The Double Silence

THE CAR TURNED off the main road and continued along the tractor path, which led straight into the woods. Dark had fallen, and only the cold beam from the headlamps showed the way. Here the pines were taller than usual on Gotland. They stood close together, with thick brush in between, their branches reaching out for each other to form a shield from the wind when storms swept across the island. Although right now there was no wind. The solitary car jolted along, only to stop in the glade near the small marsh, which was actually little more than a boggy patch of land. The moon shone round and white above the mirror-smooth water. Mist slowly rose up from the surface towards the sky, where it dispersed and vanished into an empty nothingness.

The couple tumbled out of the car, already immersed in their game. She clung to him, lips against lips, body against body, feverish hands reaching under their clothes. She laughed, and the sound travelled across the water, ricocheting between the gnarled tree trunks and the boulders, aimlessly scattering here and there, as if coming out of nowhere. An old willow stretched out its branches over the black and cold water, grazing the motionless surface.

She leaned against the trunk, spread out her arms and closed her eyes. The smell of damp earth in her nostrils, the cool, dewy air against her bare skin excited her even more. When he bit her hard on the shoulder, she cried out, pulled out of his grasp and ran off towards the woods. Up on the hill across from the marsh, he caught up with her and pressed her against a pine tree. The bark scraped at her back. His eyes glittered in the dim light. Slowly he began unbuttoning her clothes. He ran his fingers along her shoulder until the cloth gave way and fell in a heap at her feet. She hadn’t bothered to wear a bra. She had been longing for him for days.

She shivered. His face was so close. In the moonlight it looked like the face of a stranger. They didn’t speak during their game. He sighed as he slid his hand over her body, touched her breast, stopped, circled. He carefully caressed her with his fingertips, following the line where her ribs joined, moving down to her navel, then wandering upward again. Slowly, back and forth, until she began to moan with desire. Without her noticing, he leaned down to the bag sitting in the grass at his feet. With his hand behind his back, he cautiously rummaged among the contents until he found what he was looking for. The minuscule, nearly transparent thong she was wearing barely covered her sex. You naughty girl, he thought excitedly. You knew what was coming. He circled her navel with his tongue, then cautiously bit the lower part of her stomach, which was smooth and firm, like a boy’s. Then he moved up, caressing her, holding the blindfold behind his back. He kissed her breasts, reached her slender throat. Such a vulnerable spot, he thought as he tenderly nibbled and licked the delicate skin. He could feel her veins under the tip of his tongue, her blood vessels just below the surface. Then he raised his arms and in a flash tied the blindfold around her eyes. The black mask covered them securely. He knew that everything had now gone dark for her.

‘What are you doing?’ She giggled uncertainly. ‘What are you up to?’

Her hands automatically flew up to her head. Her palms glowed white. He thought they looked like two lost birds, fluttering through the air without knowing where to go.

‘Now, now,’ he admonished her. ‘Take it easy. Never a danger if you’re careful with a stranger,’ he hummed, taking the phrase from an old nursery rhyme. At the same time, he pulled out the rope, which had been hidden inside the bag. The clumsy fumbling of her hands stopped abruptly when he took a firm grip on them, tying the rope tightly around her wrists and hoisting her arms above her head.

A moment later she was tied securely, bound to the tree, and unable to escape. She was helpless, in his power, which was something he enjoyed. It was just the two of them here, the trees their only audience. Far away from everyone and everything. A separate universe. He did as he liked. She was tied to the tree, unseeing, like a newborn baby.

And he exploited her vulnerability to the fullest.

THE MOMENT THAT Andrea Dahlberg turned on to their usually peaceful residential street, she was struck by a feeling of unease. The affluent community of Terra Nova, just outside of Visby, was an area where nothing much ever happened. Life proceeded at a predictable tempo among the gardens surrounding the detached homes and the sites of the terraced houses. But suddenly there was something different in the air. She stopped, wiped the sweat from her brow, removed the water bottle from her belt and drank a few gulps. She glanced around, studying the façades of the houses and the few cars parked along the road. Not a soul in sight. On the surface everything seemed calm.

She was on her way home from her usual exercise routine: power-walking at a furious pace. For once she hadn’t managed to persuade any of her neighbours to come along. On this particular morning all the women who usually accompanied her were busy. Why? Was it because of the rain? she thought with annoyance. She had never let the weather deter her. And besides, it was only a light drizzle.

Since she was without a companion, she had been forced to confine her 10 kilometres to the small paths around the neighbourhood. How dreary. She preferred the woods but didn’t dare go there alone because she couldn’t relax. She always imagined that a rapist was about to appear as soon as she heard the slightest rustling in a nearby thicket.

Her stomach was growling. She always walked before breakfast. That way she burned off more fat, which was something that Andrea Dahlberg was extremely interested in doing, even though there was no sign of any extra kilos on her toned body. She had almost reached home now and was thinking about how much she longed for some freshly squeezed orange juice and vanilla yoghurt with her own homemade muesli. Along with slices of kiwi and fresh raspberries from the bushes in her greenhouse in the back garden. Espresso and the morning paper. Always the same routine. Today she could also enjoy greater calm than usual because she was home alone and didn’t have to go in to work. Her holiday had already started. Sam was up in Fårösund working on a film and was expected home the following day. The children were going to spend the next two weeks in the Stockholm archipelago with their maternal grandmother and the man she had been married to for so long that the kids forgot he wasn’t Andrea’s father. They had left yesterday. She should have plenty of peace and quiet.

But then that feeling had come over her. So subtle that it was barely noticeable. Like a whispering at the back of her neck. Andrea again glanced around, looking in all directions. Nobody was behind her. She was the only one on the road. The only person she had met since nearing home was a man wearing a straw hat and sunglasses who had been walking towards her on the opposite pavement. He had raised his hand in greeting, but she hadn’t recognized him. Maybe he was visiting someone. She straightened the visor of her baseball cap and stretched her back, trying to shake off the sense of unease.

She was relieved to see in the distance one of her neighbours coming towards her. Pushing a pram, as usual. Even though Sandra was not one of Andrea’s best friends, she was always pleasant, and she and her husband were part of her general circle of acquaintances.

She greeted Sandra cheerfully. They exchanged a few words about the weather and the upcoming summer holidays. Nothing special. Sandra seemed stressed and kept evading her eyes, her smile a bit strained. A few minutes later she excused herself, saying that she was in a hurry and had an appointment at the social services office.

Andrea was almost home. She passed the Halldéns’ house, which was made of sand-lime brick painted pink. It was much bigger and showier than the neighbouring houses, with its luxurious, pillar-lined driveway, curving staircase and a fountain on the lawn. She remembered how she and Sam had laughed at such an ostentatious display. Who did the Halldéns think they were? The Ewings in Dallas?

The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with moisture. The street was deserted. The grass was fragrant from the rain. The vegetation in the resplendent gardens was a sumptuous green right now, at the beginning of summer. Things had looked quite different when she and Sam and the kids had moved into the new development fifteen years ago. Back then the land around the houses consisted mostly of heaps of dirt and scraggly, sparsely planted shrubs meant to provide a semblance of hedges along carefully plotted property lines. By now the area was lush and flourishing and spacious houses with neatly mown lawns lined both sides of the street. In a second she would be home. Their house was at the far end, with a wooded area behind. It was a white-painted wooden house, built in an early-twentieth-century style, in spite of the fact that it was only fifteen years old. It had a pitched roof, gingerbread trim, mullioned windows and a glass veranda.

As Andrea got closer, she gave a start. The front door was open. Just slightly ajar, but enough so that she noticed it as she passed their bright-red postbox, which Sam had bought in New York in the spring.

She stopped short. Listened intently. Not a sound except for the quiet dripping from the drainpipe on the garage wall. She fixed her eyes on the door. Had she forgotten to close it when she left for her walk? That was impossible. She was always so careful. An inveterate worrier who regularly checked that the balcony door was locked, that all the windows were closed and the lights off before she left the house. She always set the security alarm that had been installed next to the front door, under the key cupboard. She would not have neglected to lock the door or set the alarm.

Soundlessly she crept closer. No signs of a breakin. Her brain was registering data and the exact time in case she would have to notify the police and the insurance company. Wednesday, 25 June, 9.35 a.m. As quietly as possible she went up the steps to the porch, cringing at every creak. She paused to listen for any sound from inside. Still nothing. She held her breath. Then she stretched out trembling fingers towards the crack in the doorway. Slowly she pulled the door open.

And stepped inside.

THE SHADOWS MOVED like elongated, intangible figures across the kitchen floor. Stina Ek sat on the floor with her bare feet on the cool tiles and leaned against the kitchen cupboard in the corner between the sink and the pantry. Her knees were drawn up, her arms folded. Her eyes followed the erratically rippling patterns, dissolving and merging, all depending on the capricious play of the tree branches outside the window. The light was lovely, and the house was completely silent. The sun had suddenly peeked out from the heavy cloud cover. The babysitter had picked up the children right after breakfast. She ought to pack but couldn’t get herself to move. She just remained sitting here, incapable of doing anything at all. As if the air had gone out of her when the house had emptied and she was left alone with her thoughts.

Her controlled façade crumbled, the muscles in her face relaxed, her shoulders drooped, and she found it easier to breathe. She no longer had to make an effort, and that made her feel tired.

On the following day she and Håkan were going away with their best friends: Sam, Andrea, John and Beata. They were neighbours in Terra Nova. All of them had moved in at the same time, when the houses had just been built and the area had the air of a new development. Back then their children were young, and they had met at the day nursery or the playground. The years had passed with a countless number of parents’ meetings, children’s parties, dinners and celebrations that had brought them close, so that over time they had become practically indispensable to each other. They helped each other out by taking the kids to and from school and football practice; they exchanged recipes and borrowed high-pressure washers and circular saws. In the autumn they set aside special days to rake leaves together, then burned the leaves and grilled sausages. They helped each other put up wallpaper and finish DIY projects. And it wasn’t just daily chores. They had dinners and parties together, including the annual crayfish feast, glögg parties at Christmas, and celebrations on Walpurgis Eve and at Midsummer. They steadfastly clung to traditions, and everything always had to be done in the same way. A few times they had diverged from the customary festivities, with unfortunate consequences. None of them wanted to risk losing the deep-seated sense of community that they’d established, so now they all kept to the unspoken rules. At least outwardly.

A few years back they had created a new tradition. Three couples in the neighbourhood who were particularly close friends decided to take a brief trip together each summer. A grown-up trip without the children. Sam Dahlberg was the one who had come up with the idea. He was the driving force in the group, inventive and creative. He thought that since the children were older now, they could treat themselves to a holiday without them for a few days once a year. But it wasn’t supposed to be just an ordinary trip. It had to include some sort of activity, something original. And they couldn’t be away very long, since they had to find someone to take care of the children. Just a few days.

They had gone horse riding in Iceland and river rafting near Jukkasjärvi in northern Sweden. They had bicycled through the vineyard areas of Provence and gone mountain climbing on the North Cape. This year they had decided on a simpler holiday.

First they would attend the annual Bergman festival week on the island of Fårö, then continue on to Stora Karlsö to see the thousands of young guillemots that, at this time of year, glided down from the steep limestone cliffs to set off for their winter habitat in the southern Baltic Sea. The phenomenon was a famous event.

Stina got up with a sigh. Outside the window she caught sight of Andrea walking past, dressed in shorts and a top that fitted snugly to her tall, toned body.

She was walking at a frenetically brisk pace, looking unabashedly alert and energetic. Sometimes Andrea’s efficiency wore Stina out, and she didn’t feel like going along. She had declined Andrea’s invitation when she had phoned earlier. Stina had clearly heard the disappointment in her friend’s voice, but she couldn’t help the fact that she didn’t want to go. Things weren’t the same as before.

Nowadays she mostly went running by herself. When she was alone in the woods her thoughts had free rein, often wandering to the other side of the world. Stina had been adopted from Vietnam, and for as long as she could remember, she had yearned to rediscover her roots. Fragmentary images danced in her mind. The smells of Hanoi’s slums still clung to her nostrils. She had memories of her grandmother’s sinewy hands washing dishes in the sink, of her own feet touching the stone floor, of the privy out in the yard. Just after Stina turned five she had been left on the steps of the orphanage with a note hanging from a string around her neck and a toy rabbit in her arms. When she was six, an unimaginably big couple had come and taken her away from there. She had no memory of her biological mother, or her father. But her grandmother’s face still appeared to her in the night. A wrinkled, toothless old lady with tiny black streaks for eyes, and rough but warm hands. She missed those comforting hands. She had longed for them all her life. For her, they were home, although they undoubtedly no longer existed. Stina was now thirty-seven, and back when she was five, her grandmother had already been old. Not that she had any plans to try to find her. As a teenager Stina had attempted to get in touch with the orphanage, but it had been shut down years before. She had tried to get help from the embassy, but that proved difficult. There was no information about her. All she had was the address where the orphanage had once been located. And her adoptive parents had convinced her that it wouldn’t be a good idea to go there. She wouldn’t find what she was looking for. Sorrow and a nostalgia for her origins and her grandmother’s hands had settled like a dark weight inside of her, casting a shadow over her life.

She tried to gloss over it, to think about how fortunate she had been. She could have easily died of starvation on the streets or been sold to one of Hanoi’s many brothels. Instead, she had enjoyed a secure and sheltered life and never lacked for anything.

Her adoptive parents were calm and nice, although slightly reserved in a way she had never been able to understand. They always kept a certain distance; it felt as if deep in their hearts they regarded her as a stranger, no matter how much they tried to show that they loved her, that she was their very own daughter. Really and truly. They treated her well and with respect, but their good-night hugs had seemed more obligatory than heartfelt. Her adoptive mother frequently said that she loved Stina, but there was no warmth in her voice. Her maternal solicitude was marked by an uncertainty that Stina was aware of throughout her childhood. Sometimes she would catch her mother surreptitiously studying her. On those occasions, the look in her eyes was surprised, almost frightened, with even a trace of aversion. That look told Stina more than all the years filled with assurances of love, the splendid birthday presents, and generous pocket money. At times Stina wondered why her parents had adopted her. She sensed that, in any case, she had never met their expectations.

As soon as she had turned eighteen, she had moved away from home and applied for a job with various airlines; the biggest of them hired her. It wasn’t long before she met Håkan on a flight across the Atlantic. He looked to be at least ten years older than her and projected a self-confidence that she had never before encountered in a man. They chatted more than she usually did with passengers, and before he got off the plane, he had given her his business card.

A few days later Stina was seized by an impulse and phoned him. He sounded happy to hear from her and invited her to lunch in Stockholm. A year later she moved in with him on Gotland, in the house where he and his ex-wife had lived. At first that bothered her. Håkan already had two children and a dog, and living all around them were neighbours and former friends that he and his wife had known. And then she arrived. A mere slip of a woman, sixteen years younger than Håkan, and to top it all off, Asian in appearance – as if directly imported. Of course people had made an effort to be nice, but she was aware of what they said when her back was turned. It was a relief to move away from there to the newly developed Terra Nova, where everyone was starting from scratch. Nobody knew anyone else. She had been pregnant and immediately found new friends. All it took was one visit to the antenatal clinic. There she met Andrea, who had just moved in and was also expecting a baby. They became best friends, and gradually their group of acquaintances expanded.

As her family and social circle grew, Stina began to feel more secure. And they had a good life, she and Håkan. Two wonderful daughters, a big house with a garden and a swimming pool that they’d had installed last year when the company gave Håkan an extra big bonus. She still enjoyed her job as a flight attendant. Maybe it was because the atmosphere on board suited her. It was a temporary situation; everyone was always on their way somewhere else, and she had only superficial contact with the passengers. She forged no permanent bonds with anyone. Her colleagues came and went, and she was always working with new people.

She had filled the emptiness in her own way. No one had any idea what went on underneath, but soon everything was going to change. Her life was about to take a dramatic turn. Although she was terrified by the thought of the consequences, she realized that this change was inevitable. She had reached a crossroads. With one blow her secure existence would be turned upside down, and she was the one who had made that choice.

There was no going back.

AT THE FOOT of the stairs, she stops abruptly. She is staring upwards, nervously biting her lower lip. Her expression is rigid, focused. Her body is on high alert, like a hunted animal, listening, watching. Not a sound. She is pale but beautiful; her lips are painted red. Her dark tresses reach all the way past her waist. Her body is slender; she has long bare arms; she is wearing a skimpy top and shorts. She has kicked off her shoes. She puts one foot on the stairs made of Gotland limestone. Her red-painted toenails look like ripe wild strawberries – a lovely contrast with the grey. The light falls in from the side, creating a suggestive shadow play.

Just as she’s about to go upstairs, she hears a sweeping sound behind her and she freezes. In a second the man is upon her, grabbing hold of her long hair and yanking her backwards. She falls on to the hall floor.

‘Cut!’

Sam Dahlberg lifted his eyes from the monitor, relaxed, and brushed the hair back from his forehead. The actors cast him enquiring looks. Was he finally satisfied? This was the twelfth take of the same scene. The lead actress, Julia Berger, was starting to get a headache.

‘We’ll take it one more time.’

Stifled sighs, resigned expressions. One person dared to shake his head, cursing the director who was never satisfied. And the cinematographer felt the same way. It was stuffy and hot in the house near Bungeviken where they were shooting the very last scenes, and the crew was running out of patience. It was past seven in the evening, and they’d been at it since dawn.

Everyone was exhausted and hungry. Julia Berger shrugged and turned her hands palm up as she spoke to the director.

‘First, I’m going to need a cigarette and a glass of water. Just so you know.’

She and her fellow actor disappeared out to the veranda facing the sea. A crew member rushed to take them some water. It was important to keep the star in a good mood. She was a temperamental diva, and on more than one occasion she had simply walked out, leaving the whole film crew in the lurch, because she’d lost patience and didn’t get her own way.

Sam Dahlberg refused to be deterred. He could feel in his gut that this movie was going to be good. Really good. That was why he didn’t want to take any risks. Retakes were necessary. He and the cinematographer had agreed to make sure that they had enough footage when they went to the editing room.

Sam quickly finished off a bottle of mineral water. In spite of the heavy downpour, it was damned hot. The crew relaxed, chatting to each other. One person ran to the toilet; another went out for a smoke. Everybody knew that the break would last a few minutes.

When Sam once again took his seat in the director’s chair, the effect was immediate.

‘OK, let’s do it again,’ shouted the director’s assistant.

The hum of voices stopped at once. Everyone turned to look at Sam, then at each other. Their posture changed from relaxed to alert, their expressions attentive. An air of concentration filled the set. Sam looked at the people around him. It was like a dream play every time. The actors, the script, the cinematographer, and the rest of the film crew: everyone with an important part to play in completing the scene. He loved it, the way everybody joined forces in one intense moment. There was something magical about it. And an unpredictability. It was impossible to tell what might happen. Often something unexpected would occur, no matter how well he planned the production, going through the script in great detail with everyone involved, spending weeks in advance with the cinematographer and checking out all the film locations. He had to know how the light fell at various times of the day, what sounds they could count on hearing, how the site would function in practice for everyone involved. He liked to be well prepared. Only then was there room for spontaneity. Sam Dahlberg had spent years learning these techniques. He loved his job. For him, it was the very heart of his life, giving him the space to breathe. He surveyed the set one last time. Everything was ready. A giddy feeling filled his stomach; everyone was awaiting his signal. All of these people. They were waiting for him and no one else. He cast a quick glance at his assistant director.

