isn’t very big.’

‘OK.’

Several minutes passed.

‘Shouldn’t she have responded by now?’

‘Yes. She can’t be on board.’

‘Could you try one more time?’

The captain hesitated.

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘I think it is. Just to be sure.’

Again the captain announced Karin’s name. After another couple of minutes, Knutas gave up.

‘I guess she didn’t make it on board.’

‘I guess not.’

‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Not at all.’

An uneasy feeling had settled in Knutas’s chest during the conversation. Karin had found a link between the murder on Gotska Sandön and the two current homicide cases. And now she was missing. He asked the operator to phone the head ranger on Gotska Sandön. When he was connected, Knutas explained why he was calling.

‘She left on the two-thirty boat. Apparently she was in a real hurry.’

‘Are you sure she made it on board?’

‘Absolutely. I was down at the dock helping with the loading, and I saw her go on board.’

‘Are you a hundred per cent sure? I mean, do you know what Karin Jacobsson looks like? Petite, thin, about forty, although she looks younger, with short dark hair, brown eyes, a big gap between her front teeth, quite attractive…’

He heard the ranger sigh with impatience.

‘Yes, of course I know what she looks like. She interviewed me yesterday about that man named Morgan Larsson who was murdered.’

‘OK. When does the boat arrive at Fårösund?’

‘At four thirty. The crossing takes two hours.’

Knutas had barely put down the phone before the operator rang to say that he had the Germans on the line. Knutas pushed his uneasiness about Jacobsson aside.

The other members of the investigative team listened intently to his stumbling English. Knutas looked at them with an inscrutable expression as he slowly put down the phone.

‘That was our German colleagues. Oleg Petrov can’t be the killer, because he’s dead. Three months after Tanya was found murdered, he committed suicide by throwing himself in front of a train.’

Everyone in the room exchanged puzzled looks.

‘What about the mother and sister? What happened to them, and where are they now?’ asked Wittberg.

‘The mother still lives in Hamburg, but wait until you hear this: the sister lives here on Gotland. She’s married to a Gotlander and they live in Kyllaj.’

‘Kyllaj,’ Wittberg repeated, a pensive look coming over him. ‘That woman on the ferry, the first ferry on the morning the murder was committed. She lived in Kyllaj. She was pregnant and married. But she had an alibi – that’s why we didn’t question her further. Her husband provided her with an alibi.’

Knutas leaned forward. ‘That’s right, her husband. She’s married to a man by the name of Stefan Norrström. He’s the captain that I was just talking to!’

Knutas’s brain now went into high gear. The captain had claimed that Karin wasn’t on board his boat. And now she was missing.

IT ALL STARTED that day in early June when she went shopping at the ICA supermarket. It was a lovely, warm day, full of promise for the coming summer. She’d gone to Slite and parked near the ICA, where she usually shopped. She grabbed a cart outside and then went in to buy some food.

They were planning to have a barbecue that evening. Strangely enough, she had a particular craving for strongly spiced meat now that she was pregnant. She picked up a couple of big potatoes which she was going to bake and fill with the special herbed butter that Stefan liked so much. She spent a long time in the fruit and vegetable section, carefully selecting green peppers, tomatoes and fresh mushrooms. They could grill the steaks separately and then make some vegetable skewers. She put some cobs of sweetcorn in her cart. Suddenly she felt a kicking inside of her, then another. She stood still. She loved feeling the child moving around. She rested for a moment, leaning on the shopping cart and running her hand gently over her stomach. She still couldn’t believe she was going to be a mother. It looked as if her life was finally going to work out. So often in the past she’d had her doubts. But every time, Stefan had persuaded her not to give up. Of course they were meant to be together. Surely she understood that. ‘Don’t even think of objecting,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t even think of it.’

And in the end she’d begun to believe him. Really believe him, deep in her heart. To her surprise, she realized that she was actually on her way to feeling safe. From the outside, she appeared to have had a stable upbringing, but the pain and insecurity had never gone away. She’d been marginalized by her parents, constantly compared to her sister. She’d never felt good enough just the way she was. She’d never felt a real sense of security. To be utterly secure, no matter how she looked, what she did, or what happened around her. Stefan loved her like no one ever had before. But she still had wounds she would have to live with to the end of her days. It helped a lot that he knew everything, and had even been present when the very worst had happened to her. He understood her like no one else did.

