The Double Silence

‘That’s enough.’ Knutas slapped his hands on the table. ‘It’s much too early to be throwing around a lot of disjointed speculations. And we have better things to do than sit here and listen to your sodding banter. Let’s get to work. We need to ask the chief ranger on the island, as well as the coastguard, what boats have been seen in the area over the past twenty-four hours. We also need to check with the ferry terminal at Klintehamn and anywhere else that people can buy tickets to Stora Karlsö. Karin and Thomas, I want you to find out the names of everyone who was on the island at the time in question. Get whatever help you need from the department. We also have to contact the National Criminal Police. Karin, could you ring Kihlgård? I’m sure he’ll be more amenable if you’re the one who makes the call.’

JOHAN WAS WARMING up some baby formula in a saucepan on the stove when he heard the news on the local radio station. A man had been found dead on the beach of Stora Karlsö. He had apparently fallen from a cliff and died at the scene. But it was the last part of the story that surprised Johan most: ‘The police are saying very little about the circumstances, but they are not ruling out that the man may have been the victim of a crime.’

He jumped so hard that the hot formula splashed all over.

‘Bloody hell!’

As he stuck his burnt hand under the cold-water tap, the newsreader moved on to the weather forecast.

Emma was always teasing Johan because he insisted on heating up the formula the old-fashioned way, in a pot on the stove. She thought he could just as well have used the microwave. Right now he could definitely see her point.

He dashed into the living room and turned on the TV to see if the national news programme had anything to say about the story. Regional news didn’t have any morning broadcasts during the summer. He sat down on the sofa holding Anton in his arms. The baby greedily sucked on the bottle of formula, as usual. Both Rapport and Nyheterna on TV4 had a short piece, but neither offered any more details than what he’d already heard on the radio.

It was a little past nine in the morning. There probably wasn’t anyone in the editorial office this early. When Anton fell asleep, Johan carefully laid him in his cot and then rang Pia on her mobile. He could hear at once by the excitement in her voice that she was in her element.

‘Hi! Things are crazy here,’ she told him, out of breath.

It sounded as if she was outdoors, walking. Or rather, running.

‘I heard on the radio about the incident on Stora Karlsö. I just had to ring,’ he told her apologetically. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You won’t believe it. The dead guy isn’t just anybody. It’s Sam Dahlberg.’

‘What? Are you sure? He’s the one who fell?’

‘Of course I’m sure. Although I wouldn’t exactly use the word “fell”.’

‘They said on the radio that the police suspect foul play.’

‘More than suspect. But you know what? I really don’t have time to talk right now. Maddie and I have to catch the ferry to Stora Karlsö. It’s the story of the year!’

‘Just a couple more minutes,’ Johan pleaded. ‘Can’t you tell me anything?’

‘Sam Dahlberg was murdered. Somebody pushed him off a cliff that’s about forty metres high. He must have died instantly.’

‘How can you be so sure that it was murder?’

‘Because there was an eyewitness,’ Pia told him triumphantly. ‘A windsurfer saw the whole thing. With his own eyes!’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Johan, sounding sceptical.

‘I have a friend who works at the restaurant on Stora Karlsö. Her parents own the place. She told me that when the police found the body, there was a young guy out there who was injured. At the same spot on the beach, I mean. He’d been out windsurfing and saw everything. It’s incredible. There are a bunch of cops over there interviewing everybody. We’re on our way out there now. Everybody wants a report, as you can imagine.’

‘Do you need my help? Emma’s not home, but I could get a babysitter.’

‘No. Thanks, anyway. But that’s not necessary. Stockholm is sending over reinforcements, so we’ll be fine. We’re doing a live report. Sorry, but I can’t talk any more. Have to run. Bye.’

Johan sat there for a long time, holding the mute mobile in his hand.

THE TASK OF charting the last days of Sam Dahlberg’s life began at once. Everyone who was on Stora Karlsö during the relevant time period had to be interviewed. Jacobsson rang her old friend Martin Kihlgård at the NCP.

‘Hi there, Karin,’ he bellowed into the phone.

After the usual opening remarks about life in general, he asked her what was on her mind.

‘Did you hear about the man who was found dead on Stora Karlsö?’ she asked.

‘You mean the director, Sam Dahlberg? Someone here at the office mentioned that he was found dead. What happened?’

‘According to an eyewitness, we’re talking about murder. A windsurfer saw with his own eyes how someone deliberately pushed Dahlberg off the cliff. But he was too far away to tell whether it was a man or a woman, much less identify the perpetrator.’ She fell silent for a moment. ‘What are you doing? Are you eating something?’

Her question was justified. She could hardly understand what her colleague in Stockholm was saying, since his mouth seemed to be full.

‘Sorry, but we’re up to our ears in work over here, so there’s no time to go out and grab some food. But you said it’s murder? Are you sure?’

‘Well, the witness seems very reliable.’

‘Good Lord. Do you have any suspects?’

‘Far from it, I’m afraid. To be perfectly honest, we don’t really know anything at this stage. But I was hoping to get some help from the NCP, especially with all of the interviews. But if you’re that busy, I assume we can’t expect any assistance from Stockholm.’

‘I always have time for you,’ Kihlgård protested between bites. ‘Why don’t you at least tell me what you need?’

Jacobsson briefly ran through the situation.

‘I can hear that you’ve got a lot on your hands. But to be honest, I don’t know whether we can let anyone go just now. We’re dealing with those race-track murders right now.’

‘Right.’ Jacobsson knew all about the case of the unexplained murders of several harness-racing trainers that had taken place over the past few months and alarmed everyone involved in harness racing in Sweden. The latest had occurred only a week ago, and the police didn’t have much to go on.

‘But let me give it some thought. OK?’

‘Absolutely. Do that. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.’

THE CALL CAME through just as Knutas stepped into his office in the morning. Stina Ek, who was also part of Sam Dahlberg’s circle of friends from Terra Nova, had gone missing. No one had seen her since she left on a bicycle ride on Fårö. Her husband, Håkan Ek, who had rung the police to report his wife as missing, had been summoned to headquarters for an interview. Several minutes later Knutas and Jacobsson entered the room together.

Sitting on a chair in the middle of the room was a hollow-eyed and visibly nervous man in his fifties. Sweat was running down his forehead, and he kept on wiping it off with a handkerchief.

The heat was oppressive, and there was no air conditioning. A pitcher of iced water stood on the table. Håkan Ek kept taking sips from his glass. He was squinting. Knutas switched on the tape recorder; then he leaned back and studied the man on the other side of the table.

‘When did you last hear from your wife?’

‘Yesterday morning. I got a text message from her.’

‘What did it say?’

‘That it was damn hot and she was longing for home.’

‘This whole thing about her job definitely seems surprising. Can you tell us exactly what happened when you found out that she had to cut short her holiday and go back to work?’

Håkan shook his head.

‘I can’t believe I was stupid enough to throw away my mobile.’

Knutas blanched.

‘What did you say?’

‘My mobile. I got so mad when I realized that she’d been lying to me that I threw it in the water.’

‘Where?’

‘At the harbour in Klintehamn, when we arrived by boat last night.’

Knutas and Jacobsson exchanged glances.

‘I know it was idiotic. Everything was on it. The time when she sent the message, everything. But I saw red when I heard that she wasn’t expected at work after all. That none of it was true.’

‘Try to think back,’ Knutas admonished him, speaking in a gentler voice. Jacobsson sat in the background, studying Håkan Ek in silence.

‘OK. Let me see. Right. We were on Fårö, and Stina was on call, so we knew that she might have to go in to work at any time-’ As he said these words, he broke off. ‘What am I saying? Maybe she wasn’t on call. Or… I forgot to ask her. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe it was all a lie. Did she make up the whole story?’ He gave the two police officers a pleading look.

‘Let’s move on for a moment,’ said Knutas. ‘Just tell us your version of what happened, what your response was, based on the information you had at the time.’

Håkan moved restlessly on his chair, nervously picking at a scab on his hand. He took several more gulps of water. His gaze swept over the cold white walls – there was nothing on which to fix his eyes. Nothing that might interrupt the conversation. He stopped picking at his hand and seemed to gather his thoughts.

‘We left on Friday and got there in time for the opening ceremonies of the Bergman festival, which were held at Fårö church. It was a really splendid event, with a lot of people and plenty of celebrities among the guests. Afterwards a film was shown, and then there was a rock concert at Kuten. We had a great time. I think everybody would agree with that.’

‘And how did Stina seem?’

‘In a good mood, I think. She hasn’t been that happy and relaxed in a long time. I think both Stina and I were glad to get away from home and have some time off, without any kids or obligations.’

‘Why’s that? Was there any special reason why you needed to get away?’

‘Not really. But this spring has been hard for both of us. Stina has had to do a lot of overtime. There always seems to be a shortage of staff at the airline. And I’ve had a lot on my plate too. For one thing, my daughter from a previous marriage has been having problems. I’ve been running back and forth between Stockholm and Gotland.’

‘OK. So you and your wife have been busy lately. How has that affected your relationship?’

‘Hmm… I suppose it’s been sort of a stalemate lately. We haven’t had any fights, but not much contact either. Not like usual.’

‘Any other problems in your marriage?’

‘I don’t think you could say that. Although Stina is not an easy person to live with. It doesn’t take much for her to feel off balance.’

‘Let’s go back to Fårö and what happened there. Try to remember everything you can. The slightest detail could be important. When was the last time you saw Stina?’

‘On Saturday when we took a bus tour, following in Bergman’s footsteps. The tour ended with lunch at Lauters restaurant, and later we were supposed to go swimming, but Stina didn’t want to come along. Instead she decided to go for a bike ride.’

‘And that was the last time you saw her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she say where she was going?’

‘No, she just wanted to ride around the island.’

‘Did you see which direction she headed?’

‘Only that she turned left up on the main road.’

‘Left? From where?’

‘We were staying in one of the cabins down by the sea, so she was heading back towards Fårö church and the ferry dock.’

‘Could she have left the island at that time?’

A shadow passed over Håkan Ek’s face. Apparently that thought hadn’t occurred to him.

‘Left the island? Why would she do that? We were on holiday.’

‘Maybe she didn’t leave voluntarily.’

‘You mean she was abducted?’ he said, sounding angry. ‘Kidnapped?’

‘We can’t rule out anything at this point,’ said Knutas. ‘We need to keep all avenues open.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ Håkan objected. ‘I got a phone call and text messages from her.’

‘When was this?’

‘Several times during the evening. First around five o’clock, when she rang to say that she would be late because she’d run into an old schoolfriend and they were having a glass of wine at Kuten. I was supposed to save her a seat.’

‘I see,’ said Knutas with a new spark of interest in his eyes. ‘Did she tell you who this person was?’

‘No, actually she didn’t. But she referred to this schoolfriend as “he”, so it had to be a man.’

‘How did she sound?’

‘The same as usual. Cheerful.’

‘OK. What happened next?’

‘I had to switch off my mobile during the film. First there was a discussion with some of the actors, and then the movie lasted over three hours.’

‘So during what time was your mobile switched off?’

‘Between about seven and eleven o’clock, I think. I turned it on as soon as we came out of the cinema, and I saw that there was a new message. Something about the fact that she’d been called in to work and had to leave immediately for Arlanda. So she took a taxi to the airport and managed to catch the last plane to Stockholm. From there she was going to Bangkok on a flight that left at eleven, so she couldn’t get in touch with me until she landed in Bangkok.’

‘And you didn’t think any of this was odd?’

‘No. It’s not unusual for her to have to go to work when she’s on call. We knew that it might happen. And it wasn’t strange that she’d have to catch a long-distance flight, either. She’s always taking those kinds of flights – to Bangkok, New York, Tokyo, and places like that.’

‘What about this male childhood friend that she met?’

‘In hindsight it does seem like a strange coincidence, that he would turn up at the very moment that she disappeared. But at the time I didn’t react. The Bergman festival is the kind of event that attracts people from all over. Several of us have run into people that we haven’t seen in a long time. For example, I know that Andrea also met an old classmate.’

‘Also a man?’

‘No, it was a woman, actually. Whatever that has to do with things.’

‘Presumably nothing. But I can’t help wondering about this man. Did Stina say anything else about him?’

‘No. I was standing in the middle of the crowd before the film started. There were so many people around me that we just talked very briefly.’

‘Do you remember reacting to anything when you read her text message? Anything about the wording, I mean. How she expressed herself?’

Håkan looked pensive.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

Knutas leaned forward and fixed his eyes on the man, who seemed to have shrunk more and more as the conversation progressed.

‘Could you try to recall the text messages that you got? What did the messages say, and when did you receive them?’

Silence filled the room. Håkan wrung his hands as he stared mutely at the floor.

‘I don’t really know. They were short. Nothing special. I don’t understand any of this. None of it makes any sense.’

THE NEXT DAY Knutas arrived at work even earlier than usual. It wasn’t even seven o’clock when he stepped through the door of police headquarters and said hello to the duty officer. He wanted to have an hour to himself in order to gather his thoughts and go over everything they’d done in the investigation so far. He couldn’t really think at home; he needed the quiet of his office.

He opened the window and sank down on his old, worn desk chair, setting a cup of coffee in front of him. He pulled out the top desk drawer, got out his pipe, and then carefully filled it as he gazed out of the window. Even though it was early in the morning, people were walking or cycling past on the street. Cars with baggage tied to the roof also drove by, presumably headed for the ferry.

It was the height of the tourist season. The economic crisis of recent months meant that many more Swedes had decided to be tourists in their own country. The tourist bureau predicted that the number of visitors, which was normally between two and three hundred thousand during the summer, would increase by another hundred thousand, as far as Gotland was concerned. Those were enormous numbers, considering that the permanent residents barely totalled sixty thousand.

The flood of tourists also made the crime statistics rise. The question was whether the murder that had been committed on Stora Karlsö had anything to do with summer tourism. It was certainly possible, even though most of the tourists who visited Stora Karlsö were middle-aged people interested in nature, and they neither littered nor started brawls. The police had interviewed the chief ranger, as well as the other employees, but no one had noticed anything out of the ordinary about any of the visitors who were on the island during the relevant time period. No incidents. No jealous fights. Not the slightest hint of any discord. On the surface, everything had appeared calm and harmonious.

The police had their hands full trying to track down all the visitors, but they hadn’t yet located everyone. Then there was the matter of the people who had come to the island just for the day – those who arrived on the morning ferry and went home in the afternoon. Their names were not registered anywhere.

Another possibility was that the murderer had spent the night in a tent or maybe under open skies. The summer heat meant that it was quite pleasant to sleep outdoors at night. Maybe Sam Dahlberg had acquired some enemies over the years; he was a relatively controversial director.

Knutas recalled one of his films from a few years back that contained explicit sexual scenes that dealt with issues of religion and prejudice against homosexuals. It had aroused strong reactions all over the country, especially among the nonconformist religious circles. Particularly because one of Sweden’s most famous Pentecostal pastors was portrayed as a perverted fascist in the film. No name was ever mentioned, but no one who saw the movie could have had any doubts as to who the character was intended to be.

One theory was that someone had taken their own boat to Stora Karlsö, killed Dahlberg, and then escaped unnoticed.

Knutas went over to the window with his unlit pipe between his lips and looked out over the ring wall which surrounded the town. If someone had deliberately wanted to kill Dahlberg in cold blood, why go to so much trouble? Why follow him out to Stora Karlsö?

Unless the murder was committed by a member of the group that was spending the holiday together. How reliable was the information that his wife Andrea had given the police? Could the perpetrator be one of the neighbours? Who knows what might be hidden under the friendly surface? thought Knutas. A person’s best friend, somebody that he thought he knew inside and out, could turn out to be someone else entirely. That was something he’d learned from bitter personal experience. Leif Almlöv had been dead and buried for a long time now, but that didn’t stop Knutas from thinking about him – almost every day. And where the hell was Stina Ek? Did she have something to do with the murder? Had she pushed Dahlberg off the cliff and then bolted? The question was what her motive could be. According to everyone else in the group, she and Sam got along well and had never had any quarrels. The police needed to dig deeper into this group. Find out everything about their lives, their habits, their pasts.

He was interrupted by someone knocking on the door. Karin Jacobsson stuck her head in.

‘Hey, we’ve got something. Stina Ek’s handbag was found in a ditch on Fårö.’

THEY TOOK KNUTAS’S old Mercedes so as not to attract too much attention and drove to Fårösund.

‘The bag was discovered a few hours ago by a man taking a walk along the road between north and south Sudersand,’ said Jacobsson. ‘There’s a tractor path that goes out to several summer cottages, almost right across from the pizzeria – you know, the place that has such good pizzas, baked in a wood oven. What’s it called? Oh, right. Carlssons.’

‘I know exactly the place you mean,’ said Knutas. ‘We spent a lot of time up there after the murder of… you know.’

‘Peter Bovide.’

Knutas gave Jacobsson a quick glance. It was Bovide’s killer who was still on the loose along with her husband somewhere in the world.

‘That’s one case we’re never going to forget.’

‘Thanks for reminding me,’ said Jacobsson tonelessly.

They continued on in silence. At Fårösund they encountered a winding queue of cars long before they reached the ferry dock. People were patiently waiting in the heat, hoping to get on board. Knutas looked at his watch. It was nine fifty-five.

They drove past the entire queue and stopped at the front of the line for Fårö. A short while later the ferry pulled up to the dock, and in five minutes they were on the other side. The change in the natural setting was instantly noticeable. More stone fences, more sheep, and more windmills. A more barren landscape. Here the dwarf pines were even more bent, and the coastline was closer. The shores were covered with stones, areas of raukar, and scattered expanses of sandy beach – all of which was reminiscent of islands in the South Pacific. So far the island was free of any big hotel complexes, and most of it was relatively unexploited. No wonder that so many people took refuge there.

The most developed area was the one they were on their way to see: Sudersand, which had cabins, campsites and restaurants near the long sandy shore. It was full of hustle and bustle. Families with small children headed to the beach, loaded down with picnic baskets, beach games and towels. There were large groups of teenagers on bicycles, and tourists as far as the eye could see. Knutas parked near the Carlsson pizzeria, where every outdoor table under the trees was fully occupied.

The path where the handbag had been found led through the area over to the main road. Police tape was now keeping out the public. Even though there was no proof that Stina Ek had met with foul play, it was not a good sign that her bag had been found. At the same time, it was possible that she was the killer. In either case, the discovery of her handbag represented important evidence in the ongoing homicide investigation.

The ditch was on the side of the road and barely visible through the bushes and thickets. An excellent place to hide something, especially if someone was in a hurry, thought Knutas as they walked towards the site. The ditch was hidden by the thick vegetation, consisting of various types of reeds, shrubs and brush. The man who found the handbag had rather sheepishly admitted to the police that he’d gone over to have a pee and then caught sight of something shiny in the grass. Thinking that it might be something valuable, he had dug out the handbag, which lay underneath a lot of leaves and grass. Inside he found a purse containing cash and ID, along with the usual things that most women kept in their bags: tissues, lipstick, a pocket mirror, keys, a small hairbrush and a pocket diary. Erik Sohlman had confirmed that the ID belonged to Stina Ek.

Four days had passed since anyone had seen her.

Knutas squatted down and stared at the ditch.

‘So what the hell do you think?’

‘There are lots of possibilities,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Stina might have fallen victim to the murderer, and if so, it seems reasonable to assume that it was the same perpetrator who killed Sam. Or she could be the one behind everything, and she got rid of her bag to try and throw us off the track.’