‘Quiet. Rolling. Camera.’

The same scene was repeated. In Julia Berger’s defence, it had to be said that even though she might be feeling annoyed, she gave her all every time the cameras rolled – no matter now many takes it took. He admired her professionalism. When they finished the scene, everyone waited in tense silence. Now Sam had everyone’s attention. He hid his face behind a handkerchief and wiped away both the sweat and a few tears that had trickled from his eyes. Then he looked at his colleagues and his face broke into a happy grin.

‘Bloody good job. I think, by God, that we’ve just done the last take on the film. Just a second.’

He motioned for the cinematographer, and together they watched the scene on the monitor, accompanied by some indistinct murmuring. Then they nodded and slapped each other on the back. Everyone waited tensely. Sam raised his eyes.

‘I think we’ve made a movie here.’

A grateful cheer rose from the set. The lead actors, who had just been involved in a fight, embraced each other a bit longer than might be considered purely professional, if anyone from the film crew had bothered to notice. But everybody was busy congratulating each other, hugging and patting one another on the back.

‘Unbelievable,’ exclaimed Sam happily. ‘That’s a wrap. Two months of filming are over. You’ve all been amazing. Now it’s time to celebrate.’

HÅKAN EK LEFT the office early on that Friday afternoon. He had five weeks of holiday ahead of him. He couldn’t remember when he’d been away from his job for so many weeks in a row. If ever. He enjoyed his work as the sales manager for a large electronics company in Visby, but now he felt he needed a holiday.

His mobile beeped before he’d even left the car park. A message from Klara. Phone me. He frowned. What now? His daughter from his first marriage was his only real worry. She was a restless young woman who lived in central Stockholm and suffered from an eating disorder. She’d also had problems finding a job and coping with various boyfriends. But Håkan was used to it. By now Klara’s troubles were an inevitable aspect of his life, like a body part that was always tender and needed care.

But his daughter was not his only child from a failed relationship. From his second marriage he had a son who was now in his late teens, but he had little contact with the boy. The divorce had been a painful and long-drawn-out affair. He hardly ever spoke to his second wife, Helena. After they divorced, she and their son had moved in with her parents in Haparanda in the far north. But he was in regular touch with his first wife, Ingrid. Their marriage had fizzled out so many years ago that it felt like another lifetime. After they went their separate ways, it had taken years before she decided to remarry. She said she was very picky. She used to quip that she was used to the best. Håkan appreciated the fact that they were able to joke about their past, sometimes talking on the phone for hours. Nobody could make him laugh the way she did. The thought regularly occurred to him that he’d actually been happier with Ingrid than he was with Stina. They both belonged to the fifties generation and had a lot in common. They had watched the same TV programmes, gone to the same dance clubs. They knew the same dances, songs and bands. They liked the same musicians, and they had the same sense of humour.

As Håkan drove home he grew pensive. He ought to be looking forward to the summer holidays, but something was preventing that. Almost like dirt on the windscreen that was impossible to remove. His thoughts turned to his third wife.

Everything was different with Stina, and in many respects more complicated than with either of his ex-wives. It was because of her childhood and upbringing, her rootlessness and insecurity. He was aware that she needed to view him as a father figure. He had been fascinated by Stina from the first moment he saw her on board the plane, with her shiny, raven-black hair reaching to her shoulders in a blunt cut, her slim figure in the attractive uniform. Her soft, dark eyes had fixed on his, and after that he didn’t want to let her go. Not for anything in the world. Divorcing his second wife seemed like such an obvious decision that he wanted to get it out of the way as quickly as possible. Helena became a mere shadow for him. In hindsight, he could see how selfishly he had behaved.

But that was all in the past.

Right now he and Stina were anticipating a long holiday. And it would start off with the annual trip with their closest friends. In reality he would have preferred to do something all on their own, just the two of them. They needed time together; for quite a while now they had spent far too little time with each other. That must be what was worrying him, causing a deep disquiet. He could hardly remember when they’d last had sex. Sometimes that was what happened with Stina. She would distance herself from him, almost as if she was avoiding him. He had tried to talk to her about it, asking her what was wrong, but she assured him that it was nothing special. She was just feeling tired.

Stina had to work a couple more weeks before she could take an extended holiday from her job. But they could at least spend a few days together. Later their summer holiday awaited them, and they were planning to go island hopping in Greece with the children. He was looking forward to that. Since Stina had a hard time relaxing at home, they needed to go on a trip together, preferably abroad so that she could leave all her obligations behind.

He tapped in the number for home and felt both relieved and a little uneasy when he heard her voice. She didn’t sound happy, but not really sad either.

No, he didn’t need to stop for groceries. If they weren’t going away he would have bought her flowers.

But it wouldn’t be worth it just now.

HE SAW HER from far away as she came walking towards him with her rather sauntering gait on the other side of Norra Hansegatan. Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas stopped to wait for her, observing her slender form as she approached. His colleague Karin Jacobsson always walked to work because she lived in the middle of town. She was wearing her iPod earbuds, as usual, and jeans that sat low on her hips. She had on a white T-shirt with a drum set printed on the front and trainers. The wind had tousled her cropped brown hair. Her eyes were fixed on the pavement, and she hadn’t yet noticed Knutas. He wondered what she was thinking about, wondered what he was going to do with her.

Karin was the colleague he was closest to at work, and she acted as his deputy when necessary. But it was no exaggeration to say that she had really made a mess of things. A little less than a year ago she had confided a secret that Knutas couldn’t possibly ignore. He knew that eventually he would have to do something about it – and sooner rather than later because her confession had placed him in an untenable position ever since.

Of course he was grateful that Karin had finally unburdened her heart, but he wished the circumstances had been different.

He, on the other hand, had trusted her right from the start, and she knew almost everything about him. All about his personal life as well as his professional career. Karin was always willing to listen, and Knutas considered her one of his best friends. But she had always found it difficult to talk about her own private life. She was forty-one years old, lived alone with her cockatoo in a lovely attic flat on Mellangatan, played football, and devoted herself to her job. He had never heard her mention a man or a boyfriend in her life. Or a woman, for that matter.

Then one evening last summer, when they happened to be in Stockholm in connection with a difficult murder case, they had been sitting in a restaurant drinking wine and she had suddenly fallen apart. She told him that as a teenager she had been raped and became pregnant. By the time her pregnancy was discovered, it was too late for an abortion, so she had carried the child to term. It was a girl, and her parents had forced Karin to give the baby up for adoption. Against her will, the child was taken from her immediately after the birth, and she had never seen her again. All her life Karin had kept this sorrow to herself. But now she had decided to search for her grown-up daughter.

It was as if a dam had burst, and Karin had wept and talked nonstop all night. She had also revealed something so serious that she risked being sacked if it ever came out. To Knutas’s horror, Karin told him that the previous year she had allowed a double murderer named Vera Petrov to escape. Part of her explanation had to do with her own trauma. The police had been hot on the heels of Petrov, but during the chase Jacobsson had discovered the woman in the throes of labour in a cabin aboard the Gotland ferry. Instead of alerting her colleagues, she had helped bring the baby into the world. Since a tragic story had prompted Petrov to commit the two murders, Jacobsson had let her go. She had kept her actions secret until confiding in Knutas on that night in Stockholm.

Knutas was shocked when the truth came out. Certainly it was a distressing case, and of course he understood feeling empathy for the killer, but what Karin had done was the most grievous dereliction of duty, and his first thought had been to suspend her immediately. But then he had relented. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Vera Petrov was still being sought by international authorities; so far no trace of her had been found. Time had passed, and now Knutas was also implicated. He still didn’t know how to solve the problem, but he realized it was inevitable that sooner or later he would be forced to do something about the matter. It was no exaggeration to say that Karin had placed him in the greatest dilemma of his life.

Yet he still felt a tenderness for her as she approached. She raised her head and looked straight at him with those eyes, nut-brown and doe-like. Her face broke into a smile, revealing the gap between her front teeth. He found it worrisome that her charm had such a powerful effect on him and that he had become dependent on her. They shared a deep bond. It had grown stronger over all the years they had worked together. Sometimes he almost mistook it for love. Even though he loved his wife, Lina, part of his heart belonged to Karin.

And no doubt it always would.

THE SHOWER WATER poured over her sweaty body. Goose bumps appeared on her skin as Andrea Dahlberg reached for the soap container. With brisk, light movements she massaged in the expensive shower gel that Sam had brought back for her from his latest trip. He was always so thoughtful, even after twenty years of marriage. He’d been to a film festival in Berlin. Just as a spectator. None of his own films had won any prizes. Not yet.

She stepped out of the mosaic-lined shower stall and wrapped herself in a thick terrycloth towel. Then she paused in front of the mirror and noticed to her satisfaction that she was already nicely suntanned. A few aches and pains after yesterday’s evening workout at the gym, but she was in perfect bikini shape for the summer. She let go of the bath towel and it dropped to the floor. Then she turned around so she could see herself in profile in the mirror; it was the angle she liked best. She still looked just fine after passing forty and having three children. Her breasts were large and well shaped, but that was because she’d had work done on them after Mathilda was born. She couldn’t stand the thought of spending the rest of her life with those flabby, drooping sacks that her breasts had become after all the breastfeeding she’d done. Now the part of her body that made her most proud was her bosom. She smiled at herself and went through the bedroom to the walk-in closet that Sam had built just for her. There was plenty of room for all her shoes and clothes, lined up in perfect order. An enormous mirror covered one wall so she could stand there in peace as she chose what to wear. Later today they would be going out to Fårö for the Bergman festival, and then continue on to Stora Karlsö.

Andrea’s eyes paused on a photograph of Sam and herself on the yacht in Stockholm’s archipelago last summer. How handsome he was, looking so tanned in his white tennis sweater and sunglasses. He had his arm around her and was smiling at the camera. He was still the most attractive man she could imagine. She was proud to walk at his side whenever they were out socializing. Sometimes she would sit for a long time and just stare at him across the breakfast table. There they sat, on an ordinary morning, and suddenly it would seem to her so unreal that she was allowed to be there with him. Day in and day out. Of course they’d had some bad patches, just like everybody, but for the most part things had been good. They led an orderly life with few surprises – exactly the way she wanted it to be. She was looking forward to growing old with Sam.

Their home was just as flawless as her appearance. She loved decorating and furnishing the rooms, and she insisted that everything should be perfectly arranged. Sam laughed at her for pressing their bed sheets and ironing his underwear. Every six months she would remove all the books from the shelves so she could dust behind them. Once a month she would take the rugs and cushions out to beat the dust out of them with an impressive frenzy. She changed the bed linens every week, and during the summer months even more often, since she thought that everyone sweated more during the night at that time of year. She arranged the tinned goods and pasta packages according to a specific pattern in the pantry, which was always well stocked.

Every Sunday morning she would sit down at the kitchen table and fill out the family calendar with the activities and meetings scheduled for the coming week. She wrote down a menu for each day, checked to see what they had in the cupboards, and then went out to shop for the rest of the groceries they would need. Preferably with one of the neighbouring wives. She loved her predictable life. It made her feel secure; she always knew what to expect.

Right now she needed to finish packing for the trip they were taking with friends. She hummed to herself as she placed Sam’s shirts in a neat pile inside his bag. She cast a glance out of the window. Sandra was walking past with the pram, as usual. That poor woman. Andrea didn’t envy her. At the age of forty-two, dealing with young children was now part of the distant past, and she wouldn’t for the life of her want to start again. Her neighbour already had two teenagers when she got pregnant again. Even though she and her husband claimed it was wonderful to add a latecomer to their family, Andrea didn’t really believe them. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than being tied down again. That was probably why Sandra seemed so stressed lately.

The sight of her made Andrea think about the strange experience she’d just had. That inexplicable feeling of being watched, and the fact that she’d not only forgotten to lock the front door but left it slightly ajar. It was so unlike her. Maybe she was starting the menopause, which could make a woman a bit absent-minded. Hormones and so on. But wasn’t she too young for that? Didn’t the change happen to women in their fifties? The ‘change’ – what an unpleasant word. She had no desire to change and enter another stage in life. She would be happy if time stood still for twenty years. She had never felt so good.

She went into the kitchen and put on the coffee. It would be several hours before Sam came home so they could leave on the trip.

This holiday was coming just at the right time. Sam had been busy with a lengthy film shoot that was finally done, and now he could take some time off before starting on the editing. He’d been away from home a lot lately, but that was always the case when he was shooting. During those periods he was ‘married to the film’, as he put it. That didn’t really bother her because she was busy too. She ran a trendy clothing shop on Adelsgatan, and there was always plenty to do. It was with relief that she had turned over responsibility to her colleague, the other part-owner, several days earlier than she had planned. She’d wanted to take it easy and get in the mood for the trip. And take care of Sam after he’d worked so hard. They would enjoy relaxing together, watch movies that they’d seen before but that were worth another viewing. And enjoy the company of good friends and other people interested in film on Fårö.

She was also looking forward to spending more time with Stina. Maybe they could take morning walks together on Fårö. Have a proper talk. It had been a while, for they were both so busy with their own lives. She realized how much she had missed her friend. They knew everything about each other, had shared so much over the years, and there was a strong bond between them. In fact, Stina was the one she felt closest to, aside from Sam and the children. Now they would finally have the opportunity to be together for a few days. After that the nature trip to Stora Karlsö awaited them. She smiled to herself. They were so good about tending to their marriage, she and Sam. They had always been that way. When the kids were little, they had regularly hired a babysitter so that several times a year they could take a long weekend together, just the two of them. It was undoubtedly the sort of thing that had helped to keep their love alive. Over the years they had evolved into a single unit that was rock-solid. As she filled her coffee cup, she thought: We belong together. That’s how it had been ever since they first met, and that’s how it would always be.

JOHAN BERG REACHED for the package of nappies on the shelf in the bathroom. Anton lay on the changing table, gurgling happily. His round, sunny face was turned towards Johan, and his brown eyes sparkled with contentment. He chattered nonstop, constantly producing new sounds. Right now he lay there, waving his chubby little arms about. All of a sudden a stream shot up into the air. Johan felt it drenching his shoulder.

‘Bloody hell!’

Quickly he wiped up the piss that had landed on the changing table and was trickling over the edge on to the bathroom floor. To think such quantities of fluid could come out of a baby only six months old. He dried off both himself and his son and then returned to Emma in the bedroom.

‘Good morning,’ she said sleepily, automatically pulling out one of her breasts as Johan carefully placed Anton in her arms. ‘Ouch,’ she complained as her son eagerly grabbed for her nipple. He was such a greedy little thing.

‘He peed straight up in the air,’ said Johan with a yawn as he sank back against the sleep-warm pillows and covers.

‘He did? What a rascal,’ said Emma tenderly, caressing the baby’s soft cheek. ‘Aren’t you going to work?’

‘Sure. Just give me five minutes,’ murmured Johan, turning his back and pulling up the covers.

For the past month he’d actually been on paternity leave from his job as a reporter for Swedish TV’s regional news programme, but his editor, Max Grenfors, had phoned from Stockholm and asked him to come in over the weekend. They hadn’t yet found a replacement for him at the local editorial office on Gotland, and so far they’d solved the problem with temporary substitutes who flew over from the mainland. Johan had nothing against going into the office. Spending his days with a baby was wonderful in many ways, but it could also get a bit tiresome.

But he had to be happy for every small step forward. For instance, now he shared the bed with only two others. A few months ago Elin had been relegated to her own room, and lately that had worked fine, without any fuss. When they brought Anton home from the maternity clinic, their three-year-old daughter had been extremely jealous and refused to sleep anywhere but with her parents. For two months they had all crowded into the same bed. Gradually Elin had calmed down and realized that things were going to continue as usual, even though the family had increased in number. Besides, she had her older half-siblings, Sara and Filip, to play with. It was so touching to see how they took care of Elin whenever Emma had to feed Anton or change his nappy.

Emma stretched out in bed and smiled at her son. She was relieved that everything was going so well, even though she’d been shocked to discover that she was pregnant again, and even though both she and the baby had been through a life-threatening experience before he was born, when Emma had accidentally ended up in the middle of a police manhunt.

During the spring she’d been on maternity leave from her job as a teacher at the small Kyrk School in Roma. Now the school was closed for the summer holidays, and Johan was also on leave. Elin had eventually agreed to go back to the day nursery, where she actually loved being with all of her friends, and Emma treasured her time alone with the baby. She could cuddle and feed her son as much as she wanted, without the risk of any jealous outbursts from his big sister. At the same time, she was longing for her adult life. She wanted to go back to teaching, spend time with her colleagues, and work out again. Even the teacher conferences now seemed attractive. But first she and Johan were going to enjoy a whole summer together. When Elin was born, everything had been in such turmoil. Back then she had lived alone in the house and taken sole responsibility for the newborn while Johan worked in Stockholm. It was true that she had chosen the arrangement herself, and Johan would have liked nothing better than to move in with her and share in caring for their daughter. But at the time Emma had felt so insecure, after the divorce and everything else. Now the situation was totally different. Her ex-husband, Olle, had met a new woman, the children had settled down, and her relationship with Olle functioned well. And besides, her kids loved Johan, who treated them as his own.

She sighed and looked down at her baby. Anton abruptly let go of her breast and his head fell back. The hair on his forehead was sweaty from the effort, his cheeks flushed. He was sound asleep.

His father was too.

ANDREA DAHLBERG OPENED the front door and lugged her suitcase out to the car. Would she never learn? Afraid of being without something, she always packed too much. Sam laughed at her as he passed, carrying a simple sports bag, which he elegantly tossed into the SUV. He had quickly removed half of the things she had packed for him.

‘Is it heavy, sweetheart?’

He turned around and stretched out his hand to take her suitcase. When she handed it over, he grimaced and dropped it on the ground with a thud, as if it were impossible to hold. She smiled. She was happy to see Sam in such good spirits. He’d been unusually tired lately. The new film had taken most of his waking hours. Leaving on a trip right after the film wrapped was clearly exactly what he needed. The fact that he was the one who’d come up with the idea for their destination contributed to his good mood. They had never gone as a group to the Bergman festival, which was held on Fårö every year in late June. Sam had gone ever since the first one five years earlier, since he was a devoted admirer of Ingmar Bergman. This year the festival was dedicated to Bergman’s memory, since the world-famous director had peacefully passed away at his remote residence on Fårö in July of the previous year.

Andrea went back inside the house to get a few last items and make sure all the doors were closed and the lights turned off. Across the street she saw Håkan and Stina going through the same procedure. She waved happily to Stina, who was running from the house to the car, hunching her shoulders against the rain. Andrea paused to watch her friend. How lovely she was. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was dressed almost like a child, in a pink raincoat, short skirt, and flower-patterned wellington boots. Even though she was thirty-seven and the mother of two, she looked like a young girl.

Stina knew things about Andrea that no one except Sam knew. Her innermost and deepest thoughts.

