The Double Silence

‘Did he give you a description of the couple?’

‘It all happened so fast, but he recalls that the man looked very fit, without being a hunk. That’s all he could say about him. The woman was thin and apparently had dark hair. And he recalls that she had small breasts.’

Jacobsson frowned. So that ruled out Andrea Dahlberg. It was impossible not to notice that she wore a size-C cup. Had someone borrowed her car?

‘What about their age?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘He guessed thirty-five or forty.’

‘OK. The meeting starts in fifteen minutes. I’ve also got some news to report.’

A feeling of anticipation hovered over the meeting of the investigative team. A good deal of new developments had surfaced. Both Kihlgård and Sohlman were present. Lars Norrby wasn’t there, but that was no great loss. Wittberg was in the process of checking out the few Corvettes to be found on Gotland. They had convened in the usual conference room. Jacobsson raised her eyebrows at the sight of two chocolate cakes on the table, decorated with French flags.

‘Is it somebody’s birthday?’ she asked her colleagues as they took seats around the table.

‘Today is Bastille Day in France,’ Kihlgård told her solemnly. ‘And I think that’s worth celebrating. Help yourselves.’ He motioned for everyone to take a piece of cake.

Jacobsson smiled to herself. Celebrating this particular holiday with Kihlgård had practically become a tradition at police headquarters in Visby. She strongly doubted whether a comparable celebration of the Swedish independence day ever took place at a police station in France.

After everyone had taken a piece of cake, Jacobsson began by telling them about the couple that had been seen near Svaidestugan, and the car that was parked nearby.

At that moment Wittberg stuck his head in the door.

‘We’ve found the car. Guess who it belongs to?’

‘I’m not going to guess,’ replied Jacobsson with ill-concealed impatience.

‘It’s just as we thought. Andrea Dahlberg.’

‘OK,’ said Jacobsson, picking up her phone. ‘Let’s bring her in.’

Then she reported on the wild parties that the group of friends had evidently indulged in only a year ago.

Everyone stared in surprise at their boss. Even Kihlgård stopped eating.

‘Swinger parties? Good Lord,’ exclaimed Wittberg. ‘Do people really do that sort of thing? And right there in those fancy houses in Terra Nova? Imagine that – it’s actually sort of cool.’

‘Maybe so,’ said Jacobsson. ‘But so far this information is just based on rumours. Our first priority is to conduct new interviews and find out if there’s any truth to it. I don’t know how many times we’ve asked these damned Pollyannas – and I’m actually starting to get really fed up with them – whether there’s anything else we should know about their relationships. Even though two members of their group have fallen victim to a murderer, they’ve all been as quiet as mice. I’m going to be bloody pissed off if these rumours are true.’

‘Swearing again.’ Kihlgård gave Jacobsson an admonishing look.

She pretended not to hear him. What was his problem? He was turning into a regular language cop.

‘The question is: What does this mean for the murder investigation?’ Jacobsson went on.

‘Maybe some of them kept playing the sex games,’ suggested Wittberg. ‘Maybe they simply couldn’t resist.’

Jacobsson noticed that he seemed delighted by the idea. Wittberg had undoubtedly conjured up a whole bunch of interesting images in his mind.

‘Sure, that’s one possibility. Maybe it was Sam and Stina out there near Svaidestugan. He could have borrowed his wife’s car.’

‘But who would want to kill them because of that?’ Kihlgård objected. ‘It would have to be one of their spouses, either Håkan or Andrea.’

‘What about the other two?’ asked Wittberg. ‘The couple that moved away and were part of the group for only a short period? Apparently that was during the period of time in question. And there was something odd about that. Why were they admitted to the group so easily when other people are rarely let in? And why did they disappear after attending those sex parties? Seems fishy, don’t you think?’

‘Definitely. Could you try to track them down? I don’t know what their last name is, or where they live now, but someone in the group must be able to tell us.’

‘One possibility is that Stina and Sam continued the sex games with that couple, and then something happened to make them quit. Or one of them, at least. They lived in the neighbourhood for only a short time, so they couldn’t have got to know each other very well. Maybe they were a couple of lunatics.’

‘But the others should have known if something like that happened,’ Kihlgård interjected. ‘At least Håkan and Andrea should have known. But they both claimed over and over that they had very happy marriages – which almost makes me suspicious.’

‘Exactly,’ murmured Jacobsson. ‘I’ve felt from the beginning that there was something wrong with that whole “one big happy family” idea. I sensed something desperate about all of them. They seemed to be hiding something. And now we know. Sex parties. Bloody hell.’

‘You’re swearing again,’ said Kihlgård.

Jacobsson gave him a furious look. At that moment her mobile rang. Since she saw that the call was from the ME, she answered.

‘Hi, am I interrupting anything?’

‘We’re in a meeting, but that’s OK.’

‘Well, I wanted to call you because we just finished the post-mortem on Stina Ek, and I assume that you’d like to know about this at once.’

‘Yes?’

‘Stina Ek was pregnant. About three months along.’

KNUTAS WAS STARTING to get impatient. The doctor had insisted that he take sick leave for another week, even though he was feeling perfectly fine. When it came to the murder investigation, Jacobsson had been keeping him updated, but over the weekend he hadn’t heard a thing. She had sounded strange on the phone when he talked to her at the end of the previous week, but she hadn’t wanted to discuss it when he asked what was wrong. ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ she’d simply said. ‘After you get back.’ Right now there was nowhere he’d rather be than back on the job. In the meantime he’d been doing his own investigative work. It helped to quell the impatience and he was hoping that it might prove useful.

At the heart of the whole case was the group of friends from Terra Nova, and that ought to be the starting point for the police investigation. It had all started when they went on holiday. Now two of them were not only dead, they had been murdered. And apparently the deaths had occurred only a couple of days apart. In Knutas’s opinion, there were two possible avenues to take. Either they started by digging into the past of these people, going way back in time; or they followed their footsteps very closely, trying to find out every nano-event that had taken place during that brief trip to Fårö and Stora Karlsö. Knutas had realized that the easiest thing for him to do was to start by finding out everything he could about the past of these friends.

He’d been working on the case all weekend. By now he had separate piles of printouts detailing the story of each individual. On top of each stack was a photo of the person. It was a very tidy collection. He’d concluded that no one could be described as average in this circle of friends, in terms of either appearance or background. He’d started by looking at their family relationships, their jobs and education, as well as memberships of any associations. He already knew that none of them had any debts or financial problems, and none of them had ever been convicted of a crime.

Yet he had managed to uncover a few secrets. His eyes fell on the oldest member of the group: Håkan Ek. He seemed to be the one to worry about: he had the messiest past. This conclusion was reinforced by the fact that he’d been married three times and had children with three different women. He’d moved a lot during his life and had never lived very long in any one place. The exception was when he settled in Terra Nova with Stina. Then it seemed as if he’d finally found his home. He’d lived there fifteen years and had held the same job even longer; his colleagues had nothing but praise for him. Maybe he and Stina were two lost souls who had finally found each other.

His gaze moved to Stina. He felt a pang in his heart when he looked at the picture of the young woman smiling so warmly at the camera. She was truly charming, thought Knutas. She reminded him of Karin because of her petite size. And she had that soft, feminine side that Karin was so good at concealing. Knutas had the feeling that Stina had been something of a loner who went her own way, choosing to remain more or less on the sidelines. In that sense she was also like Karin.