‘OK, but let’s consider the second option. Would she have left behind her cash, ID and keys, both to her house and car?’

‘No, you’re right. That doesn’t seem likely. The question is: What happened to her bicycle? I wonder if that part was a lie too.’

‘If so, she would have had to get a cab. They left their car at home because they got a lift with Sam and Andrea.’

‘Has anyone contacted the cab company?’

‘I haven’t, at any rate,’ said Jacobsson grimly. And she got out her mobile.

It turned out that no taxi had picked up a customer on Fårö during that specific time period. And no one by the name of Stina Ek had checked in for a flight from the Visby airport.

‘It’s damn unlucky that we don’t have Håkan Ek’s mobile,’ grumbled Knutas.

‘But we can still find out a lot about his calls and texts from the mobile service,’ said Jacobsson.

‘Of course we can find out who sent a text message, and who it was sent to and at what time, but we can’t find out what the texts said. It’s strange that all of Stina’s valuables were still in her bag, except for her mobile.’

‘All of these facts are based on Håkan Ek’s testimony. Who’s to say that any of it is true? For instance, did Stina really tell him that she had to work? Håkan is the only one who can confirm that; nobody else received a text. Wouldn’t she have texted her children, or her best friend, Andrea?’

‘And Håkan Ek threw his mobile into the sea,’ muttered Knutas. ‘I think we need to have another talk with him.’

They got in the car and drove over to the Slow Train Inn, where the group of friends had stayed.

Jacobsson pulled into the small car park outside the garden. Everything seemed calm and peaceful. There was no one in sight.

They went up on to the porch and knocked on the front door. When no one came, they went in. They could hear music from a radio coming from the kitchen, and a pale woman with beautiful long hair appeared at once in the doorway. She spoke with a strong French accent when she asked: ‘Can I help you with something?’

Knutas introduced himself and his colleague and then explained the reason for their visit.

‘You had a group of people staying here for a couple of nights over the weekend. I’m sure that you’ve heard that one of them, Sam Dahlberg, was found dead on Stora Karlsö.’

The woman nodded.

‘It turns out now that another person from the group is missing. A woman with Asian roots. Stina Ek. Do you remember her?’

‘Yes. She was staying with her husband in one of the cabins down by the water. She was very nice.’

‘Well, she has been missing for several days now. In fact, she hasn’t been seen since Saturday afternoon here on Fårö when she set off for a bike ride from the inn.’

‘Is that right? Would you mind if we sat down?’

‘Not at all.’

They followed her into the dining room, where they sat down at a long table.

‘Did you notice anything special about these guests? Or about Stina Ek, for that matter?’

‘No, they were all so happy and nice. They talked a lot and they got pretty loud. But they were very pleasant.’

‘And nothing special happened while they were here?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘When did you last see Stina Ek?’

The woman paused to think.

‘It must have been when they ate breakfast here. On Saturday morning.’

‘And everything seemed perfectly normal?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t see her again after that?’

‘No.’

‘Has anyone stayed in the cabin after she and her husband left?’

‘Yes. This is our busy season, so we’re fully booked. We have guests staying there right now.’

‘Could we have a look at the place?’

‘Of course. I’ll take you there.’

They followed the woman, who gracefully led the way across the road and down to the water on the other side. She seems almost unreal, thought Knutas. Like some sort of ethereal being.

The cabin was locked when they arrived. The owner knocked several times, but no one answered. She turned to Knutas.

‘They’re probably down at the beach. But I’ll let you in.’

She unlocked the door and they peered inside. It was a small, charming space with a bed and a dining table. Clothes and other belongings were strewn everywhere.

‘Have other people stayed here since then?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘Yes, a couple of other people before these guests.’

‘If there was any evidence, it’s gone by now,’ sighed Knutas. ‘But thanks anyway.’

He handed the woman his card.

‘Phone me if you happen to think of anything at all that might be important.’

‘Of course.’

They walked back to the car. When Knutas turned around at the road, the Frenchwoman was still standing near the cabin. She had turned to gaze out at the sea.

HE HAD BEEN sitting among the trees at a safe distance, studying her for quite a while now. He could see her clearly through the big picture window of the house. He had never grasped why people would choose to have that much glass, reaching all the way down to the floor. They must be exhibitionists, harbouring a secret longing to be observed, seen. He’d never had such a need. He liked to melt into the crowd, to become erased and merge with all the others. He’d never understood people who wanted to stand out. On the other hand, it allowed him to admire them in secret with a combination of horror and delight. Like her. She had been like that. She loved having others look at her, admire her. And they did. She was just as alive inside of him now as she had been back then. Even though they’d managed to enjoy each other only a few times, her scent still lingered in his nostrils, her voice echoed in his head, and her lips still burned against his. Time could not wash away those memories. They were etched into him for all eternity. For him there had been nobody after her. Of course he’d met others; he’d had superficial relationships, but only for sex. He used to amuse himself by comparing all the others to her. The length of their hair, their fingers, nails, shoulders and collarbone. No one had a collarbone to match hers. As if created by God Himself. He recalled how he would run his fingertips along it, lightly, so lightly. Infinitely gentle. He could bring goose bumps to her skin. He felt sick at the thought of someone else touching her. Couldn’t bring himself to picture it.

Then had come the death blow. One day she suddenly told him that he had to stop contacting her. Cold as ice, she cut the bond between them. Betrayed, that was how he felt. Betrayed. And he wasn’t going to take it any longer. He had lived with his loneliness. Carried his longing like a throbbing abscess in his chest.

But at last he’d been given a sign. And it kept getting clearer. Soon it would be his turn. Again.

SEVERAL DAYS HAD now passed since Sam Dahlberg’s body was found on Stora Karlsö, and the police still had no lead on a possible suspect. The tech team had meticulously examined the cabin that the Dahlbergs had rented. Everyone in the group from Terra Nova had been interviewed again, and the police were now in the process of checking on their backgrounds. So far nothing out of the ordinary had surfaced. Nothing in their pasts had produced any leads that might help solve the case.

Håkan Ek was the one who seemed the least emotionally stable, but that wasn’t really so strange. It was only natural for him to be worried about his wife, who still hadn’t returned. He’d been grilled several times by Knutas and Jacobsson, without result. Like a mantra, he just kept repeating what he’d told them before, over and over again. Finally they were forced to give up and let him go. It turned out that he’d been married twice before and had a child with each ex-wife. Knutas couldn’t figure the man out. He was evasive and difficult to pin down.

It had been a huge undertaking to interview all the tourists who were on the island at the time the murder was committed. The local police had been assisted by two officers from the NCP, but Kihlgård had not yet found time to come over to Gotland himself. Not a single person who had been interviewed provided any information of value. Nobody had noticed anything suspicious. The homes of both couples in Terra Nova had been searched, and their neighbours, relatives and work colleagues had all been questioned. No one was able to give the police any leads.

Knutas, Jacobsson and Wittberg were sitting dejectedly in Knutas’s office on Thursday morning, trying to come up with a new angle.

‘What if we focus solely on the murder of Dahlberg for a moment, and consider exactly what happened,’ suggested Jacobsson. ‘The fact that he was pushed off a cliff on Stora Karlsö. What does that indicate? What does it say about the perpetrator?’

‘First and foremost, it seems likely that they knew each other, or at least had been talking to each other before it happened,’ Knutas said.

‘And presumably it was not premeditated,’ interjected Wittberg. ‘If someone was planning a murder, would they really choose a place like that? First of all, somebody might have seen them at the site, or as they walked there. It’s really unfortunate that no one did, especially considering the fact that there were so many tourists on the island at the time.’

‘But it’s a fairly easy way of killing someone, don’t you think?’ replied Jacobsson. ‘No weapon is required, and there wouldn’t be any evidence left behind. And at such an inaccessible spot, the risk of being seen would be extremely small.’

‘So how likely does it seem that the killer was someone he didn’t know?’ asked Knutas. ‘Do you think he got into an argument with a stranger, who happened to have a murderous bent and who got so worked up that he threw Sam off the cliff?’

‘Not really. So the only option left is that it was someone he knew,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Could the killer be a woman?’

‘Yes. I have no doubt about that,’ said Wittberg. ‘Especially if he didn’t have any warning. Maybe he’d turned his back.’

‘What about his wife, Andrea? Could someone as small as Stina Ek have done it? Or someone else in that circle of friends?’

‘Håkan doesn’t have an alibi, since he was sleeping alone,’ said Knutas. ‘And Andrea was too, actually. While Stina wasn’t even there.’

‘Maybe she has a specific reason for staying away. Or else she may have fallen and her dead body is lying out there somewhere,’ Wittberg speculated.

‘OK. We really have no idea about that. But what about the motive? Who had a reason for wanting Sam Dahlberg dead?’

For a moment none of them said a word. Finally Jacobsson spoke.

‘Maybe we’re on the wrong track. We’re locked into the idea that it had to be someone in the group. What if the site itself is the reason for the murder – the fact that they were on Stora Karlsö? Had Sam ever been there before? Did he have a connection to any of the employees? Or has he ever worked there in the past? Have we checked on that?’

Knutas shook his head.

‘Not as far as I know. Could you follow up on that?’

‘Of course,’ said Jacobsson. ‘But it’s only a suggestion. It seems so strange that Stina has disappeared. What exactly do we know about her?’

‘Not much. She was adopted from Vietnam, and she’s generally well liked. A close friend of both Andrea and Sam. Her parents weren’t able to tell us much. Her colleagues couldn’t either. She’s always been conscientious, both at home and on the job. Apparently she has never drawn attention to herself. Everyone describes her as pleasant and nice, but somewhat reserved. A bit hard to get to know.’

‘I still think that the group of friends holds the answer to this case,’ said Wittberg. ‘One thing that has struck me with this whole investigation is that those people from Terra Nova seem to have a slightly unhealthy sort of friendship. I mean, good Lord, they do everything together. They live only a few metres from each other, the kids are in the same classes, they work out together, they have all their celebrations together, they help each other repair their houses and cars. They do their Christmas baking together, spend Midsummer with each other, and hold their annual crayfish parties and New Year’s Eve celebrations together. Some of them have summer cabins in the same area near Sudret. It’s unbelievable. They can’t even take holidays on their own! The ones who like to ski go to the mountains every year; the women take “girl holidays” together, and some of them even get together to do major grocery shopping. Can you imagine that? Every week they make lists and then take turns driving to the ICA Supermarket to shop. It almost seems like some sort of cult. It wouldn’t surprise me if they even fucked together!’

‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with helping each other out and offering support,’ Jacobsson objected. ‘It seems only natural, especially since they have children the same age.’

‘But shopping for groceries together? And spending holidays together? Doesn’t that seem a bit extreme? For me it sounds like a real Knutby situation, the way they’ve put up such a united front. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find out that one of them is the killer. Somebody who wanted Sam out of the way.’

‘But why?’

‘I have no idea. Maybe someone has been getting it on with Andrea.’

‘So according to your theory, his wife, Andrea, made friends with someone and it went so far that she and her lover decided to get rid of Sam?’ said Knutas. ‘Why not just get a divorce if that was the case?’

A brief silence ensued. Then there was a knock on the door. Erik Sohlman stuck his head in.

‘They’ve found a sleeping bag and some other things hidden in a grove of trees on Stora Karlsö. It seems that our killer spent the night there.’

JOHAN BERG WAS filled with anticipation as he pulled up outside the Swedish Radio and TV building in Visby and parked his car. It was going to be great to have some adult conversation for a change, talking shop with his colleagues and hearing the latest scuttlebutt from TV headquarters in Stockholm. He’d missed the annual summer party, which was always a huge bash, with alcohol flowing in rivers. And once in a while some of the party-goers would really let loose. It would be fun to hear who had gone home together at the end of the evening.

As he approached the front door, he really felt how much he had missed his job. He said hello to a few of his radio colleagues who were standing outside, having a smoke in the sunshine. Then he bounded up the stairs to the editorial office. He had made arrangements with Pia and Madeleine, his replacement, to drop by and have a cup of coffee, since he was in town anyway. He’d stopped at the pastry shop on Norrgatt on the way in and bought a coffee cake.

Both women were on the phone when he came in. He could tell at once that something had happened. Madeleine quickly ended her call and jumped to her feet when she caught sight of Johan in the doorway.

‘Hi. It’s so great to see you.’ She gave him a big, warm hug, which made him happy. He’d always had a soft spot for Madeleine. She was dark-haired and petite, radiating a charisma that could make even a horse feel weak at the knees.

‘Looks like you’ve put on a little weight, haven’t you?’ She pinched his stomach affectionately.

‘That’s life with little kids, you know.’ He laughed. ‘Everything revolves around eating and sleeping.’ He flopped down on to his favourite chair. ‘It’s so good to see both of you. So what’s happening?’

‘We’ll get to that in a moment,’ said Madeleine, indicating Pia, who was sitting with her back to them and seemed deeply engrossed in her phone conversation. She looked at Johan with amusement. ‘So what about you? Are you enjoying being a home-body?’

‘It’s fantastic, glorious, just amazing,’ he said emphatically. ‘I love it. I couldn’t ask for anything better. I can’t even describe how wonderful it is to be a father.’

‘And how’s the baby? What’s the little one’s name? Is it a boy or a girl?’

‘A boy. Anton. He’ll be seven months soon.’

‘Ah. How sweet.’

Pia put down the phone and turned towards Johan.

‘Did you know that somebody has gone missing from the group that Sam Dahlberg belonged to?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Some friends went on holiday together – first to the Bergman festival on Fårö, and then on to Stora Karlsö. All of them live in Terra Nova, and it seems to be a really tight crowd. Just before you arrived, I talked to one of my brother’s friends who works on the Fårö ferry. He told me that the police have made several trips over there this week, and yesterday they went up to Kuten and the inn where the whole group of friends had stayed, the Slow Train. They were asking about Stina Ek, who was also part of the gang. And now she’s gone missing.’

‘Missing?’ Johan foolishly repeated, but at the same time he felt the familiar churning inside his stomach.

‘Apparently she disappeared on Fårö. On Saturday afternoon. She took off on a bicycle, and nobody has seen her since.’

‘Oh shit. What if she was murdered too?’

‘Or maybe she’s actually the killer,’ Madeleine interjected. ‘You never know.’

‘So what are you doing now?’

Pia glanced at her watch.

‘It’s eleven ten. If we leave now, we can catch the twelve o’clock ferry.’ She began gathering up her equipment.

‘Have you got an interview lined up?’

‘Yup. The guy who owns Kuten is willing to talk to us, and there won’t be any problem finding someone to interview on the ferry. Then we’ll talk to folks at the scene, of course. You know how it’s done.’ She smiled broadly. Pia was a wizard at getting people to open up, and she knew it.

‘What about the police?’

‘We’ll catch them later. On the way back.’

‘Can I help with anything? I could stay here and hold the fort. Emma is home with the kids, so it’s no problem. Or do we have any extra cameras here? If so, I could go over to police headquarters and do an interview. I can stay and edit it too, so all you’ll have to do is insert it in the story later on.’

While he was talking, Madeleine and Pia had finished packing up their gear, and now they were headed for the door.

‘Thanks for the offer,’ said Pia, ‘but isn’t that overdoing it a little? We’ll manage on our own. Gotta go now. See you later!’

And before he could say another word, they were gone.

The fresh cinnamon coffee cake was still in the bag on the table.

THE CHIEF RANGER, who had discovered the items in the woods, had been sensible enough not to touch them, and instead waited for the police to arrive. He had asked one of his colleagues to stop anyone from approaching the site. When Knutas and Jacobsson, accompanied by Thomas Wittberg, disembarked from the boat at Stora Karlsö, the chief ranger was waiting for them on the dock. They went at once to the discovery site, which was a little less than a kilometre from the lighthouse, but in an area that was off-limits during the summer. For that reason, it was a good place for someone to spend the night undisturbed.

‘We can’t possibly keep track of everyone who comes over here on the day boats,’ the chief ranger told them as they made their way through the brush-covered terrain. ‘A lot of people pay cash for a ticket at the ferry terminal in Klintehamn. They come over to spend a few hours here and then go back home. It’s impossible to know when people arrive or depart. There are also those who spend the night, and we have a little more contact with them, or at least some of them. But not everyone, by any means. Ten thousand people come through here in the summertime, so I can’t remember all of them.’

‘When did you discover these things?’ asked Knutas, who was panting in the heat. He noticed to his dismay that he wasn’t in as good physical condition as he used to be. He’d been lazy about working out lately.

‘I was out taking a morning walk and thought I’d go over to the most distant bird mountain to try and find out how many baby birds still haven’t left. So I took a short cut through that area; it takes half the time, compared to following the road. The first thing I saw was something pink fluttering from a bush. That’s what made me go down into the clearing. I never would have done it otherwise. I don’t like to disturb the wildlife here unless it’s really necessary.’

Knutas raised his eyebrows.

‘Something pink?’

‘Yes. It turned out to be a hair ribbon. The old-fashioned kind that little girls used to wear when I was at school. Very wide and sort of silky. You’ll see for yourselves. I left it where it was. I didn’t touch anything,’ he added with a trace of pride in his voice.

Smart dude, thought Jacobsson crossly. You’ve probably watched crime shows on TV, even though you don’t seem like the type. She was already annoyed by the chief ranger’s pedantic attitude. He was close to her own age, but he acted like an old man.

They turned off on to a smaller path that headed down towards the sea. The ground was dry and covered with stones. They had to hunch over so as not to run into the dense network of tree branches. Soon a clearing opened before them, with soft grass surrounded by protective thickets. A perfect hiding place.

The next moment they caught sight of the ribbon. It was hanging on a thorny bush. Jacobsson gave a start. She’d seen photos of the missing Stina Ek, and she recalled seeing the woman wearing a similar ribbon in her hair.

‘There it is,’ said the chief ranger, pointing.

Silently they all stopped next to the bush to study the ribbon. It looked out of place in this remote natural setting. And somehow ominous. Are we going to find her now? Jacobsson asked herself. Is she dead or alive?

The chief ranger continued on through the trees.

‘Look over there. In that crevice.’

And there it was: a light blue sleeping bag. Jacobsson felt her mouth go dry. This could very well be the murderer’s hiding place. Instinctively she glanced around, as if the perpetrator might be lurking in the thickets. But all she saw was a water bottle lying in the grass. Knutas ordered everyone back.

‘Not another step closer. We need to cordon off the area.’

Wittberg immediately began putting up police tape.

Everyone felt a spark of hope. Finally they had a lead.

But what does that pink ribbon mean? thought Jacobsson. Then the same question that had been bugging her lately popped up again. Stina Ek: was she a victim or the perpetrator?

She turned around and let her gaze sweep over the scene. It was a perfect hiding place, well protected from the wind and any prying eyes.

‘If these things belong to the killer, why didn’t he take them with him? He should have been terrified about leaving any evidence behind.’

‘Maybe something unexpected happened. If the murder was not premeditated, it’s not so strange that he would be panic-stricken and decide to leave in a hurry. But where the hell did that ribbon come from?’

Knutas leaned forward to study the gleaming strip of fabric. ‘Very strange. Almost as if it were a signal, asking to be noticed.’

‘Or else it got caught there by mistake,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I mean if the murderer is a woman who wore a ribbon in her hair. Or maybe Stina was here, along with the killer.’

She looked out at the sea. Where on earth was Stina Ek?