She would never forget the time when Stina’s own candour and sensitivity had made her reveal everything about herself. They were alone in Stina’s house. Both Håkan and Sam were out of town, and Stina had invited Andrea and her kids to dinner. The children had played noisily until they all fell into bed. Then Andrea and Stina had sat in front of the fireplace with a bottle of wine. They’d talked about life’s problems. About guilt and shame. And then, for the first time, Andrea had told someone other than Sam about her darkest secret. Stina’s face looked so soft in the glow from the fire; she had listened attentively and they had talked all night. Andrea had never felt so close to anyone before. Stina became the sister she might have had. She would always cherish their friendship. There were no barriers between them.

Andrea shook off these thoughts. She was glad that in spite of everything she now had such a good life and such good friends. Their extended social circle included a dozen couples with children of more or less the same age. Within that circle was the core group, whose friendship was even stronger. It consisted of her and Sam, Håkan and Stina, John and Beata. Six adults who jointly had eight children, and it often felt as if the group was big enough. That was why they frequently held their own dinner parties and celebrations – something that the others in their social circle did not really like, just as they did not like being excluded from the trips that the three couples took together.

She looked in the children’s rooms, and noted with pleasure that they had tidied things up before they left. Amazing that they’d become so neat and orderly. She affectionately pictured her children’s faces. In a not-so-distant future they would be moving away from home. Several of her acquaintances were already worrying about that prospect, when they would be alone in the house, at the dinner table, and in front of the TV in the evening. That wasn’t something that bothered her. She and Sam often talked about everything they were going to do, all the trips and excursions they would take when they finally had plenty of time for each other. She longed to have her husband all to herself. Sometimes she even felt jealous when he laughed and talked too much with the kids. It felt as if he had forgotten about her. Occasionally it worried her that she was so envious, but she couldn’t help it.

Their bedroom looked fine. She touched the handle to the balcony door; it was locked. Through the window she could see across the street, and she watched as Sam stowed their wellingtons and raincoats in the car. Later in the summer they were going to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary. She had secretly booked them flights to Florence. That was where they had got engaged, and this time they would be staying at the same hotel and having dinner at the same romantic restaurant where they had celebrated their engagement. She had even phoned the owner to make sure the restaurant would be open, and he had promised to seat them at the exact same table. Sam had no clue. She was taking along a special card that she would give to him when they were on Stora Karlsö. She had spent time drawing, cutting and pasting to make the card that would tell him all the details. He was going to be so surprised. She could hardly wait to see his expression when he opened the envelope. Several times she’d been on the verge of giving him a hint about what she was planning, but she had managed to stop herself at the last minute. Now she quickly went through the rest of the rooms to make sure all was in order. Everything had to be perfect when they left the house.

Only then could she relax.

IT HAD RAINED steadily all day long. On his way home from work, Knutas turned his old Mercedes towards the Solberg swimming pool. He usually swam once a week during the winter months. Not as often during the summer, although there were few things he enjoyed as much as swimming. To cover lap after lap in the pool, metre after metre, was an undemanding type of therapy. The water infused him with calm, and he moved easily, at a leisurely pace, even though he was aware that he’d put on a few kilos. Whenever he encountered any problems, he gained weight. Eating was a consolation and a compensation; it gave him strength. Right now his mind was buzzing with contradictory thoughts and worries about both his job and his private life. First and foremost was his concern about Karin. Her personal trauma, the rape and the child that she’d had: her well-kept secret. And also the professional secret that she’d kept to herself for almost a year: the fact that she had allowed a murderer to walk free without saying a word to him about it. Month after month they had worked side by side, talking and joking as usual, solving problems, discussing cases, and not once had she mentioned it to him. They’d had coffee and lunch together – he didn’t know how many times – as if nothing was wrong. And he’d had absolutely no idea.

On numerous occasions they had talked about the murder case and the hunt for the killer. He had told her about his conversations with Interpol and Europol. How the search was ongoing in several countries. He had talked about the tips that had come in, some more interesting than others. He had shared all the information with her. And the whole time she had been hiding the truth from him. He felt like an idiot. He still didn’t know how to deal with the dilemma. He wished there was someone he could consult. A few times he’d thought of talking to the National Criminal Police inspector, Martin Kihlgård, who had come to Gotland on several occasions to help the Visby police with homicide cases. Martin also knew Karin well. He really should talk to him.

At the same time Knutas was forced to admit that he was worried not just for Karin’s sake but about himself. He was concerned about the consequences for his own position. He would be accused of letting too much time pass before reporting the matter. And the police investigation would certainly question why he hadn’t discovered earlier that Karin had helped the killer on board the ferry from Gotland. That made him look even more pathetic. Scorn for himself churned in his stomach.

He began swimming harder to escape from his discomfort. With long strokes he swam towards the end of the pool, keeping his eyes fixed on the tiles. Not looking to either side, where only a few other people occupied the lanes, ploughing through the water just as he was doing, lap after lap. There were seldom many swimmers in the pool at this time of year.

After finishing a few laps at a furious pace, he slowed down. Depression weighed on him.

What had so far functioned best in his life wasn’t going very well either. His marriage. Lina had always stood for security in his world, and she was the love of his life. An attractive Dane with red hair that reached to her waist, she loved her job as a midwife and had always been devoted to her family. She was always there when he needed her. Never before had he felt any doubt about their relationship. But lately a change had crept in, and it scared him. They rarely did things together any more. Lina was so busy, and he was too. Days could go by and they wouldn’t even see each other. Knutas had begun to speculate about things that he had previously never questioned, including what Lina said and did. He had started listening in a new way. What they said to each other in the morning, what words were spoken at the dinner table, in front of the TV, in the bedroom. He had become more aware and alert, almost as if he were still on duty. And that bothered him. He’d begun to see Lina in a different light, and all of a sudden he’d discovered new aspects and sides of her personality that he’d never noticed before. He realized that when it came right down to it, his life was no longer the same. He couldn’t take anything for granted. It was possible that things might not be as they seemed, that at any second the ground might begin to shift under his feet. All it took was to alter his perceptions a bit. Make a slight adjustment to the way he viewed the world.

He recalled a conversation he’d had a few days earlier with an old friend he hadn’t seen for a long time. When the man’s children had left home, he and his wife had sold the house where they’d lived all those years. They had watched their children grow up there, celebrated birthdays, weddings and graduations. Over the years, they had experienced so much in that house, both sorrows and joys. Knutas’s friend told him that when they moved out, it felt as if their whole world was turned upside down. He saw his wife in a new light, as well as his job and his friends – in fact, his entire life. He could no longer assume anything. It was like starting over from scratch. He ended up getting a divorce, quitting his job, and moving into his own flat. He started a whole new life. How much of his wife lingered in the walls of that house? How much of their shared life existed only in their home, in the possessions they’d acquired and the routines they had become accustomed to? The thought terrified Knutas. He tried to reassure himself that things were different with him and Lina. Very different. On the other hand, who was to say that his friend had been happier back then than he was now? Maybe life demanded change once in a while. Required a person to shake things up, let in fresh air. Open the door to something else, something more enriching.

Knutas glanced at the clock on the wall. Five thirty. He’d been swimming for half an hour, but he wasn’t tired at all. He decided to keep going for another fifteen minutes. Rain was pouring down outside the big windows of the swimming hall. That never-ending rain.

Sometimes he wondered whether he was going through a mid-life crisis. Nothing seemed to give him real joy any more. Now summer had arrived, and later he would go on holiday. He was supposed to have the entire month of August off, and he was planning a two-week trip to Italy with his family. Knutas had never been to Italy. But he was having trouble mustering his usual enthusiasm. He seemed overcome with apathy. That was also the accusation that Lina had flung at him when they argued the night before.

‘You don’t react to anything any more,’ she’d told him. ‘You have no opinions, there’s nothing you want, you just don’t care. As far as you’re concerned, the world can go ahead and fall apart and all you’ll do is shrug. Your indifference is driving me crazy!’ And, as usual, she’d shouted and waved her arms about. Lina was so temperamental. She’d always been like that, with that flaming red hair of hers, and her pale complexion that flushed crimson whenever she got angry. In the past he had always admired her fiery temper.

Nowadays it merely made him tired.

AT FIRST GLANCE the inn looked like an ordinary house. A small sign with the name ‘Slow Train’ painted on a piece of driftwood appeared right next to the turnoff. They just managed to see it in time, or they would have driven past. The name made Andrea think of an old tune by Bob Dylan, ‘Slow Train’, and the minute she got out of the car, she sensed a nostalgic air about the place.

The rain in Visby hadn’t yet reached here. The clouds looked threatening, but so far no rain. Several horses were grazing in a pasture, a man in a straw hat was pottering about in the garden filled with flowers, and a slender woman wearing a long white skirt was taking in the laundry hanging on a line between the apple trees. From an open window in the large stone house came the scent of freshly baked bread. The woman stopped what she was doing and came to greet them.

‘Hi. Welcome.’

Her gentle voice clearly revealed a French accent. She had a small, pale face with classic features, and she gave them a friendly smile. Then she ushered them into the house, which reinforced the feeling of a bygone era. They first went through a glass veranda with comfortable sofas along both sides. The window ledges were covered with all sorts of odds and ends: ceramic figurines, scented candles, baskets filled with flowers, and lamps in various colours and sizes.

A dark wooden table in the entrance hall served as the checkin desk. On the table stood a brass Strindberg lamp, an old inkwell with fountain pen, and a glass vase with a single rose.

‘We call it the Bergman rose,’ the Frenchwoman told them. ‘It comes from the same rosebush that was planted on his grave.’

Andrea gave a start, not sure whether she thought the rose added to the pleasant atmosphere or not.

The woman gave them the keys to their rooms. Andrea and Sam had been assigned a room upstairs in the main building, while the others were given rooms in the surrounding buildings. They agreed to meet for a drink before the opening ceremonies of the Bergman festival, which would be held in the Fårö church.

‘What a… picturesque room,’ exclaimed Andrea after they huffed and puffed their way up the narrow staircase and opened the door to what was called the ‘bridal suite’. She paused in the doorway and looked around in confusion. ‘No toilet?’

The room held a double bed with a crocheted coverlet, a small night table, and a chiffonier. It was not a large room, but it was charming and bright. The window was open, facing the flower garden.

‘For God’s sake, the bathroom is just next door. Remember, this is a bed and breakfast, not some fancy hotel,’ said Sam in annoyance as he sank on to the bed. ‘We’re way out in the country on this little island. What did you expect? A fucking Sheraton?’

Andrea stared at him in surprise.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the sharpness gone from his voice. ‘It’s just that you sounded so whiny. Everything can’t be perfect all the time.’

‘I know that,’ she said, offended. Her cheeks were flushed with indignation. ‘Excuse me, but I was just wondering where the toilet was. I thought we were going to have a good time now that you’re finally free. And you’re the one who wanted to come here. Not me. You should be happy that everybody agreed to do what you wanted.’ Disappointment made her voice husky. With one blow he had ruined her joy. How could he? Tears filled her eyes.

‘OK. I know.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry. Come here.’

He reached out his arms towards her, and she sank into his embrace. Sam stroked her back. She wrapped her arms around him. The warmth from his body consoled her, and it didn’t take long before her mood was restored. She began kissing him on the neck, more and more eagerly, searching for his lips. She wanted to feel close in order to forget about the tiresome exchange they’d just had. They lay down on the bed, and she pressed herself against him, put one leg over his. Gently he pushed her away.

‘Now, now, take it easy. We have to meet the others in half an hour. We’re going to have a drink before the ceremonies.’

‘Oh, is it that late already? I need to fix my hair.’

They gathered in the garden among the apple trees where a table was set with champagne glasses and platters of French cheeses, biscuits and nuts.

‘Oh, how marvellous!’ exclaimed Beata, beaming at their French hostess, who gave a quick smile and then disappeared after placing two dewy bottles of champagne on the table.

‘Time to celebrate!’ cried Sam, popping the cork from the first bottle. ‘We finished shooting the film yesterday.’

‘That’s great. Congratulations!’ said Håkan. ‘It must feel bloody wonderful!’

‘You’re so clever,’ cooed Beata, standing behind Sam. She put her hands on his shoulders and rubbed her curvaceous body against his. ‘Simply amazing. You should be proud of your husband, Andrea.’

Andrea managed a strained smile. Sometimes Beata really went overboard.

Stina raised the glass that Sam handed her.

‘Cheers, Sam. We’ll keep our fingers crossed that the film is a big hit. You deserve it. Right?’

‘You better believe it. It’s been pure hell. The most difficult and spoiled movie stars that I’ve ever worked with, not to mention the diva herself: Julia Berger. Good God!’

He rolled his eyes and went on pouring the champagne. When everyone had a glass, Sam cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and put on a solemn expression.

‘Welcome, dear friends, to our annual holiday together. I’ve really been looking forward to this trip in particular. You all know why. Bergman was the greatest director and will always remain so. The rest of us mortals try our best, and I’m so happy that today I can also celebrate finally finishing the film The Last Commandment. Thank God it’s over. Skål, everyone!’

They all raised their glasses as they exchanged glances, glad to be in the company of friends.

The dry champagne tasted perfect.

THE CHURCH GREEN was crowded with people dressed in their summer best in honour of the evening. The weather was appropriate for the occasion, considering it was Bergman they were celebrating. Dark clouds raced across the sky, forming fantastical shapes at the same time as rays of sunlight sporadically burst through the darkness, creating their own dramatic effect. Light and darkness, which was precisely the speciality of the acclaimed director.

Johan Berg had a few anxious moments as his camerawoman, Pia Lilja, adroitly manoeuvred the TV van through the throng in the car park near the Fårö church. He hadn’t been back here since his wedding day.

Two years ago he had stood in this very place on the church green, sweating, with a packed church, a puzzled pastor and a missing bride. It was a real ordeal, especially considering the turbulent relationship that he and Emma had endured. He never knew what sort of ideas would pop into her head. New doubts, new questions. Their first year together had been a real roller-coaster. Anything was possible. It would have been typical of their relationship if she hadn’t turned up at all. But in the end she did. Thank God. Sometimes when he thought back on everything they had gone through together, he wondered how he’d managed. Love was incomprehensible. Certain relationships couldn’t handle the least bit of trouble, while others survived one setback after another. His relationship with Emma belonged to the latter group. That was why he was positive it would last.

Now he looked out at the swarm of people and recognized quite a few famous actors, directors, and others with ties to the film business. There were plenty of figures from the world of culture. He and Pia started walking towards the gravesite, which was a short distance away. Pia was filming.

Ingmar Bergman was buried there alongside his wife in the simple but lovely grave situated high up in one corner of the cemetery, with a view over the fields, meadows and sea.

People had been making pilgrimages there ever since he was laid to rest. There were so many visitors that the cemetery association had been forced to put a flagstone path in the grass leading to the gravesite.

‘I can’t believe how many celebrities are here today,’ exclaimed Pia eagerly as they walked back to the church. ‘I’m going to get a few shots before they go inside.’

‘Sure,’ said Johan as he headed for the actress Pernilla August, who was talking to Jörn Donner, a famous director who had also been Bergman’s good friend.

Both of them promised Johan an interview as soon as the opening ceremonies were over.

In the crush he saw the director Sam Dahlberg. He had an open and pleasant face; his sunglasses were pushed up on his head and he had that slightly unshaven look that made him even more handsome. At the moment he was smoking a cigarette with a beautiful, dark-haired woman whom Johan recognized as his wife, Andrea. Johan introduced himself, wanting to know whether he might ask a few questions.

‘That’s fine. Go ahead,’ said Dahlberg enthusiastically.

Johan motioned for Pia to join them. She was busy documenting how Jan Troell was stuffing himself with pastries that the waitresses were serving on big silver trays. The next moment she was at his side, ready to get started.

‘What does the Bergman festival mean to you?’ asked Johan.

‘A tremendous amount. I’ve been here every year since it started. I think it’s important to discuss his work and show his films. And what better place to do that than on Fårö?’

‘What are you most looking forward to this week?’

‘The bus trip when we ride around to see all of the locations that he used in his films. Four of Bergman’s films were shot here on the island. It’s going to be especially exciting to see where Persona was filmed. Apparently it’s very near his house.’

‘Bergman’s house has stood empty for the past year, and no one seems to know what to do about it. What’s your opinion?’

‘The nightmare would be if his children think only of the money and sell it to some super-rich Arab prince or a Hollywood millionaire to use as their private summer place. But I also have a hard time imagining it as a museum, with thousands of visitors allowed to tramp through his living room and library. That would seem like an assault on Bergman, since he valued his seclusion here on Fårö so much. But I like the idea of giving out grants to writers and permitting them to spend time here. I think Bergman would have approved of that.’

‘What kind of relationship did you – or do you – have with Bergman?’

‘Unfortunately, I never met him, but I once talked to him on the phone. He rang after the premiere of my film Master to say how much he liked it. I thought Andrea was joking when she told me that Ingmar Bergman was on the phone.’ Sam Dahlberg laughed, poked his wife in the side, and shook his head.

‘So what did he say?’

‘He thought the film was important and well done. We talked for quite a while. It was an amazing conversation, and when I put down the phone, I wondered if it had actually taken place. He was calling from here on Fårö. I remember that I imagined where he might be sitting in his house, how it might look.’

‘So you’ve never been there?’

‘No, I think hardly anyone has. Its location has always been kept so secret. I know only a few people in the business who ever visited Bergman at his home, and those who have been there of course refuse to say where it’s located. Nobody knows. Not even you journalists. Am I right?’

Johan was forced to agree. Where Ingmar Bergman lived was a well-guarded secret. He was fascinated by the loyalty displayed by the residents of Fårö. Whenever a journalist appeared and asked about Bergman’s house, the people would shake their heads and seal their lips.

‘But maybe all the secrecy will come to an end now that he’s no longer alive.’

‘I assume so. And I think that’s too bad. In our media-fixated society where people’s personal lives are exposed right and left, it might be a good thing if some secrets still existed.’

Sam Dahlberg’s face took on a distracted expression, and his voice faded. At that moment the church bells began to toll.

It was time.

THE MAN STOOD a safe distance away and watched the crowd of people outside the church. He was casually dressed in dark-blue chinos and a white shirt. He wore sunglasses, even though it was overcast, and held a cigarette in his hand. Smoking fulfilled a function, since it made him seem occupied. No one noticed that he was focused on only one thing. A single thing that interested him. He was watching her, and from this distance she seemed even more beautiful. Like a madonna with her long hair falling in a mane down her back. Slender and fit, wearing a floral dress in some sort of thin fabric. So thin. He knew what was hidden underneath; he had tasted her fruits, and their sweetness still lingered on his tongue. Like a remembered pain from something that had been lost. Something that would never come back.

No, he shouldn’t think like that. It clouded his vision and made his head burn. He had to put out the fire. Take control. Think clearly. Not let anything distract him. He needed to concentrate and focus on his goal. The people around her were nothing but hazy shapes. They were completely superfluous. She was the only one he was interested in. Just her. He didn’t let her out of his sight. She thought it was over and done with, but that was only her imagination. She didn’t understand what was best for her. He was the one in charge. He tossed his cigarette butt on the ground, grinding it under the sole of his shoe. Then he turned to look at her again. She tossed her head back and laughed. He didn’t hear her.

Just watched. Biding his time.

HER FLAT WAS at the very top of the building, with a view over Visby’s multi-coloured rooftops and the sea beyond. Karin Jacobsson sipped at her evening cup of tea, peering through the dormer window. The usually expansive view was partially obscured right now because the town was swathed in a grey mist after the rain.