And then there was Sam Dahlberg. The director had made his breakthrough five years ago with a film that attracted a great deal of attention. But after that, nothing. Only now had he started shooting another feature film. Dahlberg had studied at drama school and then done an internship with Swedish TV. After that he’d spent several years working as an assistant for one of the great directors, Bo Widerberg. Sam didn’t seem to have had any major difficulties in life. He came from a culturally involved family in Visby. His mother was a librarian, and his father ran the Roxy Cinema in town. Maybe that was where Sam had got his interest in film. When he was a little boy, he started going to work with his father, helping out at the cinema. He had grown up with movies. Both of Sam’s parents were still alive, and he had two sisters. He seemed to have had strong ties to his family. What a tragedy for them to see their son fall victim to a murderer, thought Knutas.

Then he moved on to Beata and John.

John had left the United States with Beata, who was a native Gotlander from a stable middle-class family in Klintehamn. After a brief modelling career in New York and Los Angeles, she had met John Dunmar, a bartender from San Diego, who fell head over heels in love with the beautiful Swede. Beata soon became pregnant, and they decided to settle down in Sweden. John received both a residence and a work permit relatively quickly, and he learned Swedish so well that after only a year he was able to open his own bar in Visby. His business was thriving, and he was well liked by his colleagues and customers. Beata continued to work in the fashion world, as the buyer for a large clothing company. They’d had three children in quick succession and were the happy, proud owners of one of the biggest houses in Terra Nova. Knutas had found nothing noteworthy about them whatsoever.

Finally he came to Andrea. Without a doubt, she was the most complex and interesting of the lot. She was also the one who seemed to have the most secrets. Knutas studied the picture of the dark-haired woman with the sharply etched features. Her expression was inscrutable, impossible to interpret.

Knutas needed to get in touch with Jacobsson.

But before he picked up the phone, he leaned back and read through all the material one more time.

THE POLICE HAD gone to Andrea Dahlberg’s home, but she was away, visiting her children who were staying with their grandparents in the Stockholm archipelago. They had gone on a sailing expedition, and no one knew exactly where they were at the moment. The police got hold of a cousin who said that they’d planned to be away at least a week, and it would be hard to track them down.

Jacobsson tried numerous times to get through on the mobiles belonging to various family members, but without success.

Then she discovered that she had missed several calls from Knutas. She tried to ring him, but the line was busy. Oh well, it could wait. Right now she was fully occupied with the investigation, looking into this whole business about the swinger parties and what the significance might be. In addition, there was the discovery that Stina Ek had been pregnant, in her third month. DNA samples had been sent to the lab to determine who the father was, but Jacobsson was not at all convinced it was Håkan.

The first person they managed to get hold of was Beata, and half an hour later the woman was sitting in an interrogation room at police headquarters. Her red hair was swept up in a loose knot on top of her head, with decorative ringlets framing her face. She was casually dressed in a denim skirt and an especially low-cut T-shirt. She looked self-conscious as she sat at the table across from Jacobsson.

‘Why am I here again? You’ve already questioned me numerous times. I was in the middle of baking. We’re having a big family party tomorrow.’

‘I’m sorry we had to interrupt your housewifely duties,’ said Jacobsson without a trace of sympathy.

Beata Dunmar pursed her lips.

‘You’ve been asked to come here because some new information has come to light in the case, and we want to talk to you about it. We’ve learned that you and your group of friends have held swinger parties. Is that right?’

Beata opened her eyes wide. She stared at Jacobsson for a long time, apparently feverishly trying to work out how to respond to what she’d just heard.

Jacobsson remained silent, her eyes fixed on Beata, waiting for her to say something.

‘What do you mean?’ she finally managed.

‘Exactly what I said. We’ve heard that you and your friends have held swinger parties. You, John, Stina, Håkan, Sam and Andrea, along with another couple who moved away from the area. Sten and Monica.’

Beata seemed to realize that the game was up. It would do her no good to deny the claim. She stared in shame at the table as she answered.

‘That’s true,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But only a few times.’

‘How many times exactly?’

‘Three.’

‘What happened during these parties?’

Beata fidgeted a bit before replying.

‘The first time it started out as an ordinary party at Sam and Andrea’s house. Their children weren’t home, so we had the place to ourselves. We drank an awful lot of wine at dinner and everyone got very drunk. We went on drinking afterwards as we sat in front of their big fireplace in the living room. They have big, comfy sofas and armchairs, and we ended up sprawled all over them. Somebody started talking about a film they’d seen. I think it was Ice Storm. It took place in an American suburb, rather like our own, with educated and established people who knew each other well, much as we do. They held parties where they put their house keys in a bowl in the hall when they arrived. Later, after dinner, all the women would take out a set of keys and go home and have sex with the man whose keys they’d chosen. They had worked out some sort of system so that nobody would ever get her own husband.’

‘I see. So what happened then?’

‘First we joked about it. What if we did the same thing? Then someone started teasing John because he’s American. Saying things like: Is that how you do things where you’re from? And John jumped in and said that he’d always had the hots for Stina and wouldn’t mind exchanging keys with her. At first we were all a little shocked, but at the same time there was an excitement in the air, because it was obvious that he really meant what he’d said.’

‘And how did you react to that?’

‘I pretended this was news to me, even though I’d noticed it long before. He tried to hide it, but it was perfectly clear that he thought Stina was super sexy. Whenever we had a party, he would always dance with her. Preferably all night long.’

‘What did you think about that?’

‘It didn’t really bother me. John and I have an open marriage. We’ve agreed that we can have sex with other people as long as we don’t expose each other to any diseases or feel compelled to report on our escapades. Neither of us believes in the illusion that people can stay together for a whole lifetime without being attracted to anyone else. And why shouldn’t a person be allowed to act on his or her desires? We’ve got only one life, at least as far as we know. Why should you have to deny yourself a lot of pleasurable experiences? For whose sake? For what reason? Because of an unrealistic, romantic and naive notion that there’s only one love in your life? Neither of us believes in that sort of shit.’

‘So you thought it was OK for John to have sex with Stina?’

‘Yes. I would like to have been there, sitting in a corner of the room. I’ve often fantasized about making love to a woman.’

Jacobsson took a sip of water. She knew that Wittberg, sitting at the back of the room in his role as witness to the interview, was thoroughly enjoying this unexpected turn in the questioning. He also probably found it terribly amusing that Jacobsson was the one conducting the interview. He’d always accused her of being a prude.

‘Let’s go back to that first evening. What happened?’

‘Well, after John said that about Stina, the mood changed. There was an unusual tension in the air. You could see by the way everyone was moving about that they weren’t averse to the idea of experimenting, so to speak. Then Stina did something incredibly surprising.’

‘What did she do?’

‘She asked John what he thought was so sexy about her.’

Without being aware of what she was doing, Jacobsson leaned closer.

‘He told her that it was mainly her breasts. They were so different from mine. Small and pointed. Then Stina went a step further. She got up, went over to John, and unbuttoned her blouse. Everyone was so surprised that they didn’t say a word. Håkan sat there, stunned. John stroked her breasts and that’s when it really got started. New pairs formed, and little by little one couple after the other disappeared. I ended up with Sam in their bedroom upstairs.’

‘Oh,’ said Jacobsson, taking another sip of water.

‘We had great sex, Sam and I. I’ve always found him bloody attractive. When we were done, we joked about the whole thing. It was a wonderful feeling, very natural, at least between the two of us. Then I went home, but John wasn’t there. I fell asleep, and in the morning he was lying in bed next to me. We didn’t talk about it. As I said, we have an unwritten rule not to discuss our sexual adventures, so we didn’t in this case either, even though we both knew what had happened. I think we wanted to protect each other. No one wants to hear that his or her partner has had amazing sex with somebody else. Even we draw the line there.’