ON THE SURFACE everything looked the same as usual in the residential area of Terra Nova. But inside Håkan Ek’s home, everything had changed. His parents were looking after his daughters for a few days, while he went around like a zombie, unable to sleep or eat. Beata and John refused to leave him for long; at the moment they were sitting on the terrace. Andrea was there too. It was as if they were seeking solace from each other. Håkan had poured strong mojitos for all of them. The alcohol helped – at least for the first few drinks.

‘The police came over to our place today. I’ve stopped counting how many times they’ve come to see us,’ sighed Beata. ‘I don’t know what they’re looking for any more. They ask the same questions, over and over.’

‘Well, what else can they do?’ said John. ‘If this was the United States, we’d all be sitting in jail.’

‘There are probably some people who think that’s where we belong,’ said Andrea tonelessly.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Beata.

Andrea shrugged. She took a big gulp of her drink and lit a cigarette.

‘I don’t know. But I bet some people think one of us is the murderer.’

‘You mean because people have been avoiding us? They probably just don’t know what to say,’ replied Håkan. ‘I feel that way myself.’

‘I think the majority opinion is the exact opposite,’ said Beata. ‘People have been talking to me, at any rate, but I suppose it’s not as sensitive an issue with me. I ran into Eva-Britt and Göran today. They hinted that there are rumours going around that Stina was the one who pushed Sam. And that’s why she’s staying away.’

‘Are they crazy?’ raged Håkan. ‘They think Stina would…? How can they possibly accuse her of something like that?’

Beata gave Håkan a searching look.

‘You shouldn’t think that everybody regards Stina as the sweetheart you think she is. Stina can actually be quite snobbish. And a lot of people think she’s been acting strangely lately. She has really retreated, not wanting to go for walks any more and turning down invitations to have dinner with the girls. She usually goes grocery shopping with Andrea, but she has stopped doing that too. Right?’ She turned to Andrea for support.

‘Yes, but there might be some other reason for that,’ said Andrea wearily. She was leaning back in her chair. Now she rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes. ‘Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Håkan,’ she said suddenly.

‘What’s that?’ Håkan’s tone was aggressive, and he kept taking sips of his drink.

‘I’ve also noticed that Stina has changed. Quite drastically, as a matter of fact. How have things been between the two of you?’

‘What do you mean?’

Andrea opened her eyes and looked at him.

‘You always used to be so affectionate with each other. Really paying attention to each other. Holding hands and hugging. But I don’t recall you doing that sort of thing lately.’

‘In the past, Stina was always sitting on your lap,’ Beata added. ‘I haven’t seen her do that for at least a year.’

Håkan spat out his words. ‘There’s nothing wrong in our marriage. Things are great between Stina and me. Of course we have our ups and downs, just like everybody else. That’s how it goes when you’ve been together for a long time – you both know that as well as I do. And Stina and I have been faithful to each other, not sleeping with anyone else – unlike certain other people!’

The last remark was clearly aimed at Beata and John. It was well known that they had an open relationship when it came to sex.

‘Calm down, damn it,’ snapped John, joining the conversation for the first time. ‘Everyone makes their own choices about how to live. It’s none of your business.’

‘That’s OK as long as you stick to people outside of the immediate circle. And if you’re discreet about it. But that’s certainly not something I could ever accuse you of being. I’ve seen how you’ve tried to make a play for Stina. You’ve always been hot for her. We all know that. And I’m not even going to talk about you,’ Håkan screamed at Beata. ‘You’ll open your legs for anybody who’s got balls. It’s disgusting!’ He stood up furiously, downed his drink in one gulp, and stomped off into the house.

The others sat there as if turned to stone, holding their mojitos in their hands.

On the other side of the hedge, where the neighbours were having a dinner party, it was suddenly very, very quiet.

DURING THE AFTERNOON, the suspicion grew that Stina Ek was behind the murder of Sam Dahlberg. One of the crew members on the ferry thought he recognized her from the photos the police had shown him. He was almost positive that she had taken the Karlsö boat from Klintehamn on the evening before the others arrived on the island. He distinctly remembered that the rest of the group caught the nine-thirty boat on Sunday morning. The famous director Sam Dahlberg was with them, and that fact had not escaped notice. He was a well-known figure on the island.

At the same time that Knutas wanted to devote all his energies to the investigation, he was also struggling with personal problems. For one thing, he was concerned about Karin Jacobsson and her search for her daughter. Karin had been looking so pale lately, and she seemed even thinner than usual. He noticed that she was frequently lost in her own thoughts. He thought she was so lovely, and on a few occasions he had felt an inexplicable tension between them when they happened to be alone together outside of work. There was something, which he couldn’t understand or control. But he quickly dismissed the feeling. He’d been in love with Lina for so many years that his feelings for his wife overshadowed everything else that had to do with the opposite sex. It worried him that Karin often haunted his thoughts. That was so unlike him. He had to see to it that he and Lina spent more time together. They needed to find their way back to each other. When he suddenly recalled that she’d mentioned something about taking a trip with a girlfriend at the end of the summer, he felt an immediate urge to talk to her. They could do something together instead. Just the two of them. Impatiently he tapped in her number on his mobile. She picked up after it rang four rings, sounding just as happy and cheerful as usual. He found that reassuring.

‘Hi. What are you doing?’

‘I’m lying in the sun in the garden, feeling lazy. It’s such beautiful weather.’

Knutas looked out of the window. The summer was turning out to be marvellous after all the rain they’d had earlier in June.

‘Why don’t you come with me and the kids out to the country after we get back from Italy the third week of August?’

For several seconds there was only silence on the other end of the line. He could hear her breathing. What was she doing? Trying to think of something to say? Knutas felt his temper rising.

‘But, Anders, we’ve already discussed this. You know that I’m going on a trip with Maria to make the documentary.’

‘What documentary?’

‘Come on. I’ve told you all about it. We’re going to Cape Verde to do a report on childbirth. It’s for the book that Maria is writing.’

Knutas frowned. Cape Verde? Didn’t that sound awfully far away? An image of the football player Henke Larsson flashed through his mind. Wasn’t his father from there? Why on earth were they going there, of all places? He’d barely even heard of the country. At the same time Knutas remembered that Lina had told him something about the trip. But he hadn’t realized that the plans had been finalized.

‘Yes, but do you really have to go there during the summer holidays?’

‘Yes, we do. What’s so strange about that?’

‘And why do you have to be the one to help her with this book?’ he continued stubbornly. ‘Is she paying you anything?’

‘Cut it out. I don’t want to listen to this.’

When Lina got angry or upset, her Danish accent was stronger than usual.

‘But why do you have to go there in August? Isn’t that the rainy season – loads of storms? Won’t it be miserable?’

‘Good God, Anders, we’re not off on holiday. We’re going to work, not lie on the beach. And by the way, I think the weather is good all year round. It’s in Africa, you know.’

‘But I still don’t understand why you have to go.’ Knutas couldn’t help hearing how plaintive he sounded.

Lina sighed.

‘Have you listened to anything I’ve said? The book is about childbirth in various parts of the world. I’m going along to help the author gather factual information and then make comparisons with the situation in Sweden. I’m really looking forward to the trip. End of discussion. Bye.’

She cut off the conversation with a click that echoed in his ears.

EARLY MORNING. HE parked over by the gardener’s shed and set off on foot. The asphalt under the soles of his shoes was level and dry. His footsteps made no sound and left no prints. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, exactly like 90 per cent of the men who lived in the area. In a few hours they would wake in their comfortable beds and get up to have coffee. Then they would sit under the apple trees in the well-kept gardens or on the verandas that they’d built themselves. Everyone had seen enough of Martin Timell or Ernst Kirchsteiger promoting home carpentry projects on TV. They’re the manly role models who reign in a place like this, he thought with a snort. The people were entrenched in their lives here. The cars were parked in the drives with the morning sun reflecting off the windscreens. He passed house after house, noting that the people who lived there were either asleep or away. It was the summer holidays, after all. But for him no such concept existed. For him, the time of year didn’t matter; he lived outside the normal world. He’d left it behind long ago, although no one could tell just by looking at him.

The house was at the very end of the street, near the little turning circle. A double garage, a gravel path that led to the somewhat ostentatious entrance with the pillars on either side and curving steps. Blue-painted clay pots planted with flowers that draped perfectly over the sides. A neatly mown lawn. First he merely walked past the house, pretending not to show any interest. A car was parked in the drive. A newspaper was sticking out of the letterbox. So the newspaper boy had already been there. Good. Nice and quiet. He glanced at his watch. Six fifteen. He took a quick look around before he slipped unnoticed on to the well-maintained property and crept around the corner of the house to the back, which faced the woods. Swiftly he surveyed the garden. A greenhouse that occupied the middle of the lawn revealed that football was not a priority here, but a trampoline stood in the far corner. A shed for gardening equipment, a covered bicycle rack, a group of patio furniture on the lawn, with more chairs up on the deck.

A low wooden fence surrounded the property, easy to climb over. He cautiously stepped on to the deck. It creaked loudly under his feet. At one end of the house a trellis had been put up to keep anyone from looking in. No neighbours from that direction would be able to see him. And, fortunately, the family that lived on the other side seemed to be away. There hadn’t been a car in the drive for several days. He would not be disturbed.

He moved forward and grasped the handle of the deck door. Locked, of course. He hadn’t expected anything different. He peered inside. The kitchen was modern and typically designed with an open floor plan facing the living room. The refrigerator and freezer and cooker hood were all made of stainless steel. Tiles on the floor. Shiny white kitchen cupboards. Hardly anything on the counters except for a gleaming coffee maker, kettle and mixer. No curtains or rugs; everything bright and shiny. Attractive but impersonal. Almost like in a furniture shop. Did these people spend as much time cleaning up after themselves as they did living? He discovered that he was breathing so hard on the windowpane that it had clouded up. He knew exactly what he had to do. He took off his backpack and got out his gloves and picklocks.

Then he set to work.

Ventspils, Latvia

THE DARKNESS OF night had faded, giving way to a hesitant morning light. A haze covered the sun. Janis Ullmanis was cycling as fast as he could over the bumpy cobblestone street lined with low, dilapidated brick houses on either side. The cramped inner courtyards were hidden behind tall wooden fences. The boy stopped so abruptly at the last house that his tyres shrieked. Then he knocked on the double window on the corner. The secret signal. Three quick raps, two slow, again three quick ones. He waited for thirty seconds as he caught his breath, then he repeated the same sequence. He’d barely finished the final rap before the door in the fence opened with a loud squeak. A pale boy’s face appeared. Two dark eyes under close-cropped hair. Bruno Lesinski was Janis’s best friend, and they were in the same class at school. But right now it was the summer holidays, with all that entailed, and school seemed far away.

‘Are you ready?’ asked Janis.

Bruno held his index finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Shh. My mother is such a light sleeper.’ Then he cast a glance over his shoulder before grabbing his bicycle, which was parked just inside the fence.

The next second they were on their way. They pedalled hard, riding along side by side since there were no cars on the road. Two skinny thirteen-year-olds with scraped knees, filled with anticipation. They’d fastened their nets and buckets to the bike panniers. They headed to the shore just beyond the harbour. But it wasn’t fish that they were going to catch.

Ventspils was a rundown little town about 160 kilometres west of the capital of Riga, but its harbour was one of the biggest in Latvia. It was considerably oversized in comparison to the modest town with only fifty thousand inhabitants, but it was strategically located, close to both Sweden and Finland and right on the mouth of the Venta River, in the direct path of the Russian natural-gas pipeline. For that reason it had expanded rapidly and become one of the largest ports on the Baltic Sea. The town hadn’t kept up with its growth.

The boys passed the two piers that extended into the outer harbour like protective arms, breaking the waves and embracing visitors from the sea. At the end of each pier stood a lighthouse guarding the entrance. To the south a promenade had been built and it was very popular because it also provided a vantage point with an impressive view. At the moment nobody was there.

The long sandy beach began just beyond the south pier and stretched for several kilometres. The sand was coarse and the water quite murky. Rubbish was scattered about: ice-cream wrappers, plastic bottles and pieces of rusty old junk. But it was still a popular place for people to sunbathe in the summertime. The people who lived in Ventspils were not very particular.

When the boys reached the beach, they found it deserted except for a few seagulls strutting about in search of something to eat. The strong winds of the night had subsided, and the hesitant rays of the sun were growing stronger. It was just past seven o’clock, and the fishing boats that were usually moored at the dock had already gone out to sea.

Janis and Bruno knew that they had to get an early start if they were to have any luck at all. A few days earlier a woman from the area had found a piece of amber that weighed over a kilo at this very spot on the beach. And interest in looking for the amber had increased considerably.

They flung their bicycles down on the sand, picked up their buckets and nets, and squelched along the water’s edge in their ungainly sea boots. Sometimes it was possible to find several hectograms of amber in one day after a strong wind. The amber was torn away from the sea floor or seaweed and tossed on to shore by the surging waves.

Eagerly the two boys searched the beach. Hunched over and with their eyes fixed on the ground, they scanned the shore, centimetre by centimetre. Every once in a while they talked about how they would spend the money they were going to get for the amber. If they were lucky.

A little later Bruno called to Janis, who assumed that he must have found some amber. He turned around expectantly to look at his friend, who had stopped some distance away. Bruno was pointing out towards the water.

‘Look at that!’ he yelled.

An empty rowing boat was bobbing on the waves. It looked old and leaky, with a rusty motor at the stern. The rowlocks were empty. It had obviously been drifting about, probably after the high winds of the night had torn it from its mooring.

‘Let’s bring it in,’ suggested Bruno. ‘Maybe we can keep it.’

‘It’d be great to have our own boat! Then we could go out fishing and put out nets,’ exclaimed Janis. He pictured the two of them setting out to sea. If they were lucky, nobody would lay claim to the boat. It had probably come from far away, drifting out of Riga Bay and continuing south along the coast. It looked so decrepit that the owner might not make much of an effort to track it down.

Bruno waded out into the water until it reached way over the tops of his boots. He reached for the prow and pulled on the boat. Janis hurried forward to help, but then stopped abruptly. Bruno heard his friend breathing hard.

In the bottom of the boat lay a gaunt old man, curled up in a foetal position. He was wearing a dark-blue woollen pullover and black trousers. His head was half hidden under one arm, but it was clear that he was badly injured. A huge gash was visible on his forehead, crusted with blood.

The man wasn’t moving.

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR MARTIN Kihlgård of the National Criminal Police arrived early the following morning. Kihlgård had assisted the Visby police on several previous occasions, and it was obvious from the reception he received at police headquarters that he was more than welcome. Everyone seemed aware that the boisterous and popular colleague from Stockholm had arrived, because more and more people poured out of their offices to greet him. Knutas couldn’t help being impressed by the sheer number of friendships that Kihlgård had managed to make among the police during the time he’d spent on Gotland. He seemed to know more people than Knutas did, which was admittedly a bit annoying. He’d always felt slightly competitive towards Kihlgård, even though he tried to hide it. He actually found the effusive welcome rather pathetic, since it was exactly what was expected whenever NCP officers arrived in an out-of-the-way town to offer assistance. In spite of the island’s sixty thousand inhabitants, their district was small potatoes compared to Stockholm. But there was no denying that Kihlgård was a nice guy. In addition to his fun-loving personality and good humour, he was energetic, tenacious and fearless. He also possessed a sensitivity and empathy for others that he put to good use in his job as police interrogator. One of Kihlgård’s most distinguishing traits was his tremendous love of food. There was never any risk of too much time passing between meals whenever he was around. Knutas noted that a large basket of fresh cinnamon rolls had been ordered for their usual morning coffee, just so that Kihlgård would feel at home.

He’d brought along two colleagues, and as soon as the introductions were over, everyone sat down for the meeting.

Knutas began by giving a brief summary of the case and reporting on the latest developments.

‘Right now we’re putting all of our efforts into finding the woman who disappeared a week ago. Stina Ek.’

Kihlgård pushed his glasses up on to his forehead and leaned back in his chair.

‘As I understand it, you consider her a prime suspect. Is that right?’

‘Yes, at least the way things stand at the moment. But we’re not locking ourselves into any particular theory.’

‘That’s good. She could just as well be a victim. How are you going about searching for this Stina Ek? And by the way, do you have a photograph of her?’

‘Of course.’

Erik Sohlman got up and clicked on his computer to produce a picture on the screen at the front of the room. It was a photo of Stina Ek. She was a beautiful woman. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a white blouse, a pink cardigan and jeans.

Kihlgård studied the photo thoughtfully.

‘And you said that she’s thirty-seven years old? Christ, she doesn’t look more than twenty.’

‘The picture is a couple of years old,’ muttered Sohlman. ‘But she does look awfully young.’

‘Nobody has seen her since she left for a bicycle ride on Fårö, except for a crew member on the Stora Karlsö ferry,’ said Jacobsson. ‘He thinks that he saw her, but he’s not sure.’

Kihlgård shook his head, but didn’t take his eyes off the photo.

‘We did find a few traces of her,’ Knutas reminded the others. ‘Her bag, plus what was found on Stora Karlsö.’

‘The last person to see Stina Ek was her husband Håkan. On Fårö, on the afternoon of Saturday, the twenty-eighth of June. Just before she left for her bike ride. After that no one has seen either her or her bicycle. In my opinion, that’s where we need to start. Where did Stina go? Who did she meet? What happened? Who is the man that she claimed to have met, the old classmate of hers?’ Kihlgård gave Knutas an enquiring glance. ‘Have you talked to him?’

‘No,’ sighed Knutas. ‘We don’t know who he is. Or what his name is.’

‘When were they in school together? In primary school? Middle school? Secondary school? Or even nursery school?’

‘Håkan Ek says that he thinks it was in middle school.’

‘But you haven’t checked up on that?’

The colour of Knutas’s face had grown significantly redder under Kihlgård’s cross-examination.

‘No,’ he exclaimed. ‘We haven’t done that yet because we didn’t think it was particularly urgent. We suspect that Stina Ek was lying about that too.’

‘But what if it’s true? What if she really did meet this old classmate? And then disappeared.’

‘She said on the phone that they were sitting in a restaurant called Kuten on Fårö,’ Knutas went on, annoyed. ‘And of course we investigated this thoroughly, since it was the last phone call she made, meaning that it was the last time anyone had direct contact with Stina. None of the employees remember seeing an Asian-looking woman in the restaurant on that Saturday afternoon. Right now all indications are that the purported meeting was nothing but a lie. It seems more and more likely that she is the perpetrator. The ribbon that was found in the hiding place on Stora Karlsö belongs to Stina. Then there’s her mysterious disappearance and the fabricated text messages. It all adds up.’

‘So what’s the motive?’

Knutas threw out his hands.

‘I have no idea! The gods only know what sort of intrigues have been going on with that group of people. They almost seem like a cult – the perfect scenario for bloodshed and revenge.’

Kihlgård reached for what had to be his third cinnamon roll, took a bite, and then swallowed before saying, ‘To sum up, we can conclude that we don’t know a fucking thing. We have no facts to go on. In other words, it’s an open question as to who’s the killer and who’s the victim. I suggest that my NCP colleagues and I get started at once on searching for Stina.’

‘Considering that a murder has actually been committed, shouldn’t we put out an APB on Stina Ek?’ said Wittberg. ‘I mean, to the general public? Since so many people have been in the area, both on Fårö and on Stora Karlsö, we might get some tips if we make use of the media.’

Silence fell over the room. Everyone was considering this suggestion.

‘You’re probably right,’ Knutas said at last. ‘That’s exactly what we should do.’

He fixed his eyes once again on the smiling woman in the photograph on the screen.