Her cockatoo, Vincent, was chattering happily along with the tunes coming from the radio. But Karin was feeling gloomy. She was facing a decisive moment in her life, and she had no idea how to handle it. Time had caught up with her, and she realized that she was going to be forced to deal with the problem. Otherwise she would go mad. It had to do with the daughter she had given up for adoption, the child who was now grown up and probably lived somewhere in Sweden. She would be twenty-five in September. There had been no contact between them in all these years, but now Karin had made up her mind. She had to look for her. Find out who she was.

Karin closed her eyes, summoning up memories from that brief time right after giving birth. The baby at her breast, that warm, sticky creature who was her own flesh and blood. Her little girl. Sometimes she regretted the fact that the midwife had allowed her to hold the baby for those few minutes; it had haunted her ever since. Her parents had decided that the baby would be given up for adoption. There had been no question of doing anything else, and initially Karin had offered no objections. She’d simply wanted to be rid of the evil, to forget that the rape had ever happened.

But the moment she felt the baby’s body against her own, she had changed her mind. She had loved her from the first second. In secret she had named the child Lydia.

Karin had no idea what her daughter’s real name was. She didn’t know where she lived or what sort of work she did or anything else about her. All her life, Karin had kept the secret to herself, refusing to share it with anyone. Her parents never mentioned the subject after that day in the maternity ward when the child was born. And she never saw the baby again. The yearning she had felt since then was like a hole in her heart.

The years had passed, and Karin had moved on with her life. She tried to convince herself that memories of those moments in the dimly lit delivery room would fade with time. She moved to Stockholm, entered secondary school, and made new friends. For many years she had no contact with her parents. What they had done seemed to her a terrible betrayal. They had refused to listen to her. They hadn’t told her that she was entitled to take six months to make up her mind, or that she wasn’t required to decide before giving birth. They had kept her out of the entire process and got away with it. She would never forgive them.

Then had come the police academy. When she was offered a trainee position in Visby, her first impulse had been to turn it down. She didn’t want to return to Gotland or all those memories. But eventually she changed her mind. She decided that it would be better to confront the trauma she’d been through. That was the only way to get beyond it. For the first time in many years she had visited her parents at their house in Tingstäde.

But the memory of Lydia had come back to her even more strongly. Whenever she walked around in Östercentrum, she was reminded of how she had felt when she went there with her ever-expanding stomach. How she’d had coffee with a friend, and how her friend had discovered that she was pregnant. They had been sitting in the Siesta pastry shop. Afterwards Karin had realized that the situation was untenable, that she could no longer conceal her condition. She stopped trying to hide her stomach, but she didn’t tell anyone except her parents about being raped. The shame was too much to bear.

At least now she’d made a decision, even though she was filled with dread. She would look for her daughter. Lydia was no longer a minor; she was a grown woman. Karin could find out who she was without revealing their connection.

Maybe she should speak to the young woman’s parents first, find out their view of the matter? One step at a time, she thought.

One step at a time.

IT WAS AN unusually warm evening with no wind. After the opening ceremonies, there was a party at Kuten, Fårö’s most legendary restaurant, a simple but acclaimed establishment right across from the inn.

The setting for Kuten was unique, to say the least, with a largely fifties feel to it. Originally it had been a petrol station, as evidenced by the red-painted pump that still stood on the forecourt. A Volvo PV was squeezed in between a Chevy Nova and a Cadillac from the same time period. A sign that said ‘Kuten’s Petrol’ hung above the entrance to the rather faded limestone building in which the restaurant was housed. Outside stood a row of rusty oil drums along with an old refrigerator reminiscent of the era when the Swedish welfare state was established. On the building’s façade were enamel advertising signs for Esso, Juicy Fruit, and Cuba Cola. The crowning jewel was a sickly green neon sign that said ‘Elvis’.

An outdoor bar with a Caribbean theme, decorated with coloured lights, provided a welcome break in style, along with the hard-rock music blaring from the stage. An American band had been hired for the evening’s entertainment.

The group of friends from Terra Nova found seats at a big table outdoors. The enticing aroma of grilled lamb drifted over the crowded restaurant.

‘Great,’ exclaimed Sam as he sat down. ‘What a perfect evening. Don’t you think so, sweetheart?’ He poked Andrea in the side. No one could avoid hearing the sarcasm in his voice, but Andrea pretended not to notice.

‘It certainly is,’ she replied, smiling at Sam. ‘Absolutely wonderful. And it’s so warm.’

‘It feels as if we’re in Greece or somewhere like that,’ said Beata, taking off her shawl, which offered only minimal coverage of her plunging neckline.

She always has to show off, thought Andrea. She just can’t help it.

Beata stretched her arms in the air and uttered a little chirping sound.

‘Oh, how lovely. But now I want some wine.’

They ordered several bottles and then went to get food from the chef, who stood next to the grill, serving lamb and vegetable gratin and working so hard that he was dripping with sweat.

Soon they were all seated with plates of food in front of them, their glasses filled with red wine. The discussion immediately turned to Bergman.

‘Which of his films are your favourites?’ asked Sam eagerly, glancing around at everyone.

‘I like The Magician best,’ Beata told him.

‘Are you serious?’ Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. The Magician was one of Bergman’s earlier films, a suggestive drama that was not among his more accessible works. ‘Why do you think it’s so special?’

Andrea gave Beata a look of distaste. She probably just wanted to draw attention to herself. Beata took another big sip of her wine.

‘The eroticism,’ she said, casting a mischievous glance at Sam. ‘There’s so much repressed lust in that movie, and such an erotic undercurrent. And the love scene between Lars Ekborg and Bibi Andersson, in the hamper with the freshly washed linen… don’t even mention it!’

She laughed with pleasure. Stina and Andrea exchanged looks. John joined the discussion.

‘Personally, I like Summer with Monica the best, but I’m sure that’s mostly because I love the Stockholm archipelago, and I think Harriet Andersson is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Well, except for Beata, of course.’

‘I thought as much,’ laughed Beata, unconcerned. ‘You little rascal. Didn’t she show her breasts in that movie? Was that what you fell for?’ Then she let loose such a peal of laughter that the glasses on the table clattered. Beata was always referring to sex in one way or another. Andrea didn’t know why.

An embarrassed silence ensued. Everyone made a show of drinking more wine and praising the food, then talking about the weather and the music.

‘To be honest, I’ve never really understood why Bergman is considered so great,’ said Håkan. ‘I think he’s overrated. He’s so strange and difficult. To me, the movies are mostly a hotchpotch, a bunch of disconnected scenes of fear, dark looks, screams and hysterical people.’

His remarks were met with boos.

‘You’re out of your mind,’ exclaimed Beata indignantly. ‘Bergman is world famous, for Christ’s sake.’

‘So what?’ countered Håkan. ‘He wouldn’t be the first person to become famous because of his eccentricities.’

‘You’re hopeless,’ said Stina with a sigh. ‘Everybody here should realize that they’re listening to a man whose role model is Arnold Schwarzenegger.’ She shook her head. ‘My favourite, at any rate, is Persona. In any category. It beats them all.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Sam with interest.

Stina leaned forward with an intent expression.

‘You remember Persona, don’t you? With Liv Ullmann as the celebrated actress Elisabeth Vogler who runs away from the spotlight and escapes into silence? She simply stops talking. And Bibi Andersson as her nurse, Alma, who accompanies her to the remote house where she seeks refuge? Alma thinks she’s found a soulmate in Elisabeth, even though she doesn’t say a single word. Alma gradually opens up more and more to Elisabeth – in fact, she bares herself completely, stripping herself naked, revealing her innermost thoughts and darkest secrets. But in the end it turns out that Elisabeth has just been toying with Alma, that she means nothing to her. Elisabeth utterly betrays her. I don’t know, but I think the whole film is one big desperate scream. A cry for help.’

‘Exactly,’ muttered Håkan. ‘That’s just what I was saying. They’re all about nothing but screaming.’

Sam, on the other hand, seemed impressed by what Stina had said. He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind.

THE DAY STARTED off fine. The grey skies had cleared and the sun was shining through the thin curtains. Andrea had slept well all night long, except that just after 3 a.m. she was awakened by the young girls in the next room who giggled as they came stumbling up the stairs in the small inn. The wooden floorboards creaked; there was a thud as one of them dropped something, followed by stifled laughter. In addition to film showings, discussions and lectures about the master director, the Bergman festival included a lot of late-night partying.

She had fallen asleep quickly, only to be awakened this morning by Sam’s snoring. He lay in bed with his mouth open, sound asleep. With every inhalation, a gurgling sound issued from deep in his throat and then rose up to his mouth, where it was transformed into a low growl before exploding into a roar that made his chin tremble. She turned over to study his face. With his eyes closed his dark lashes looked even thicker under his heavy brows. Although he was over forty, his hair was just as thick and dark as when they met twenty years ago. In fact, she thought, he looks even more handsome after all these years. The few wrinkles that he had at the corners of his eyes gave his face character. His nose had a strong curve and sensitive nostrils that quivered whenever he was nervous or upset. At the moment his full lips were open to allow the snoring sounds to escape with a regularity reminiscent of the lapping of the waves outside.

She woke Sam and a short time later they went down to breakfast, which was served in the dining room on the floor below. As soon as Andrea stepped in the door she was struck by the hushed atmosphere of the room. It was like entering a different century, far from the modern world. And the silence seemed to be affecting everyone. They automatically lowered their voices, breathed more calmly, moved slower. The pace was languid.

Their chairs scraped a bit on the floor as Sam and Andrea sat down.

Although the long room had big windows facing the garden, it seemed dimly lit. Heavy drapes and great quantities of knick-knacks on the window ledges also contributed to keeping out the light. The centre of the room was dominated by a rectangular table made of dark-stained oak, with an assortment of mismatched chairs: one with a high back, another with a plush seat, a third with beautifully curved legs.

Various objects had been placed along the walls: a tiled stove, an Indian elephant made of cloth, an old wind-up gramophone, a shop mannequin draped in a floral-printed dress with a black bowler on its head, a glittery theatre mask, an old sewing machine, a vinyl LP by Maurice Chevalier. The table had been set with care, covered with bowls, platters, and plates – all made of different materials and colours. Next to each place setting was a lovely ornate, stemmed crystal bowl, filled to the brim with vanilla yoghurt, topped with fresh raspberries and a little sprig of mint. There was also a glass plate shaped like a leaf which held fruit salad, a coffee cup decorated with blue flowers, and a silver spoon. In the centre of the table bowls and platters had been lined up, holding bread, cheese, ham, salami, caviar and marmalade. There were eggs in a basket, milk in a silver pitcher, and orange juice in a glass carafe. Almost every centimetre of the table surface was occupied.

From the gramophone came the gentle tones of Bob Dylan as Andrea reached for a piece of freshly baked bread. The inn was so original and so different from the settings she was used to that she found herself letting go of her need to control everything and actually started to relax. While she filled her plate, she glanced around at the others seated at the table.

Across from her sat Håkan, Stina’s husband, for whom she’d always harboured particularly warm feelings. He was so endearing, in a subdued sort of way, and his love for Stina was plain to see.

Stina looked small next to her imposing husband. She was so feminine with her petite figure, and her black shiny hair was pulled into a topknot with a girlish pink ribbon. She was dressed in a blouse and skirt. Always attired in ladylike way; always pretty even without make-up. Stina didn’t have to make much of an effort to look good. At the same time she seemed so fragile, like a tiny delicate bird. She was eating slowly, with discreet little movements. She generally ate only meagre portions, and she had a habit of moving the food around on her plate before putting anything in her mouth. The various items would change places with each other several times as she poked and stirred the bits of food every which way before finally deciding to take a bite. And then she would study the food on her fork from different angles before she cautiously put it in her mouth.

Sam used to complain about how odd she was. Her finicky eating habits drove him crazy, but Andrea had persuaded him not to say anything. He could just look the other way.

Soon after they met, Andrea and Stina had started going for walks together to get some exercise, and eventually the walks had become an essential part of their daily routines. That was when they talked about their problems, gossiped about the neighbours, exchanged advice and tips about everything from home decorating to child rearing. But lately Stina had cancelled or declined to come along when invited, offering all sorts of excuses. Andrea couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. Something was different about her friend, but she didn’t know what was wrong. She was hoping they’d have a chance to talk during this holiday trip. She missed their long, intimate conversations.

Next to Stina sat John. He was ten years younger than Beata. They had been the last of the group to move into the development. John was originally from San Diego in California. He and Beata had met in New York when she was working there as a model. John had come into the bar where she and her colleagues hung out every night, and they had started up a romance that ended with him following her back to Sweden. They now had three children, and everything had gone well for them. John had quickly adapted to life in Sweden. He ran a bar in Visby, and he spoke good Swedish, although with a strong American accent. Sometimes he just didn’t feel like making the effort and would switch to English. He was nice in a slightly affected way, bordering on pretentious, in Andrea’s opinion. It was hard to figure him out. They spent a good deal of time together, of course, and talked about all sorts of things, but it was difficult to know where he stood on many issues.

Beata, on the other hand, was very easy to read – frequently too easy. She suffered from a constant need for attention, which could be terribly annoying. And she was always talking about sex, which was also tiresome. But there were plenty of good sides to her, so Andrea tried to be tolerant. Beata just needed to be seen, as Sam said every time Andrea complained about her friend’s behaviour. He ignored Beata’s innuendos. Everyone in the group was used to them. It was a different matter when they had big parties with new arrivals who weren’t aware of Beata’s idiosyncrasies. She often ended up sitting on the lap of some new neighbour’s poor husband, her peals of laughter louder than anyone else’s. She was always touching people, especially men, massaging their shoulders, dancing too close. She seemed to lack any sense of boundaries between what was considered decent behaviour and what was inappropriate.

Over the years Andrea had discussed this with Sam many times, but he claimed that Beata was harmless; no one took her seriously. Andrea shouldn’t be bad-mouthing their friends. And Beata was a good friend, she really was. She was forthright and honest, always saying what she meant, even if that wasn’t the wisest thing to do.

Andrea sipped her coffee and looked out of the window at the apple trees in the garden. A lone man with a beard and straw hat was sitting at a table in the shade, reading. The scene looked so peaceful.

He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who that might be. There was just something familiar about him. Maybe she was thinking of an actor or someone else in the film business whom she ought to recognize. She would ask Sam later.

Suddenly the man looked up from his book and stared straight at her. Oddly enough, she felt as if she’d been caught out, as if she’d been surreptitiously studying him. She smiled with embarrassment, stirred her coffee, and turned her gaze to her friends seated around the table.

They all knew that she wasn’t particularly talkative first thing in the morning. She preferred silence, at least for her own part. She never wanted to talk to anyone until after breakfast. That was why no one had tried to draw her into the conversation; they left her alone.

Sam, on the other hand, was eagerly conversing as he helped himself liberally to everything on the breakfast table. He kept making the others laugh. He seemed to be in an unusually good mood.

THEY WERE SITTING across from each other at the kitchen table. On the radio Lisa Syrén was chatting about various topics with people at home all over Sweden. They were having breakfast indoors, in spite of the splendid weather. The children were still asleep. Knutas stole glances at his wife as she read the newspaper. Lina was wearing her reading glasses. Even though she couldn’t read anything without her glasses, she was always losing them. Each time she would rope the whole family into looking for them, and by now everyone had grown tired of it. Knutas had suggested that she fasten them to a cord that she could hang around her neck. That would make things easier for all of them. But Lina had retorted: ‘Not on your life. That will really make me look like an old lady.’

She does, in fact, look like an old lady, thought Knutas as she sat there in her worn-old bathrobe with her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She was deeply immersed in reading about personal relationships in the special inside section of Dagens Nyheter. She wasn’t especially interested in the news or politics. Her attention was most often caught by someone’s tragic fate, people’s relationship problems, or the diseases they were suffering from. The sort of thing that Knutas found unbelievably upsetting. Absentmindedly she reached for her tea cup, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the newspaper. She had eaten only an egg, a slice of ham, and a tomato for breakfast. Every once in a while Lina would go through a weight-loss craze, but it never lasted more than a couple of weeks. During that time she would completely change her diet and start working out. She had tried everything, from power-walking to African dancing, but she never stayed with any programme consistently. During their entire marriage, Lina had always been about 10 kilos overweight, and she periodically managed to lose a few of them. At the moment she didn’t seem to care. It had never bothered Knutas. He thought she looked great with her plump curves, her soft white skin, and her freckled arms and legs. She gave a big yawn, without covering her mouth.

Lately they hadn’t found as much to talk about. They were each so busy with their own jobs. Lina seldom told him about her work any more. In the past she had enthusiastically talked about everything, until it almost became too much for Knutas. Sometimes he would shut her voice out, letting her talk while he settled into his own thoughts and stopped listening. Suddenly it occurred to him that he had no idea how his wife spent her time these days when she wasn’t at work.

‘I’ve got to go into the office for a while this morning. What are you going to do today?’ he asked.

‘What did you say?’ she murmured distractedly.

He repeated his question.

‘You know very well what I’m doing. I’m taking the eleven o’clock flight to Stockholm.’

Knutas raised his eyebrows.

‘I didn’t know about that. Why are you going there?’

Lina looked up from the newspaper with a reproachful expression.

‘I told you a long time ago. I’m going to see Maria.’

‘Maria?’

‘Maria Karlsson. The photographer. I’m going to help her with that documentary book about childbirth in various parts of the world. We need to discuss the contents and how to divide up the work.’

In a far corner of his mind Knutas recalled Lina once mentioning this trip to him.

‘Oh, right. Of course.’

‘What’s wrong with you? I’m going to be gone all weekend. Did you forget about that?’

‘No, no. Of course I remember. Now that you mention it.’

‘Good.’

Lina went back to her article. An uncomfortable silence settled over them. Knutas got up and cleared the table.

He thought about the conversation that he’d had yesterday with his contact at Interpol, who had told him that they’d had some reliable tips that the double murderer Vera Petrov and her husband were in the Dominican Republic. A Swedish tourist had contacted the Dominican police, claiming that he thought he’d recognized the couple in a restaurant in the town of Puerto Plata. The local police were investigating. Knutas could only hope that the witness was right. The man had managed to photograph the pair, and sometime today the photo would be sent to Sweden.

Knutas really didn’t have time to ponder his marital problems. He just wanted to get to the office.

EVERYONE HAD HIGH expectations of the bus tour that would take them in Bergman’s footsteps. At ten o’clock on Saturday morning, a motley group had assembled outside Fårö’s former school, which now served as the information centre during the Bergman festival week. The group consisted primarily of people with ties to the film industry or the cultural world. Stina recognized Jan Troell and his wife, Jörn Donner with a well-known TV newsreader, the cultural director for the Gotland district, a Swedish author, several actors and a cinema owner from Visby. The bus tour was led by Gotland’s own film consultant, a colourful and beautiful woman. With great enthusiasm she told them about the filming that Bergman had done on Fårö and the various locations that he had used.

Andrea and Stina ended up sitting next to each other. Beata landed next to Sam, and way at the back sat Håkan and John. The bus jolted along the gravel roads, through flocks of sheep, and headed towards the wide expanse of the sea. Film clips were shown on the TV monitor before they arrived at each of the locations where the movies were shot.