‘So what happened when you met the others again?’

‘It was still exciting. Everyone seemed a bit on edge, as if we were all just waiting for the next party.’

‘And what happened then? The next time you had a party?’

‘Everybody drank more than usual, as if to avoid taking responsibility. And since the boundaries had already been breached, things moved faster than before. We were at Sten and Monica’s house.’

‘Why did you stop having these parties?’

‘The third time we were again at Sten and Monica’s house, and it was very clear that Sten only wanted to be with Andrea. He was after her right from the start, as if he took it for granted that they would have sex later on. At the first two parties, everybody had gone through the motions in the beginning. We had aperitifs and dinner and carried on conversations, putting on a good show until everyone was sufficiently drunk to lose their inhibitions. But that night Sten showed an interest in Andrea right from the start, kissing her and stroking her thigh and making sexual references throughout dinner. I could tell that Monica was getting really annoyed because he wasn’t following the rules of the game.’

‘What about Andrea? How did she react?’

‘She seemed flattered, laughing and flirting with him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.’

‘So they both went too far? Is that it?’

‘Yes, you could say that, even though I didn’t think Sam cared very much.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Well, after dinner everyone helped to clear the table, so there was a lot of commotion. A few people went outside to have a smoke; some stood around talking and drinking wine. And suddenly we noticed that Andrea and Sten had gone.’

‘And?’

‘The laundry room was right next to the kitchen, and I remember standing in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room, and suddenly I heard somebody screaming. It was Monica. She had opened the laundry-room door and found Andrea and Sten going at it.’

‘So they’d jumped the gun, so to speak?’

‘Yes, and Monica was furious. Obviously this was too much for her, and she really flipped out. She started punching both of them, hitting and biting and acting like a crazy woman. By that time she’d had a lot to drink. I remember noticing her guzzling down the wine all evening. She was probably cross about how Sten had been behaving ever since Andrea arrived, so when she caught them, she went out of her mind. I’ve never seen anybody get so hysterical.’

‘What did the rest of you do?’

‘At first everyone was totally shocked, and it took a few minutes before we fully grasped what was going on. Monica was a tall, stout woman, so it wasn’t easy to overpower her. I know that Håkan and John and Sam had to work hard to get her out of there. They were forced to wrestle her to the ground. The rest of us stayed out of their way. I don’t really know how it all ended.’

‘Did you ever talk about this afterwards?’

‘No. It was as if everyone was embarrassed and found it too unpleasant. We took the easiest way out by keeping silent. John and I did talk about it with each other, of course, right after it happened. He told me that Monica finally calmed down. Or rather, her anger gave way to despair, and she sobbed for several hours. She thought she’d made a fool of herself, and after that she and Sten stayed away. Just a few weeks later, they moved. That didn’t upset the rest of us. They’d only lived here a short time, they had no children, and we really hadn’t got to know each other very well.’

‘Yet you had group sex with them! How was that possible?’

‘I’ve wondered about that too. I mean, we’re such a close-knit group that we really don’t need to let anyone else into our inner circle. There are a lot of people living in the area. Everybody spends time together, having dinners, and crayfish parties, and Midsummer celebrations. But our small group is especially close; we have our own circle inside of the larger social circle, so to speak. And now that I think about it, in hindsight I wonder why we let those two in so easily.’

‘So what’s your theory?’

‘I don’t really have one. I know that Sten somehow became friends with Håkan, and he was the one who decided to include Sten and Monica. They came to a few dinners and were terribly nice, and I suppose that’s how it happened. Maybe we felt a little sorry for the two of them. They were such outsiders, with no children, working here on a trial basis, and only renting their house. Maybe we saw them as temporary visitors who wouldn’t threaten or change our friendships. And so we were more generous towards them.’ Beata looked pensive as she stared at the opposite wall. Jacobsson chose to change tack.

‘A witness saw a couple having sex outdoors near Svaidestugan in Follingbo late one night at the end of May. And the car they’d arrived in belonged to Andrea Dahlberg. Do you have any idea who those people might have been?’

Beata looked surprised.

‘No. That sounds strange. I mean, if it wasn’t Sam and Andrea trying to spice up their sex life.’

Jacobsson decided not to say anything about Stina’s pregnancy. For the time being the police didn’t want to make that information public.

‘Let’s go back to those parties of yours. How did the whole group continue after that? Did you talk about what happened?’

Beata shifted her gaze back to Jacobsson, although she still looked preoccupied. A smile flitted across her lips.

‘That’s what’s so funny about it all. Even though we consider ourselves to be such good friends, we never discussed the matter. We pretended to each other that nothing had happened. As if we all thought that if we stuck our heads in the sand, the memory of the whole mess would simply disappear.’

‘And did it?’

Beata sighed.

‘No. I honestly don’t think so. We tried hard to pretend that everything was back to normal, that it wasn’t important. But certain things had definitely changed. That much was clear.’

‘In what way?’

‘Our friendships felt strained, as if we had to keep up the pretence at all costs. But I think everyone could feel how holes had begun to appear in the fabric of our relationships. Stina, especially, seemed to change afterwards. She withdrew more, and she stopped going for walks with us. Suddenly she started jogging instead. She seemed more involved with the kids and with her job.’

‘What about Sam? Did you notice any difference in him?’

Beata shook her head.

‘No, not really.’

‘What about you?’

‘It didn’t bother me. I can separate sex from other kinds of relationships.’

‘But what about the fact that your husband was attracted to Stina? Didn’t that bother you?’

‘Not at all.’

‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I have a hard time believing that,’ Jacobsson persisted. ‘It didn’t upset you in the least?’

‘No. It was just a sexual attraction. Nothing more. And I can handle that.’

Beata reached for the glass of water on the table. Jacobsson noticed that her hand was shaking. She dropped the subject for the moment.

‘What about Andrea? Do you know if she ever saw this man named Sten again?’

‘No, I really don’t think she did. He and Monica moved away and, as far as I know, nobody has heard from them since. Andrea was also terribly in love with Sam. She adored him beyond all reason, as if he were a Greek god. As if they never had any problems in their marriage.’

‘And yet she behaved that way at the party, with Sten?’

‘I think it was mostly to get Sam’s attention, to make him realize that other men desired her.’

‘Why would she feel the need to do something like that?’

‘Even though Andrea is sexy and attractive and she’s used to having men look at her, I think she compared herself too much to Stina. And, in her own eyes, she always fell short. Stina enchanted people. There was something magnetic about her eyes, and she radiated a charm that made men fall all over themselves. I think Andrea was jealous, and that’s why she gave in to Sten like that. It was a way of showing off, of saying: “See, I can do it too.” Both to Stina and to her husband.’

Jacobsson shook her head. The whole thing sounded awfully naive. Was this really the way grown-up people behaved?

‘Do you think she’d noticed that Sam was attracted to somebody else?’

‘Maybe. Although I think his job took up most of his time.’

‘So what do you think about the murders? Do you have any idea who might have killed them?’

‘I’ve been thinking a lot about Sten and Monica. And in hindsight I think it was the two of them who initiated the whole thing. Or rather, he did. He was the one who urged us on.’

‘What’s their last name? Do you remember?’

‘They weren’t married. Her last name was Nordin, and his was… Oh, that’s right, it was Boberg. His name was Sten Boberg.’