AFTER THE MEETING Knutas went to his office and closed the door. The room seemed stuffy and stifling. He opened a window. For once he felt in great need of a smoke. He usually just filled his pipe without lighting it, but right now he was feeling very irritated.

Lina had phoned to say that she was thinking of going to Stockholm for a couple of days now that the children were away at a music festival in Roskilde. She had time off from her job, and she didn’t feel like sitting at home, waiting for him to get off work.

He pushed away all thoughts of Lina and puffed on his pipe. In his mind’s eye he saw the mangled body of Sam Dahlberg. They were getting nowhere with the case. All of the interviews that they’d done had proved more or less useless. They had turned the Dahlberg family home on Norra Glasmästargatan in Terra Nova upside down but found nothing of interest. Outwardly everything seemed perfect: their marriage, the planned surprise trip to Florence, the fancy house. At the same time, Andrea Dahlberg was the last person to see her husband alive. It was entirely possible that she had gone up to the bird mountain with him and pushed him off. We’ve got to get to the bottom of things with her, thought Knutas. With that whole Terra Nova crowd.

The reinforcements from the NCP were definitely needed, even though he couldn’t help feeling irritated with Kihlgård. He asked questions and generally behaved as if he was the one in charge.

Knutas’s thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. It was the duty officer.

‘We had a call while you were in the meeting, but I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘A woman rang from Fårö. A Märta Gardell. She wanted to file a missing person report.’

‘And?’

‘Her brother Valter Olsson has been missing for several days. Maybe a whole week.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘He lives alone in a house in Hammars. He’s actually the closest neighbour to Ingmar Bergman’s house.’

KNUTAS IMMEDIATELY RANG Karin Jacobsson. She and Kihlgård were scheduled to go out to Fårö on the following day, so they could begin by paying a visit to Märta Gardell to talk about her brother’s disappearance. Knutas asked Karin to find out everything she could about the missing man, and try to see if there was some connection with the murder of Sam Dahlberg. Yet he knew from experience that most people who were reported missing usually turned up. People simply didn’t keep in very good touch with each other.

Feeling dejected, Knutas left police headquarters around lunchtime on Friday. He regretted that he was not going out to Fårö with Karin. Then he would at least have a sense of doing something constructive. Right now he seemed to be merely sitting in his office like some sodding administrator, ordering people around. He longed to be doing ordinary, respectable police footwork.

He was going to spend the weekend at home alone, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He closed the glass door of the Criminal Division with a sigh of relief. He was planning to have lunch and then spend the rest of the afternoon working at home. He wanted to go through the transcripts from the latest interviews, and that was something he preferred to do at home. He would have the whole house to himself all weekend, so there was no risk of being interrupted.

Knutas felt anything but at ease with himself and his life in general. On top of his personal problems, the murder investigation seemed to be going nowhere. It felt as if they were simply treading water. I need to have some time for myself, he thought as he crossed the car park outside police headquarters. Time to think.

He stopped at the little pizzeria on his way home. By now the lunchtime rush was over, and the place was empty. He ordered a calzone and a strong beer. He needed it. He exchanged a few words with the owner, but no more than necessary. After all these years, they knew each other well enough so that the pizzeria owner recognized when Knutas wanted to talk and when he didn’t.

Knutas found a secluded table next to the window at the back of the restaurant. He took a big gulp of the cold beer. That helped. He suddenly noticed that he smelled of sweat and glanced down at his shirt. Big damp patches had appeared under his arms. The heat was taking its toll on him. At least here in the restaurant it was cooler than outdoors. Listlessly he stared out of the window. Was he getting depressed? Was he overworked? In fact, there were several indications that he was burnt out. That was the term usually used, although he didn’t much care for it. What did it actually mean? But he’d been suffering from insomnia for weeks, and his sexual desire was completely gone. Not that he and Lina had been feeling particularly passionate lately, but they usually managed to have sex at least a few times a month. And normally it was great. But it had been a long time now. Neither of them felt like taking the initiative. Could it be so bad that they’d actually grown tired of each other? He would never have believed that. Lina had been the love of his life. Good Lord, am I already thinking in the past tense? he realized with alarm. He took another swallow of beer. He was definitely feeling out of sorts; maybe that was part of it. He was having a hard time sleeping, a hard time concentrating. Earlier in the week he’d gone to the ICA Supermarket to buy groceries. When he came out with a full shopping cart, he couldn’t for the life of him remember where he’d parked the car. It took him a good fifteen minutes to find it, but he still couldn’t recall parking it in that particular spot less than an hour earlier. He needed to pull himself together. He was like a spider in the web of the homicide investigation, expected to contribute a majority of the input. But right now he didn’t even have enough energy to deal with the pile of bills and other important papers he should be reading. He ignored them all, almost as if hoping that they’d simply disappear on their own. Friends and acquaintances phoned to ask if he’d like to get together, but their invitations felt burdensome, so he frequently declined, which only made the situation with Lina even worse. She thought he was being negative and boring. Every time the phone rang at home, he would jump. The phone had become a device that meant stress, and he wanted it to remain silent so he could retreat from everything and everyone. He wanted peace and quiet. He wanted to push away all the problems and decisions that needed to be dealt with. Put them in the deep-freeze and take them out later, when he felt better.

He had finished his beer by the time the fragrant, hot pizza arrived. He ordered another one. That was exactly what he needed.

After he had finished eating and had downed the last of his second beer, he noticed that he was feeling tipsy. He cursed himself. Here he was drinking strong beer in the middle of the day. What an idiot. What if someone saw him? Fortunately, he was still alone in the little restaurant. Probably no one would want to sit inside eating pizza in this heat. The front door stood open to let in some air. Fatigue suddenly overwhelmed him. He hadn’t slept properly for weeks. He ordered coffee and asked for the bill.

When he left the restaurant, he was a bit unsteady on his feet. And the contempt that he felt for himself grew.

JOHAN BERG WAS cooking dinner. He was itching to get back to his job. He sighed heavily, hoping that the feeling would pass. He couldn’t go around like this for the next six months. He thought with admiration of all the women who stayed at home with their children year after year. He was amazed they could stand it.

For the moment peace reigned in the house. Elin was watching a TV programme for kids while Anton sat on the floor, waving a rattle. Johan had showered and shaved and was sipping a glass of red wine that he’d placed within reach. Emma was at the gym and would be home soon.

The phone rang. He picked it up as he continued stirring the chicken casserole, redolent with garlic. It was Emma’s favourite dish.

He didn’t recognize the voice of the man on the phone.

‘Uh, hello, I’m sorry to bother you. This is Arne Gustavsson, and I live on Fårö. I’m a good friend of Emma’s parents. They gave me your number.’

‘Oh. Hello.’

Emma’s parents had lived for many years in the northern part of Fårö.

‘I’m calling about the pictures they’ve published on the Internet. You know, the ones of the missing woman.’

The missing woman? Johan had no idea what the man was talking about.

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I know that you’re a journalist and so I talked to Sture, Emma’s father. We’ve been friends for a long time. Here on Fårö everybody knows everyone else, more or less. There aren’t that many of us living here, after all. And I thought that I should ring you. I’ve talked to the police too, of course, but Sture said that you’d definitely be interested.’

Johan took his eyes off the stove for a moment, picked up his glass of wine, and sat down on a chair at the kitchen table. What in the world was this guy babbling about?

‘What’s this about?’

‘Well, the thing is, a week ago I saw the missing woman – Stina Ek, whose picture is in all the papers – right outside where I live. She came cycling past, and my dog ran after her. I called out to her, but she just kept on going. I wanted to stop her because she was headed for some private land, and I didn’t know who she was.’

‘Private land?’

‘Yes, I live next to Ingmar Bergman’s property out here in Hammars. And it looked like she was headed in that direction.’

Johan slowly lowered his hand, still holding the glass. He was trying to gather his thoughts. He’d spent the whole day without listening to a single news broadcast, and he hadn’t turned on his computer since morning. He had no idea what the man was trying to tell him.

‘I’m sorry if I seem a bit confused,’ he apologized. ‘I’m in the middle of taking care of the kids and cooking dinner, so I haven’t a clue what happened today. Could you tell me what this is all about?’

‘Sure.’ The man on the phone cleared his throat. ‘The police are looking for a woman named Stina Ek. She was apparently part of the same group as Sam Dahlberg, who was found dead on Stora Karlsö. A bunch of friends from Visby had come over for the Bergman festival and then continued on to Stora Karlsö. One of the women, whose name is Stina Ek, disappeared from Fårö a week ago. Now the police want to find out any information they can about her, and I seem to have been the last person to see her before she vanished.’

‘When was that?’

‘Last Saturday. She came cycling past in the afternoon.’

‘I see.’

Johan was beginning to understand. At that moment Elin came in from the living room, sobbing. She wasn’t wearing a nappy, and she had wet herself. At the same time, Anton began crying.

‘Maybe it would be best for us to meet so you could explain things in more detail. Would that be OK?’

‘Sure, that’s no problem.’

‘How about tomorrow morning? Around eleven? I can come out to your place.’

‘All right. My wife and I will be home.’

Johan asked for directions, which he quickly jotted down while the sound of the children crying rose to a deafening level in the background.

He put down the phone and dealt with the chaos while thoughts whirled through his mind.

Fifteen minutes later calm was once again restored. He had just enough time to ring Pia before Emma came home.

He picked up the phone and tapped in her home number.

Maybe now she’d have time to talk.

EXHAUSTED, ANDREA SANK down on to the sofa. It was past midnight before the children had finally fallen asleep. They had been sad, bewildered, and on edge ever since she’d been forced to tell them that their father was dead. Pontus worried that he was going to die too, while Oliver had closed off his emotions and declined to speak at all. The youngest child, Mathilda, was convinced that her mother was also going to disappear, so she clung to Andrea, refusing to let go. In reality, the kids hadn’t had a particularly close or strong relationship with their father. Andrea was always the one who had taken most of the responsibility. She was the one who was at home, cleaning, doing the laundry, baking apple cakes and helping the children with their homework. She was the one who drove them to football and hockey practice and to their riding lessons. She was the one who attended the parent-teacher meetings. Sam could always blame his absence on his job. Pappa had to go out of town. Pappa had to work on a screenplay. Don’t bother Pappa because he’s reading through script changes; he needs his sleep because he’s shooting a film.

Andrea tried to find some solace in these kinds of thoughts. At least the children still had her. If it weren’t for the kids, she would have preferred to lie down and die. In fact, she had actually toyed with that idea. She would go out to Sandviken on the east coast of Gotland, since she had such fond memories of that place. There she’d take off all her clothes except for a white cotton dress that was her favourite. She’d put on bright red lipstick, the kind that wouldn’t come off in the water. Paint her toenails the same colour, and then in the evening walk barefoot straight out into the water. Let the sea envelop her; let the water rush into all the nooks and crannies of her body, capturing her life’s breath and extinguishing it. She would be a lovely corpse, no question about that.

She yawned without feeling sleepy, shivering with cold even though it was still warm outside. She switched on the TV and tried to concentrate on a Spanish film by Almodóvar. She and Sam both liked the Spanish director very much, and they’d seen all his films. Tonight it was Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. The perfect movie for me, she thought ironically. She was wearing only her bathrobe. She spread a blanket over her legs, turned on a light, and poured herself another glass of wine. It wouldn’t matter if she got a bit drunk before going to bed. She’d done that every night since Sam was found dead, out there on Stora Karlsö. She was filled with nausea at the thought of how he’d looked. His body completely ravaged. She’d been forced to identify him, but she’d hardly recognized her own husband. The father of her children.

A sob rose in her throat but no tears fell. Even though she’d lost everything, she still hadn’t been able to cry. She felt dried up, shrivelled up, stunned. Thoughts whirled through her mind without meaning or purpose. Disconnected. Nothing made any sense. She had no idea how long she might remain in these hellish depths. Everything she’d had was now gone. She was floating about in a void, a no man’s land, a limbo. She took some more sips of wine.

Suddenly she gave a start. She thought she saw a shadow race past outside the window. The big windows facing the back garden reached from floor to ceiling. That was one thing that Sam had insisted on when the house was built. Andrea had been less convinced; it seemed so exposed. ‘Who’s going to look in?’ Sam had protested. ‘Both the living room and kitchen face the woods. Nobody is going to be walking past.’ She could hear his voice so clearly, echoing inside her head. She froze, the wine glass halfway to her lips, and stared into the darkness. She could just make out the apple trees in the garden, the lilac arbour in the distance. The edge of the woods. The silhouette of a bird was visible against the darkening sky. It never got pitch dark at this time of year. Probably a blackbird, she thought. It sat very still. Quiet and motionless.

What had she seen? The next second she heard a clattering sound. Someone or something was definitely out there. Keeping her eyes fixed on the window, she slowly set her glass on the coffee table and turned off the lamp. Darkness settled over the room. Reflected in the windowpanes she saw only the fading embers in the fireplace. Now it would be much harder to see her from outside. Cautiously she got up from the sofa and crept over to the far wall, pressing herself against the surface to hide.

It was quiet outside. Nothing moved. Her heart was pounding hard, but she tried to reason with herself. It was probably just a bird. Or a cat. Or a hedgehog, now that the heat of the day lingered into the night. One evening when she’d turned off the outside lights before going to bed, she’d seen dark little shapes dotting the lawn. A hideous sight. As if they were sitting there, biding their time. Just waiting to come towards her.

The shrill sound of the phone suddenly broke the silence. She jumped. Who could be calling so late? It was almost 1 a.m. None of their friends would ever ring in the middle of the night. Her first thought was that it must be the police. Had something happened? Had they found Stina? Her whole being urged her to answer the phone, but she wasn’t sure that she dared. What if somebody was still out there? She assumed that she couldn’t be seen from where she was standing, but if she picked up the phone, she’d give herself away. All she had to do was turn her head towards the window to sense the threat lurking outside. It couldn’t be just her imagination; the feeling was too strong.

The phone stopped ringing. Then it started up again. The caller was trying again, so it must be important. She strained to see something in the dark, but in vain. Nothing moved. What should she do? She cursed herself for not switching on the security system. Anybody could get inside the house without being noticed. She took a deep breath, and then rushed from her hiding place and grabbed the phone on the wall between the living room and kitchen.

‘Hello?’

She heard someone breathing.

‘Hello?’ she repeated. ‘Who is this?’

Silence. Breathing. A faint wheezing sound.

Fear flashed through her body, but she also felt her anger growing. Who had the right to terrorize her like this in the middle of the night?

‘Who is this?’ she said, harshly.

Finally a voice. Sounding horribly hollow.

‘I can see you. I’m out here. You look so lovely in your robe. Shall I come in and take it off?’

‘Tell me who you are,’ she pleaded.

‘Shall I come in and…?’

Whispering in her ear. Sexual. Very close. She held her breath, turned towards the dark window. Someone was out there. Someone was watching her. Someone knew what she had done. Her hand was shaking as she put down the phone.

IT WAS ONLY eight o’clock when Jacobsson picked up Kihlgård outside his hotel on Saturday morning. They had a lot to do that day. Their first topic of conversation was the request for information about Stina Ek, which had appeared in the media and had already resulted in numerous calls from the public.

‘The most interesting tip is from a man on Fårö named Arne Gustavsson,’ Karin told Martin. ‘He lives in Hammars, and Stina rode past him on her bike the day that she disappeared. She was heading straight for Bergman’s property.’

‘Really?’

‘At least it confirms that she was cycling in that area. Whether she disappeared from that part of the island is another matter. At any rate, he tried to stop her since she was approaching private land, but she just kept on going.’

Kihlgård whistled.

‘Interesting. He may have been the last one to see her. Do we have time to talk to him?’

‘Of course. But it’ll have to be after lunch. He couldn’t meet with us until then. Something else has happened that we need to check out. Andrea Dahlberg rang the duty officer in the middle of the night to say that some idiot was making nuisance phone calls.’

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘It started with her hearing strange noises outside late at night. The children were asleep upstairs, and she was sitting on the sofa in the living room watching TV. Several times she thought she saw someone moving about the property, but she decided it was just her imagination. Then the phone rang. By then it was really late, around one a.m. At first she heard only someone breathing, but then a man started making sexual remarks.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Something about how he could see she was wearing only a robe, and then he suggested that he could come in and take it off her.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘She rang the police. She was so upset that the duty officer sent out a patrol car. They checked outside the house but found nothing. Then they stayed to talk to her until she calmed down.’

‘What in Christ’s name could that be about? Did she recognize the voice?’

‘I don’t think so. But I haven’t talked to her. Wittberg was the one who went out there to see her.’

‘The guy must have been right outside her window. Have you checked with the neighbours? Asked them if anybody suspicious was seen outside the Dahlberg house, I mean?’

‘Of course we have,’ said Jacobsson impatiently. ‘No one noticed anything unusual. At least they said they didn’t. I’m starting to have serious doubts about whether this group can be trusted.’

They passed the little village of Tingstäde.

‘Isn’t this where your parents live?’ asked Kihlgård.

‘Yes.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘You can’t see their house from the road.’

Kihlgård fell silent. It was obvious that Karin didn’t want to talk about her parents.

‘Would you like one?’ He held out a bag of sugar doughnuts. Jacobsson couldn’t help smiling.

‘Didn’t you have time for breakfast?’

‘Yes, but there’s a bakery right next door to the hotel, and every morning when I open the window, I can smell the fresh doughnuts. I couldn’t resist. Coffee?’ Kihlgård pulled out a thermos and two paper cups.

‘And where did you get those?’

‘Well, I’ve made friends with the waiter who serves breakfast, and I told him we were driving all the way to Fårö and wondered whether we could get some coffee to take along. He said it was no problem.’

Jacobsson gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. They soon reached the dock at Fårösund, just in time to catch the ferry. At this hour on a Saturday morning, only a few cars were on board.

They were going to start by driving over to the home of the woman that Knutas had spoken to yesterday, the one who had reported her brother missing. Märta Gardell lived just outside the village of Dämba, which consisted of a cluster of houses crowded in between sheep pastures. She lived in a small, low limestone house, and she’d set the table in the garden for coffee. All three of them sat down in the shade. Kihlgård helped himself to the homemade saffron pancakes.

‘So tell us what happened,’ said Jacobsson. ‘You said your brother has disappeared. Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ replied Märta. ‘I haven’t heard from him all week, and that’s not like him. He usually comes by at least every other day to have a meal with me. We both live alone now. My husband passed away last year, almost the same time as Ingmar Bergman, just a week later. And Valter has never married. He has lived over there in that cabin of his all these years. The only people he ever sees are me and my family, plus Ingmar. They were neighbours, you know. Valter helped him out a lot, taking care of the house when Ingmar was in Stockholm or travelling.’

‘When did you last see your brother?’

‘A week ago. He came over and we had dinner together. He’d brought me several flounders.’

‘Did you notice anything different about him?’

‘Not at all. He was just the same as usual. Very quiet. My brother doesn’t talk much. Not like me.’

‘How long did he stay?’

‘He must have been here a couple of hours. He helped me with some digging in the garden and then chopped some wood for me. My arms aren’t as strong as they used to be.’

‘So this was a week ago? And you haven’t heard from him since?’

‘No, not a word. I haven’t seen him, and nobody else has either. I’ve asked all the neighbours, everyone we know, in the shops and down by the ferry. Not a single person has seen hide nor hair of him for a whole week.’

‘And you said that he lives alone?’

‘That’s right. He always has, though I don’t know why. But I’ve never asked. That’s his own business.’ She sighed.