The kicking stopped for the moment, and she went back to her shopping. She put some beer in her cart for Stefan; she herself drank only mineral water.

There was a long queue at both check-outs. It was Friday afternoon, and everyone was out shopping. She stood at the back of one of the queues and let her eyes slide over the people patiently waiting their turn with baskets and carts full of shopping. Several people were chatting with each other, and every once in a while someone laughed. Most people knew each other here, since Slite wasn’t a big place.

She hadn’t made any friends of her own yet, and she didn’t really feel the need to do so. Occasionally, they got together with Stefan’s relatives and acquaintances. She also talked to her classmates at the Swedish lessons she was taking, and she made regular visits to the antenatal clinic. All in all, that was more than enough socializing for her.

Suddenly she noticed a man who looked familiar standing in the queue. He was talking to a boy who couldn’t be more than five or six. She looked more closely, scanning the man’s face.

The man, who looked to be a few years older than her, had a unique appearance. He had a prominent high forehead, light-blue eyes, and seemed to have no eyelashes or eyebrows at all. He also had a slightly protruding jaw. His hair was cut short, and he was wearing carpenter overalls. There was something self-conscious about him, a slight nervousness. Maybe it was the child’s constant questions; maybe it was something else.

He was standing a few yards in front of her, in the queue for the other check-out, but she had a clear view of him because he’d turned round to talk to the boy, who she assumed was his son. All of a sudden he glanced up, and she looked away. He must have noticed that she was watching him; maybe he thought she was flirting.

She couldn’t help taking another look at him. He was staring straight at her as he replied to a question his son had asked. When their eyes met and she simultaneously heard his voice, her body turned to ice. She’d heard that high-pitched, slightly nasal voice before. A long, long time ago. In an entirely different context.

As if struck by a whip, she felt a stinging blow to her forehead. She shut her eyes and opened them again. He was still there, continuing to talk to his son, unaffected. He glanced at her and smiled faintly. He hadn’t recognized her. In reality, that wasn’t so strange. Not strange at all. It was twenty years ago that they’d last met. She had changed more than he had.

She felt sick, overcome by dizziness as her legs began to wobble. She couldn’t bear to stand there any longer. She had to get out. She left the queue and pushed her way past the check-out. Outside the supermarket, she sank down on to a bench. Tears filled her eyes, but she did her best to hold them back. She took long, deep breaths. The terrible pressure she felt in her chest frightened her; she felt as if she was going to die. She was hyperventilating.

A young woman came out and asked her if she was OK. She managed to say she was fine. The woman brought her some water and asked if she was going into labour. Should she ring for an ambulance?

No, she wasn’t going into labour. She just needed to rest for a moment. The woman sat down next to her and held her hand. How considerate she was.

Thoughts were flying through her mind. It was him. There was absolutely no doubt about it. What was he doing here?

She was still having a hard time breathing, and appreciated the concern of the woman, who remained sitting next to her. Not saying anything, not asking any questions.

Suddenly the doors of the supermarket opened and he came out. He didn’t notice her as he walked past with his son and bags of shopping. With the woman’s help, she got to her feet and stared after him. He went over to a white van. On the door it said: Slite Construction, with a phone number.

That was enough.

WHEN KARIN JACOBSSON regained consciousness, everything was quiet. She couldn’t hear the sound of any engine. She was lying in a terribly uncomfortable position, leaning forward, with her back hunched and her head stuck between her knees. Tape had been placed over her mouth, and her wrists and ankles burned from the rope tied around them. It was pitch dark in the small space. Her body ached. She had a splitting headache, and she could taste blood. He must have really hit her hard. It took a moment before she even tried to move, which turned out to be nearly impossible; she felt as if she were held in a vice.

Take it easy, she thought. Stay calm. Keep a cool head. You’re locked up somewhere, and you need to find a way out.

She wondered how much time had passed since she was knocked out. A few minutes? Half an hour? Several hours?

She made an effort to try and make out the shapes in the dark. She managed to lift her head enough to pull herself into an upright position. The headache felt like a migraine and was almost unbearable. She touched the wall with her elbow. The surface felt hard and smooth. She could tell that she was still on the boat, but the silence was so complete that all the passengers must have disembarked by now; presumably, they had reached the harbour in Fårösund. How long would the boat stay docked? Maybe twenty-four hours? How long would it be before Knutas began to wonder why she hadn’t reported back? And before he or any of the others worked out what had happened to her?