BY TUESDAY ANDREA Dahlberg still hadn’t been in touch with the police, and the interview with Håkan Ek had produced largely the same information that they’d gleaned from Beata Dunmar. The police had of course mentioned Stina’s pregnancy to Håkan. He seemed genuinely surprised and claimed that he hadn’t known anything about it. Jacobsson was inclined to believe him; he seemed sincere.

When it came to the parties, it sounded as if Beata and Håkan had discussed the matter. It was an experiment that had got out of hand, and everyone wanted to forget about it, even though that had proved hard to do. Naturally Håkan had noticed certain changes in Stina, and he’d already told the police about that. But as Håkan said, she was getting close to forty and had been thinking more than usual about her past. He’d said that life often caught up with a person at that age, and Jacobsson felt strongly affected by his words. That was exactly what had happened to her.

At the same time, the police had finally received a concrete and tangible lead to follow. Wittberg had been in contact with Monica Nordin on the phone, and she told him that she and Sten had split up long ago. They had never been married, just lived together for about a year. First for a few months in central Stockholm, and then Monica’s job had taken her to Gotland. Sten, who had his own business, had followed, even though they’d only been together a short time. They found a house to rent in Terra Nova, and their plans for the future had included both children and a dog. But their relationship had begun to deteriorate, and the situation got worse after the parties started. Sten talked about nothing else. Several times she’d caught him spying on Andrea, and after the last party, their relationship was over. Monica had not only moved away from Gotland, she’d also split up with Sten. She wanted nothing more to do with him.

It had been more difficult for the police to locate Sten Boberg. His business no longer seemed to be functioning, nobody answered the phone, and the email address wasn’t working. He’d apparently moved around to various addresses, but Wittberg finally tracked him down to a block of flats due to be demolished in Upplands Bro municipality, about 30 kilometres north of Stockholm. Wittberg had asked the Stockholm police for help in bringing Boberg in for questioning.

Now they were just waiting for their colleagues in the capital to report back.

AFTER COUNTLESS ATTEMPTED phone calls, Jacobsson finally reached Andrea’s mother, Marianne, late Tuesday afternoon.

‘We’re looking for your daughter. As I understand it, she’s been on a sailing trip with you. Is she there now?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said the woman on the phone.

Her voice was so faint that Jacobsson had to strain to hear what she said.

‘Maybe I misunderstood, but her cousin told us that she and the children were staying with you.’

‘The children are here with me and my husband, but Andrea decided to stay at home.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘She changed her mind.’

‘When was this?’

‘Just before we were supposed to leave,’ said her mother with a sigh. ‘Everything was all set, and we were standing on the dock…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, she just decided not to come with us.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘She got a phone call.’

‘A phone call?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘She took the call and afterwards she told us that she needed to go and see somebody.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know who she was talking to?’

‘No.’

Jacobsson felt a growing annoyance. She practically had to drag every word out of this woman.

‘But you’d made plans to go sailing for a whole week with her and the children. What explanation did she give for not going with you?’

‘None. She just said that she’d meet us later.’

‘When?’

‘The next day. At least that’s what she said.’

‘And did she?’

‘No.’

‘Have you talked to her since then?’

‘No, actually, I haven’t. I’ve tried to phone her, but it’s hard to get through from out here in the archipelago.’

‘Do you have any idea where she might be?’

‘No, I don’t. I have no idea.’

ONE DAY WHEN my sister came home from school she stopped talking. I asked her a question – I can’t remember what it was about – but she refused to answer. She wouldn’t say a word. I was completely bewildered. I could tell from her expression that she had made up her mind. She wasn’t going to talk any more. Mamma was at the hospital, and Pappa was out in the fields. Ploughing, or whatever it was that he was doing. I got upset, asked her what was wrong, what had happened. She just gave me a solemn look, shook her head, and then went to her room. Later Mamma came home and began cooking dinner. I told her that Emilia was refusing to talk. She thought I was joking. ‘Oh, what kind of foolishness is that?’ She dried her hands on her apron and went upstairs. She called to Emilia on the way up, but received no answer. I followed at her heels, worried about what would happen. Both Emilia and I had great respect for our parents. Would Emilia dare to defy Mamma?

‘Hello, dear. Why didn’t you answer when I called you?’ said Mamma reproachfully as she pushed open the door to Emilia’s room.

Emilia was sitting on the bed with her diary on her lap. Pale and sombre, she looked at Mamma without saying a word.

‘What’s wrong with you? What’s this all about?’

At first Mamma just sound irritated, but when Emilia persisted in keeping silent, Mamma grew desperate. She scolded and cursed, but nothing helped. Emilia refused to speak. Mamma grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. My sister just sat there, seemingly unaffected. As if it didn’t bother her in the slightest that Mamma was screaming and carrying on. Horrified, I watched the scene unfold before me. Mamma was angrily trying to make my sister open her mouth, forcing her lips apart with her fingers. Emilia offered no resistance; she seemed almost apathetic, just staring into space, her eyes glassy. Nothing seemed to reach her. Mamma then started to cry, pleading with her daughter. She fell to her knees next to the bed, took Emilia’s hand in her own, and begged her to say something. But Mamma’s efforts were in vain. Not one word crossed Emilia’s lips.

That was when I understood how serious the situation was.

And that I would never again hear my sister speak.

KNUTAS HAD TRIED to contact Jacobsson all afternoon without success. He was in the kitchen making himself an omelette for dinner when she rang.

‘Finally you called me back,’ he said, taking the frying pan off the burner. He slid the omelette on to a plate while he clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder.

‘I’m sorry. It’s been crazy all day. There have been a few developments in the case at last.’

‘Really?’ said Knutas with interest. ‘What are they, if I might ask?’

‘It turns out that this nice little group of friends used to sleep around. With each other.’

Jacobsson then told him what they’d found out, and about the couple, Sten and Monica.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ exclaimed Knutas. ‘And nobody breathed a word about this?’

‘Actually, that’s not so hard to understand,’ said Jacobsson. ‘It’s not exactly something that you’d want to make public.’

‘This Sten sounds like a real scumbag. Have you got hold of him yet?’

‘We’re working on it. Was there anything special that you wanted to tell me?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. Don’t be cross with me, but I was feeling so bored here at home that I decided to do a little research. Do you know about Andrea Dahlberg’s tragic background?’

‘No. What do you mean?’

‘Do you know that her father was convicted of sexually assaulting her older sister when Andrea was only thirteen?’

Knutas paused for effect. He could hear Jacobsson gasp.

‘No. How do you know that?’

‘I’ve been checking up on everyone in the group, looking into their past and going further back in time than we’ve done previously. I’ve basically gone through everything since they were born. The person who turned out to have the most secrets was Andrea Dahlberg.’

‘Tell me what you found out.’

‘When she was twelve her sister committed suicide. Andrea was the one who found her at home in bed, unconscious after swallowing a lot of pills. They couldn’t save her. A short time after her sister’s death, it came out that her father had been raping her sister for years. He was sentenced to five years in prison. Andrea’s mother filed for divorce, and they moved to Stockholm. As far as I know, she’s never had any contact with her father since then.’

‘What a tragic story. But what does this have to do with the murders?’

‘Maybe nothing. I just thought you should know about it. We’ve questioned everyone involved so thoroughly, but Andrea has never mentioned any of this.’

‘Maybe it would be too difficult for her to talk about it.’

‘Of course. But I think we need to interview her again.’

‘Definitely. There’s just one hitch. Andrea Dahlberg has disappeared.’