‘Does he usually keep to himself?’

‘I suppose he’s somewhat of a loner, but we’ve always got along well. We enjoy each other’s company. And after the children moved away and my husband died, he doesn’t mind coming over here. In the past there was always so much commotion in the house, and he doesn’t do well in noisy situations. So he didn’t come around much. But as I said, I started to think something was wrong, and he’s not answering his phone. He does spend a lot of time outdoors, but still. I’ve tried phoning early in the morning and late in the evening. Yesterday I went over there because I was getting really worried. That’s when I discovered that his boat was missing.

‘His boat?’ queried Jacobsson.

‘Yes, the rowing boat he always uses when he goes out fishing. It’s not there.’

‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary inside his house?’

‘The coffee thermos wasn’t in its usual place on the counter. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find it. He always takes it with him when he goes fishing. That’s what made me really worried, the fact that the boat and the thermos were gone. Something must have happened out at sea. There was a strong wind all week. I’m afraid that something bad has happened to him. We only have each other, Valter and I. Everyone else is gone. There’s nothing else left.’ Tears filled the old woman’s eyes. ‘I also went down to his fishing shack, and it looks like he took his nets along. And the binoculars were gone too. They weren’t hanging on the hook.’

‘Could we borrow the key to Valter’s house?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘We’d like to have a look around.’

IT TOOK KNUTAS less time than he expected to plough his way through the interview transcripts that he’d brought home over the weekend. But reading through the material hadn’t produced any new leads. He felt discouraged when he awoke in the empty house on Saturday morning. To take his mind off things, he decided to drive up to the family’s summer cottage in Lickershamn. He needed to get away and have a change of scene. Why should he stay home alone in Visby when he’d finished the work he needed to do and the weather was so nice? Lina and the children were all away. Besides, he needed to repair the roof of the cottage. Several roof tiles had blown off during a spring storm. He’d been meaning to replace them for a long time, but so far nothing had come of his good intentions. If nothing special happened in the investigation, he planned to stay overnight.

He drove north, relieved to be leaving the city behind. Even though it wasn’t a long drive, only 25 kilometres, he always had a feeling of liberation upon arriving at the cottage, located on the rocky shore in north-west Gotland. There was no phone and only a few neighbours, so he would be undisturbed. And he wouldn’t have to talk to a soul.

A warm, happy sensation came over him when the grey plastered limestone house appeared a kilometre beyond the picturesque harbour area. It was surrounded by a stone wall, isolated, and with no neighbours within sight. Bright red poppies gleamed against the fence. He noted that the grass had sprouted up to an unacceptable height. It was going to be a tough job for their halting old lawnmower, which he should have replaced long ago. He parked in front of the cottage and got out of the car. There he stood for a moment, filling his lungs with fresh air that smelled of the salt water and seaweed. He got out the bags of groceries and then unlocked the front door, breathing in the usual smell of damp stone. He loved the smell that always lingered inside until he threw open all the windows to air the place. Slightly stuffy, with a hint of indolence and a sense of anticipation. A longing for something else.

He put the groceries in the fridge and pantry. He was planning to cook himself a steak for supper. With potato wedges and red wine. For lunch he would have sliced meatballs and pickled beets on the famous flat bread that his parents made at their farm just a little further north, in Kappelshamn. He realized that it had been a while since he’d visited them. So he decided to drop by and have coffee with them tomorrow before he went back to town. But first he needed to get busy with the tedious task of repairing the roof. He made coffee and poured himself a cup. Then he set the transistor radio on the table outside so he could listen to the programme Melodikrysset while he was working.

He went out to the tool shed to fetch a hammer and nails, as well as the roof tiles that he’d bought some time ago. He leaned the ladder against the eaves, but then realized it was too hot for the clothes he was wearing. He went back inside to change his jeans and shirt for a pair of shorts and a polo shirt. He glanced at the thermometer in the kitchen window. Already 24 degrees centigrade, even though it wasn’t even ten o’clock. An area of high pressure was on its way from Russia, and it would probably park itself over Gotland and stay for weeks. He was hoping that would happen. Not so much for his own sake, since he didn’t enjoy really hot weather, but Lina and the kids did. Not to mention all the tourists, of course.

He put on the carpenter’s belt that Lina had given him for his birthday a few years back. He’d taken the hint, realizing that if he had the tools handy, he could just as well do the work himself instead of hiring someone. Several years ago he’d helped a good friend put on a tile roof, so he should be able to manage. He put the tiles on his shoulder and climbed up the ladder just as the theme song of Melodikrysset started playing. The next second he heard the familiar voice of Anders Eldeman giving the correct answers from the previous week’s show.

When Knutas had climbed high enough up, he lifted off the tiles and set them on the roof. Then he nervously took a step away from the ladder. He’d always been a bit scared of heights. On trembling legs he carried the tiles up to the place on the ridge where the old tiles had blown away. He carefully knelt down, placing the tiles next to him. Only then could he enjoy the view. He looked out over the sea, glittering with sunlight, and the rocky shore; way off in the distance, near the harbour, he could see the rauk called Jungfrun, which was a landmark for Lickershamn. Suddenly he heard a clattering sound next to him. In a flash he saw that the tiles had started sliding down the roof. He reached out to grab them, but at that moment he lost his balance.

He didn’t even have time to think before he found himself tumbling down off the roof.

VALTER OLSSON’S HOME was located in the middle of the woods. A blue gate near the narrow road was the only indication that someone lived in the vicinity. They parked outside the gate, struck by the silence that enveloped them. The only sound was the constant, soothing roar of the sea. Karin took a deep breath. How fresh the air was.

A one-storey wooden house painted brown stood in a clearing right above the water. A storage shed and an outdoor privy also stood nearby. Nothing fancy. A small piece of ground surrounded the cabin; a broom leaned against the front wall. No porch. Another small blue gate faced the sea.

Jacobsson lifted the hasp and stepped inside the gate; then she stopped among the trees to look down at the rocky shore. There she saw an old rotting boathouse that looked as if it might collapse at any minute. An upside-down rowing boat lay near the water’s edge; it was in disrepair and bleached from the sun. It clearly hadn’t been used for a long time. According to Märta Gardell, her brother kept his fishing boat inside the boathouse. Right now it was empty.

A few terns glided over the surface of the water. Jacobsson turned to peer with curiosity in the direction where she assumed Ingmar Bergman had lived. Cliffs; barbed wire ending out in the sea. The house must be beyond the next bend.

The cabin seemed deserted. A rusty old bicycle was parked outside. A few dirty and dented plastic containers lay on the grass. There was no real garden to speak of. The ground was barren, covered with stones, the only vegetation a few juniper shrubs clustered together inside the stone wall that surrounded the property.

The door opened with a creak. Quietly Kihlgård pushed it further open so they could go inside. They were instantly struck by the view of the water. Straight ahead, at the other end of the cabin, was a row of windows. The small, cramped kitchen faced the other direction. There they saw a table and two chairs with floral-patterned cushions. Jacobsson guessed that it was Valter’s sister who had made them. The curtains had the same pattern. She felt a lump settle in her stomach. Life was so strange. Would it really finish in this lonely way? Was this all that was left at the end? Thoughts of Lydia flitted through her mind. She was interrupted when Kihlgård shouted from the bedroom.

‘Look at this.’

Kihlgård was standing next to the bed, holding a photograph in his hand. Jacobsson stood on tiptoe to peer at an old black-and-white photo, probably taken sometime in the 1960s. Bergman, wearing a beret and polo-neck sweater, was standing on a rock near the sea with his arm around a lean-looking man clad in a vest and peaked cap. Both were suntanned and smiling at the camera.

‘This must be him,’ said Kihlgård. ‘Valter Olsson. They certainly look like they were good friends.’

‘They certainly do.’

‘The bed seems to have been recently made. But it’s impossible to tell when it was last used.’

Jacobsson sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, feeling discouraged.

‘What should we do?’

‘First we’ll search the cabin, and then we’ll have a look at the boathouse down by the water. I’m afraid that since his boat is gone and he hasn’t been seen for a whole week, we have to expect the worst. He may have drowned when he was out fishing.’ Kihlgård got out his mobile. ‘I’ll ask the others to find out if a rowing boat has come ashore anywhere along the coast. If so, we’ll soon have our answer.’

Jacobsson stared up at her colleague from under her fringe.

‘Don’t you think this is all a bit strange? First Sam Dahlberg is found dead on Stora Karlsö a couple of days after he’s been here on Fårö to attend the Bergman festival. Then Stina Ek disappears from the island during the same week while taking a bicycle ride. And now another man is missing. And who does he happen to be? Bergman’s closest neighbour. I don’t think it’s just a coincidence. There must be a connection.’

Kihlgård nodded pensively.

‘I’m sure you’re right. The question is: What on earth does Ingmar Bergman have to do with all of this?’

KNUTAS LOOKED AROUND the room. The hospital smells prickled his nose. Cautiously he turned his wrist, grimacing with pain.

Fortunately his neighbour had been able to take him to accident and emergency after he fell off the roof. He was feeling dazed and gratefully accepted a painkiller and a glass of water from a nurse who came into the room. She gave him a smile.

‘So how’s it going?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Knutas. ‘I feel sick. My wrist hurts. My head does too.’

‘You have a bad concussion, and your wrist is broken. It was a nasty fall. Considering the circumstances, you’re doing well.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Twelve ten. We’ve phoned Lina, and she’s on her way.’

Everyone knew Lina. She’d worked at the hospital for fifteen years.

‘We need to put a cast on your wrist. We’ll do that later this afternoon.’

‘Will I be able to go to work?’ asked Knutas worriedly.

‘That’s for the doctor to decide, but I think you’ll probably need to stay home for a week at least. A serious concussion is nothing to muck around with. There can be complications if you don’t take it easy. But it was lucky that it was your left hand. You’re right-handed, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. Could I make a phone call?’

‘Of course. Would you like your mobile?’

‘Yes, please. But first I’ve got to use the toilet.’

‘Let me help you.’

With great effort he sat up and put his feet on the floor. At that moment his head started to spin, as if someone had struck him.

‘How are you doing?’ asked the nurse, holding him by the arm.

Knutas sighed. It seemed very unlikely that he’d be back at work on Monday.

THE FLAT WAS situated in a row of dilapidated buildings with external walkways built sometime in the 1960s.

At the moment no lights were on in any of the windows. No one seemed to be at home. That suited him perfectly.

He unlocked the front door and entered the hall. Since he had just stepped in from outside, he noticed how stuffy it smelled. He walked through the living room, which was furnished with a white leather sofa, a coffee table with smoked glass and gilded feet, and a bookcase made of cherry. A porcelain Dalmatian adorned one corner of the room. The blinds were drawn, hanging drearily in front of the window and blocking the view of the building on the other side of the street. Just the way he liked it. He didn’t want to be aware of the world outside. Not now. He needed to concentrate on what was ahead. He had to prepare. He went into the bedroom, where the bed was still unmade, and pulled out the drawer of the nightstand to get the key to the locked room. In addition to the kitchen the flat consisted of three rooms, but he used only two of them on a daily basis. The empty room was intended for special purposes. He turned the key in the lock. It was pitch dark inside, with a faint aroma of incense. The fragrance called up memories for him, and if he stayed inside for any length of time, he almost felt dizzy – from both desire and yearning. He had meticulously furnished what he called the Red Room – although it had nothing to do with Strindberg’s novel of the same name.

He switched on the ceiling light and went in. The purple-coloured carpet was soft under his feet; the walls were inviting with their warm, rustred colour. It was the biggest room in the flat, and was most likely intended to be the living room. He had placed the water bed in the centre, and the ceiling was covered with mirrors. In each corner stood a pillar sprayed gold and topped with a scented candle and incense burner. The opposite wall was papered with photos of her. Naked on the bed, seminude in the garden on the other side of the hedge, fully dressed with the children outside the Coop Forum.

He was going to bring her here, and they would re-experience what they’d once had. It would be even better than before. If only he could manage to persuade her, if only she would allow him near her again, then she would realize it was here she belonged. In the Red Room. With him and no one else. And now he had taken a definite step closer to his goal. A very important step. Pleased and filled with confidence he opened his bag and took out another stack of photos.

Then he began tacking them up on the wall, one after the other.

JACOBSSON AND KIHLGÅRD decided to have lunch at the Kuten restaurant, which was right across from where the ill-fated Terra Nova group had stayed.

Kihlgård looked astounded as Jacobsson pulled into the small car park near the road and stopped next to an old American Ford Falcon. They could hear fifties rock music as soon as they got out of the car. Playing on the restaurant jukebox was Little Gerhard’s big hit, ‘Buona Sera’.

‘What a place!’ he exclaimed. ‘It takes me right back to the fifties.’ He pointed at a sign above the entrance. ‘What an original name for a restaurant. Kuten,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t that mean seal pup?’

Jacobsson shrugged.

‘I have no idea.’

Inside the restaurant a genuine French chef was busy making crêpes. Kihlgård exchanged a few words with him in his native tongue. They ordered lunch and managed to find a free table. It was stifling inside, and Jacobsson felt a band of pressure on her forehead.

‘I can tell we’re in for a thunderstorm before tonight.’

As soon as the food appeared, they both fell silent. Kihlgård was so preoccupied with his fragrant crêpe filled with salmon that he couldn’t talk. Only when his plate was empty did he feel like conversing.

‘That was fantastic,’ he said. ‘Don’t you agree? So crisp. And what flavour! You can tell that the chef is a real expert.’

‘Yes, but it’s incredibly rich.’ Jacobsson put down her fork. She’d eaten only half of her crêpe.

‘A real Frenchman, too,’ Kihlgård went on with satisfaction. ‘You can always tell when something is genuinely French.’

Kihlgård’s weakness for France was well known, and a couple of years earlier he had told his colleagues that he had a French boyfriend. Jacobsson assumed that they were still together. She and Kihlgård liked each other on a professional basis, but they almost never talked about anything personal.

She studied her colleague, unable to ignore his hungry glances. Swiftly she shoved her plate over to his side of the table.

‘I’m done. Have the rest if you like.’

Kihlgård looked like a child on Christmas Eve.

‘Really? Thanks.’

After lunch they found their way out to Arne Gustavsson’s place. He ran a farm in Hammars and lived close to Valter Olsson’s cabin. They declined the offer of coffee since they were starting to run out of time. A dog barked from an enclosed dog run. They sat down in the yard, and Gustavsson told them how Stina had ridden past on her bicycle a week ago, on Saturday afternoon.

‘Do you recall what time it was when you saw her?’

‘It was sometime after three o’clock, but no later than four. I’m afraid I can’t be more exact than that.’

‘How did she seem?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘I didn’t see much because she was going so fast. She rode past my house, with my dog barking after her. I think she wanted to get away as quickly as possible. My dog can seem a bit scary.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I called after her, trying to get her to stop, but she just kept going. Then she disappeared.’

‘And you didn’t see her again?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Did you notice anyone following her?’

‘No. Although I didn’t stand there to watch. I was busy with my own things. There’s always work to do here on the farm.’

‘Do you remember seeing any other traffic on that day? Cars or bicycles, people walking past?’

‘Not many people come by here. Most stay away because they realize that they’ll have to cross our property if they want to keep going. And the rest of the promontory is private. It all belongs to Bergman. There’s no reason for anyone to come here.’

‘So you didn’t see anyone else pass by?’

‘Not that day. But there was someone in the night.’

Jacobsson was suddenly alert.

‘When was that?’

‘Later, after I’d gone to bed on Saturday. I woke up in the middle of the night. Being a farmer, I’m a light sleeper, because of the livestock, you know.’

Jacobsson nodded even though she didn’t really understand what the man meant by that. She was waiting impatiently for him to go on.

‘Anyway, I was woken by the sound of a car. I wondered who would be driving around at that ungodly hour, so I got out of bed to look outside. The bedroom window faces the road.’ He turned around to point at an upstairs window of his house. ‘I managed to see a car driving down the road, but I couldn’t tell what kind it was. Or who was driving.’

‘Could you tell if there was more than one person in the car?’ asked Kihlgård.

‘I’m afraid not. It happened so fast.’

‘Do you know what time it was?’

‘As a matter of fact, I checked to see the time. It was almost morning. Ten past four.’

‘And you’re sure of that?’

‘A hundred per cent sure. I looked at the alarm clock that I keep next to the bed. And it keeps good time.’

‘Did you see what colour the car was?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘No. I think it was a very dark colour, but it’s difficult to say. It was just before dawn, so the morning fog had come in and made it hard to see. I couldn’t really make it out properly; I just heard the sound.’

‘And can you tell us anything about that? Did it sound like an old car?’

‘No, I don’t think so. There was nothing special about it. Just a droning sound.’

‘And that’s the last you saw of it?’

‘Well, I went back to bed but I couldn’t sleep. So I got up and made coffee. Then I went out to the barn. And that’s when I heard the car again. When I was inside.’ The farmer shook his head.

‘What time was it then?’

‘That must have been almost an hour later. About five.’

Jacobsson and Kihlgård exchanged glances.

‘Do you know whether anyone else here in Hammars noticed that car?’

‘No, but I haven’t really asked anyone. I happened to think about it when I saw the pictures of the woman who’s gone missing. I recognized her at once and then I thought maybe the car had something to do with her disappearance, since it was headed in the same direction. And the road goes only to Bergman’s place. And to his neighbour’s house, of course. Valter.’

AFTER THEIR EXPEDITION to Fårö, Jacobsson went into her office and closed the door. She turned on her computer and checked the flights to Stockholm on the following day. There were still seats on the 10.30 departure, and she could return at 5.30. That would give her six hours in the city. She couldn’t wait any longer. At the same time as she was busy with the investigation, the name Hanna von Schwerin kept buzzing in the back of her mind. At this point Jacobsson wasn’t planning to contact her daughter’s adoptive family; she just wanted to see Hanna. Nor did she intend to announce her presence right now. Just have a look. It should be possible on a Sunday. She booked a return ticket to Stockholm. She hoped that Hanna wasn’t away on holiday, but that was a risk she’d have to take. At least she would see the house where her daughter lived. That was always a start.

Kihlgård and Knutas would have to hold the fort while she was away. Pleased that she’d finally made a decision, Jacobsson leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands behind her head. She tried to imagine what her daughter might look like. Almost twenty-five. Her name didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe she was a completely ordinary young woman.

Her musings were interrupted when the phone rang. It was a call from the police in the Latvian town of Ventspils. Surprisingly enough, the officer spoke Swedish. Before she could ask, he explained that his mother was Swedish.

‘I’m calling because we discovered a dead man in a rowing boat south of the harbour here in Ventspils. Two boys found it when they were searching for amber along the beach. It’s possible that the victim is Swedish.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘We’ve spent the whole day trying to match the description of the dead man with any missing persons in Latvia. Without success. The next step is to contact our neighbouring countries. And when it comes to Sweden, I decided to start with the police in Visby, since it’s most likely that the boat would have drifted across from Gotland. It’s a pretty direct route.’

Jacobsson felt her interest growing.

‘How old is the man?’

‘I’d say he’s in his seventies. He looks weatherbeaten, like an old fisherman. He also had a lot of fishing gear in the boat.’

‘Did he suffer any injuries?’

‘Yes. The ME hasn’t been here yet, but according to our technical officer, the man probably died from a violent blow to the head. He was obviously assaulted and has numerous contusions. He has clearly been in that boat for a while. Our crime tech thinks that he must have been dead at least a week.’

‘Can you give me a more detailed description?’