‘Bergman made a total of four feature films on Fårö – Through a Glass Darkly, Persona, Shame and The Passion of Anna – as well as two documentaries,’ the guide told them. ‘According to some film critics, the windswept and barren landscape here on Fårö supposedly symbolizes the inner life of the main characters. Bergman himself said that the natural setting here suited him perfectly, and it inspired him tremendously.’

Everyone was listening attentively to the guide’s lively account.

‘Ingmar Bergman came to Fårö for the first time on a stormy April day in the early 1960s. He came here only reluctantly, looking for a location for Through a Glass Darkly. In reality, Bergman wanted to shoot the film on the Orkney Islands north of Scotland, but those plans were too expensive for the Swedish film company. The cinematographer Sven Nykvist had shot newsreels on Gotland and Fårö during the war, so he was able to tell his colleague about the barren landscape. Bergman instantly fell in love with the island, built a house here, and became a resident in 1967. He has meant a great deal to the people who live here. He donated money for various construction projects and filmed documentaries about the lives of the islanders. He put Fårö on the world map. That’s why the local people, for all these years, have been so loyal to him. No islander would ever tell a visitor where he lived, and in all this time they have respected Bergman’s well-known need for solitude.’

‘Is the location of his house still a secret, even after his death?’ asked Stina.

‘Yes. You won’t get any of the locals to tell you where it is,’ explained the guide with a smile. ‘Not even me.’

The tour continued. They found out that Bergman always drove his car down the middle of the road, that the islanders mostly viewed him as a nice man who drove to the shops and bought the newspaper every day, and as someone who was good at finding work for them – many Fårö residents were extras in his films.

While the guide was talking, Andrea poked Stina in the side.

‘Look how she’s carrying on,’ she hissed, motioning behind them. Stina discreetly turned around. Beata was on the other side of the aisle in the row behind them, sitting close to Sam and talking nonstop. She had one hand on his thigh, and he didn’t seem to mind.

‘What does she think she’s doing? Is she out of her mind?’ Andrea whispered to Stina. ‘She’s acting worse than ever. I’m going to say something to her.’

‘Wait,’ Stina told her. ‘Take it easy. You know how she is. Besides, he’s moving her hand away.’

Andrea took a quick look back. Beata’s hand was gone now, and she could tell that Sam was feeling uncomfortable. He pressed closer to the window. She turned back to Stina.

‘I don’t understand why she acts like that. Last night she was bloody annoying.’

‘She drank too much,’ said Stina drily. ‘We all do sometimes, don’t we?’

Andrea was irritated by Stina’s apparent reluctance to bad-mouth a friend. That definitely didn’t improve her mood. She wished this damn tour would be over soon so they could go to the beach. She glanced at her watch; they’d been out for an hour and a half. The sun was blazing through the dusty windows, and it was getting hotter with every minute that passed. Sweat ran down her back, and to make matters worse, the bus had no air conditioning.

‘I’ve got a slight hangover myself,’ she went on. ‘But I noticed you didn’t drink much last night.’

Stina smiled.

‘No, but that’s because I’m on call, you know. They could tell me to come in to work at any time. I didn’t want to run the risk of getting drunk. But it looks like there are others suffering from a hangover.’

She motioned towards Håkan and John, who had both fallen asleep at the back of the bus.

Andrea again glanced to the side and gave Beata an angry look.

‘On the other hand, she looks quite alert. At the next stop I’m going to change places with her. And that’s that.’

The tour ended in Hammars, and everyone realized that they must be very close to Bergman’s home. It was common knowledge that Bergman lived somewhere in Hammars.

‘In Through a Glass Darkly four people come up from the sea at that very spot,’ the guide told them, pointing at the shoreline north of Hammars. ‘And in the movie there’s a slender little tree on a cliff. Most people are very surprised when they see the same tree now, forty years later. It’s not so little any more. Persona was also shot right here.’

They all got off the bus and clips from the actual shooting of the film were shown on a large movie screen. It was easy to imagine Bergman clambering among the limestone rocks and along the shore, pointing and gesturing as he conversed with the actors. Moving back and forth to get just the right shot with the right light; working with Sven Nykvist, who was always the cinematographer for his films.

They ambled over the rocks, enjoying the view. They noticed that a short distance away, Jörn Donner and the TV newsreader were walking on ahead. They seemed to have a specific destination in mind. They stopped in front of a fence that ran across the middle of the rocks. The field on the other side was nothing more than a wide expanse of stone-covered ground before the lowlying woods began. It seemed completely desolate.

Jörn Donner raised his hand and pointed, but they couldn’t hear what he was saying. They could only guess.

THE TOUR ENDED with a luncheon, and by the time the group returned to the inn, it was already two in the afternoon. She declined to accompany the others to the beach and instead set off on a bicycle ride. She had already decided where to go, but she didn’t tell anyone what her plans were. She was going to try to find Bergman’s house. She glanced at her watch. She had four hours until she had to be back for the evening film showing. It was at least worth a try. She suspected that they had been very close to his house during the bus tour. She didn’t actually remember which way they had gone to get there, but she did know that he had lived somewhere in Hammars.

She decided to take a detour via the ferry dock at Broa in order to get some real exercise. She would bike around the promontory at Ryssudden and then go to the little village of Dämba. From there she would head to Hammars. She set off pedalling towards Fårö church, passed the turnoff for the rauk area called Langhammars, and continued down to the ferry dock. Just before reaching the strait between Fårö and Gotland, she turned on to a narrow, asphalt road and went past several limestone farmhouses that sold Fårö potatoes, strawberries and vegetables. What an idyllic country scene, she thought. On one side was the beautiful view of the sea and the houses situated on the shore of Fårösund. On the other side of her were the farms, windmills and small feed barns with high, thatched roofs typical of Fårö. She also saw flocks of sheep and windswept heaths where the trees were bent crooked by the wind, never growing taller than a metre high.

As the road meandered upwards, the landscape opened up: flat plains with stone walls in the middle of the barren landscape, juniper bushes, the skeletons of dead trees with white branches, and even more sheep, grazing undisturbed in the poor soil. She kept up a good pace, and it wasn’t long before she was drenched with sweat. She enjoyed the exertion and breathed air deep into her lungs. She passed a man standing at the edge of a ditch, staring at her. Without changing expression, he raised his hand in greeting. Otherwise the road was deserted. Most people had probably gone to the beach on such a beautiful day. Fårö had plenty of long sandy beaches.

She passed a big lake. The light-coloured gravel road, dusty with limestone, wound its way onwards, and she saw a cluster of houses up ahead. The secluded village of Dämba consisted of a dozen or so houses, surrounded by low walls. There were also small farms. An old windmill with broken sails stood on a hill a short distance away. Somewhere she’d heard that it belonged to Bergman, and that he’d used it as a guesthouse for people who worked on his films.

After a kilometre a sign appeared. Hammars. Her pulse quickened. She was now truly in Bergman country. A road, straight as an arrow, led east. On either side were meadows filled with flowers and hectares of oats billowing in the faint breeze. The sun was high overhead, and it had to be over 25 degrees centigrade. She passed pastures where well-nourished cows were grazing, and she caught glimpses of the sea. Here and there she saw a summer cottage. All of a sudden she found herself right outside a farm. Too late she discovered that it was private land, and a furious Doberman came rushing towards her as if shot out of a cannon, barking wildly. She froze in terror. The dog would reach her in a matter of seconds. She deeply regretted setting out at all. What business had she being here? At the very moment when she thought the dog was going to take a bite of her bare leg, she heard a sharp whistle. Like a remote-control robot, the dog stopped in mid-air and took off in another direction.

She breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t want to stay here a second longer than necessary, so she pedalled as fast as she could, leaving behind the dog that didn’t like strangers. The owner shouted after her, but she pretended not to hear. The road became smaller and smaller, and she jolted over cattle grids, through patches of woodland, and along expanses of shoreline. Several times flocks of sheep blocked the road, but they moved aside, bleating protests as their matchstick legs carried them in all directions. She continued on, even though by this time she had begun to have serious doubts that she was going the right way. Who cares if I’m lost, she thought. At least it’s beautiful here.

Suddenly the road split in two, and she ended up in front of a high gate with signs that said: ‘Private’, ‘Beware of the dog’, ‘Security’. Plus the name and phone number of the security company. Her mouth went dry. Was she in luck? Who else would have this kind of gate on Fårö?

Hesitantly she got off the bicycle, unsure what to do next. She looked around. There was no one in sight. The only sounds were a faint roar from the sea, a few chirping birds in the bushes and her own footsteps on the gravel.

Cautiously she pushed down on the gate’s handle. It gave a reluctant creak and seemed to resist, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. She stood on the gravel path, listening intently, but everything seemed calm. Slowly she moved forward, her steps uncertain. Someone might be here, since it was the Bergman festival week and all. But the place seemed completely dead. Desolate and abandoned. With each step, the roar from the sea grew louder.

Then she stopped. Several cars were visible between the trees. Damn it, she thought. Somebody’s here after all.

She glanced around, straining to distinguish other sounds besides the roar of the sea, the chirping of the birds, the rustling of the leaves in the trees and bushes. Her own breathing.

She didn’t know whether she dared go any further. Frantically she thought about what to say if she got caught. Maybe it would be a good idea to speak English, pretend to be a lost tourist who didn’t understand a thing. Or maybe it would be best to tell the truth. Put her cards on the table and confess. ‘Yes, I was curious. Who could blame me?’ But presumably what she was in the process of doing right now was a punishable offence. Illegal entry.

As she got closer, it became clear that the vehicles parked outside the house were anything but new. Red, dusty old Volvos that looked as if they were at least twenty years old. Probably cars that Bergman had used for his excursions around Fårö, she thought. They didn’t look as if they’d been driven in a long time. That gave her renewed courage, and she picked up her pace.

Finally she reached the house itself. A long, narrow wooden structure painted grey with blue window frames. Actually quite modest-looking. To prevent anyone from looking in, a high stone wall ran along both sides of the house. Now she began to feel certain that no one was here. The place looked as if it was locked up.

She paused for a moment to weigh up her next move. Should she make do with this and turn around? She had reached her goal; she had located the house and gone close enough to see it, although she couldn’t really make out many details of the property from here. The wall was in the way. It took another minute for her to make up her mind.

KNUTAS SAT IN his office, thumbing through the photographs that had arrived from the Dominican police and that presumably showed the woman they were trying to find, along with her husband. But the photos were a big disappointment. They were too blurry to identify the people with any certainty. The techs at the lab had already done everything in their power to enhance the images. Damn it, he thought. Just when he was starting to feel a glimmer of hope. He doubted whether they would ever catch Vera Petrov, who, to the great embarrassment of the police, had managed to slip through their clutches a couple of years ago. With help from Karin, he thought bitterly. What a fine deputy superintendent she was. He gave a start when the object of his ill-humoured thoughts stuck her head in the door.

‘Hi. Are you working?’

‘Yes. Those photographs from the Dominican Republic came in. You know, the ones that supposedly show Petrov and her husband. But they’re totally worthless. See for yourself.’

He handed her the photos.

‘That’s too bad,’ said Karin. ‘You can’t really see anything.’

Her expression was inscrutable. Knutas couldn’t tell whether she was relieved or disappointed.

‘It looks like we’re back at square one. By the way, what are you doing here on a Saturday?’

Karin sighed and sat down in the visitor’s chair.

‘I’m feeling so restless. I keep thinking about Lydia and what I should do. I’m just too antsy to stay at home. I was thinking of tackling some of the piles of old paperwork that I’ve got lying around. Just to get my mind on to something else.’

‘Sure,’ said Knutas, nodding. ‘So what are you going to do? About Lydia?’

‘I want to find her, and I’ve done some investigating about how to proceed.’ Jacobsson bit her lip and fell silent for a moment. ‘It’s actually pretty simple. I talked to the Adoption Centre, and to social services here in Visby, and they all say the same thing. Since Lydia is over eighteen, there’s nothing to stop me from seeking her out. Actually, I could have done it sooner, but they usually recommend that biological parents wait to make contact until the child is no longer a minor. It can be a sensitive issue, and it’s not certain that her adoptive parents would have told her about the situation – I mean, that she was adopted. So essentially, I’m free to make my move, as they say. All I have to do is phone the tax authorities to find out what I need to know. Her name, where she lives, and who her adoptive parents are…’ Her voice faded away.

‘Why are you hesitating?’

‘To be quite honest, Anders, I’m scared out of my wits. What if she doesn’t want anything to do with me? And as I said, she might not have a clue that she was adopted. Even though the woman at the Adoption Centre and the person at social services said they recommend that adoptive parents do that. Tell the children, I mean. But of course it’s their decision. It’s different if the child is from China or somewhere like that; then it’s a lot more obvious. But Lydia is a hundred per cent Swedish. No one would be able to tell from her appearance, and maybe her parents wanted to protect her from the truth. I mean, she could have contacted me herself, but she never has, even though she’s nearly twenty-five. So I’m thinking that she doesn’t know. Don’t you agree?’

‘Maybe. There might be another reason. Maybe she hasn’t tried to find you out of concern for her adoptive parents. It’s possible that they would be upset.’

Knutas had put down the photos and was studying his colleague intently. He had complete sympathy for the anguish she was going through.

‘And I’m wondering what would happen afterwards,’ Karin went on. ‘If I do find out who she is, what’s the next step? Should I just call her up and say: “Hi, it’s your mother”? That won’t work. Should I write her a letter? Or should I just go over and ring the doorbell? When I think that far, I get terrified, panic-stricken. What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she pushes me away? Asks me why I’ve turned up now after all these years, when I never cared about her before – at least in her eyes. At the moment I can at least dream about us meeting and having a good relationship.’ Karin buried her face in her hands. ‘I don’t know whether I dare, Anders. But what if I never see her again in my life? That would be the worst of all.’

THE FOREST OUT here was more dense and impenetrable than he had thought. He had planned to take a short cut to avoid being seen, but it had turned out to be more difficult than he’d counted on. Annoyed, he fought his way through the thickets, pushing branches aside as best he could and trying not to stumble over the uneven ground, the tree roots, the old underbrush and the rabbit holes. He didn’t really know what he was expecting. Of course, he hoped to see her. Weeks and months had passed without him giving her a thought. He’d had other things on his mind. But then one day he’d been going through a box of photographs and found all the pictures he’d taken of her, most of them in secret. And everything had come back to him, overwhelming him like an avalanche. Memories crowded in on him, and long-slumbering floods of emotion awoke. He had no defences. It was as if she took over his life again, piece by piece. He hated her because he couldn’t help looking at the photos, over and over. He wished he could erase her from his life when she appeared to him in the night and roused him from his dreams, keeping him sleepless. For hours he would lie in bed, wide awake, staring into the dark and picturing her face, which made it impossible for him to drop back off. He couldn’t think about anything else. In the past he had been the stronger one; he held the power and could do whatever he liked with her. Then everything had changed. Suddenly she wanted nothing to do with him. Ice cold, she had locked him out, refused any further contact. Never answered his text messages or emails. He had been carrying around such anger.

He looked at her now, between the trees. She was turned away from him, gazing out at the sea. Her hair hung down her back, gleaming in the sunlight. The underbrush rustled beneath his feet. He continued moving forward, not letting her out of his sight. She had kept her trim shape.

Soon it would be his turn again.

He was convinced of that.

WITH AN AWKWARD leap she landed on the other side of the wall. The ground was soft. The property on this side offered nothing more than a meagre amount of grass and a few pitifully stunted pines struggling to survive the wind in such an exposed location. But right now there was only a light breeze. The sea stretched out before her like a blue carpet, glittering in the sun. The road down to the water, a hundred or so metres from the house, was rocky and dry. The shore was strewn with stones, extending as far as the eye could see. Off in the distance a promontory stuck out, blocking the view. Wild and beautiful. It was easy to understand why Bergman had loved this remote spot. Enchanted, she stood there trying to take in the whole scene.

The house didn’t really look very impressive. The greyish-brown façade facing the sea bore clear traces of the weather. It was a single-storey structure that seemed to go on and on, with small windows. Typical sixties design. A veranda faced the sea. It was rather worn-looking, with several old deckchairs leaning against the wall. A table with a cement top was fastened to a low, knotty tree trunk growing out of the rocky ground. Amazing. The gusts must be fierce when the wind really started to blow. She could just imagine it whistling around the corners of the house during an autumn storm. And the darkness. It must be terribly dark out here in the autumn and winter when the daylight disappeared around four in the afternoon.

She wandered slowly along in front of the house; then she went up on to the veranda and peered in through a window. There she saw the kitchen, with simple wooden cupboards and an ordinary pine table. Nothing remarkable at all. A candlestick with a partially burnt candle stood on the table. The clock on the wall had stopped.

Suddenly she gave a start. A shadow danced across the floor. The next instant she relaxed when she realized that it was the sun playing through the crowns of the trees. It was just her imagination that someone had appeared. She sat down on the veranda and leaned against the wall with her face lifted towards the sun. The trees surrounding the house whispered in her ears; a seagull shrieked from the water. A man in a rowing boat was fishing out there. Again she closed her eyes, feeling the sun on her face. Here she sat, all alone on Ingmar Bergman’s veranda. Almost as if she belonged to the family and had a right to be here. In her mind she pictured him coming out of the house.

Then another thought slipped in. Slowly, as if it didn’t really want to announce its presence. No, she thought. That’s crazy. Her gaze swept over the warm wooden floor of the veranda, the sheltering trees, the silent house, the cloudless blue sky. Things really couldn’t get any better, but that would be the icing on the cake. She glanced at her watch. It was three thirty. There was still time. Eagerly she opened her shoulder bag and took out her mobile. Then she tapped in a text message.

JOHAN AND PIA had finished editing their report about the Bergman festival, and the Stockholm bureau was pleased with it. There were no regional news broadcasts on Saturday, so they had produced the story for Rapport, which was going to include it in their main programme. Pia Lilja was thrilled. She was young and ambitious and dreamed of getting a job at one of the big TV stations in Stockholm, so of course she was always eager to show off her talents. Since she was working away from the mainland, that was essential in order to draw the attention of the national news programmes. For some reason they didn’t really seem to value anyone who ‘only’ worked with the local news, treating her almost as if she were less intelligent. A lower-echelon creature in the rigid and inflexible hierarchy of television. Pia was well aware that she’d probably have to spend a number of years struggling before she could hope of getting even a temporary summer position in Stockholm.

The following day Johan’s replacement was due to arrive, so the report on the Bergman festival was going to be his last for quite a while. He had a sense of unreality as he gathered up his belongings in the editorial office. He had never been away from his job for such a long time. Pia sat there with her feet propped up on the desk and watched him from under her straggly black fringe. She had a different coloured gemstone in her nostril today. It was just as black as her hair and the heavy kohl eyeliner she favoured.

‘I’m going to miss you, you know,’ she muttered.

‘Same here.’ Johan glanced up from the boxes he was packing and smiled. ‘You might not even be here when I get back.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’m ever going to escape this place. I’ll probably be shooting pictures of herds of sheep, flags on the municipal building and the ring wall until the day I die.’

‘Right. If there’s anyone who’s going to be hanging around here until retirement, it’s me. The difference is that I actually wouldn’t mind.’

‘I know. You silly Mr Mum. We used to be able to go out partying together. But not any more. In that respect, Madeleine Haga is going to be a lot more fun.’