Who was Captain Stefan Norrström, and how was he involved in these events? Why had he knocked her out and then locked her up in here? Thoughts whirled through her mind without making any sort of coherent picture.

Jacobsson desperately tried to move her arms and legs, but the rope refused to budge. A sea captain would know knots, of course. It felt impossible for her to get free. She tried rocking back and forth. There was a little space next to her, and she tried to tap on the wall, but she couldn’t hear anything.

To top it all off, she needed to pee.

She listened for some sound. She had no idea where she was on the boat.

Suddenly she heard a ruckus on the other side of the wall. The door opened, and a strong light blinded her. There he stood, right in front of her. He stared at her for a couple of seconds, then slammed the door shut again. She heard the clack of the lock turning.

Wasn’t he even going to let her use the toilet? Give her anything to drink? She felt terribly thirsty after her long hike on Gotska Sandön in the blazing sun. She’d been in such a hurry back at the campsite that she hadn’t filled her water bottles. It had been a long time since she’d had anything to drink, much less any food. Her head felt heavy, and she was starting to feel dizzy. Was he going to leave her here to die? She tried again to loosen the ropes, to move her fingers, hands and feet, but nothing did any good.

For a long time after the door closed, she sat there trying to make out any noises. She heard nothing. It was utterly quiet. Thirst and dizziness were making her confused. She closed her eyes, and her body went numb.

KNUTAS AND KIHLGÅRD took the lead, followed closely by two other police vehicles. They drove north-east at top speed, heading for Kyllaj. Kihlgård had managed to bring along the report on what the police had dug up so far about the investigation into Tanya Petrov’s death.

‘Tell us everything you know,’ commanded Knutas, concentrating on keeping his eyes on the road.

‘Let’s take it from the beginning,’ said Kihlgård. ‘A week after Tanya’s murder, the family returned to Hamburg. Vera had been studying languages at the university, but she gave it up and took a job in a supermarket. Both parents, Sabine and Oleg Petrov, went on sick leave. When autumn came, more specifically, on 22 October 1985, Oleg committed suicide. He threw himself in front of an express train that was just pulling into Hamburg Hauptbahnhof. He died instantly.’

‘What an awful way to die.’

‘After that, things starting going downhill for the mother too. She became addicted to painkillers, and she never returned to her job. The following year, in February 1986, she retired on a disability pension. She moved to a smaller flat in a suburb of Hamburg, but her daughter Vera didn’t move with her. She lived in several different places in the city while she worked at the supermarket. Two years after the murder, in August 1987, she went back to university and completed her studies. After that, she spent many years working as a language teacher at a school in Hamburg. Until she moved to Sweden, that is, two years ago.’

‘Why did she move here?’ asked Knutas.

He was just in the process of overtaking a long-distance tractor-trailer that seemed to go on and on, and he really couldn’t see far enough ahead. Kihlgård winced but went on with his report.

‘I suppose she moved here because she got married to Stefan Norrström.’

‘How did they happen to meet?’

‘I have no idea. All I know is that they were married last summer. And now they’re about to have a baby.’

‘OK. We’re almost there.’

Kyllaj was only ten kilometres from Slite, but its location seemed very remote, all the way out by the sea. Nowadays, it consisted mostly of summer visitors, but for centuries Kyllaj had been an important town because of its stone quarry and port. The harbour was lined with boathouses and piers. Towering above the houses that had been built on the slope leading down to the harbour and Valleviken was the bare, rocky cliff with its magnificent view of the sea and the islets Klausen, Fjögen and Lörgeholm. As far back as the seventeenth century, limestone had been heated in kilns here, and traces of them still remained.

The police cars drew a good deal of attention as they arrived, one after the other, disrupting the idyllic atmosphere.

The house that Stefan Norrström and his wife had built stood in lonely majesty high up on a huge plot of land that sloped gently down towards the water. Great expanses of lawn with carefully arranged shrubs and trees surrounded the big white limestone house. The land must have been passed down through the family, thought Knutas. The place looked much too aristocratic to belong to an ordinary sea captain.

After parking their cars at a safe distance, the officers spread out and surrounded the house. They were dealing with someone who had already killed twice, and it was impossible to know what awaited them.