‘Five foot ten, dark hair with hardly any grey. A thin, wiry body. No moustache or beard. He was wearing dark trousers, sandals and a blue shirt. He had a key in his pocket. A pair of binoculars and a thermos of coffee were in the boat along with some fishing gear. That’s all.’

Jacobsson swallowed hard. The description was an exact match.

KNUTAS COULD TELL from the footsteps approaching the door that Lina was on her way. His wrist was now in a cast, he’d slept for a few hours, and he’d had something to eat. He was feeling better.

When his wife appeared, Knutas felt a warmth spread through his body. He was glad to see her. She was holding a bag and a big bouquet of flowers.

‘Hi, sweetheart.’ She smiled and gave him a big hug. Knutas felt tears come to his eyes, but he managed not to cry.

‘Hi.’

She’d brought one of the hospital’s stainless-steel vases, which she filled with water at the sink. She put the flowers in the vase and opened the bag, which contained grapes, a chocolate cake and a stack of newspapers.

Then she sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand.

‘How are you feeling?’

She looked worried. All of a sudden he noticed that she seemed thinner. He hadn’t noticed that before.

‘Have you lost weight?’

She laughed.

‘What sort of question is that?’

‘Have you?’

‘I’ve lost a few kilos,’ she admitted. ‘Haven’t you noticed? But it doesn’t matter. How are you?’

‘I’m OK. My wrist hurts a little, but that’s all.’

‘The doctor told me that you also have a concussion. I was so worried when they called me. It could have been a lot worse. You’re not allowed to go up on the roof ever again. We’ll hire a handyman from now on. And the doctor said you can’t go back to work for at least a week.’

‘But we’re in the middle of an investigation.’

‘That’s not important. Concussion is a serious matter, and it’s not worth taking any risks. You’ll have to stay at home and take it easy.’

‘Does Karin know?’

‘I haven’t called her yet. But I’m sure they’ll manage without you.’

As if on cue, Knutas’s mobile rang, and Jacobsson’s name appeared on the display.

‘You need to come over to the office as soon as possible. There’s a lot happening here.’

‘Like what?’

‘I’ll tell you when you get here,’ said Jacobsson impatiently. ‘Hurry up.’

Knutas could only sigh.

THE AROMA OF grilled meat hovered over the neighbourhood. Those who hadn’t gone away on holiday were holding the obligatory outdoor barbecues this evening. On nearly every terrace and balcony, in almost every back garden, smoke was rising up from some sort of grill. Children were laughing as they played around the hedges and flowerbeds. The grown-ups were sipping wine as they sat on patio chairs, enjoying the warm summer night.

Andrea was smoking a cigarette as she sat alone on her veranda, which was shielded from view. The children were again staying with her mother. Beata had just phoned again. She was constantly calling Andrea. Of course it was because she was concerned, but she came over so often that Andrea was starting to get annoyed. Even so, she had accepted the invitation when Beata had suggested that she and John could come over to make her dinner. It wasn’t good for Andrea to be alone, Beata had insisted. As if she had a clue. Håkan would come too. He was a nervous wreck, out of his mind with worry about Stina. It was lucky that his children were also staying with relatives. His nervous state was hard on the kids, and he didn’t have the energy to deal with their unhappiness on top of his own. It was the same for Andrea. She couldn’t be strong in front of the children, so it was just as well that they were away.

The doorbell rang. She got up to open the door. There stood Håkan, awkwardly clutching a bunch of flowers in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other. He looked as if he might fall apart if anyone so much as blew on him.

‘I’m sorry for losing my temper last time.’

‘That’s OK,’ she replied, giving him a hug. ‘We’re all feeling a bit off balance.’

Beata and John appeared a second later. They’d made lamb kebabs and potato salad. John took Håkan outside to put the lamb on the barbecue. Beata started bustling about the kitchen without really doing anything. She knocked a bowl of snacks on the floor, where it landed with a bang.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she cried. ‘How clumsy of me.’

Andrea was already taking the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard. She cleaned up the mess while Beata perched on a stool at the kitchen island, holding a glass of wine and watching helplessly.

When Andrea was finished, she took Beata by the hand.

‘Come on.’

They went out to the deck, where Håkan was already seated, looking like a forlorn puppy. Andrea poured more wine for everyone, and John turned the kebabs on the rack. No one spoke for a while. They didn’t have to ask how everyone was feeling since they knew each other so well. The outburst from the last time they’d met was forgotten.

Then the kebabs were ready.

‘Here,’ said John, holding out the serving dish. They each took a kebab and helped themselves to the potato salad and Beata’s freshly baked bread.

No one commented on the food as they ate. Finally Beata broke the silence.

‘What did the police say about that horrible phone call?’ she asked Andrea.

‘They came over here, and then stayed all night in a patrol car outside. But they can’t very well give me round-the-clock protection just because of some pervert breathing down the phone.’

‘But your husband was just murdered,’ said Beata. ‘Wouldn’t that make the police take this more seriously?’

‘I think they are taking it seriously. They asked me whether I could stay with friends for a while.’

‘Of course you can! You can come and stay with us,’ Beata quickly replied.

Andrea dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand.

‘Thanks, but that’s not necessary. We have a really sophisticated security system. I just have to be better about turning it on when I’m at home.’

‘Who do you think made that call?’ asked John. ‘Do you think it’s somebody you know?’

‘That seems unlikely. Who would do such a thing? I think it might have to do with Sam’s death and all the media attention. As soon as your name appears in the newspapers, you run the risk of attracting all sorts of loonies.’

Andrea lit a cigarette. Normally she didn’t smoke, but right now she felt the need for some kind of drug. And she thought it was better to smoke than to resort to consoling herself with food, which would just make her fat.

‘Who the hell could it be?’ John glanced around at the others. No one had any suggestions. ‘It’s damned unpleasant, at any rate. Wouldn’t you rather come and stay with us for a while? We have plenty of room for both you and the children.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks. I really need to be alone right now.’

‘Håkan, what are the police doing about finding Stina?’ asked Beata.

‘They’re not saying much. I phone them several times a day to find out how it’s going, but they’re being really secretive about what they’re doing. Of course they’re looking for some connection between Sam’s death and Stina’s disappearance.’

‘Who have they interviewed?’ asked Beata. ‘Aside from us, I mean.’

‘I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything. But I’ve seen them knocking on doors around here, and I’m sure they’ve talked to all the neighbours.’

‘Do you know whether-?’ Beata ventured cautiously.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Andrea interjected before Beata could finish her sentence.

HER TRIP TO Stockholm had to be postponed. With Knutas off sick, and the discovery of the dead man in Latvia, Jacobsson couldn’t possibly take time away from work. The meeting with her daughter would have to wait.

On Sunday an investigator from the Visby police had flown to Latvia along with Valter Olsson’s sister, Märta, to identify the body. Any doubts had now been erased about whether he was the one who had drifted ashore in a rowing boat. Offshore winds had driven the boat towards the Latvian coast and the town of Ventspils, which was located right across the sea from the east coast of Fårö. Since the winds had later subsided, the boat had probably bobbed about for quite a while before it finally drifted close to land.

Kihlgård was sitting in Jacobsson’s office, ready to discuss the latest developments. He stuck his hand into a bag of crisps. The crunching sound that he made as he frenetically chewed was really getting on his colleague’s nerves.

‘Now we have two murders and one missing woman,’ said Jacobsson. ‘We have to be grateful that the media hasn’t yet found out about Valter Olsson. But I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.’

Kihlgård chewed pensively before he replied.

‘With every day that passes, I’m more and more inclined to think that Stina Ek has also fallen victim to the murderer.’

‘So we’re talking about a serial killer?’ Jacobsson sighed. ‘If that’s true, what do these three people have in common? OK, I know that Sam and Stina belonged to the same circle of friends. But what about Valter Olsson? What the hell does he have to do with the case?’

‘You sure swear a lot,’ complained Kihlgård, giving her a disapproving look. He took out another handful of crisps made from genuine Swedish potatoes.

‘Let’s go back to the beginning. It feels as if it all started on Fårö. That’s where Olsson lived, and he was friends with Ingmar Bergman. That’s where Stina was last seen, and she was apparently on her way to Bergman’s house for some reason. It seems Bergman is the common denominator.’

‘What did Sam Dahlberg have to do with Bergman?’

‘He was a film director, so they shared a profession, which might not be an insignificant factor in the case. Sam was also an ardent fan of Bergman’s work. He’d seen all his films and read most of the books written about him. You’ve read the transcripts of the interviews with Sam’s wife, haven’t you? They even used to watch Bergman movies on Sunday mornings while they were having breakfast.’

‘Sure, but what does that really signify? There are plenty of people who like Bergman. Why should it have any connection with the murders?’

‘I have no idea.’ Jacobsson shrugged. ‘But maybe that’s the angle we should be taking. Something to do with the actors… Maybe Sam had a score to settle with some crazy celebrity.’

‘That seems like a long shot. Maybe we should focus more on the actual setting of Fårö – from a purely physical point of view. That’s where Sam, Stina and Valter were. And they all had some connection to Bergman. I’m starting to wonder whether Stina ever left Fårö.’

‘What if…?’ Jacobsson fixed her eyes on her colleague. ‘What if that’s where we should be looking? On Bergman’s property. What if Valter Olsson happened to find Stina out there and tried to get her to leave? What if a third person is involved?’

Kihlgård stared at her in astonishment.

‘A third person who killed both Stina and Valter. He drifted ashore in Latvia. So where in the world is Stina?’ he said.

Jacobsson didn’t reply.

She had stood up and was already heading for the door.

IT TOOK A couple of hours to get Chief Prosecutor Smittenberg to issue a search warrant for Ingmar Bergman’s property.

Three police cars parked outside the gate. Two officers with dogs were also present.

Kihlgård and Jacobsson went first, accompanied by Valter Olsson’s sister. The gravel crunched under their feet. Erik Sohlman had asked to have the area cordoned off, just to be safe. Even if they didn’t find a body, it was best to take preventive measures. If the theory turned out to be correct, that Stina Ek and Olsson had been murdered in the vicinity, every piece of evidence would be crucial.

Suddenly they caught sight of the house between the trees. It blended in beautifully with the natural setting – a long, one-storey structure surrounded by a high stone wall that hid the property from view. So this was the world-famous director’s home, which had been kept private from outsiders all these years. Jacobsson couldn’t help feeling a little excited.

‘Bloody hell, it’s a long building,’ she exclaimed.

‘There you go again, swearing,’ said Kihlgård drily.

To reach the side facing the sea, they had to go through the gate next to the house. Jacobsson couldn’t help peeking in through the windows. First a long hallway. To the right a modest kitchen with pine cupboards and a table next to the window. A few simple chairs.

‘You’d think he would have indulged himself with something a bit more luxurious,’ said Jacobsson in surprise.

‘He was probably content to enjoy the luxury of being alone and left in peace. It’s a big house, after all. And look at the view,’ said Kihlgård with a sigh. ‘It’s not something that just anyone could afford.’

They went over to the veranda, which faced the sea. There they stood in silence for a moment, looking out at the horizon and the entire rocky shoreline.

Jacobsson peered into the library. The walls were covered with books, and in the middle stood bookcases holding rows of files and folders. It almost looked like a public library, with a ladder and everything. At the far end stood a beautifully designed office chair in black leather next to a desk.

‘So that’s where he sat, gazing out at the sea and writing. How bloody marvellous!’

‘Watch your language, Karin,’ admonished Kihlgård. ‘Now, if you’re done peeping in the windows, maybe we should get to work.’ He turned to the dog-handlers who were standing nearby. The dogs were panting and yapping and tugging at their leads, eager to start the search. When the two Labs were let loose, they immediately began sniffing at every centimetre of the property.

Suddenly both dogs set off for the sea and the fence that separated Bergman’s land from Valter Olsson’s. They jumped at the enclosure, barking like crazy. Officers came running from all directions. The dogs soon found a big hole in the fence, and they easily slipped through.

‘There’s something on the neighbouring property,’ said one of the dog-handlers. ‘Without a doubt. Over there on the other side.’

‘OK,’ said Jacobsson resolutely.

The police followed. At the water’s edge they found the upside-down rowing boat that Jacobsson had noticed on their earlier visit to Olsson’s cabin. The dogs dashed straight for the boat and continued to bark.

The two dog-handlers lifted up the boat and moved it away.

The dogs sat down nearby as the two officers began to dig. It didn’t take long before their shovels struck something, and slowly a decaying body came to light. Bloated and greenish-grey in colour, the skin had come loose in several places, and maggots were crawling all over the corpse. The eyes were sunken and cloudy. The hair a shiny black. Jacobsson turned away and threw up in the water.

Kihlgård gloomily studied the dead woman, who was wearing only a skirt and bra. In spite of the sorry state of the body, there was no question about the victim’s identity.

‘So at last we’ve found Stina Ek,’ he murmured.

THAT AFTERNOON, THE entire area surrounding Ingmar Bergman’s domain was cordoned off, and it didn’t take long before journalists began turning up on Fårö. Rumours spread quickly, and reporters from all over Sweden flew to Gotland. Later that evening the foreign press also began to appear, mostly from Germany, where interest in Bergman was especially strong, since he had lived in Munich for almost ten years.

Word got out that a murdered woman had been found on property belonging to Bergman. When the foreign reporters realized that the victim had actually been discovered on a neighbour’s land, their interest waned.

But the Swedish media was difficult enough to handle, and police spokesman Lars Norrby asked for help after only a few hours.

‘This is fucking sick,’ snapped Jacobsson to Wittberg as she hurried along the corridor of the Criminal Division, on her way to the late-night meeting of the investigative team. ‘We can’t even do our job because of all the media hysteria. Those journalists are nothing but a bunch of lunatics. We’re going to have to call in the armoured troops on Fårö to keep the reporters away.’

They’d already heard that the police officers on the scene were having a hard time keeping out curiosity-seekers. Wittberg merely shook his head as they entered the conference room. At that moment Knutas phoned Jacobsson, but she didn’t take the call. She’d ring him later, after the meeting was over.

‘All right. We now have a lot of things to discuss,’ she began, looking at her colleagues gathered around the table. ‘We found the body of Stina Ek near Valter Olsson’s home on Fårö. Only twenty metres or so away from Ingmar Bergman’s property. The body was buried in the sand underneath an overturned rowing boat, so there’s no doubt about the fact that she was murdered. What we don’t yet know is when she was killed, but the ME will be able to determine that from the post-mortem. I’ve requested top priority for this case, and the ME has already flown over from the mainland. He’s on the scene right now, along with Erik Sohlman and the other crime techs. Stina Ek was last seen when she cycled past Arne Gustavsson’s farm on the afternoon of Saturday, the twenty-eighth of June. Sometime around three or four o’clock, after leaving her husband behind at the Slow Train Inn. An hour later she phoned him to say that she’d met a childhood friend. Then later that evening, as you know, he received a text message saying that she’d been called in to work.’

‘So she must have been killed after sending the text message – if she was the one who sent it, that is,’ said Wittberg. ‘But why did she lie?’

‘Why did she want to stay away?’ Jacobsson asked.

‘And why did no one besides this Arne Gustavsson notice her?’ interjected Kihlgård. ‘She was quite striking in appearance. Not somebody who could disappear in a crowd.’

‘Not a single witness seems to have seen her other than Gustavsson,’ Jacobsson confirmed. ‘And all indications are that she headed straight for Hammars, turned off the main road, and then took only side roads. Sheep are the only living things to be found out there.’

Wittberg ran his fingers through his blond mane.

‘How did she happen to end up at Valter Olsson’s place?’

‘Either the perpetrator found her there, or if they ran into each other near Bergman’s house, Stina may have tried to flee through the neighbour’s property. Maybe she was being chased. Or else she was killed on Bergman’s property and then her body was dragged next door, even though that’s a long way. The question is: Who was in the vicinity at the same time Stina was there?’

‘Well, it happened during the Bergman festival,’ said Wittberg. ‘So plenty of people could have been out there.’

Jacobsson was interrupted by the ringing of her mobile. When she saw that it was Sohlman, she took the call.

The others seated around the table watched her in silence as she listened to the crime tech. When he was done with his report, she turned to her colleagues.

‘That was Sohlman. They’ve found blood on Bergman’s veranda and on the wall of the house facing the shore. And one more thing. In a nook of the veranda they found a top and a thong, neatly folded. They seem to be Stina’s size.’

‘So they weren’t just tossed there?’ asked Kihlgård. ‘They were folded up, nice and neat?’

Jacobsson nodded.

‘What about the bicycle? Have they found it?’

‘No, they haven’t.’

Kihlgård looked thoughtful. He took a banana from the fruit platter on the table, peeled it slowly, and then said: ‘Maybe Stina Ek contacted someone. She must have been ecstatic about finding Bergman’s house. What would you do in that sort of situation?’ Kihlgård waved the banana in the air as he went on. ‘You’d want to share the experience with somebody. So she phoned someone. The question is: Who? And why did she take off her clothes? Apparently she did it voluntarily. It was planned.’

‘Her husband?’ suggested Wittberg. ‘Maybe she was bold enough to want to have a tryst out there.’

‘Or… could it have been someone else?’ suggested Jacobsson. ‘Someone she was having an affair with? Sam Dahlberg, for instance? He was such a Bergman fanatic. Maybe that was something they shared.’

‘What if he was the one? Who went out there, I mean. Where was Andrea Dahlberg at that time?’

Jacobsson leafed through her notes.

‘She was at the Bergman Centre in the late afternoon. That’s where she ran into an old friend from school. They had coffee together, so she wouldn’t have noticed if her husband slipped away. He could probably have been away for at least a couple of hours without drawing attention.’

‘Have we talked to this childhood friend?’ asked Kihlgård.

‘It’s been very difficult to get hold of her,’ Jacobsson admitted, noticing to her chagrin that her face had turned crimson.

‘Do we know this person’s name?’ Kihlgård patiently went on.

‘Andrea Dahlberg couldn’t remember her name, and she found it embarrassing to ask. Of course we’ve gone through the class lists from Andrea’s school years in order to pinpoint this person. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have any school photos from that time. That would have made it easy.’

‘Because I think it’s really strange,’ Kihlgård stubbornly continued. ‘On that afternoon Stina Ek meets an old friend from her school days – or from middle school, to be more specific – and the two of them go to a restaurant together. Then at almost exactly the same time Andrea Dahlberg runs into a childhood friend and they have coffee together at the Bergman Centre. Doesn’t it seem a bit odd?’

‘Who provided us with this information?’ asked Prosecutor Smittenberg.

‘Both Håkan Ek and Andrea Dahlberg.’

‘Håkan and Andrea – the spouses of the two murder victims,’ muttered Kihlgård. ‘Quite a coincidence.’

‘Yes, you might say that,’ replied Jacobsson. ‘Let’s stay with Andrea Dahlberg for a moment. She contacted the police over the weekend after she received that phone call from an unknown man who was apparently right outside her door. We need to check up on that. I want us to knock on more doors in the neighbourhood and talk to people who live in Terra Nova, to find out if anyone saw anything suspicious. Evidently Andrea has felt someone watching her for quite a while. Up until Friday night, she had dismissed it as just her imagination. But not any more. We’ve asked her to stay with a relative or a good friend for the time being, but she refused. At least the children are staying elsewhere.’

‘Did she recognize the voice?’

‘No. The person who called seemed to be disguising his voice.’

‘I went out there to talk to her, and she was really upset. But she had no idea who the person could be,’ said Kihlgård. ‘And none of the neighbours had noticed anything unusual.’