Madeleine had been hired as Johan’s replacement. He had worked with her in Stockholm and knew her well. They’d even had a bit of a fling a long time ago. That had happened, too, with several other women who had come and gone at the news bureau over the years. Before he met Emma, he’d lived a very different sort of life.

‘By the way, I’m getting hungry. Isn’t it about time for our little farewell dinner?’

‘Absolutely,’ Johan said with a grin. ‘The sooner I get out of here, the better.’

Pia had booked a table at a newly opened place on Adelsgatan. The Élite was a first-class restaurant that also had a popular outdoor bar. They walked over there and, as usual, Pia attracted a lot of attention. She was almost six feet tall and slender, with piercings in her nose and navel, which she liked to show off by wearing tops that were much too short. She had unusually large breasts and the biggest eyes that Johan had ever seen. And she used a sooty-coloured eye shadow to enhance the effect. The result was that people stared – both men and women. And Pia enjoyed the attention.

Normally she had a new boyfriend every week, especially during the summer season, but a year ago she had changed completely when it came to that aspect of her life. And her choice of lover was unexpected, to say the least. She had met a sheep farmer on Sudret – a taciturn and morose sort of man, in Johan’s opinion. But Pia was more in love than she’d ever been before. When Johan asked her how she was planning to combine a TV career in Stockholm with the life of a sheep farmer, she had merely shrugged, telling him that plenty of people commuted between Stockholm and Gotland.

‘I can come home at the weekends. For me, that would be enough, because then we’d have even more fun when we were together. And I wouldn’t have to feed those dumb sheep every morning,’ she’d said, giving a whoop of laughter.

Johan would never fully understand Pia, but she was the best cameraperson he’d ever worked with, and he enjoyed her company. He really meant it when he said that he would miss her.

They sat down at the table and ordered white wine and seafood pasta.

‘Skål,’ said Johan after filling their glasses. ‘This is going to be bloody great. I won’t have to work for almost a year.’

‘Skål.’ Pia raised her glass. ‘Let’s just hope that nothing dramatic happens while you’re staying at home and taking care of the kids. How do you think you’ll manage?’

‘No problem. Once you have children, the world somehow shrinks, and everything starts to revolve around them. Changing nappies, deciding what to have for dinner, what groceries to buy, tending to a sick child, taking his temperature and pampering him, and all sorts of other things. When you’re involved in taking care of young children, everything else seems so unimportant.’

‘It sounds fucking wonderful,’ said Pia drily as she took another sip of her wine and lit a cigarette. ‘But can I ring you if I need help?’

‘Of course. But Madeleine is a professional, so I don’t think you’ll have any problems with her.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Pia without much enthusiasm. ‘We might be scratching out each other’s eyes before the first week is over.’

‘Well, that’s not my problem,’ replied Johan, grinning. ‘But I hope you’ll still be here when I get back.’

‘I’m not promising anything.’

THE CINEMA IN the northern part of Fårö had its premises in a red-painted barn with white trim, located amidst the summer cottages in the holiday community of Sudersand, which had sprouted up around the popular sandy beach. The assembled spectators helped themselves to sparkling wine and hors d’oeuvres as they waited for the evening’s programme to begin. They were going to see the film masterpiece Fanny and Alexander, with an introduction by the actors Jan Malmsjö and Ewa Fröling, who had played two of the leading roles in the movie.

The group of friends walked around, mingling with the other audience members and enjoying the warm summer evening. Now and then Håkan would look around for Stina. She hadn’t turned up yet.

‘Where’s Stina?’ asked Beata, as if she could read his thoughts.

‘Apparently she met an old friend while she was out on her bike ride, so she’ll be here later. She phoned from Kuten. If I know her, they’re probably sitting there talking about childhood memories and drinking wine and have forgotten all about the time,’ said Håkan with a smile. ‘Apparently the guy she ran into was one of her best friends for several years. He was in her class in middle school, and they haven’t seen each other for at least twenty years.’

‘Oh. So it’s a guy? Maybe you should be worried,’ John teased him.

‘Ha. Jealousy has never been my thing,’ said Håkan, still grinning. ‘You of all people should know that.’

‘I hope she gets here soon,’ said Andrea quickly. ‘It’d be a shame for her to miss the introduction.’ She turned to look towards the driveway leading up to the cinema.

‘It’s amazing how you can meet people from all over at this kind of event,’ Sam interjected. ‘I’ve run into colleagues that I haven’t seen in ages – and Andrea also met an old friend that she hadn’t seen in… how many years?’

‘More than thirty. We were in primary school together,’ Andrea laughed. ‘Over at the Bergman Centre this afternoon. And the funniest part was that she recognized me at once, even though she hadn’t seen me since I was nine.’

‘Well, you haven’t changed a bit since then,’ said Sam drily. ‘Skål.’

He raised his glass but didn’t smile. At the same moment they heard the gong ring.

The show was about to start.

WHEN THEY CAME out of the cinema four hours later, Stina still hadn’t appeared. Håkan switched on his mobile and discovered that he’d missed several calls as well as a text message. Hi, Sweetheart. Big crisis at work, have to fly to Bangkok 23.05. If we don’t catch each other, I’ll call tomorrow. Love you. Kisses, Stina. Håkan sighed in resignation and turned to the others.

‘Stina was called in to work.’ He looked at his watch. Eleven fifteen. ‘Right now she’s probably demonstrating the emergency procedures on board the plane to Bangkok.’

‘Oh, how disappointing,’ exclaimed Andrea. ‘I was hoping that she’d slipped in during the film. Now she’s going to miss the party.’

‘That’s really too bad,’ Sam agreed sympathetically.

‘She’s on call, so it’s not exactly unexpected,’ Håkan replied. ‘I’m used to it. We’ll just have to have fun without her.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you,’ Beata consoled him as she came up behind them and took his arm. ‘Come on.’

They headed for the chartered buses that were taking everyone to Kuten. There a light dinner would be served, followed by dancing to the Bo Kasper band.

They were all thirsty and eager to talk after the long film. Sam immediately started waxing poetic about the editing techniques, the acting, the script and the lighting. He talked about the parallels between the film and Bergman’s own life, and about how the film ought to be interpreted.

John and Håkan exchanged glances and drank a toast. Sam wore them out with his long monologues about Bergman. Håkan looked worried and picked up his mobile. No answer from Stina. She was probably fully occupied on board the plane, so they wouldn’t be able to talk until the next day.

Beata was the only one at the table who showed any interest in what Sam was saying.

‘But there’s one thing that fascinates me about Bergman,’ she managed to say when Sam paused to catch his breath. ‘He was so damned insightful when it came to women, their feelings and reactions. Take for example A Lesson in Love. I think it must be from sometime in the fifties, but there are lines of dialogue that could just as well have been spoken today – half a century later.’

‘Like what?’ Sam was looking at her with interest.

‘Well, like when she talks about her view of women’s sexuality.’

‘Really? What does she say?’

‘That guys are allowed to have as many lovers as they like, while a woman who amuses herself sexually is considered a slut. It’s the same thing today.’

‘Is that really true? I don’t know whether I agree.’

‘No? As soon as women indulge in purely sexual desires, it leads to enormous problems for men. They just can’t handle it. They feel lost and frustrated; they lose confidence in themselves and their masculine identity. They can’t deal with being challenged in that way. It’s true that men may be attracted to sexually liberated women, but in their hearts they would prefer us to be unsullied madonnas. At least the women that they choose for themselves. No matter how much they may pretend otherwise,’ she went on, giving John a sharp look. ‘It’s OK for others to have loose morals, but a man’s own woman has to control herself, and be content with only him, the man who chose her to be his mate. And that’s regardless of how dissatisfying their sex life might be for her. The man may dream about sexual games, but when it comes right down to it, he can’t handle that.’

Sam gave her an inscrutable look.

‘It sounds like you speak from experience.’

‘You think so?’ She gave a little laugh.

THE SUN HAD long since disappeared into the sea, and twilight had settled over the remote property in Hammars. It never got truly dark at this time of year. The sea was roaring, and the wind had picked up. Several nocturnal terns shrieked over the waves, finding no peace. The wind whistled angrily around the corners of the house, rattling the roof tiles. Little birds and rabbits sought refuge among the tufts of grass, and the cattle grazing outside headed for the groves of trees where they would find some shelter from the wind.

Suddenly a solitary figure emerged from the shadows and approached the building, seeming to have a definite goal and clearly aware of which way to go. The person didn’t climb over the stone wall that surrounded the house but instead went through the gate a short distance away. Moved quickly and deliberately across the grounds, up on to the veranda.

At first glance an outsider might have thought it was the owner of the property who had come home but had forgotten the key, so had to search for the extra key in one of the pots standing on the veranda.

The dark-clad figure was looking for something, fumbling over the wooden benches, the rough stone table and the surrounding area. Crawling, touching the ground, but apparently not finding what was missing. Then continuing down towards the sea, struggling against the wind that was now tearing at the crowns of the trees as the waves pounded the stony shore. Going through the dilapidated fence and over to the upside-down rowing boat at the water’s edge, which was rocking back and forth in an alarming way in the wind.

Then the heavy work began, and it went on for a long time.

The sea grew increasingly angry in the howling wind.

Invisible from the shore, another rowing boat moved further and further away from Fårö.

THE PASSENGER FERRY M/S Stora Karlsö chugged towards Norderhamn where it sailed through an idyllic bay between steep limestone cliffs. After Yellowstone National Park in the United States, Stora Karlsö was the world’s oldest protected nature preserve, famous above all for the thousands of common guillemots, but also for the orchids that covered the island in the springtime. It wasn’t a big island – just one and half kilometres from north to south, and two kilometres wide.

Stora Karlsö had no year-round inhabitants, but every summer ten thousand tourists visited the island to enjoy its unique flora and fauna.

The group of friends had barely managed to catch the nine-thirty ferry from Klintehamn. They were running late because Håkan had overslept.

Now, as the boat approached the island, Sam and Andrea were standing with John and Beata in the bow, enjoying the view. Håkan had stayed inside, retreating from the others to spend his time intently tapping on his mobile.

Sam watched him through the windows to the passenger area. Håkan seemed anxious, not his usual friendly and easy-going self. His movements were abrupt and frenzied. There were lines around his mouth that weren’t normally there. Last night he had told them that he was worried about his eldest daughter who had moved away from home and now lived alone in Stockholm. Apparently things were even more difficult for her than usual. He was also disappointed that Stina had been forced to go back to work, even though he knew that there was always that risk when she was on call. Håkan seemed nervous and off balance. He had started squinting, which was a sign that things weren’t going well; it happened only whenever he was tired or in a bad mood.

THE CRIES OF the guillemots were deafening. The steep slopes were black with thousands of birds crowded on to the narrow ledges. The sea below was full of male birds calling to their broods, and the air was whizzing with females, shrieking as they flew back and forth from the ledges to inspire the fledglings to dare to dive. Dust was settling in a protective layer over the limestone rocks where the young birds, who had not yet tried to fly, prepared for the great dive. Twenty days earlier they had hatched on the ledges, and now it was time for them to leave the cliffs and follow their fathers out to sea. There they would make their way to the southern part of the Baltic by swimming. The birds went all the way to the Polish shores to spend the winter there before returning in the spring to the exact same ledges on Stora Karlsö. The diving occurred over a period of one hour. It always began after ten o’clock at night, when it was more or less dark, or at least as dark as it would get in June. At that time of year it was never truly night. The birds waited until evening because their biggest enemy, the gulls, didn’t see well in the dark, so they wouldn’t be able to take the babies when they dropped like stones towards the ground from a height of 30 or 40 metres.

Each year the ornithologists needed help to capture a couple of thousand baby birds that had to be weighed, measured, and marked before they were allowed to disappear out to sea. This required assistance from the public, and about thirty volunteers would show up every evening until the work was done.

After a short briefing meeting near the lighthouse, the group headed for the beach, led by a number of researchers. Everyone was wearing warm sweaters and wellington boots. They followed a winding path along the ridge until they came to a sturdy iron ladder that had been bolted to the slope. It was a lengthy and steep climb down to the shore. The beaches around the island were closed during the spring and summer because of the breeding birds. More than six thousand pairs of guillemots and even more pairs of razor-billed auks bred on the ledges of the steep slopes. The closer to the beach the group of volunteers came, the stronger the din from the thousands of male birds waiting out in the water. The activity was intense, even though the diving itself hadn’t yet begun. The shore was rocky and stretched along the full length of the bird cliff. The assistants spread out, while some of the boldest and most nimble in the group made their way out to the big boulders.

Andrea looked up at the steep cliff and could hardly believe her eyes. The ledges were teeming with birds. She caught a glimpse of some of the fledglings peering fearfully over the edge. Incredible that they dived from such a height even though they hadn’t yet begun to fly. The first brave birds hurled themselves off the cliffs and slammed into the ground. One landed right next to her. Terrified, she stared at the baby bird; at first glance it seemed lifeless. But as she went nearer, it shook its head, began peeping, and then dashed for the water. It ran and leaped over the rocks, desperately flapping its embryonic wings.

Andrea managed to catch the bird just as it reached the water’s edge. She held its warm, plump body in her hands. Its little black head turned to her, and then it started nipping at her hand with its sharp beak, which really hurt. She was annoyed that no one had told her to wear gloves. She hurried over to one of the tables where four researchers were busy weighing, measuring and taking DNA samples from the birds that were caught, before tagging them. She was told to put the bird into a cage that stood nearby, and then go back for another. More and more baby birds were dropping from the sky, which made Andrea think about the American film Magnolia, which she and Sam had seen a few years back. At the end of the movie frogs started raining down from the heavens. She had the same apocalyptic feeling now.

Nearly all the birds survived the fall because of their round shape: their bodies were like little airbags.

It was intense work. Everyone moved frenetically to catch as many birds as possible, and they soon shed their sweaters and jackets. One bird struck Andrea on the shoulder and another her head. Her friends ran around like lunatics in the dim light. Beata kept uttering little cries whenever tiny balls of fluff thudded down near her slender legs clad in purple-flowered wellingtons. Off in the distance, among the boulders in the most difficult and least accessible places, she glimpsed Sam’s tall form. He was crawling around, trying to reach the birds that landed in the crevices. She paused to watch her husband for a while. Tomorrow she was planning to surprise him with the trip she had booked to Florence.

What a wonderful time they were going to have.

MORNING DAWNED OVER Stora Karlsö, and after a solitary breakfast, Jakob Ekström headed down to the beach near Hienviken. Yesterday he had left his windsurfing gear there, in an outbuilding intended for that purpose. The forecast said the weather was going to deteriorate later in the day, so he wanted to be sure to go out while it was still nice. The sun was shining, and so far the wind conditions were perfect.

Moving quickly and efficiently, he prepared his gear at the water’s edge and put on his wetsuit. The water was still so cold that it wasn’t wise to stay in for very long.

The bay was quiet and peaceful. Not a soul in sight. The people staying in the nearby cabins were apparently still asleep. He looked at his watch. Nine fifteen. It was high time to get started.

He waded into the water and then hopped up on his board, letting the wind fill the sail. Jakob felt the familiar rush in his stomach as the board picked up speed, racing forward and going faster the further out he went. The speed made his eyes water, and an almost euphoric sense of joy streamed through him. He laughed aloud and hollered into the wind. This is better than anything, he thought.

Clouds were gathering on the horizon, but for now they were staying away.

After an hour of invigorating windsurfing, he was quite a distance out from where he’d started, drifting far from land. His wetsuit felt cold against his body, and his arms were beginning to tire. The weather was rapidly getting worse. It had grown significantly darker, and from far off he heard a thunderclap. It crashed across the sky. He needed to go back. He turned his board and caught sight of the bird mountain. The steep limestone cliffs plunged straight down to the sea, and on the ledges he glimpsed the swarms of black birds. He gave a start and almost lost his grip on the boom when a seal’s head popped up from the water right next to him. The seal gave him a surprised look and then disappeared again. He remembered that the chief ranger had said that a porpoise had been sighted off the island a few days ago.

Suddenly he realized that he was getting too close to the rough, inaccessible shore with the huge, jutting boulders that were like barriers, keeping away all unwelcome visitors. He’d heard that the chief ranger kept a sharp eye out for anyone who got too close to the nature preserves, whether it was canoeists or windsurfers, and he always reported them to the police. The darkening clouds looked threatening; the rain might arrive sooner than predicted. He looked up at the sky to try to determine how close the storm was now, but when his gaze reached the top of the cliff, he forgot all about focusing on his surfing. Jakob Ekström stood on his board as if paralysed. He would never forget the sight that met his eyes up there. The gruesome scene happened so quickly, taking little more than a few seconds, but it made such a strong impression on him that it became etched into his memory for the rest of his life.

IT WAS WELL into the morning by the time the friends from Terra Nova began stirring in their cabins down near the water. The first to appear was Beata, with her hair pulled into an untidy bun and her tall, slender body barely covered by a thin nightgown. She stretched luxuriously, yawned, and gazed out at the bay. The sea was rough and the wind had picked up. Thunderclouds were gathering, but the air was still warm. She made a quick trip to the toilet before walking down to the dock. There was no one around. Swiftly she slipped out of her skimpy garment and dived naked into the water. The cold slammed against her chest. She swam far enough out to be able to see the cliffs of the small island. On the horizon she could just make out the contours of Gotland. How strange to see my home island from this perspective, she thought. She turned around and saw Håkan coming down to the dock.

‘Good morning!’ she called. ‘Or maybe I should say good afternoon?’

Håkan waved and then glanced up at the sky.

‘Isn’t it cold in the water? It’s going to start raining any minute.’

‘No, it’s great. Come on in and join me.’

Quickly Håkan threw off his clothes, but he kept on his underwear.

‘Take it all off. You’re not shy, are you?’

A slight hesitation, and then he stripped off his underwear and dived in. A few seconds later his head bobbed up from the water, and he was snorting like a seal.

‘Shit, it’s cold! You could have warned me!’

‘What do you mean?’ called Beata innocently. ‘There was I thinking you were a real Viking!’

It started raining just as Andrea came down to the dock.

‘Good morning,’ she called, waving.

‘Good morning to you, sleepyhead. It’s already past eleven,’ shouted Beata.

‘I don’t know how I could sleep so long. I guess I was worn out from yesterday. I think I caught about thirty baby birds.’

‘Where’s Sam?’ asked Håkan.

‘He was gone when I got up. I thought he was out here with you.’

‘No, we haven’t seen him,’ said Håkan.

‘His painting gear is gone, so he must have gone out to paint. Not exactly great weather for it.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘Maybe it was better earlier. He’s probably sitting somewhere doing his artwork. But I don’t think he’ll be long. The storm is already here.’

Beata and Håkan quickly got out of the water, and then all three of them ran for the cabins, hunching over as the rain suddenly came pouring down.

John joined them as they were making breakfast in the kitchen of one of the cabins. Then they dashed over to the big common room in the old hunting lodge, which had been built in the late 1800s as a gathering place for the members of an aristocratic club dedicated to hunting hares on the island.

They settled in front of the fireplace.