Knutas and Kihlgård took the lead and crept up to the front door. Knutas rang the bell. Waited. No response. He rang the bell again.

They waited a moment longer. Knutas was sweating in the heat. The tension was also taking its toll. When nothing happened, he gave the order to go in.

One of the officers broke down the door, and they all stormed inside.

KARIN JACOBSSON WAS getting really desperate. She dozed off for a while, exhausted as she was, and by now very dehydrated. She couldn’t change position other than to move sideways a few inches. She did that now and then so that her body wouldn’t go completely numb. She wondered how long she’d be able to hold out. She started losing hope that anyone would ever find her. The boat still wasn’t moving, and she couldn’t hear a single sound from outside. She’d lost all sense of time and could no longer tell how long she’d been taped and tied up like some sort of package.

Her thoughts focused on Knutas. Why wasn’t he doing anything? By now he must have realized that she was on board. After all, she’d told him she would ring from the ship. Maybe the captain had fed him some lies that meant nobody was going to come to her rescue.

Strangely enough, she no longer needed to pee. It was as if her body was already in retreat. Turning off its functions, slowing down until it would gradually shut down completely. No, she shouldn’t be thinking like that.

It was pitch dark as she sat there with her legs tucked up and her arms held in front of her as if she were praying.

Suddenly she heard a thud. At first she thought she’d imagined it. Then there was another thud, and one more. Voices shouting. She repeatedly tried to throw herself against the wall to make some sort of noise, at the same time doing her best to slam her feet against the door.

Miraculously, she heard someone turning the lock outside. When the door opened, the light was so blinding she had to squint.

THE HOUSE IN Kyllaj was empty. They searched the garden and outbuildings as well but, obviously, the Norrströms had taken off. Knutas got out his mobile to sound the alarm, but before he could do that, it rang.

‘Hi, it’s Thomas,’ said Wittberg, his voice agitated. ‘We’ve just found Karin. She was tied up and locked in a cargo space on board the M/S Gotska Sandön. It was Stefan Norrström who knocked her out and threw her in there.’

‘Bloody hell! How is she?’ shouted Knutas.

‘She’s exhausted, but otherwise there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with her. Just very dehydrated. We’re in the car on our way to the hospital. What’s going on out there?’

‘We’re at the house in Kyllaj right now, but the place is deserted. I assume they’re going to try to leave the island, so I need to notify headquarters. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘OK, I’ll phone you after I drop Karin off.’

Knutas issued orders quickly to his colleagues. The airport had to be alerted, as well as the ferry system. Suddenly he noticed that Kihlgård had disappeared, but then he saw him coming out of the kitchen with a cordless phone in his hand.

‘I think we can forget about the airport. I checked the last number that was called, and it’s the number for a boat company called Destination Gotland. The next boat leaves at eight o’clock, which means in twenty minutes.’

FORTUNATELY, THE FERRY to the mainland hadn’t yet left the dock, but all 1,500 passengers were already on board. Not wanting to cause a panic, the crew had informed everyone that the delay was due to a minor technical problem that would soon be fixed. Only plainclothes officers boarded the ship. The ferry had two levels in addition to the car deck, and the police spread out to make their search.

Knutas and Kihlgård went to the information counter to get help checking the passenger cabins. The crew member behind the counter gave them four key cards that would serve as master keys.

Just at that moment, Knutas noticed out of the corner of his eye two people rushing towards him. He turned round and was surprised to see Wittberg and Jacobsson.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Karin. ‘Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?’

Jacobsson looked worn out, but there was nothing wrong with her tongue.

‘Did you really think I was going to miss out on all the fun? I was just a little dehydrated. I poured about half a gallon of water down my throat on the way over here, plus an equal amount of juice. That should be sufficient.’

Wittberg threw out his arms. ‘She refused to go to hospital. What are we doing now?’

‘OK, well, we’ve spread out to search the ship. We’re almost positive that they’re on board. The whole terminal has been blocked off, so there’s no chance of them escaping. Now we just have to find them. Martin and I were just about to start checking the cabins.’

They each took a key card and split up. Jacobsson started with the cabins on the port side, one level up. She didn’t bother to knock, but just yanked open the doors.

‘Police!’ she shouted each time, her gun drawn.

The first cabin was empty; the second one was too. In the third, an elderly man was sound asleep. In the fourth cabin, some young guys were in the middle of playing cards and drinking beer. They stared in surprise at Jacobsson standing in the doorway. Then came a long series of cabins that all turned out to be empty.