‘Then there’s Valter Olsson. We need to work out how he fits into the picture,’ Jacobsson went on. ‘We also need to knock on doors in both Hammars and Dämba – in fact, all of Fårö. From Broa up to Sudersand. We’ve received surprisingly few leads so far. We can only hope that the discovery of Stina’s body will jump-start things. We’ve checked out everyone’s alibi, but we’ll have to do it again. And if it’s true that Sam and Stina were having an affair, then there are two people of key interest to the investigation at the moment. Andrea Dahlberg and Håkan Ek.’

THE PHONE CALL that Johan Berg had been longing to receive finally came on the day after Stina Ek was found murdered in Hammars. He never would have thought that he’d be so happy to hear the voice of Max Grenfors, editor-in-chief in Stockholm.

‘Hi, how’s it going? Listen, we’re swamped right now because of the murders on Gotland, and we don’t have anybody else to send. Here at TV headquarters it’s swarming with summer replacements, and we can’t do without the few good reporters we have. Not a chance. So could you possibly fill in? Just for a couple of days, until the worst blows over. We’ve already sent over another cameraperson for Maddie, so you can take Pia with you.’

Johan paused before answering. He was enjoying keeping his boss, who was usually so overbearing, on tenterhooks.

‘Hmm. I’m not sure. I’ve got a lot to do, with the kids and all.’

‘OK, you can consider the whole job as overtime. Every fucking hour of it. That means double pay.’

‘That’ll work. When do I start?’

‘Right now. The police have scheduled a press conference in an hour.’

Fortunately it was no problem for Emma to take care of the kids. Her parents were out of town, as usual, so she had already planned to drive out to their house on Fårö for a few days. Her best friend, Viveka, was going with her so she wouldn’t be there alone. The weather was sunny and warm, which meant they’d have a good time. The house was in a beautiful location, right on the beach. That eased his guilty conscience. So far he’d managed to make it through a month at home with the children without working. But he wondered again how he was going to make it through the lengthy paternity leave from his job as planned.

At the same time he couldn’t help revelling in the adrenalin rush. He loved his job, especially when things were happening. Like now. Up until today the editorial office had kept him out of the summer’s big murder case. He’d offered to contribute in one way or another, but he’d been refused. He wasn’t needed even when he got the tip from Arne Gustavsson. But now they were tooting a different horn. He was in demand, so it was no wonder that he was feeling pleased.

The important thing was to get up to speed before the press conference. He rang Pia as soon as he got into his car.

‘God, it’s so great that you can do this,’ she panted.

He assumed that she was on her way over to the car.

‘Maddie has booked a super-important interview on Fårö, so she had to go out there right away.’

‘What could be a higher priority than attending the press conference?’

‘The thing is, the Latvian police are arriving on Fårö today, in just a couple of hours, and she was incredibly lucky to get the investigative team leader to promise her an interview. It was set up just a little while ago.’

‘What the hell are you babbling about? The Latvian police? What do they have to do with any of this?’

‘Oh, I forgot. You wouldn’t know about that. Here’s what happened. A fisherman who’s friends with one of my uncles told him that an old fisherman from Fårö was washed ashore in Latvia, in his rowing boat. Dead. And apparently he was murdered. The Latvian police are handling the case, but they’re cooperating with the police force over here.’

‘Good Lord, what a mess. So I assume there must be some sort of connection between the two murders. What are the police doing out there today?’

‘After we got the tip, Maddie rang Latvia, and she talked to some guy on the police force who surprisingly gave her a lot of information. The police are going over to the old man’s house on Fårö today. And it was on his property that Stina Ek’s body was buried. And you know what? The old man was a neighbour of Ingmar Bergman.’

Johan’s pulse quickened. The story kept getting better and better. And once again they’d had the benefit of knowing Pia Lilja’s extended family, who lived all over the island. Her six siblings and all her other relatives were a reporter’s dream as a source of information.

‘When was he found?’

‘I have no idea. Maddie knows more, but she’s on her way to the airport right now to pick up the cameraperson from Stockholm. But anybody can see that it’s absolutely certain he was murdered and that his death is connected to the other murders. This is turning out to be big, Johan. A fucking big story.’

THE ROOM WAS packed for the press conference. The buzz of voices subsided when Jacobsson, Kihlgård and County Police Chief Malin Lundblad took their seats on the podium. The tension in the air was palpable. All the major media organizations in Sweden were represented: TV, radio and the newspapers. The microphones had been set up and cameras positioned as the reporters sat ready with their notepads.

Jacobsson opened a bottle of Ramlösa mineral water and poured herself a glass. She took several big sips. Even though there were so many people crowded into the room, it was dead silent as she finally began to speak.

‘At four fifteen yesterday afternoon, Stina Ek’s body was found. She had been missing since Saturday, the twenty-eighth of June. There is no doubt that she was the victim of foul play. The body was discovered in Hammars on Fårö on private land, next door to Ingmar Bergman’s property. Since rumours have been circulating that her body was found on Bergman’s land, I just want to clarify immediately that this was not the case. The cause of death has not yet been determined, but the victim’s injuries indicate that she suffered a traumatic blow to the head. The body has been taken to the Forensics Division in Solna for examination. A large area surrounding the site has been cordoned off, and police crime technicians are working to secure evidence. The victim was a thirty-seven-year-old mother of two. She was married and lived with her family in Terra Nova in Visby. Stina was employed as a flight attendant on Scandinavian Airlines. She has no previous police record and, as far as we know, had no connection to the place where her body was found. She was last seen on the day when she disappeared, meaning Saturday, the twenty-eighth, at around four p.m. At that time she was riding a bicycle past a nearby farm. The police are currently in the process of knocking on doors in the area and, as I mentioned, the technicians are now on site.’

Jacobsson paused and looked out at the crowd of reporters. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on her, and for a moment she lost her train of thought. Then she collected herself and went on.

‘At this time the police have no suspects, and we’re working on a broad front. You’re now welcome to ask questions. I need to request that you raise your hand, otherwise it’s going to be impossible to keep order.’

Hands began eagerly waving in the air. Jacobsson wanted to answer as many questions as she could. She had the help of two officers who each had a microphone to take questions from reporters in the back of the room.

‘Exactly where was she found?’

‘I can’t discuss that at the moment.’

‘How was the body found?’

‘Police dogs located the remains.’

‘How did you happen to know where to search?’

‘Due to the ongoing investigation, I’m afraid that I can’t answer that question.’

‘She was found very close to Ingmar Bergman’s property. Is there any reason to think that someone from Bergman’s family was involved?’

‘There are no indications that any of Bergman’s relatives or friends have anything to do with the murder.’

‘Is there any connection between Stina Ek and the owner of the property where she was found? Or between her and Ingmar Bergman?’

‘Not that we know of.’

‘What if you go further back in time? For instance, could she be an unknown daughter of his?’

‘I think we can rule out that possibility. Stina Ek was adopted from Vietnam.’

‘Why do you think she was killed at that particular site?’

‘If we knew that, we’d be making good progress in the case.’

‘Did the murdered woman have a particular interest in Bergman?’

‘Not as far as we know.’

‘Apparently Stina Ek was a member of an Internet club called Friends of Bergman. Do you know anything about that?’

Jacobsson fixed her eyes on Johan Berg from Regional News. Was he back on the job? It was so typical that he’d come up with something like that. She was completely unprepared for the question. She hadn’t heard anything about it before. For several seconds she was at a total loss for words, but then she recovered her composure.

‘In the early stages of an investigation, it’s a matter of collecting a lot of facts from all possible directions. We look at everything and carefully weigh the significance of all the information. That’s the phase we’re in at present. Stina Ek’s body was found yesterday afternoon, less than twenty-four hours ago. We’re going to be following all possible leads.’

‘But you haven’t answered my question,’ Johan persisted.

‘Precisely,’ Jacobsson curtly replied and then turned to another reporter.

‘What can you tell us about how the murder was committed?’

‘Only that the perpetrator used a blunt instrument to deliver a blow to the victim’s head.’

‘Did the body have other injuries?’

‘Not that we know about at the moment. We’ll need to wait for the post-mortem report.’

‘Are you positive that she was killed where her body was found? Or could she have been taken there from some other place?’

‘We’re quite certain about that. The murder was committed at the scene. Traces of blood and other evidence clearly indicate this.’

‘What does the property owner have to say?’

Jacobsson’s face changed colour. She was prepared for the question, but the investigative team had decided not to reveal anything about the fact that Valter Olsson had been found murdered in Latvia. They needed to take one thing at a time.

‘Due to the ongoing investigation, I won’t discuss that at the moment.’

An increased tension was clearly evident in the room. The reporters took Jacobsson’s response to mean that Olsson was a suspect.

‘Who owns the property where she was found?’

‘He’s an elderly man, seventy-five years old, who lives there alone and spends most of his time fishing. I have nothing else to say.’

‘Were he and Bergman good friends?’

‘I’m not going to discuss their relationship.’

‘Is the property owner a suspect?’

‘I can’t comment any further on the subject. Let’s move on to something else.’

‘Do you have information from any witnesses?’

‘At the moment we’re collecting statements, but we’ve just begun that part of the work.’

‘What are the police doing now?’

‘We’re undertaking a proper investigation – which means carrying out a technical examination of the crime scene, interviewing potential witnesses, knocking on doors in the area, and finding out the details of Stina Ek’s life, including what she was doing in the period before she disappeared. In addition, we are of course looking at the significance of the crime scene itself.’

‘How is this connected with the murder of Sam Dahlberg?’

‘Naturally we see a link between the two homicides, since both victims belonged to the same social circle.’

‘Do you think they were killed by the same person?’

‘We’re not ruling that out, but we can’t assume that it was the same perpetrator. As I said, we’re working on a broad front, and keeping all doors open.’

Jacobsson was beginning to tire of all the questions. The police didn’t have much to say. She cast an enquiring glance at the county police chief, who took the hint and gave an almost imperceptible nod. It was time to end the press conference.

‘All right then. That’s all we have to say at the moment. Depending on how things develop, we’re planning another press conference for tomorrow since there’s such great interest in the case. We will not be available to do individual interviews, since we need to devote all of our energy to the investigation. I hope you’ll respect this decision. If you have any further questions, please direct them to the police spokesman, Lars Norrby.’ She motioned towards her colleague, who hadn’t uttered a single word during the entire conference. Then Jacobsson got up and quickly left the room.

In the corridor outside she found her way blocked by Johan Berg and Pia Lilja, who had her eye pressed to the TV camera, as usual.

‘Karin, I need to ask you about something,’ he said with a serious expression.

Foolishly enough, she stopped.

Johan spoke directly into the microphone.

‘Sources tell me that a murdered Swedish man was found drifting ashore in a rowing boat off the Latvian coast. The man was supposedly Ingmar Bergman’s closest neighbour, and from what I understand, he also owns the property where Stina Ek’s body was found. His name is Valter Olsson. What can you tell us about this?’

He held out the microphone to Jacobsson.

She was dumbfounded.

With a wave of her hand she pushed the microphone aside and quickly strode off down the corridor.

JACOBSSON WAS ANNOYED that the press conference had ended in such an ignominious fashion. She hated being caught completely off guard like that. It was a mystery how Johan Berg had found out that Valter Olsson’s body had been discovered in Latvia. Norrby, she thought. Had he blabbed again? The police spokesman had in the past displayed a tendency to talk too much. But surely he couldn’t be that stupid. And she hadn’t known anything about that group called the Friends of Bergman. She had immediately asked Wittberg to check up on the association, which turned out to have a website on the Internet. Stina was listed as a new member.

She leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands. She shut her eyes, allowing images from the investigation to come and go in her mind. Sam Dahlberg’s mangled body out on Stora Karlsö, pecked apart by seabirds. The well-kept neighbourhood of Terra Nova with the friends who stuck together, come hell or high water. What were they hiding? Valter Olsson, who’d gone out fishing and then floated ashore in Latvia. The Bergman festival with all the social functions and film showings. Stina Ek who disappeared on her bicycle and whose body was found on land next door to Ingmar Bergman’s property. They had finally discovered her bike in the woods outside the fence. What happened to her on her way over there? Who did she meet?

Then there was the group of friends whose pleasant trip was supposed to mark the beginning of the summer holidays but instead ended in tragedy. She thought about the people in that social circle. During all of the interviews in which Jacobsson had participated, she’d had an uneasy feeling that they were hiding something. She seemed to detect a vague feeling of guilt.

New interviews had been conducted with every single one of them over the course of the day, but none had produced anything new. Håkan Ek was subjected to a cursory questioning at the hospital, where he’d been taken after he learned of his wife’s murder. He could barely muster a word. The poor man was totally devastated.

But there was something about that collection of friends that wasn’t quite right.

She summoned up images of the individuals who had gone on the trip together. Most were in their early forties. Håkan Ek was the only one who was significantly older. Sam Dahlberg’s wife Andrea seemed terribly reserved, but that might be her way of coping. Outwardly, she was almost perfect: beautiful long hair; make-up skilfully applied and so natural-looking that it was hardly noticeable; a physically fit body with high, firm breasts that could indicate plastic surgery. She gave the appearance of being a loving wife and devoted mother, but that might not be true at all. Maybe she was putting on an act.

So what about Håkan Ek? Jacobsson might as well start with those closest to the victims, since it was often in the immediate family that the killer was to be found.

At the very first interview she had felt a real empathy for him. He was considerably older than his wife – fifty-three compared to Stina’s thirty-seven. So there was a difference of sixteen years between them. How had that affected their marriage? Jacobsson leafed through Håkan Ek’s file.

The photograph showed a man in his prime, looking fit, energetic and suntanned as he smiled at the camera. Laughter lines around his eyes and white teeth. And it looked as if he dyed his hair, so he was apparently a bit vain. In the photo he radiated a self-confidence that she hadn’t noticed when she met him in person. This picture could have been lifted directly out of an advert for the Dressmann clothing chain, she thought. Håkan had been married twice before, and he had children with two different women, in addition to the two that he and Stina had together. The oldest, a daughter named Klara, was twenty-five years old and lived in the Östermalm district in Stockholm. The thought of her own daughter flitted through Karin’s mind, causing a pang in her heart. The two young women were the same age. Håkan’s first wife, Ingrid, had remarried and lived in the wealthy Stockholm suburb of Djursholm. He had divorced her in 1985, when their daughter was only two years old. Three years later he had already married his second wife, and they’d had a son named Robin in 1989. Another divorce in 1990, before Håkan married Stina that same year. Jacobsson raised her eyebrows. He was certainly a fast worker. The son must have been only a few months old when his parents parted ways. How awful, thought Jacobsson as she studied the face of the suntanned, smiling man in the photograph.

MY CHILDHOOD HOME was located way out in the Uppland countryside in an area of historic importance, filled with rune stones and burial sites from both the Iron Age and the Viking era. The house stood high on a hill. It was painted brown, a splendid structure with several entrances and a view of the fields and meadows, with Lake Mälaren off in the distance. Outside the imposing main entrance with the circular drive and flagpole was a lush abundance of rhododendron bushes. At the back a stone stairway led down to the garden, which was filled with shrubs, apple trees, and arbours. We children used to cycle over to the church bell tower to play a game that pitted the Swedes against the Danes. We would fight with tree branches, pretending they were swords. Our bikes were horses in the tournaments we held, and pine cones were our ammunition. Out where we lived there were no official playgrounds with swings and roundabouts like in the small town about 30 kilometres away where we went to school. The woods, the mountains and the open fields were our playgrounds. And we didn’t complain. Each morning my sister and I would board the school bus near the bend in the main road and go off to school. By the time we came back home, our mother would often have a snack ready for us – usually milk and some of her homemade cinnamon rolls, which we ate in the kitchen. Then we’d go out to find the local kids. There weren’t many people living out there. Four families lived in the nearby houses, and three of them had children. The narrow gravel road that passed through our little village was used mostly by visitors heading for the nearby country church or the agricultural school. It might seem strange to find a school in such a remote area, way out in the country, but it had been established by a wealthy woman in Stockholm who donated the money to start a boarding school for poor children. For the past thirty years it had functioned as a secondary school where the students studied agriculture and animal husbandry. Pappa, who was a farmer and ran the neighbouring farm, often held classes for the students. They would follow him around, helping to milk the cows, taking care of the pigs and sheep. Part of the barn had been turned into a stable, using money from the school, with space for eight horses. Sometimes my sister and I were allowed to ride them. That was our favourite thing to do.

Mamma worked the night shift as a nurse at the hospital in Enköping and was often away from home during the week. She would work three or four days in a row and then have several days off. I thought that was a fine schedule. Periodically we’d have Pappa all to ourselves, and then when Mamma was at home, she’d take over and Pappa would spend most of his time in the barn or out in the fields.

Every Sunday we went to church. It was a small white building with a single rectangular tower rising up over the landscape: golden fields of oat slowly undulating in the wind, flowering meadows, pastures where the horses and cows grazed in the summertime, and far below we could see the glittering water of Lake Mälaren. At exactly eleven o’clock the bells would ring for the church service. The clear sound reverberated over the few houses in that little community, the stable and the barn, the school and the student dormitories. Occasionally a car would arrive, bringing people from the outlying areas to the church service. There might be ten or fifteen people in attendance in addition to my own family.

I don’t know whether my parents’ zeal with regard to churchgoing had to do with a strong belief in God or whether it was more a show of courtesy to their best friends, the pastor and his wife. They had three children who were much younger than us, so we didn’t play with them very often, but my sister and I did sometimes babysit for them so we could earn some extra pocket money. The pastor’s wife was both kind and generous, and she always paid us more than the usual fee. She and my mother belonged to the same sewing circle, and they spent a lot of time together. They used to go for long walks, and they were always running over to each other’s house to have coffee.

We went to church every single Sunday, and to be honest I have to confess that no matter how much I complained to my sister, I actually enjoyed those Sunday mornings in God’s house. It was a small church, simply furnished. The wooden pews were old and worn with thick timbers along the sides. The church had a brass chandelier, a painted window, a picture of Jesus, a beautifully ornate pulpit, and a humble altar. I liked watching how the sun’s rays came through the high windows in the deep niches, casting light on the bare, white-plastered walls. I can still recall the faces of the parishioners sitting in the pews and the intoning voice of the pastor. Everything was always exactly the same. The same prayers, hymns, and turns of phrase. I knew them inside and out. When I was little, I still had a childlike faith; I believed in God and everything that was said in church. The pastor’s words were sacred. Although it did seem a bit strange to see him there in church, this man who came so often to our house, with his loud laughter and effusive manner. But I also felt a certain pride that he was actually one of our friends, that he could sit in our kitchen and tell funny stories to Mamma while she peeled potatoes and doubled over with laughter at his jokes.

No one could make her laugh the way he did.

Pappa and the pastor spent just as much time together as the two women did. Pappa was a reserved man who didn’t make friends easily. And he rarely said much; the words had to be practically dragged out of him. He had a hard time even talking to his own children. For some reason, he seemed to feel inhibited.

A memory that is still fresh in my mind is of one morning when I awoke unusually early. I was about twelve at the time. I went to the toilet, but then I heard a sound from the kitchen downstairs and wondered what it could be. The floorboards, gleaming in the morning sunlight, creaked under my bare feet. The house was very quiet. Everyone else was still asleep in bed. Cautiously I tiptoed down the wide stairs. Someone was in the kitchen, but at first I didn’t know who it was. I remember standing in the doorway. At first I didn’t see anything; then I recognized my father’s striped bathrobe. He was sitting with his back to me, utterly still, and looking out of the window at the garden, the lilacs, the blossoming apple trees, the bright green leaves of the birches. And off in the distance, the gleaming water.