‘Oh, how cosy,’ sighed Beata contentedly, sipping at her cup of strong, hot coffee. ‘By the way, I have to tell you what happened yesterday after you’d all gone to bed. John and I decided to stay up for a while. It was hours after the last baby had dived off the ledges, and all the birds in the water had disappeared. But suddenly we heard a peeping sound coming from the bushes, and there was a lost guillemot hopping about right below the veranda. Every once in a while it would peep, and it seemed so forlorn. It must have gone astray, and instead of going down to the water, it got lost on the beach and headed up to the woods.’

‘Oh…’ murmured Andrea, amused.

‘We chased it down to the water, and it finally went in and began swimming away. We could see its head and a little wake left behind in the water as it headed out to sea. And we thought that little baby was done for. But guess what happened.’

Andrea didn’t answer. She was looking out at the white horses through the rain-streaked window and seemed lost in thought.

‘Hello. Are you listening?’ Beata sounded offended.

‘Sure. Of course I am.’

‘Don’t worry about Sam,’ said Håkan. ‘He’ll be back soon.’

‘When the baby bird had swum out a short distance, it began peeping again,’ Beata went on. ‘And you know what? It wasn’t long before it got an answer, and we saw a male bird coming from far away, from the other side of the bird mountain. And it was peeping nonstop so that the baby would hear. They swam until they reached each other and then disappeared together out to sea. Cute, huh?’ Beata clapped her hands.

Sometimes she’s such a child, thought Andrea.

‘That’s amazing. Really.’

‘Yeah, a real Walt Disney ending to the day. It was unbelievable. I think that’s the one thing I’ll remember most from out here.’ Beata sighed happily.

Andrea drank the rest of her coffee.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

‘Twelve forty-five,’ replied Håkan.

‘Can that be right?’ Andrea frowned, and then turned again to look out of the window.

‘Sam will be fine,’ said Håkan, trying to reassure her. ‘He probably sought shelter from the storm. He’ll be back as soon as it stops raining.’

KARIN JACOBSSON HAD closed the door to her office in police headquarters so she could make the phone call in peace. It was the most important call of her life, so far. She had decided to start by finding out more about the adoption procedure and how it had been accomplished before she did any more digging into the past. She tapped in the number for the tax office and supplied her national insurance number. Ten minutes later all the information arrived by fax. Her heart was pounding when the fax machine beeped to announce that the printout was ready. She stared at the machine that stood in a corner of her office. The pages were neatly stacked up in the tray. They represented the only thing of importance in her life, the only thing that had any real meaning: the information about her daughter – her name and where she lived. It was incomprehensible and made her feel dizzy. Karin’s mouth went dry, and she longed for a cigarette. Slowly she got up from her chair with her eyes fixed on the fax machine. Her hand shook as she reached for the pages. Without looking at them, she picked them all up and went back to her desk to sit down. She took a deep breath before she began to read. Her eyes immediately stopped on a date and a name.

Born 14 September 1983 at 7.16 a.m. in Visby hospital. Hanna Elisabeth von Schwerin. Karin stopped breathing and just stared at the name: von Schwerin. Of all the God-awful names.

Karin was a confirmed supporter of left-wing politics; she detested everything that had to do with ultra-conservative and right-wing beliefs. But her own daughter, Lydia, had the ultimate aristocratic surname. The room slowly began to spin. It couldn’t be true. There was nothing worse. She pictured a blonde young woman with a pageboy hairstyle and pearl necklace, her blouse tucked into a straight black skirt, wearing nylon stockings and pumps. Pink lipstick. Living in a big flat in the Östermalm district of Stockholm. Right-wing opinions, a manor house in Skåne and skeet shooting. She couldn’t imagine anything more terrible. The class difference alone would create an insurmountable barrier between them.

She pictured herself ringing the doorbell of her daughter’s place, wearing her tracksuit jacket, jeans and Converse trainers. Her daughter’s supercilious expression. You’re supposed to be my mother? Ha!

Karin stared at the name for a long time, speechless as thoughts whirled through her mind.

THE RAIN PATTERED on the roof. Beata, Andrea, John and Håkan were playing cards and reading in the lodge’s common room as they waited for Sam to return.

‘Where the hell can he be?’ Andrea gathered up the cards after the second round and peered out of the window, even though the visibility was non-existent. It was impossible to see down to the shore any more. ‘OK, that’s enough. I’m going to go look for him.’

‘You can’t go out in this weather. Isn’t he answering his mobile?’ said Beata, not taking her eyes off the page of the paperback book that she was reading.

‘No, the coverage out here is really lousy,’ complained Andrea. ‘I tried to phone the kids too, but it’s not working.’

‘Same with me,’ said Håkan. ‘I haven’t been able to contact Stina. She hasn’t texted me or answered her mobile since we got here. The kids haven’t either,’ he muttered.

‘The chief ranger said that the coverage is erratic on the island. So while we’re here we apparently can’t count on getting in touch with the outside world. That’s what he told us as soon as we came ashore,’ said John. ‘It’s no use even trying our mobiles. And I think that’s just as well, by the way. It feels damn great to be free of those wretched things for a while.’

‘I agree in principle, but I have to admit that it would have been nice if they were working at the moment. It seems strange that Sam has been gone so long. And in this horrible weather. Did he take anything with him to eat? He must be hungry by now.’

‘Maybe he met somebody with a big lunch box,’ Beata joked, rolling her eyes and poking Andrea in the side. ‘Maybe he’s having his fill right now, of one thing and another.’

‘Very funny.’ Andrea gave her an annoyed look. ‘As soon as the rain stops, I’m going out to look for him. It’s not a big island, after all.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ said Beata amiably. ‘The rain is already letting up. While we’re waiting, we can get changed.’

At decisive moments, Beata always came through. Andrea smiled gratefully, reminded why they were such good friends, in spite of everything.

They went over to their respective cabins and changed into outdoor gear and wellingtons. As if on command, the rain stopped and the clouds dispersed so they were able to set off. The path around the island was hilly, and the ground was uneven. The rocks were slippery, and it was muddy after the day’s downpour.

‘How long do you think it takes to get round the whole island?’ asked Andrea as they walked towards the restaurant and café.

‘I read in the brochure that it’s six kilometres in circumference, but I’m sure it’s much shorter if we stick to the walking path. It’ll probably take us an hour, tops. He must have taken shelter from the rain somewhere. There are tons of caves on the island. He’s probably sitting inside of one of them, moping. I think we should search along the shore. But we can’t actually go out on the beaches, because they’re all closed to tourists.’

‘There’s no real reason to think that he’d be down near the water,’ Andrea objected. ‘He could just as well have gone to a valley in the centre of the island.’

‘In any case, Sam is fully capable of taking care of himself. And besides, he’s only been missing since this morning.’

‘You’re right.’ Andrea laughed, feeling a bit embarrassed. ‘I know it’s probably ridiculous to get so worried. But I’m thinking about his diabetes. He’s not good about eating regular meals, and sometimes he forgets to take his insulin with him. I’m afraid that he might have passed out. But I’m the nervous type, as you well know. Sam is always teasing me for acting like such a mother hen with the children. And whenever he doesn’t come home at the time he promised, I can’t help imagining the worst.’

They went into the restaurant and asked around, but no one had seen Sam since the previous evening. As they came back outside, the sun broke through the clouds. After that, the temperature quickly rose. They checked the pirate cave, which the guide had shown them during the sightseeing tour they’d taken the day before. Then they continued along the walking path, calling Sam’s name and searching the bushes and thickets. They looked for him among the boulders along the sea, at the bird mountain, and in the valleys. They even went all the way out to the lighthouse. Sam was nowhere to be found. And not one of the people they asked had seen him. In the meantime, the afternoon ferry had left the island. Many of those who had spent the past day on Stora Karlsö had now gone back to Gotland, while new tourists had arrived to take their place.

They sat down on the lighthouse steps.

‘What should we do? I’m really starting to get worried now,’ said Andrea. Her voice quavered a bit.

Beata looked concerned. She took a big gulp of water from the bottle that they’d brought along and glanced at her watch.

‘Three fifty. Where could he be?’ She took out her mobile. ‘I’m going to ring John and find out if Sam has turned up there.’

‘But do you think it will really-’

That was all Andrea managed to say before Beata angrily stuffed her mobile back in her belt bag.

‘Dead as a doornail, of course. Shit. Come on, let’s make another round. We haven’t checked the other bird mountain way over there.’

‘What other bird mountain?’

‘The one that’s beyond the others. There’s another cliff back there. With lots of guillemots, but it’s not as accessible, so nobody makes an effort to go there. It wouldn’t surprise me to find him hunched over his easel and painting away. He probably forgot all about the time.’

Andrea’s face lit up. ‘That would be so typical of Sam. He always wants whatever is unobtainable. Anything that feels exclusive.’ She patted Beata’s arm. ‘Thanks for coming with me, Beata. You’re a real friend.’

They started walking along the road but didn’t meet a single other person. Steam rose up from the damp ground. Up ahead towered the other bird mountain, but so far they could see no guillemots on the slope.

They stepped off the path and continued towards the cliff. They heard sounds that told them of the birds’ presence; their shrieks rose up to the sky. They rounded a promontory and suddenly the whole scene opened before them. Row upon row of black female guillemots were crowded together, their tiny chicks barely visible beneath their protective wings. Beata pointed to the top.

‘Look at that. There’s something up there,’ she shouted eagerly.

‘Where?’ Andrea turned to look at her friend.

‘There. On the other side of the slope, just below the crest. Do you see it?’

‘That looks like Sam’s backpack.’

They ran back to the path and followed it up the other side of the bird mountain. The backpack was lying in the grass just below the plateau.

Both women began yelling Sam’s name in unison.

They turned to look in every direction. Beata went as close to the edge of the cliff as she dared and looked down. The drop was so steep that it took her breath away. Birds were everywhere. All those birds and the terrible din they were making added to her dizziness, and she had to step back. She sank down on to a rock. Now a trace of annoyance was apparent in her voice.

‘Where the hell can he be?’

Andrea shook her head.

‘I don’t understand.’

Beata gave her a solemn look.

‘We need to ring the police. What if he fell into the sea?’

KNUTAS HAD JUST left police headquarters and started to walk home when Karin Jacobsson called him.

‘Two people have disappeared on Stora Karlsö. One of them is the film director Sam Dahlberg. He’s been missing since this morning, and no one knows where he might have gone. His wife is worried sick.’

‘What happened?’

‘Apparently there’s a whole group out there. They arrived yesterday morning and are staying in cabins. When his wife woke up this morning, Sam Dahlberg wasn’t in bed, and she couldn’t find him anywhere. Then she noticed his backpack with his painting gear was missing. He’s an artist too, you know. She assumed that Sam had gone out somewhere to paint, but by afternoon he still hadn’t turned up even though a storm had moved in. So she started getting worried. That was when she and a friend went out to look for him.’

‘And?’

‘They found his backpack and a portable easel near the top of a cliff. Evidently there are several slopes that serve as breeding grounds for the guillemots, and not just where the tourists tend to go. This was a rather remote area, beyond the famous bird mountains. It looks like Dahlberg was planning to paint, but then something happened. Maybe he fell off the cliff. Or he might have his own reasons for staying away. What do I know?’

‘Has anyone checked out the beach?’

‘No, they’ve just started doing a systematic search for him. The thing is that he’s diabetic, so his wife is very worried that he hasn’t taken his insulin.’

‘And there’s no chance that he might have left the island?’

‘First of all, we have to ask why he would do that when he’s on a holiday trip with good friends. But if, against all odds, he did leave, it wasn’t by taking the regular boat. The ferry made two separate departures from the island during the day, and Dahlberg wasn’t on board either time. The captain knows him well, and he swears that he would have noticed.’

‘You said that two people were missing, is that right?’

‘Yes. A windsurfer also seems to have disappeared. A twenty-six-year-old man from Stockholm named Jakob Ekström. He arrived yesterday and rented a room in a hostel in the village. He’s supposed to be there for three days. The last time the people staying in the next room saw him was last night, but a witness from the hostel saw him surfing off Hienviken this morning. Nobody has seen him since. The manager of the hostel phoned and sounded worried.’

‘You and Wittberg will have to go out to the island. How fast can you get there?’

‘I talked to the coastguard, and they can get us there in an hour. We leave from Klintehamn.’

BERG LEANED BACK against the sofa cushions in the living room at home in Roma. He was bored. Elin was at the day nursery, and Anton was having his afternoon nap. Emma had gone to see a friend in Visby.

Listlessly he looked around the messy room. He really ought to tidy things up and vacuum, but he couldn’t make himself get up from the sofa. He switched on the TV and aimlessly surfed through the channels. Reluctantly he was forced to admit that the life of a stay-at-home dad was already starting to wear on him. He was unbearably tired of dust balls, dirty dishes and unmade beds. His life seemed to revolve entirely around feeding Anton, changing his nappy and getting him to take a nap, as well as taking him out in the pram, comforting him when he cried, feeding him again, changing him again, and finally putting him to bed for the night. That meant that he and Emma had a maximum of one or two hours to themselves before, dead tired, they fell into bed around 10 p.m.

Johan took an apple out of the fruit bowl and apathetically looked through the selection of newspapers on the table before settling on Gotlands Allehanda. He found himself looking at the obituaries, and one name in particular caught his interest. Erik Berg. The same name as his father, who had died of cancer a few years back. Johan still missed him terribly and thought about him every single day. He had been very close to his father, maybe because he was the oldest son. He was sad that his father hadn’t lived long enough to see the birth of his children, Elin and Anton.

As the eldest of five brothers, Johan had been forced to take on a great deal of responsibility when his father died; in a sense he’d taken over the role of family patriarch. His mother had been devastated, and Johan had had to handle all the practical matters. He was also expected to be available whenever his mother needed consoling. No one had thought about Johan’s own needs. He hadn’t either. Now his mother had a new man in her life, and everything had been going well lately, considering the circumstances. But Johan still missed his father.

He leafed backwards through the newspaper. For some strange reason he had started reading the papers from back to front ever since going on paternity leave. Maybe it’s a sign that I’m living in an upside-down world these days, he thought.

A double-page spread was devoted to the question of what was going to happen to Ingmar Bergman’s home on Fårö now that the director had passed away. There had been all sorts of speculation during the past year. Apparently a Gotland entrepreneur was now prepared to invest in the project in order to transform the property into an artists’ retreat – primarily for screenwriters and authors who could stay there for short periods and find inspiration for their writing. At the same time, the abandoned school near the Fårö church would be turned into a Bergman Centre, with exhibitions about the acclaimed director’s life. The article included a number of theories and assumptions as to what would become of Bergman’s property, which was estimated to be worth millions.

Johan’s newspaper reading was interrupted by a brief cry from the baby’s room. He was painfully aware that the sound would shortly erupt into loud wails. Daily life was calling. As usual.

IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time the coastguard boat approached Stora Karlsö. Those on board saw at once that something was happening. Members of the Home Guard and a host of volunteers had gone out in their own boats to help look for Sam Dahlberg and Jakob Ekström. A search on land had also been organized, and everyone staying on the island had joined in. The shore of the small harbour below the island’s only restaurant was teeming with people. It was a matter of making full use of the time before it got dark. They still had a few hours.

The fact that Sam Dahlberg suffered from diabetes and might have forgotten his insulin provided a possible explanation for his disappearance. He might have simply passed out somewhere.

But the police were puzzled to hear that a windsurfer had gone missing at the same time.

The boat pulled into dock, and Wittberg and Jacobsson were immediately greeted by a guide who was going to direct the coastguard vessel to the beach below the bird mountain where Dahlberg’s backpack had been found. Everyone feared the worst: that he had fallen from the cliff and landed on the rocks below. The chances of surviving that sort of fall were infinitesimal.

Jacobsson asked the coastguard crew to wait for her. Then she and Wittberg disembarked and headed for the building that housed an information desk and restaurant. A group of people had gathered there to listen to instructions from the island’s chief ranger. When he was finished, everyone moved off in different directions, and he motioned to the two police officers.

‘Hi. I’m glad you’re here. Things are a bit chaotic.’

They shook hands.

‘Is Andrea Dahlberg around?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘Could we talk to her?’

‘Of course. I think she’s in the restaurant. Come with me.’

They followed the chief ranger, who headed for the entrance, taking long strides as if he didn’t want to be stopped by anyone. The restaurant was empty except for two people sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. The woman had her face buried in her hands. The tall man was patting her arm, trying to console her.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ said Jacobsson. She introduced herself and her colleague Wittberg. ‘Could we talk to you for a moment?’

The man excused himself and left. Andrea Dahlberg was trembling. She hugged her torso, rocking gently back and forth.

‘I’m terribly worried.’

‘I understand,’ said Jacobsson sympathetically. ‘But please try to answer our questions. It’s important. We want to find Sam as quickly as possible.’

‘Of course,’ whispered his wife. ‘I’ll try,’ she added and cleared her throat.

‘When did you last see your husband?’

‘Yesterday when we went to bed.’

‘What did you do in the evening?’

‘We had been out catching baby birds with a group of friends, and after that we were all so wired that nobody wanted to go to bed. We sat outdoors in front of one of the cabins where we’re staying and drank wine while we looked at the sea.’

‘Did you and your husband go to bed at the same time?’

Andrea nodded.

‘When was that?’

‘Around three in the morning, I think.’

‘Did you both fall asleep at once?’

‘Yes, I think so. At least I did.’

‘Is it possible that Sam got up after you were asleep?’

Andrea looked bewildered.

‘Sure, yes. I suppose so.’

‘Would you have noticed?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’m a very sound sleeper.’

‘So it’s possible that he might have disappeared sometime in the middle of the night?’

‘Well, maybe, but why would he…?’ Confused, she shifted her glance from one officer to the other.

‘I don’t know,’ said Jacobsson. ‘But maybe he couldn’t sleep and went out to get some fresh air. And then decided to take a walk. Or maybe he met someone.’

‘But why would he take along his backpack with all his paintbrushes? And leave in the middle of the night?’

‘What happened when you woke up?’

‘I noticed at once that he wasn’t in the room. I got dressed and then went out to have a look around. I thought he might be sitting on the dock or on a deckchair somewhere outside. Or he might be taking a morning dip. But I didn’t find him anywhere.’

‘What time was this?’

‘I don’t know… Nine thirty. Maybe ten. I didn’t look at my watch.’

‘Did you check his belongings? To see what he might have taken with him?’

‘Yes, I saw that his painting gear was gone. That’s why I wasn’t really worried. But then the weather got bad and the rain came pouring down. When he still hadn’t come back by late afternoon, I really started to wonder what could have happened to him. Sam is diabetic, and it’s very important for him to eat at regular intervals.’

‘What did you do next?’

‘Beata and I went out to look for him. The island isn’t very big, and we were sure that we’d find him. I was afraid that his blood sugar might have dropped drastically, and that can be life-threatening if he doesn’t get help.’

‘And had anyone you talked to seen him?’

‘No, not a single person. I can’t understand where he could have gone.’

‘What about his mobile phone?’

‘He took it with him. That’s not so strange, even though the coverage is awful here on the island. Sam never goes anywhere without his mobile. He even takes it with him to the toilet.’ A fleeting smile passed over her face. Then her expression turned serious again. ‘What do you think could have happened to him?’

‘It wouldn’t be wise to speculate at this point,’ said Jacobsson. ‘We don’t really know anything yet. Our first priority is to locate your husband. Is it possible that he left the island without telling you?’

Andrea Dahlberg looked genuinely surprised.

‘Why would he do that?’