Finally, she reached the end of the corridor. Only two cabins remained to be checked. By now she was out of breath, and her head was pounding. When she stuck the card in the door slot, the lock jammed. She tried several times without success.

Suddenly she heard a sound from inside the cabin. Someone was whimpering. It sounded like a half-stifled scream, as if someone were wearing a muzzle. Damn it all, she thought. She was alone on this level; her colleagues were on the deck below. She pulled out her mobile to ring Knutas. Shit, it wasn’t charged.

She stood there for several seconds, uncertain what to do. Should she run downstairs and get the others and maybe risk losing the Norrströms, if they were the ones inside the cabin? They must have heard her shouting and trying to open the door.

She tried the key card again, shoving it into the slot. At last, it worked, and she pressed down the door handle.

When Karin looked into Vera Norrström’s panic-stricken, staring eyes, all the remembered images came back to her. Fragmentary, incoherent, but razor-sharp, they sliced into her consciousness. Assaulting her, ruthlessly, violently. As they always did. She stood in the narrow doorway, frozen to the spot. Breathing hard, with a fierce band of pressure on her forehead; her legs began to buckle and she could hardly stay on her feet. The images were familiar; she woke up to them every morning, and they were in her mind when she was about to fall asleep at night. Every day for twenty-five years she had struggled to make those memories disappear.

Vera Norrström lay on the narrow lower bunk. Her face was as white as chalk and contorted with pain. She was biting down on a towel, which prevented her from screaming aloud. Her legs were apart, with one foot hanging off the side of the bed. She was pressing that foot against a chair placed next to the bunk. A cotton sheet barely covered her. She was going to give birth at any moment.

Karin knew all about that. She had just turned fifteen.

The pain is wracking her body. She can hardly understand what’s happening. Both her mother and father have refused to be present at the birth. They’re waiting outside until it’s over. As if they’re pretending that she’s suffering from some serious illness. Something bad that requires an operation and has to be surgically removed, like a cancerous tumour.

A nurse dressed in green is standing next to her. Karin wants to take her hand, but she doesn’t dare. She thinks she’s going to be torn apart. Terrified. She’s only a child.

One last violent push. Her own wail is replaced by the newborn’s hesitant, tremulous voice. Hardly a scream, merely a cry. In the dimly lit room she feels the warm, alive body next to her bare skin. A piece of herself in another human being. A girl.

Karin secretly gives her the name Lydia. She closes her eyes, places her hand carefully on the baby’s back. Time stops, the world stops spinning, all activity comes to a halt. Just her and Lydia, nothing else. Just the two of them.

She doesn’t know how much time passes before the nurse dressed in green takes the baby away from her. She will never see her again. Forever miss her. Forever long for her.

Next to Vera sat her husband, Stefan, who had assaulted Karin a few hours earlier. His eyes were terrified and desperate. Karin swallowed hard, trying to pull herself together and control the dizziness.

Then she stepped inside the cabin and closed the door behind her.

THE SEARCH PROVED fruitless. After going over the ferry with a fine-tooth comb, the police officers returned to the aft salon, where they gathered to consider the situation. Jacobsson was the last to join the others. She paused in the doorway, explained that she wasn’t feeling well and needed to go home. No one even had time to react before she was gone.

The concern that Knutas felt was mixed with tenderness. She always had to be so tough and strong. Now she’d finally been forced to give in. He felt like going home himself and pulling the covers over his head. The disappointing results of the search irked him. He cursed himself for allowing the Norrströms to get away.

He turned to his colleagues as he ran his hand through his hair and said wearily, ‘The Norrströms’ car was apparently just found at the airport car park. They checked in for the last flight to Stockholm this evening. Our efforts here seem to have been in vain.’

Maybe the couple’s phone call to Destination Gotland was just a diversionary tactic. Maybe they’d been checking all the possible ways to flee when they realized that the police were on Stefan Norrström’s trail. It was a bitter feeling to have been so close to catching them; now the police would have to leave the boat empty-handed. After a two-hour delay, it would now depart for Nynäshamn.

Somehow, the story had leaked out, and the usual band of journalists was waiting on the dock. They were hoping to get pictures of the arrested couple, but that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, the reporters showered the police with questions about the failed action. Knutas pushed his way through the crowd without even glancing at the journalists.