JACOBSSON WALKED HOME on Tuesday evening. It had been an eventful day, and it was nice to get outside, breathe in some fresh air and clear her head. She took a detour, heading towards town and through the Botanical Gardens, and then continued along the shoreline promenade. She had just stepped on to the path when a little spotted dog came dashing towards her. Right behind him was somebody she recognized at once. Those shoulders, that hair, that posture. It was impossible to ignore the tremor that passed through her body like hot lightning. It was him, Janne Widén, the photographer who lived in Terra Nova. He saw her and gave a cheerful wave as he came running after his dog.

‘Hi again! I’m sorry, but he’s hopeless. He refuses to listen to me the minute he sees something interesting.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Jacobsson with a smile. She patted the dog, whose joy at seeing her again seemed to know no bounds.

‘Do you live nearby?’ he asked with interest.

She noticed that his eyes were greyish-green.

‘No, not really. I live on Mellangatan, but I thought it’d be nice to take a walk after work.’

‘I came out here with Baloo, to let him swim and run around for a while. He’s been keeping me company all day while I worked, and that wasn’t much fun for him. Is it OK if I walk with you for a bit?’

‘Sure.’

They started walking in the direction of the hospital. The sea was glittering and still in the evening sun. A few ducks were soundlessly gliding around on the mirror-like surface. The puppy leaped around at the water’s edge, jumping and splashing about.

‘How’s the investigation going? Have you got any suspects?’

Jacobsson smiled.

‘If we did, I wouldn’t be able to discuss it.’

‘Of course. Sorry. I’m just interested. Since I’m a neighbour and everything. What a senseless thing to happen; it’s hard to believe it’s all true. That it really did happen, right in our midst.’

‘How do you think the other neighbours are reacting?’

‘They’re shocked and puzzled, of course. Something like this creates a lot of uneasiness. Some people won’t let their children go outdoors to play on their own in the evenings. People are being more careful about locking their doors. And no one sleeps with the windows open any more. Everyone has become more cautious. There isn’t the same relaxed atmosphere we used to have.’ He shook his head, and then tossed a ball for the dog. ‘I really hope it gets resolved soon, so that things will go back to normal.’

They walked in silence for a while.

‘How did you happen to join the police force, by the way? I mean, don’t take this wrong, but you seem too soft somehow for that type of work.’

Jacobsson smiled, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

‘I don’t know. I suppose I wanted to do something useful. Something real, if you know what I mean.’

He laughed, kicking aside a stone on the ground.

‘Not like me. I just take pictures of people. And food. Lately I’ve been mostly photographing food. You know, because everyone’s talking about “culinary Gotland”. It’s so trendy at the moment. All those chefs and cookbooks and newly opened restaurants and cafés. Speaking of food, are you hungry?’

They had reached Tott’s newly opened restaurant down on Norderstrand. Both a luxury hotel and a block of condominiums were being built nearby. The restaurant had outdoor seating right on the water, and they could smell the fragrant aroma of grilled meat.

‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

‘Baloo is getting tired, so he won’t want to walk much further. Shall we sit down for a while?’

They chose a table that had a splendid view of the water. Then they ordered grilled steaks and salad, along with a bottle of wine. Karin thought it all seemed totally unreal. Here she sat with a man in a restaurant for the first time in ages, and she’d forgotten how to act. But Janne turned out to be a charming companion. They chatted about all sorts of topics. Baloo fell asleep under the table after having a piece of meat and some water.

‘What’s it like being a police officer, anyway? How do you cope with all the misery you have to see?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Karin. ‘You get used to it, to a certain extent. And when you’re working, you focus on the professional side of the job, so that’s a way of protecting yourself. I suppose I shut out my emotions a lot in order to concentrate on the work.’

‘What about when you get home?’

‘That’s when the feelings can surface,’ she admitted. ‘That’s when you return to being yourself, in a way. Although I try not to let in too many emotions. You have to learn to separate the work from your personal life. Otherwise it would be intolerable in the long run.’

‘I think it’s so admirable that you’re able to do that. I don’t know if I could handle it. I’m too sensitive.’

‘You are? In what way?’

‘I always cry at sad movies, for instance. It can be a problem. If I go to the cinema with my friends, they think I’m really embarrassing. I think so too, but I can’t help it. It just comes over me.’

Karin laughed. She took a sip of her wine, aware how happy she felt in Janne’s company. She gazed out at the sea and thought that, in spite of everything, life was good.

They left the restaurant around midnight. Janne carried the sleeping puppy in his arms as he walked Karin to her door.

‘How will you get home?’ she asked.

‘No problem. I’ll get a cab.’

‘OK,’ she replied. ‘Thanks for a nice evening.’

She gave him a quick hug.

In the stairwell on the way up to her flat, she realized that she hadn’t felt this happy in a long, long time.

THE NEXT MORNING Karin Jacobsson was the first to arrive at the offices of the Criminal Division. That wasn’t unusual. Now that Knutas was on sick leave, she was often alone in the office, at least for the first few hours of the day. Normally Knutas was always there with her, since they were both early risers. She missed him more than she’d expected, on both a professional and personal level.

She got a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the corridor before she went to her office. On the threshold she stopped abruptly, hardly able to believe her eyes. On the desk was a vase with a huge bouquet of red roses. Slowly she moved closer and found an envelope among the flowers. The card inside said simply: Will you have dinner with me again soon? Hugs from Janne in Terra Nova.

Karin sank on to her chair. She couldn’t help smiling. Was he courting her? She could hardly remember what it felt like to be the object of someone’s attention – that hadn’t happened for such a long time. And she couldn’t recall ever receiving a bouquet of red roses.

She sat there staring at the flowers. They were big, long-stemmed, and blood-red. Very beautiful. But red roses, she thought to herself. Is he crazy? Did anyone send flowers like this after meeting only twice? Didn’t red roses signify love? Was this a warning that he might be a psychopath? No, she swore to herself the next second. Why do you always have to think like that? Knocking down anyone who shows a little appreciation? Karin was well aware of her inability to accept gifts and compliments. She always felt embarrassed and thought people were putting on an act; she never thought they were sincere. She couldn’t explain why she’d ended up this way. But at least now she knew that’s what she tended to do.

She picked up the card and read it again.

There was a knock on the door. Wittberg appeared in the doorway. He was about to say something but stopped when he caught sight of the flowers.

‘What’s going on? Is it a big birthday? No, that can’t be right. You’re already over forty.’ He grinned. Wittberg was always teasing Jacobsson about her age. ‘I know – you’ve got a lover! About time. Congratulations!’

‘Shut up,’ said Jacobsson, moving the vase off to the side. ‘How come you’re here so early? What do you want?’

‘Seriously. Have you met someone?’

‘No. But even if I had, you’d be the last person I’d tell. Come on, tell me what you want.’

‘I’m here early because I never went home. Kihlgård and I and a few others from the NCP have been up all night trying to locate Andrea Dahlberg while you were home in bed. We’ve checked out all the possible places we could think of, but she’s nowhere to be found. Not at home, not in her shop. None of her friends know where she is, or any of the neighbours in Terra Nova, or anyone else in her gigantic social circle. A couple of officers drove over to her house and went inside. No one was there, but they didn’t find any sign of where she might have gone. The whole thing seems really weird. It’s been three days since anybody saw her.’

Jacobsson felt an uneasiness clutch at her stomach. Not another victim.

‘What about Sten Boberg? Is there any news about him?’

‘Yeah, listen to this. We had an address for him outside Stockholm, and our colleagues went over to his flat during the night, but it was empty. We just found out that it was the wrong address. He no longer lives in Stockholm. He lives here on Gotland.’