‘At this stage we can’t rule out any possibility. You have children, don’t you? When did he last speak to them?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Have you told them that their father has gone missing?’

‘No. I didn’t want to upset them,’ said Andrea in a stifled voice. For a moment she hid her face in her hands.

‘Where are the children?’

‘They’re staying with my mother and her husband on Mjölkö in the Stockholm archipelago.’

‘It might be a good idea to phone them.’

‘You’re right… I’ll do it soon.’

‘We’re done here for the moment. Just one last question. How is your relationship with Sam?’

Andrea gave them a resolute look as she replied.

‘It’s great. Couldn’t be better. We love each other. We always have.’

‘OK.’ Jacobsson stood up and shook Andrea’s hand. ‘That’s all for now. I think you should ring your children right away. If you find out that your husband contacted them or your mother, you need to notify us at once. Any information is important. Try to think about how Sam has acted lately. How has he behaved? Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary? Has anything new come into your lives? A new person? A new situation? Think about these things, and we’ll come back to see you again later.’

She gave the anxious wife a friendly pat on the shoulder before leaving the room.

JACOBSSON WENT WITH the coastguard crew to search the shore beneath the bird mountain where Dahlberg’s backpack had been found. Wittberg stayed behind at the cabin area to coordinate the search efforts.

The inflatable boat puttered quietly along the shoreline. The beach was rocky and inaccessible. From the water it was difficult, if not impossible, to tell whether there might be a body on shore. One of the coastguard officers steered the boat towards a strip of land at the foot of the cliffs. The boat careened as it struck several big rocks on the approach to shore. They had to get out and wade the last few metres. Jacobsson was grateful that she’d had the good sense to wear wellington boots. The group consisted of five people: four beefy guys from the coastguard service, and Jacobsson. As they reached shore, the birds seemed to get alarmed and their shrieking grew even louder.

Out in the water the male birds had already started to gather. In a few hours the diving would begin. In spite of the situation, Jacobsson couldn’t help being fascinated by the birds. She raised her head and looked up. They were everywhere, and here and there she caught a glimpse of several fledglings. Birds were flying back and forth through the air, reminding her of Alfred Hitchcock’s classic horror film The Birds. Her stomach turned over at the thought that they might suddenly go on the attack.

She and the officers spread out to begin their search, with the angry protests of the birds continuing overhead. The whole time big auks and gulls glided along the slopes, hoping to catch a baby bird. They posed an ever-present threat.

After only a few minutes one of the men waved from the edge of the beach and everyone else hurried over to him. Jacobsson felt a rush of relief. It must mean that Sam was still alive.

But behind a boulder they found the windsurfer Jakob Ekström.

‘Thank God you came,’ he said.

‘How are you?’ asked Jacobsson, leaning down to take his pulse. The young man was suffering from hypothermia and exhaustion. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, and his right leg was bent at a strange angle. It was probably broken.

‘He’s in much worse shape than me,’ muttered Ekström. ‘That other guy.’

‘What do you mean?’

He raised his hand to point at several boulders further away.

Jacobsson and two of the men ran off in that direction.

They stopped abruptly when they caught sight of Sam Dahlberg. Or what was left of him.

WITH GROWING SURPRISE Knutas had listened to Jacobsson’s report from Stora Karlsö when she called from the island ranger station. Knutas organized the efforts from police headquarters and did what he could to handle the press without saying too much. The police spokesperson, Lars Norrby, had gone home long ago. It was past 9 p.m. when Jacobsson rang to relay the news. Journalists are like vultures, Knutas thought. They’re hovering at the door before the police have even gathered all the information.

The dead man’s mangled body had been taken by police helicopter to the mortuary in Visby. The windsurfer Jakob Ekström ended up in the building right next door, in the emergency ward of Visby hospital. X-rays showed that his leg was broken, just as Jacobsson had assumed, and it needed to be put in a cast. Knutas had managed to get the attending physician, whom he’d actually known since primary school, to agree to allow the police to have a few words with Ekström that same evening. According to Jacobsson, when they found the young man on the beach, he’d reported that he’d witnessed a murder. But at the time he was in such bad shape that it had been hard to get too many details out of him.

A meeting of the investigative team was postponed until 11 p.m. Jacobsson and Wittberg were expected to be back by then.

Knutas cast a glance at his watch as he hurried to the hospital entrance. He had a little less than an hour.

Jakob Ekström was in a private room on the third floor.

Knutas grabbed a chair and brought it over to the bed.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Not so good. My leg hurts like hell. I broke it when I tried to go ashore.’

‘Can you tell me what happened? Start from the very beginning.’

Knutas took out his notebook and a ballpoint pen. He gave a nod of encouragement to Ekström, who grimaced with pain when he tried to sit up straighter.

‘I went out early this morning. It was only nine or nine thirty. I’d been surfing for about an hour when I saw what happened… up there on the bird mountain.’ He fidgeted and looked away. ‘It was… it was horrible.’

‘I understand,’ said Knutas, patting his arm sympathetically. ‘Take your time. Just tell me as many details as you can. The smallest thing might be important.’

The young man reached for the glass of water on the table next to his bed. He took several sips. Then he looked out of the window for a moment before going on.

‘Well, first I saw two people way up there on top of the cliff.’

Knutas studied his face.

‘Try to remember exactly what you saw.’

‘They were standing at the very edge and quite close to each other. I was holding on to the boom and had to keep my eye on the waves because the wind had started to gust, and right about then it began to rain. I couldn’t have been watching those people up there for more than a few seconds when suddenly one of them took a couple of steps forward and gave the other person a big shove so that he was thrown off the cliff. It was terrible… He fell straight down. His body ricocheted off several rocks before it hit the ground. And the birds were flying in all directions.’

‘Are you positive that it was a deliberate push? Could it have been an accident? Or could he have jumped on purpose?’

‘I’m a hundred per cent sure. There’s no doubt in my mind. The other person ruthlessly pushed him over the edge.’

‘Could you tell that it was a man who fell?’

Ekström shuddered, as if to get rid of the image that appeared in his mind.

‘No, I couldn’t tell from so far away. But now I know that it was a man. The director, Sam Dahlberg. At the time I had no idea. I couldn’t tell whether the people on top of the slope were men or women.’

‘Could you make out any details? Their height? Body shape? Clothing? Did you notice anything else?’

Ekström slowly shook his head.

‘No. It all happened so fast.’

‘So when the person fell, what did you do then?’

‘I looked up at the top again, and I shouldn’t have done that. Because that’s when I rammed into a boulder and broke my leg.’ He grimaced again and looked at his right leg, which was elevated in a metal contraption attached to the bed.

‘What happened then?’

‘I guess I passed out for a while because all I remember is an awful bang and then everything went black. When I came to, I was lying in the water and my leg hurt like hell. My board was next to me. The mast had come off, but I managed to make my way to shore. It was touch and go. I had to fight like crazy out there. For a while I really didn’t think I was going to make it…’ His voice broke, and he stared blankly into space.

‘All right,’ said Knutas. ‘That’s enough for now. We can talk more in the morning.’

There was a knock on the door, and a nurse stuck her head in.

‘Your mother and father are here, Jakob.’

Knutas stood up.

‘Thank you. Your testimony is very important. Good luck with your leg. We’ll be in touch later on.’

Jakob Ekström nodded but didn’t say a word.

THAT EVENING A strained atmosphere reigned on board the extra ferry that had been brought in to take everyone back to Klintehamn. They had all been looking forward to this holiday with such anticipation, but now it had ended in tragedy. And the police had told them very little, refusing to say whether they thought Sam had died as the result of an accident or because of foul play. The coastguard vessel had taken Andrea back to Gotland where she was transported to Visby hospital. After she’d been asked to identify Sam on the beach, she had collapsed completely.

Håkan was sitting inside the ferry with Beata and John. Beata had been crying for hours, but now she seemed to have used up all her tears. John was silent and withdrawn. Håkan was nervously fidgeting with his mobile. He hadn’t been able to tell Stina about the terrible thing that had happened. There was still no connection. His mobile had been dead the entire time they were on Stora Karlsö. He’d been able to phone the children from the ranger station, but he hadn’t managed to reach Stina. They had sent text messages back and forth across the ocean as long as his mobile was functioning. But they kept missing each other, and there was never an opportunity to talk on the phone. And now he was getting no answer at all. He was terrified that she’d find out about Sam’s death from someone else. It won’t be long before the press reveals his identity, he thought.

As soon as Håkan disembarked in Klintehamn and his mobile had coverage, he tried again to get through to his wife, but without success. Frustrated, he tapped in the number for her boss. Luckily, he had her home phone number.

‘Elisabeth Ljungdahl.’

‘Hi, Elisabeth. This is Håkan Ek, Stina’s husband. I’m sorry to be phoning so late, but I really need to get hold of Stina.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Something terrible has happened, and I’m trying to reach her, but I can’t get through. She’s in Bangkok, and I’m wondering whether you have the number of her hotel or for one of her colleagues. It’s really urgent.’

‘Now you’re worrying me. Has something happened to you or the children?’

‘No, but a good friend of ours has died. Unfortunately.’

‘You said she’s in Bangkok? Are you sure?’

‘Yes, she was called in on short notice on Saturday and had to rush off. Apparently some sort of emergency.’

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Elisabeth spoke again, this time sounding hesitant.

‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’

‘Yes, of course I am. She left on Saturday night. We were out on Fårö, and she sent me a text message saying that she had to step in at the last minute for someone who was sick. She flew to Bangkok. I think the plane left Stockholm at five past eleven that night.’

‘Could I call you back? I need to check on something.’

‘Sure.’

He ended the call and then waited, his concern growing.

A few minutes later Elisabeth rang him back.

‘Håkan…’ she began, seeming at a loss for words. ‘There must be some sort of misunderstanding. Stina wasn’t called in and she didn’t fly to Bangkok. She’s expected back on the job tomorrow at five a.m. I don’t understand…’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Well, I’ve checked the schedule and talked to my colleagues, and it seems that…’

Her voice faded into nothingness. The words formed a jumble of incomprehensible syllables: echoes of a melody that he couldn’t be bothered to listen to. He stood there in bewilderment, holding the mobile pressed to his ear, and his mind was completely blank. The sound of Elisabeth’s nervous voice disappeared.

Without thinking, he flung his mobile as hard as he could into the water. Slowly he sank on to the asphalt. He tried to gather all the disparate thoughts as images raced before his eyes. Sam dead. Stina missing.

At the very back of his mind a warning began to sound, ringing monotonously, reverberating louder and louder.

KNUTAS GOT BACK to police headquarters just in time for the meeting of the investigative team. It’s been a while since we’ve all had occasion to gather, he thought as he took his customary place at the head of the table and looked at his colleagues.

Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg sat on one side of the table. Crime technician Erik Sohlman and Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg were seated on the other side, along with the police spokesperson, Lars Norrby.

Knutas began by telling them about the events that had occurred on Stora Karlsö over the past twenty-four hours, which had subsequently led to the discovery of the dead man and the injured windsurfer.

‘So it’s almost certain that what we’re dealing with is the murder of Sam Dahlberg. And by the way, his body was identified this evening by his wife Andrea. In this case, we have an unusual circumstance since there was an eyewitness to the murder: the windsurfer saw someone push Dahlberg off the cliff. I met with him at the hospital a short time ago, and he seems completely reliable.’

Knutas summarized what he’d learned from his interview with Jakob Ekström.

‘Good Lord,’ exclaimed Smittenberg. ‘You mean he actually saw it? The very second it happened? That’s amazing.’

‘Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to tell whether it was a woman or a man who pushed Dahlberg. Nor can he say anything about the person’s appearance, but that’s understandable. He was so far away, and it happened so fast. At any rate, he described watching the body bounce down the mountainside. Bloody awful.’ Knutas shook his head. ‘The preliminary post-mortem report will take a few days. The body will be transported to the pathology lab tomorrow, although we already know the cause of death. And what happened. The question is: Who could be so damned cold-blooded?’

‘Have you done any other interviews yet?’ asked Smittenberg.

‘So far we’ve only had time to speak briefly with a few people who work on the island and the group of friends that Sam Dahlberg was travelling with,’ said Jacobsson. ‘All of them will come in for official interviews tomorrow. Dahlberg was on the island with these friends, neighbours of his in Terra Nova – several couples who spend a lot of time together and usually take a trip every summer. They left on Friday and spent the first two days on Fårö before continuing on to Stora Karlsö.’

‘What have they said so far?’

‘Not much. They all gave more or less the same story about what happened. When they left Fårö everything was hunky-dory. Sam was his usual self, although maybe a bit more cheerful than normal. They arrived at Stora Karlsö on the nine-thirty ferry yesterday morning. During the day they took the sightseeing tour around the island, then went swimming and relaxed. All without incident. They were together the whole time. In the evening they helped catch baby birds until close to midnight. Then they sat on the dock at Hienviken near their cabins and drank wine until late – between two and three a.m.’

‘OK. Then what?’ asked Smittenberg. ‘Who was the last to see Dahlberg?’

Jacobsson looked down at her notes.

‘His wife said that she’s a very sound sleeper. When she woke up, Sam was gone. She assumed that he was somewhere outside, close by. A couple of their friends were out swimming, but he wasn’t with them. Since his painting gear was missing, she thought that he must have gone off to paint. She joined the others in the group for a late breakfast.’

‘Paint?’ asked Norrby in confusion.

‘Sam Dahlberg was quite a respected artist. Don’t you know that?’ said Jacobsson a bit snidely. She couldn’t stand Norrby, and the feeling was mutual. Their relationship had been strained ever since she was promoted a few years back – overtaking him to become Knutas’s deputy. ‘He’d had several exhibitions of his work, including one here in Visby,’ she went on. ‘He painted landscapes. Watercolours. That’s why it took a while before his wife started to worry. But when the storm moved in and he still hadn’t returned a few hours later, she and a friend went out to look for him.’ Jacobsson again glanced at her notes. ‘Beata Dunmar, married to an American named John Dunmar. She was the one who went along with Andrea, but they didn’t find him, of course. Though they did find his backpack up on the bird mountain. The same one where someone pushed him off.’

‘What time was that?’ asked Knutas.

‘It must have been about five p.m., because shortly after that they rang the police. The officer on duty took the call at five seventeen.’

Knutas rubbed the tip of his nose.

‘OK. They found his belongings at five o’clock. According to the windsurfer, Jakob, he saw Sam Dahlberg get pushed off the cliff around ten or ten thirty in the morning. That’s just an estimate, because he wasn’t wearing a watch. When was Dahlberg last seen? And by whom? What did he do on Sunday morning? His wife said that she didn’t wake up in the night. Is she positive that he slept in their bed at all?’

‘Yes. At least that’s what I gathered when we talked to her,’ said Jacobsson. She cast a glance at Wittberg, who nodded agreement.

‘OK. That means we have no idea what Dahlberg was doing during the night or in the morning up until ten or eleven o’clock,’ Knutas concluded. He turned to crime tech Erik Sohlman. ‘What sort of evidence do we have?’

‘Not much,’ Sohlman admitted, ruffling his red hair, which looked even more dishevelled than usual. ‘But we still have several techs out there, working on site. The crime scene itself is very rocky, and it’s unlikely that we’ll find many traces. Plus that damn rainstorm swept in at just the wrong time and presumably erased any potential evidence. But we did find a few things.’

He stood up and switched off the light. Then he clicked on a picture of Stora Karlsö that appeared on the screen at the front of the room.

‘Here’s the bird mountain,’ said Sohlman, pointing his ballpoint pen at the image. ‘This is the spot where the backpack was found on the slope, just below the crest. We found three cigarette butts there. Gold Blend. And guess who smoked that brand? I’ll give you three guesses.’

‘Sam Dahlberg,’ said Jacobsson.

‘Gold Blend?’ Wittberg frowned. ‘Does that brand still exist? I haven’t seen it for ages.’

‘Yes, it does. So we can assume that he was on the mountain and stayed for a while. Otherwise, we haven’t found a thing at the crime scene. Any footprints or other marks on the ground were washed away by the rain. Since it started to rain before the murder occurred, there weren’t many people out and about. Plus the bird mountain is off the beaten path. And the beach below can only be reached from the water – it’s completely cut off from any land access. Ideal for a murder, in other words. The body was in bad shape when we found it. The birds had been there, having a feast. Feel free not to look,’ Sohlman warned his colleagues, specifically looking at Jacobsson. ‘These photos require a strong stomach.’

Pictures appeared on the screen, showing the victim from several different angles. The body was ripped to shreds and lay in an unnatural position. Parts of the skeleton jutted out, and several organs lay outside the body. The skull had been crushed. Only two dark holes remained where the eyes should have been. Silence descended on the room as everyone studied the horrible images.

Knutas surreptitiously glanced at Jacobsson. She was prepared, since she’d seen the actual body, but her face had gone pale under her suntan, and she was partially shading her eyes with one hand. He motioned to Sohlman to stop.

‘I think we’ve seen enough for the moment. The perpetrator is most likely one of the visitors to the island or a staff member on Stora Karlsö. Unless the killer arrived by boat, that is. I can’t even venture a guess as to how many people were on the island at the time of the murder.’

‘Approximately one hundred,’ said Jacobsson. ‘We have the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the ones that we didn’t talk to personally. Tomorrow we have to start bringing people in.’

‘What the hell could the motive be?’ interjected Wittberg. ‘It doesn’t seem credible that it was an accident, does it?’

‘I assume that the killer is probably one of his friends from that group,’ said Norrby.

‘Maybe we should mention that one person who was with the others on Fårö left the group the day before yesterday,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Her name is Stina Ek, and she’s married to Håkan Ek, who was also with the group. She’s a flight attendant, and she was called in to work at the last minute.’

‘OK,’ said Norrby, looking from Jacobsson to Knutas. ‘So what do we know about Sam Dahlberg?’

‘Not very much. He was a film director, of course,’ replied Knutas. ‘As far as I know, he’s never been involved in any criminal activity or trouble.’

‘Wasn’t he once an item with that actress, the one who was so great?’ exclaimed Wittberg. ‘Damned cute too. What was her name? Miranda Mollberger?’

‘That was ages ago,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Back in the eighties.’

‘I remember her in that movie when she had her first big role. What was it called? Prima Vera – that’s it. She played Vera. My mates and I practically drooled over her. But she hasn’t been in any films since then, has she?’

‘Good Lord. Cut it out. We’re talking about Sam Dahlberg here,’ said Jacobsson with a sigh.

‘So he’s been married for a long time?’ asked Norrby.

‘Yes. And his wife claims that they had the world’s best relationship,’ said Jacobsson. ‘She says they’re still mad about each other after twenty years together and that everyone who meets them thinks they’re newly in love.’ She rolled her eyes before going on. ‘But Sam Dahlberg was clearly a real ladies’ man. That was obvious. Thick, wavy hair, sunglasses, his shirt unbuttoned, muscular arms, a charming smile that he fired off every fifteen minutes, and bedroom eyes. Sort of like you,’ she teased, looking at Wittberg.

To his great embarrassment, he could feel himself blushing.

‘Oh, right. Well, if I’m part of this choice circle of friends, then who are you?’

‘Stina Ek. She had the good sense to leave for work before the whole circus got started.’

‘Yeah, that sounds just like you. Retreat to your job as soon as anything gets personal.’