He couldn’t help thinking about what had gone wrong. Of course, he shouldn’t have staked everything on one effort; he should have had half the police officers go out to the airport, since that was the most likely escape option. The patrol officers had discovered too late that Stefan Norrström’s car was there and then sounded the alarm. Now Knutas could only hope that the police at Arlanda airport in Stockholm would confirm that they’d taken the couple into custody.

When Knutas got back to his office at police headquarters, his mobile rang. His pulse quickened.

‘Yes?’

His colleagues out at the airport reported, to his surprise, that Vera and Stefan Norrström never boarded the plane to Stockholm. After checking in, they had vanished without a trace.

Knutas swore, cursing himself again. Thoughts whirled through his head, but nothing made sense. Should he have stopped the ferry from leaving? Every nook and cranny had been searched, and yet maybe… At any rate, it was too late now to call the boat back. But to be on the safe side, he was thinking of contacting the Stockholm police, who could take in the Norrströms if, against all odds, it turned out that they were actually on board.

The possibility that they were still on Gotland sparked new hope in Knutas. His energy revived. He ordered a continued search of all ferries leaving Gotland the following morning and sent officers over to Visby airport. In co-operation with the NCP, the other Swedish airports and border stations were also alerted. An all-points bulletin was sent out to the entire country for Vera and Stefan Norrström, and the police also made a point of contacting taxi and bus drivers. Since Vera was in her ninth month of pregnancy, all the hospital emergency rooms and maternity clinics were contacted as well. Extreme stress might send her into labour.

Maybe there was still a chance of catching Stefan Norrström. As long as there were actions to take and information to collect, Knutas had no intention of going home. Fatigue washed over him in waves, but he managed to keep it at bay with coffee and an occasional puff on his pipe.

He opened the window. Stood there, exhaling smoke. Stared out into the Visby night, pondering his failure. Had he been blind? Karin had discovered how everything fitted together during her visit to Gotska Sandön. Shouldn’t he have been able to work things out earlier? The police had made a list of all the Russians living on Gotland. On the other hand, it hadn’t been easy to discover Vera Norrström’s Russian heritage. She was from Germany, after all, and she had a Swedish surname.

He should go home. They could just as easily reach him there if anything happened, but he didn’t want to leave. Something was bothering him. He put out his pipe and went back to his desk, where he randomly picked up a document from the investigation and began wracking his brain, trying to work out what he had missed.

At two in the morning, he sat up with a jolt. He must have dozed off in his chair, but he was suddenly wide awake when he realized that the phone was ringing. His heart pounded as he reached for the receiver.

‘Hi, this is Eva Dahlberg, the reception manager for Destination Gotland. We met earlier when you were over here searching the ship.’

‘Yes?’

‘I apologize for ringing in the middle of the night like this, but you gave me your card, and I think I may have something important to tell you. Weren’t you looking for a pregnant woman?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

‘Well, the cleaners have found something that looks like a placenta in a waste basket near one of the exits on the ship. It was wrapped in a plastic bag.’

Knutas felt his blood turn cold.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, I’ve had seven children, and I really think it does look like a placenta.’

‘OK.’

Knutas quickly considered what to do next. He had to come up with a new plan.

‘The ship needs to be evacuated, and it will have to stay docked in Nynäshamn.’

‘But…’

‘Don’t argue!’ he shouted. ‘And for God’s sake, don’t throw away the placenta. Put it in a plastic bag in the refrigerator for the time being.’

Shit, he thought as he put down the phone. They were on the ship after all.

The search shifted immediately to Nynäshamn and the Stockholm area. The couple now had a newborn child, but presumably no car, so they were going to have a hard time fleeing.

All fatigue was gone. Disappointment had now changed to hope.

Erik Sohlman rang from the house in Kyllaj, which had been cordoned off and vacuum-cleaned for evidence. He reported that they’d found a gun in a hatch under the basement floor. Just as they’d suspected, it was a Russian army pistol, a Korovin from the 1920s, and they could confirm that the gun had been used recently.

After that, only silence. Nothing new was heard for several hours regarding the couple wanted by the police. At five o’clock, Knutas gave up and went home. His head felt completely empty. He went straight to bed, slipping under the covers next to his slumbering wife and putting his arm around her.

It was a while before he finally fell asleep.