Jacobsson jumped out of her chair.

‘What the hell are you saying?’

‘And his place is very close to Andrea’s house. He lives in Gråbo – on Jungmansgatan. He moved there six months ago.’

Jacobsson grabbed her jacket and service weapon and was already out of the door.

THE PARSONAGE WAS about a kilometre from our house. I cycled over there. I was going to return a pie plate that had been left behind after dinner a few days before. Now the pastor’s wife needed it back. She had been out picking blueberries and wanted to surprise her husband with his favourite pie. When I reached their house I stopped at the grand iron gate and walked my bike up the gravel path to the forecourt. It was a short distance from the church, beautifully situated on a hill with a view of the fields and meadows. The parsonage consisted of a main building with a wing on either side. One was used for visitors and the other served as the pastor’s office. Mamma and Pappa had been here many times after Emilia’s death. I still could barely comprehend that my sister had actually killed herself. That she no longer wanted to live. It was hard to accept. And we never talked about it at home. But it seemed so empty at the dinner table and in front of the TV in the evening. Emilia had left behind a terrible void. I don’t remember what my thoughts were right after it happened. I felt like I was on automatic, eating the food put in front of me, going to school, doing my homework. The school counsellor had tried to talk to me, but I wasn’t interested. It felt as if she wanted me to say a lot of things that I had no intention of saying. As if I were sitting there for her sake, so that she could feel that she’d done her job. Mamma just lay in bed with the blinds drawn. Pappa had been forced to move out of the room. She refused to let anyone in. I longed for her to hug me, comfort me, but she couldn’t. She was too immersed in her own sorrow. People came over to visit. They sat at the kitchen table and drank coffee, fidgeting because they didn’t know what to say. People talked about a ‘cry for help’. A cry for help that nobody had heard. That made it even worse. As if it was our fault that Emilia had taken her own life. Take care of your mother, they told me. Pappa sought refuge in his farm work. Nobody cared about me. I closed off my grief; my defence mechanisms set in and made me able to get through the days.

As I cycled up to the parsonage on that day, I saw that our car was parked at the side of the building. Pappa was here. I could hear low voices coming from the pastor’s office. Someone was crying, and I assumed it was Pappa. It was a hot day, the air was stifling, and the window stood open. Instinctively I pricked up my ears and hesitantly crossed the gravel forecourt so as not to draw attention. I stopped next to the wall of the house, so no one could see me from the window, and listened intently. Now I could clearly hear Pappa sobbing inside the room.

‘It was my fault,’ he said. ‘All my fault. I’ve killed my own daughter.’ At first I was filled with tenderness. Poor Pappa. He shouldn’t shoulder all the blame for Emilia’s death. She’d been suffering from depression, and it was worse and more serious than anyone could have imagined. It was no one’s fault. I heard the pastor murmur something, and then Pappa spoke again.

‘It’s my fault. But I couldn’t help myself.’

I was stunned and felt an icy shiver race through my body at the implication of Pappa’s words.

‘Now, now. Now, now,’ said the pastor.

Pappa went on, whimpering pitifully: ‘You know what I mean. I told you about it from the very beginning. I should have realized when she stopped talking. In my heart I knew it was an intolerable situation, but I couldn’t help myself. I felt like sick demons were egging me on. I’m just a man after all, and Margareta never wanted to do it.’

‘We talked about that,’ said the pastor sternly. ‘What you did is a sin and perverse and I told you so many times that you needed to stop. You can’t blame your assaults on male urges.’

The words echoed inside my head. It was impossible to take them in, impossible to understand. Had Pappa…? I was breathing hard, my head started to spin, and I dropped the pie plate on the ground. Suddenly everything was crystal clear.

The nausea came without warning. I threw up in the rose bushes. From far away I could still hear Pappa’s churning, whining voice. It had been going on for several years. And our good friend, the pastor, had known what was happening the whole time but had never said anything. Not a single person had said a word about what was happening to Emilia.

I managed to get back on my bicycle and then left the parsonage behind.

I was never going back there again.

THE BLOCKS OF flats, plastered a dirty grey, stood in a row in the rundown residential district on the outskirts of Visby. In the car park was a mangy-looking caravan as well as several rusty old bangers that looked as if they were at least twenty years old.

Jacobsson turned off the engine and pulled on the handbrake.

‘OK, how shall we do this?’

Wittberg took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.

‘He lives at Jungmansgatan 142.’

‘It’d probably be best if we surprise him.’

They quickly walked over to the first building. A dilapidated sign on the peeling façade told them that it was number 120. They continued along the deserted street.

Jacobsson gave an involuntary start when a person appeared from around the corner. A young guy wearing a cap pulled down over his forehead came walking towards them with a pit bull on a chain. Jacobsson and Wittberg were not wearing uniforms, but he gave them a scornful look and spat on the pavement as he passed. I’m sure we smell like cops, thought Jacobsson. When they came to number 142 they found the letters ‘KSS’ sprayed in black paint all over the front entrance. It was the acronym for ‘Keep Sweden Swedish’.

‘Nice neighbourhood,’ muttered Wittberg. They paused at the door. The glass in the top part was broken.

Jacobsson looked up at the façade of the building, then she stepped inside. What a contrast it was to the sunlight outside. Dim lighting, the walls a speckled brown, and a faint smell of rubbish. Wittberg took the lead and headed up the narrow stairs. Not a sound was audible. One storey, two. Each floor had four plain doors leading to the flats.

When they reached the third floor, they found what they were looking for. A handwritten piece of paper had been stuck in the nameplate: ‘Sten Boberg’. And above the letter slot there was another sign. ‘No junk mail, please’. Jacobsson and Wittberg took up position on either side of the door and then they rang the bell. The sound reverberated inside the flat. They waited thirty seconds. No reaction. Jacobsson rang the bell again. They waited. Still nothing. They exchanged glances. A few more attempts with no results. Wittberg pushed open the letter slot as far as it would go and shouted: ‘Police! Open up!’

Suddenly they heard the clattering of a lock from the floor above, and a weak, trembling voice said: ‘What’s going on?’

Jacobsson ran up the stairs in three bounds. The door in the corner was slightly ajar. A bleary-eyed old woman was visible in the gap. A thick security chain prevented the door from opening further. Jacobsson guessed that the woman was in her eighties. She was short, with white hair, wearing soiled trousers and a nubbly old cardigan. She seemed almost blind.

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ said Jacobsson. ‘We’re from the police, and we’re looking for Sten Boberg, who lives on the floor below. It’s nothing to worry about. We just want to talk to him.’

‘What? What’s going on?’ the old woman repeated. She smelled strongly of urine. Jacobsson noticed a bunch of rubbish bags in the hall inside the flat.

‘We’re from the police,’ she said, raising her voice and showing her police ID. ‘We’re here to talk to your downstairs neighbour, Sten Boberg. Do you know if he still lives here?’

The old woman turned pale and looked terrified.

‘No, I don’t want any. I don’t want any, I tell you. Do you hear me?’

And she shut the door. More security chains clattered.

Silence descended over the building once again. Jacobsson sighed. The old woman seemed utterly confused. She hesitated for a moment, but then rang the bell. She glanced at the nameplate, which was made of white plastic, with officially printed letters. It had been attached to the door by the municipal housing association. Nothing happened. Then Jacobsson heard the sound of a TV. Someone was talking in a loud voice that was quickly drowned out by accordion music.

Wittberg appeared in the stairwell.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

‘Just an old woman. But I’m going to try again.’