Pappa suddenly seemed like a stranger as he sat there. Motionless. Unaware that he was not alone. Usually he was in constant motion. Taking big strides in his wellington boots, he would cross the yard on his way to tend to the livestock. He would drive the tractor around and around out in the fields, spend time working on a piece of machinery behind the barn, or go out to mow the grass. He was always dashing about, always busy with something. He never sat still, the way he was doing on that morning. Maybe that was why he seemed like a stranger to me.

I sank down on to the staircase and sat there without announcing my presence. I don’t know why I did that. The air seemed oppressive in the room. The mood seemed inexplicably unpleasant and unfamiliar. As if the walls were closing in with anguish.

I heard Pappa sigh. He leaned his head on one hand, ran the other through his hair. I wondered what he was thinking about at that moment. I wondered if he was worried about something. If there was anything I could do to help him. Beloved Pappa. My stomach churned with anxiety. Maybe he needed comforting. I was just about to get up when he turned around. Our eyes met. I will never forget the expression on his face. I opened my mouth to say something, but he beat me to it. The strange silence was shattered, and his face broke into a smile. His voice sounded the way it always did.

Everything was as it should be. I breathed a sigh of relief.

KARIN WAS SITTING alone in her office, paging through the preliminary post-mortem report. It had been difficult to ascertain the precise time of death, but the ME thought Stina Ek had been dead for about two weeks. The cause of death was a violent blow to the head, delivered by a blunt instrument, most likely a rock. Karin felt sick when she read that part. The victim had suffered extensive skull injuries, but it had been impossible to determine much else because the body had already started to decay as a result of the heat and the exposed location near the water. However, the ME did find bruises and scratches on her forearms, neck and chest. The victim also had shreds of skin under her fingernails, all of which indicated that she had put up a fight. DNA samples had been taken, and Jacobsson had asked the techs at the Swedish Crime Lab to put a rush on their report, but it would still take at least a few days to get back the results.

Jacobsson took out the ME’s findings on Sam Dahlberg and Valter Olsson. She spent the next hour comparing all the facts that the police had collected so far regarding the three homicides. Was it possible to determine that the same person had committed all three murders? By all indications, Stina had been killed before Sam, so they could rule her out as a possible suspect. Both she and Valter had died as the result of a blow to the head, but Valter’s body exhibited no signs of a struggle. What did these three people have in common that would make somebody want to kill them?

Of course there were many things connecting Sam and Stina. They were neighbours, members of the same social circle, and good friends. But what about Valter?

The only common link that she could think of was Ingmar Bergman. Sam was almost fanatically interested in the acclaimed director, while Stina had become a member of the group called the Friends of Bergman. Olsson had lived next door to Bergman for many years, ever since the director’s house had been built in the 1960s. The old man seemed to have had a good relationship with Bergman. Was it because of that relationship that he had died?

THROUGHOUT MY CHILDHOOD I secretly harboured a strong admiration for my sister, even though I would never openly admit to it. Emilia hated receiving compliments. She felt burdened by such remarks, and she usually thought that people were exaggerating when they praised her for something that she’d done or accomplished. She also loathed hearing any comments about her appearance. If anyone said that she was attractive or beautiful, she would merely snigger.

But she was both of those things. She had long, shiny dark hair, very straight. A pale, heart-shaped face with freckles, and a dimple in her chin. Brown eyes with thick lashes. Nice teeth, although they were seldom seen because she almost never smiled or laughed.

The only time I remember her ever being truly happy was when she petted animals, especially the puppy that she received on her sixteenth birthday. She loved that dog with all her heart. More than she loved any people. Definitely more than Pappa, but me and Mamma too. I’m very sure about that. She said that deep inside people were evil. I didn’t like it when she talked that way. Emilia often talked about death. She claimed not to be afraid of dying; she said she viewed death as a friend that could set her free whenever she chose. Her words scared me. I didn’t understand. She noticed and would always try to reassure me. It made me happy when she showed that she cared about me, but that rarely happened. Yet in her heart I’m sure that she was fond of me. At least it makes me feel good to think so. Now. After the fact.

She was four years older than me. The age difference was probably the reason why we were never really close. I looked up to her, the way a little sister usually does. Emilia could do everything better than I could. Skating, riding, cycling. She could bake sponge cakes and blow-dry her hair. She did better at school too; she was more diligent. Emilia loved school. She almost always got all the answers right in exams. She used to sit in the kitchen and do her homework while Mamma cooked dinner. She often asked me to test her, and she could answer all the questions. Sometimes it felt as if she just wanted to show off in front of me, to let me know how much she knew. Sometimes I wonder why she felt the need to do that. Maybe she was trying to prove something to herself. Emilia never stayed home from school, no matter how sick she might be. Even when she had a fever and Mamma said she should stay in bed, she would refuse. I really didn’t understand what attracted her to school. She was four years ahead of me, but when we were still going to the same school, I would sometimes see her at break, and she was usually alone. Occasionally I would go to the cafeteria when she was there, and she would be sitting on her own at a table. I pretended not to see her so as not to embarrass her or myself. I was always surrounded by friends; you might even say that I was terribly popular, but nobody ever sought out my sister. I don’t recall that ever happening the entire time she was in school. So I felt sorry for her, but also powerless to do anything. I wanted to help her, invite her to come with me and my friends. But it was hard for me to do anything, since I was so much younger. I didn’t want to upset her. And now, when I think back on it, I sometimes wonder whether her loneliness was of her own making. She deliberately withdrew. She seemed to have no interest in being with other people. And after Mamma gave her that puppy as a birthday present, it seemed as if she didn’t need anyone else. The dog followed her everywhere she went and slept in her bed every night.

That was probably the only period when I saw my sister really happy.

ON THE FOLLOWING Sunday morning Karin awoke with a jolt. She’d been dreaming that she’d met Hanna, but when she told her daughter who she was, Hanna had run off. Karin tried to follow, but never managed to catch up with her.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to go back to sleep. She was thinking about all those lost years.

She wondered what sort of upbringing her daughter’s adoptive parents had given her. At least it seemed likely that they’d had plenty of money, considering their upper-class surname, so Hanna probably hadn’t wanted for anything in that sense. Karin hoped that she’d received as much love as she had material things. She wondered whether Hanna knew that she was adopted and, if so, why she hadn’t made an effort to look for her biological parents. Was it because she was afraid of what she might find? That they might be drug addicts or criminals? That she was the produce of incest or some form of sexual assault? And the latter assumption was actually the truth of the matter.

Karin was terrified by the idea of telling her what happened, and she’d been considering other options in order to spare her daughter the truth. Would it be possible to lessen the trauma of the event in some way?

She still broke out in a cold sweat whenever she thought back on that moment. How long did the rape actually last? Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? Fifteen minutes out of a whole lifetime.

The riding teacher’s assault had caused suffering that had lasted all her life. First the nine months of her pregnancy. The nausea in the mornings. The shame, the humiliation. This was the riding teacher who had taught her the half-pass and collected gaits with military precision at the riding school. He had tackled her to the floor of his living room with all the happy family photographs hanging on the walls above them. Then he had forced his way into her next to the TV and coffee table where his family gathered in the evening. There he had robbed her of her virginity. And a significant portion of her life. Sometimes the hatred would surge inside her so strongly that the world turned black. It was lucky that the riding teacher had died before she turned twenty. Otherwise she might have murdered him.

In some ways it felt as if she were living her life in a straitjacket, and she could never be rid of it. A corset tied tight with strings from the past. At long last she had decided that there was only one means of escape. She had to contact her daughter and find out who she was.

Finally she gave up any attempt to go back to sleep. She got out of bed, made a pot of strong coffee, and took a shower. After breakfast she decided to go out. It was a beautiful day, and she was restless with impatience. She thought about the circle of friends from Terra Nova. What was it about those people? Bergman seemed to be somehow connected everywhere she looked, but it was among the group itself that she’d find the answer. Two of them were dead, and none of the others seemed able to contribute any concrete information that might carry the investigation forward.

Jacobsson had been to Terra Nova only once after Dahlberg was murdered. She glanced at her watch. Eleven fifteen. The perfect time to take a bike ride out there.

Quickly she tied her shoelaces and left the flat.

When she reached the other side of the wall, she realized that she’d left her mobile back home on charge, but she resisted an impulse to turn around. People used to get along just fine without mobile phones, and she wouldn’t be gone long.

She passed Lindh’s big nursery and turned on to Norra Glasmästargatan. She pedalled slowly along the road, looking at the houses and gardens, each one more beautifully tended than the last. She stopped in the middle of the development, in the small car park. There she got off her bike, locked it, and looked around. The Dahlberg family home looked empty and dreary. Jacobsson walked around the cul-de-sac and then continued along the deserted street. Anyone who hadn’t left on holiday was probably spending the hot day at the seaside.

The police had done several interviews with the four people in the Terra Nova group who had survived the holiday trip, but without any significant results. For once the police had taken the unusual step of questioning the older children, too, asking them both about their parents’ activities and what they thought of the apparent harmony among neighbours in the area. Unfortunately, this hadn’t produced anything of interest. The colleagues, grandparents and siblings of those involved had also been interviewed. The more time that passed, the wider the investigative circle had been expanded from the core group. Maybe it’s time to broaden our approach beyond Terra Nova, thought Jacobsson. Maybe we should talk to people outside the inner circle. Maybe there’s somebody who wanted to become a member but was pushed aside. Somebody who was so upset by this that he or she wanted revenge.

It wasn’t unreasonable to think that those who remained might be threatened, but so far no one other than Andrea seemed to need police protection.

Jacobsson reached the end of Norra Glasmästargatan. The three couples involved in the case lived ridiculously close to each other in their houses on the small cul-de-sac. Andrea and Sam owned a large wooden house in the early-twentieth-century style; then came Beata and John’s house, which was the biggest and most ostentatious, built of white sand-lime brick; and finally the home belonging to Håkan and Stina, painted a pale lavender with blue trim around the doors and windows. The outbuilding was the same lavender colour. Jacobsson looked at the house, feeling great sympathy for Håkan. He had completely fallen apart after Stina’s body had been found, and he was still in the psychiatric ward of the hospital. He was willing to talk only to his children and his first wife, Ingrid. No one else seemed able to get through to him. The police interview would have to wait until his condition improved.

Next she thought about Beata and John. He was American, and she was a red-haired, long-legged Barbie doll who seemed absurdly naive. Jacobsson had met them before since they belonged to Emma Winarve’s social circle. Five years ago she had questioned them in connection with the murder of Emma’s best friend, Helena Hillerström, who had fallen victim to a killer. They had also been friends with Helena. What a strange coincidence, mused Jacobsson, but her thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping her on the shoulder. She gave a start and turned around to see a man in his forties with a Dalmatian puppy on a lead. The man looked friendly and agreeable.

‘Can I help you with anything?’

His hair was cut short and smoothed down with gel. He had a gentle yet manly face with high cheekbones, a distinctive jawline with the trace of stubble, and widely spaced eyes that were slightly slanted, which gave his face character. He had a sensitive mouth, which looked both resolute and tender in a way that made him seem unusually attractive to Jacobsson. His voice was dry and a bit gruff. She was surprised by her own reaction, feeling almost weak at the knees as she stood there. The puppy leaped around her, wagging its little tail. She squatted down and let the dog jump up and lick her face.

‘Oh, what a sweet little guy,’ she exclaimed. ‘How old is he?’

‘Nine weeks. I just got him.’

‘He’s fantastic. He really is. What’s his name?’

‘Baloo. Like the bear in The Jungle Book.’

Jacobsson stood up and looked at the man.

‘Do you live around here?’

‘Yes. Over there, in the last house. The yellow one.’

She saw a lovely wooden house with white trim set slightly back from the street. The property was surrounded by a tall lilac hedge.

Jacobsson showed him her police ID and introduced herself.

‘Karin Jacobsson. Police detective.’

‘Janne Widén. Photographer. I know who you are. I recognized you.’

Jacobsson noticed to her chagrin that her cheeks were hot. A grown-up woman, standing here and blushing.

‘Is that right? Well, I’m here with regard to the murders, you know. I was thinking of talking to some of the neighbours. Do you have a moment?’

‘Absolutely. I just need to give Baloo some water. He’s dying of thirst in this heat. Would you like to come over and have a cup of coffee?’

Jacobsson hesitated for a few seconds. But why not? She might find out something important. And that’s why she was here, after all. To meet people in the area who weren’t connected to the group of friends.

‘OK.’

They went through an iron gate between the lilacs. A grey sports car was parked in the drive. The man led the way around the side of the house. At the back was a wooden deck and a lawn facing the woods. There the lilac hedge continued, shielding the garden from view.

‘How lovely,’ said Jacobsson, and she meant it.

‘Thanks. Have a seat. Would you like coffee or something cold to drink, or both?’

‘I’d like something cold. Water would be fine.’

Jacobsson sat down in one of the armchairs on the terrace. A large umbrella provided shade from the sun. The puppy was trying hard to jump on to her lap. Janne Widén quickly returned with a tray holding a carafe of iced water and two glasses. He set down a bowl for the dog, who eagerly began lapping up the water.

‘How long have you lived here?’ asked Jacobsson as she raised the frosty glass to her lips.

‘Over ten years.’ He gave her a crooked smile. ‘Just like everybody else, I moved here when the development was newly built. Back then I had a wife and kids, and we thought this place was perfect. Unfortunately, the marriage didn’t last. We got divorced five years ago. The children moved with my wife to the mainland.’

‘But you chose to stay here?’

‘I have my business here, and I love this house, in fact the whole neighbourhood, even though it might not seem like anything special to an outsider. But it has a particular atmosphere that makes it hard to move away.’

‘Atmosphere?’

‘Yes, a sort of community spirit, or whatever you want to call it. Everyone helps everyone else, and we all care about each other. You’re never alone unless you want to be. I thought that was especially nice after I got divorced. I was used to having a house full of kids and their friends, and suddenly it was empty. The children wanted to live with my wife when she moved in with her sister, who runs a kennel. The kids love dogs; they always have. Baloo is from there too. I try to see them as often as possible, of course. I’m a freelance photographer, so I can set my own schedule.’

Jacobsson was surprised by the man’s candour. She hadn’t asked about his personal life. She took a couple more sips of her iced water.

‘This sense of community spirit that you mentioned seems to work well around here.’

The man sitting across from her laughed.

‘Well, some people show more community spirit than others.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m referring to that group over there in the cul-de-sac – because I assume that they’re the ones you’re interested in. And they’ve always been rather extreme.’

‘In what way?’

‘A lot of us think that they’ve gone a bit overboard. They do everything together and always check with each other before making a decision. Almost as if they have to apologize if they want to have dinner with someone outside the gang, or if one family books a trip without consulting the others first. They just really seem to go too far.’

Widén had an inscrutable expression on his face that Jacobsson couldn’t read.

‘What are you thinking of? Is there something else that I should know?’

‘They’re pleasant enough, but it’s a really closed circle. They don’t allow anyone else in.’ He paused for effect. ‘I think they have a lot of secrets.’

Jacobsson was instantly on the alert.

‘What do you mean? What kind of secrets?’

‘About a year ago there was a rumour circulating. Well, it was actually more than just a rumour. Everyone was talking about it.’

‘About what?’

‘People said that the group was interested in… hmm… special arrangements. Whenever they had parties together, they would exchange partners with each other. Swinger parties.’

Jacobsson nearly choked on the water she was drinking. She could hardly believe her ears.

‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as I can be without having been to those parties myself. And I just remembered how the rumour got started. It was on a Sunday, and one of them who’d been at the party, Beata Dunmar, was talking to another young woman here in the neighbourhood who’s not part of the group. Her name is Sandra. Beata told her that they’d exchanged partners. Someone had seen a film on TV in which all the neighbours put their house keys in a basket and then took out one at random and went home with whoever the key belonged to. She said that’s what they’d done on Saturday night.’

‘Do you know who participated in these parties?’

‘Sam and Andrea Dahlberg, Stina and Håkan Ek, Beata and John Dunmar. Plus a couple who don’t live here any more.’

‘What’s their name?’

‘Sten and Monica. They lived here for less than a year, but I think they somehow managed to worm their way into that group. For some reason they were allowed in.’

‘What do you know about them?’

‘Not much. They lived over on Bryggargatan, and they didn’t have any children, as far as I know. They moved away after only a year.’

‘What’s their last name?’

Widén paused to think.

‘Hmm… I’m sorry, but I can’t remember. But I’m sure the others would know.’

‘How long did these sorts of parties go on?’

‘I think there were actually only a few of them. I don’t think it worked out. I heard that the parties got out of hand and somebody was jealous… All I know is that something happened, and then they stopped.’

Jacobsson stared in astonishment at the man sitting on the other side of the table. She tried to make sense of what she’d just heard. This was an entirely new lead that cast a different light on the investigation. Could this be the explanation for the murders? The next step was to get hold of the couple that had moved away and then interview the rest of the group again. None of them had ever said a word about swinger parties. Jacobsson stood up and was about to thank Widén when he held out his hand.

‘It was nice to meet you. I’d love to see you again, if you’re interested.’

Surprised, Jacobsson reached out to take the business card he wanted to give her.

‘Call me, if you like.’

He smiled at her, and in his eyes she saw genuine appreciation. She couldn’t help smiling back. It had been a long time since a man had shown any interest in her. She could hardly remember what it felt like.

Moving a bit unsteadily, she left Janne Widén’s back garden.

AS JACOBSSON WAS walking to work on Monday morning, she got a phone call from Wittberg. She could tell from his voice that he had something important to tell her.

‘I was out at Svaidestugan last night. You know, that orienteering place in Follingbo. In the sauna I met a guy who told me something very interesting.’

‘Really?’

‘Just listen to this. He works as a chef in town and does a lot of running in his free time: ordinary running and orienteering. One evening in May he went out after work to go running. It was late, after ten o’clock, so he chose the route that has electric lights since it was dark. Well, as dark as it gets in May – dusk at any rate. After jogging almost the whole route, he was on his way back when he discovered a couple having sex in the woods, right above the marshy area up there near Svaide.’

‘And?’ Jacobsson was wondering what this had to do with the investigation.

‘At first he just heard some strange sounds in the dark. He thought it sounded like somebody was sick or needed help. A woman was crying and whimpering. But when he got closer, he saw a couple a short distance away from the path. There was a full moon, so he could see them quite clearly. A naked woman tied to a tree, and a man having sex with her. At first glance, he thought she was being raped, so he was about to rush forward to rescue her. But then he realized that even though she was… making a lot of noise, and bound, she was actually enjoying it. Apparently she was wearing a blindfold too. So then he just kept on running. The couple never saw him.’

‘What’s so interesting about all of this, other than that he had a different sort of running experience that day?’ asked Jacobsson, yawning.

‘He saw their car. It was a purple Corvette.’

‘And?’

‘Don’t you remember? Andrea Dahlberg’s sports car. We talked about how cool it was. It’s a purple, or plum-coloured Corvette.’

‘Oh, that’s right.’

‘And this guy even remembers that the registration on the number plate started with “O”.’

Jacobsson uttered a sigh of relief. It would be child’s play to find a purple Corvette with a number plate starting with ‘O’ on the small island of Gotland. Finally something was happening in the investigation.