Jacobsson rang the bell. After a moment she heard the rattling of chains, and the door opened slightly. The old woman peered out as if she’d never seen Jacobsson before.

‘Yes?’

‘Hi,’ said Jacobsson, giving the woman her friendliest smile. ‘My name is Karin, and I’m from the police.’

She didn’t get any further before the old woman lost her temper.

‘Are you from the home-help services? I told you I didn’t want any help. Can’t you understand that? I can clean my own home. I’ve done that my whole life, and I’m not going to change.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Jacobsson, her voice a bit sterner. ‘But I’m not from the home-help services. I’m a police officer.’ Again she showed the woman her ID. ‘POLICE. We’re looking for your neighbour.’ She pointed downstairs, to clarify whom she meant. ‘Your neighbour whose name is Sten Boberg. Do you know where he is?’

For a moment the old woman looked confused. Her gaze shifted and her lower lip quivered. Jacobsson was afraid that she was going to burst into tears.

‘It’s all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. We just want to have a little talk with the man.’

She pointed again and then held up her ID.

‘I have his keys. If he’s not at home, you can go in and wait for him.’

Jacobsson gave the woman a doubtful look.

‘You have his keys? Well, how fortunate. Could we borrow them?’

‘Just a minute.’

Jacobsson watched in surprise as the old woman disappeared into the dimly lit flat. She heard drawers opening and closing as the woman muttered to herself the whole time. It almost sounded as if she were scolding someone. After several minutes she was back behind the security chain, holding out a gnarled, trembling hand to give Jacobsson a key ring.

‘I have the keys from when Asta lived there. Before she died. I used to water her flowers when she went out of town to visit her son on the mainland. Gunnar. He was a nice boy. He always brought flowers for his old mother. Such a nice boy. But now Asta is dead, and everyone else is too. I’m the only one left, except for that man, who comes and goes. I don’t trust him, so I didn’t tell him that I had the keys. Here you are, young lady. Take them.’

‘Thank you so much.’ Jacobsson grabbed the key ring. ‘I’ll bring them back when we’re done.’

‘That’s not necessary. I have no use for them any more. Asta is dead, and soon I’ll be gone too.’

‘Unbelievable,’ Jacobsson whispered to Wittberg, who was sitting on the stairs, having resigned himself to wait. ‘One minute the old woman was totally confused, and the next she was sharp as a tack.’ She waved the keys before her colleague’s eyes. ‘And she had his keys. It’s too good to be true.’

‘You’re out of your mind. We can’t just barge in. We have nothing on him. He’s not under suspicion for any sort of crime.’

‘Right now I couldn’t care less. But OK, I’ll phone Smittenberg.’ Without waiting for a response, she tapped in the phone number for the prosecutor. No answer.

‘What a shame,’ she told Wittberg with a grin. He didn’t reply.

And before her colleague could object, Jacobsson unlocked the door.

KNUTAS WOKE UP early. The ache in his wrist was almost gone. He was alone in the bed because Lina was out of town again. Lately she’d done nothing but take off from work, using up any holiday time and days off in lieu that she was owed. The kids weren’t at home either. He was almost starting to think that he was getting used to the solitude.

He thought about his wife and how she had changed. Maybe it has something to do with the menopause, thought Knutas, but then he was ashamed of such an idea. Why did people always blame hormones as soon as a woman wanted changes and started to make demands or to seek more time for herself? He wasn’t going to fall into that trap. Maybe he should just leave her in peace.

Andrea Dahlberg’s face appeared in his mind. His first impression of her was that she was extremely controlled. Even though her husband had been murdered in the most cruel way, she had been composed during the first interview he’d had with her at police headquarters. She hadn’t shed a single tear.

Andrea seemed determined to maintain a façade. Every time he’d seen her she had been amenable; she had been well groomed and properly dressed. She wore her long hair loose, but it was beautifully styled. She kept her home in perfect order, and the shop that she owned on Adelsgatan had been meticulously arranged and designed down to the smallest detail. Andrea seemed to be someone who left nothing to chance.

Now she had sent her children to stay with their grandparents, but she herself had decided not to join them for the sailing expedition. She’d changed her mind at the last second. Knutas wondered why. Apparently someone had contacted her. Was it a friend of hers? How could she leave her children like that when they’d just lost their father? And strangely enough, she’d made herself unavailable, even though her husband and best friend had just been murdered, and the police might need to contact her.

Within a short time she’d lost the two people who meant the most in her life, other than her children. How had that affected her? He thought again about what had happened in her childhood. That must have been tremendously traumatic. First her sister’s suicide, and then finding out the reason behind it: their father’s sexual assaults. A terrible betrayal back then. A terrible betrayal now.

Suddenly Knutas sat up in bed.

Andrea Dahlberg had switched off her phone and left the children where they would be safe. She had lost everything. A thought refused to leave him. Was that possible? If so, how and where? There was really only one place that seemed likely.

Now Knutas knew exactly what he had to do. Impatiently he got out of bed and checked the timetable on the Internet.

THE FRONT ENTRY was cramped and dark. Wittberg crept in first, his gun drawn. Jacobsson followed close behind. It was possible that Boberg was in the flat and had just refused to open the door. They continued along a narrow hall with doors on both sides. The floor creaked faintly under their feet, and a clock ticked on the wall. The kitchen was empty, as was the bedroom. Jacobsson opened the door to the bathroom and a clothes cupboard. No one there.

They quickly concluded that the flat was empty. In the living room they found a white leather sofa, a glass table with lion’s feet, and a large porcelain Dalmatian set in one corner.

‘Good God, how ugly,’ exclaimed Jacobsson.

The kitchen was long and narrow with a modern white plastic table next to the window. A fruit bowl holding fresh bananas indicated that the tenant had recently been at home. The flat was clean and tidy.

‘He seems to be an orderly person, at any rate,’ said Wittberg as he continued over to another room at the end of the hall.

The door was locked.

‘I don’t suppose we’re likely to find the key,’ murmured Jacobsson. ‘And he could come home at any moment.’

Wittberg kicked open the door.

And whistled.

‘I’ll be damned.’

The room was painted bright red, and the entire ceiling was covered with mirrors. Strings of tiny red lights were hung around the windows. The walls were papered with hundreds of pictures, all apparently of one woman, showing her in various settings. Wearing a quilted jacket on a skating rink, in a white summer dress with a flower wreath on her head at a Midsummer celebration, wearing shorts and a top as she clipped the hedge. Naked with only a hat on her head, wearing a black negligee in the bedroom, in various provocative positions as she apparently posed for the photographer. A bizarre cavalcade with Andrea Dahlberg in the leading role. The photos had been professionally done. The photographer seemed to know his stuff.

‘Good Lord,’ gasped Jacobsson. ‘Looks like we’re dealing with a stalker.’

‘And potentially a triple murderer. Judging by all of this, it looks like Andrea might be his next victim.’ Jacobsson suddenly went ice cold. ‘And she’s been missing for three days, or more. Shit, shit, shit.’

She looked around. A thought had begun to take shape in the back of her mind. It had something to do with the porcelain dog in the living room. A Dalmatian. Jacobsson’s gaze fell again on the photographs, taken by a professional. Slowly she realized what it might mean. She pictured Janne Widén’s smile and greyish-green eyes. His business card on which it said ‘Photographer’. He was the one who had told her about the sex parties. Red roses in her office. The man she’d had dinner with last night. They’d been practically flirting with each other. She’d felt something that resembled a budding attraction as they said good night outside the door to her building. What an idiot she was. A sense of betrayal burned in her stomach. For the first time in ages she had felt appreciated as a woman. She’d thought he was really interested in her. And he was single. Her cheeks burned with indignation. Was Janne Widén really Sten Boberg?

She sank down on the sofa in the living room and pulled off her jacket. Thoughts were tumbling through her head. Could the situation be that bad? She felt totally confused.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Wittberg, who had seen Jacobsson’s face go from pale to bright red.

‘It’s nothing. I just thought of something. Have you seen any indication that he owns a dog?’

‘No.’

Jacobsson forced herself to push the feeling of humiliation aside so she could focus on the job they were there to do. They searched the flat, looking for further leads. Boberg had collected extensive documentation about Andrea: newspaper clippings, photos, notes about the business she ran, but nothing that revealed where she might be right now. Jacobsson was just about to notify her colleagues when they heard a key turn in the lock.

‘Shit,’ hissed Wittberg.

He shoved Jacobsson into the clothes cupboard and stepped in after her just as the front door opened.

KNUTAS GOT INTO his old Mercedes and drove south towards Klintehamn. The traffic was light this early in the morning, even though the tourist season was at its peak. Gotland is actually more beautiful after the summer holidays are over, thought Knutas. Especially from mid-August to the end of September. The weather was often lovely, and the sea surrounding the island was quite warm. That was when the beaches were deserted and most inviting, and it was possible to walk through the streets of Visby without constantly bumping into other people.

Waiting on the dock were about ten people besides himself. He didn’t know a single one of them; they were probably all from the mainland. Usually Knutas cursed the fact that he couldn’t remain anonymous. He’d been the police chief for so long that he knew everybody who lived on Gotland. Sometimes he put on a baseball cap and sunglasses just to avoid being recognized, as if he were a pop star.

When the ferry docked in Norderhamn, Knutas was the first to disembark.

He walked quickly along the stony path, grateful that he’d been wise enough to wear comfortable shoes. He soon reached the bay where the group from Terra Nova had stayed.

Everything seemed more real now that he was actually here. He could picture them swimming and relaxing together. He imagined the tension that must have existed at the thought of what they’d done at those parties only a year earlier.

He continued past the cabins near the bay and headed up the steep stairs to the lighthouse. He met no one and assumed that most of the people were taking the obligatory tour of the island. He’d been given special dispensation so he didn’t have to participate.

It was nice and calm at the top. Knutas paused for a moment to look at the original lighthouse, which was 18 metres tall and built of stones from the island where it stood. The house looked like a small castle that he’d once seen on a trip to France. The lighthouse on Stora Karlsö was not constructed in the usual form of a free-standing round tower. Here the tower was built into the house that had served as a residence for the lighthouse-keeper and his family. If it weren’t for the big lamps in the windows at the very top, it would have been hard to tell that this was actually a lighthouse.

He made his way over to the first bird mountain and stood at the fence, gazing at the cliffs and the narrow ledges. All the birds had now left.

He turned around and went on to the next bird mountain, which was some distance away. This was where Sam Dahlberg had been murdered. The sun was warm on his back, so he took off his jacket. It was almost eleven o’clock, and it was starting to get hot. Suddenly it occurred to him that it was almost exactly the same time of day when somebody pushed Dahlberg off the cliff. What a coincidence. He rounded the curve and the bird mountain was right in front of him. Eagerly he picked up the pace, keeping his eyes on the ridge. So that was where it happened. That was where Dahlberg had met his killer.

Suddenly Knutas gave a start. Someone had appeared up there on the cliff edge, pausing to look out at the sea.

He recognized her at once.

WITH A MUTED bang the front door closed again. Someone locked the deadbolt and lifted the security chain into place. Sten Boberg was obviously meticulous about keeping out unwelcome visitors. If he only knew, thought Jacobsson. A brief cough, shoes being removed. A jacket hung up on a hook. Footsteps only centimetres away from where both police officers were hiding, standing close together in the small cupboard. Jacobsson was holding on to the back of Wittberg’s jacket so as not to lose her balance. A hanger was jabbing her in the back. Someone went into the toilet without closing the door, judging by the sound. Then the person flushed and came out again. Jacobsson poked her colleague, took out her gun, and motioned for him to step out. Wittberg raised his hand to stop her.

‘Let’s wait a moment,’ he whispered. ‘He might have Andrea.’

Water was running from the tap in the kitchen. Saucepans clattered. Was he making tea? Creaking footsteps heading for the living room, and then the TV went on. Apparently he stood there for a moment, using the remote to surf the channels as one sound was replaced by another: thudding pop music, the babble of a newsreader, loud moaning from what sounded like a porn film. To Jacobsson’s relief, he quickly changed the channel to a sports report, and then music again. It sounded like movie music from some American drama. Footsteps went past again, going back to the kitchen. The clicking sound as a burner was turned off. Every little sound was audible through the thin cupboard door. Boberg seemed to be alone.

At that moment Jacobsson froze. As she stood there with her nose against Wittberg’s back, she remembered that she’d taken off her jacket when they were searching the flat. It was lying on the sofa in the living room. Damn, she thought. Her mobile was in her jacket pocket.

She murmured a silent prayer that he wouldn’t notice it. Her mouth was dry, and her heart was pounding so hard that she was afraid he’d hear it. The man went back to the living room. They immediately smelled smoke. Their first thought was that he’d lit a cigarette, but it didn’t take long before they realized it wasn’t the usual tobacco sold in the shops. Sten Boberg was sitting there smoking hash. So now he’s going to get high? thought Jacobsson with growing frustration. She poked Wittberg. It was too crowded for him to turn around. She ventured a whisper.

‘What the hell should we do?’

Before her colleague could answer, the volume on the TV soared. Voices thundered through the flat, revealing that the music they’d heard before was definitely from some American film. Jacobsson froze. Why had he turned up the volume so loud?

For several minutes they stood there in confusion, unable to guess what was happening beyond the cupboard door. Wittberg tried to take out his mobile but rammed his elbow into a hanger. Jacobsson grabbed the hanger just as silence fell over the flat again. Suddenly they heard the door to the cupboard being locked from the outside. Then came the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor.

Boberg was in the process of blockading the door.

He’d found their hiding place, so there was no longer any need to remain silent.

‘Police!’ shouted Wittberg. ‘Open up!’

‘I’m sure he knows who we are,’ hissed Jacobsson, who was still wedged in behind her colleague. ‘My police badge is in my jacket, which I left on the sofa.’

No answer. Just more scraping and thudding.

Wittberg threw himself against the door, which abruptly gave way, and both officers tumbled out of the closet, only to see a man’s back disappearing through the door. They ran down the stairs after him and out on to the street.

Just as they came outside, they saw the man they were chasing vanish around the corner.

‘Let’s split up,’ said Jacobsson. ‘You go after him, and I’ll cut him off on the other side.’

They headed off in different directions. Jacobsson dashed around the dilapidated building and came out on a narrow side street.

She slowed down and then cautiously proceeded forward. Looking in all directions, she didn’t dare shout to Wittberg, for fear of warning Boberg.

She crept along the side of the building. Suddenly she heard a crunching sound behind her. Abruptly she spun around. For a second she saw his face. It was not Janne Widén. She felt a momentary relief before she was shoved to the ground. She heard Wittberg yelling.

‘Halt!’

Then silence. Jacobsson cautiously raised her head. Wittberg was standing in the deserted street, pointing his gun at the man whom she assumed was Sten Boberg. For a moment it seemed as if everything stopped. No one spoke; no one moved. Then the man slowly raised his hands in the air.

It was over.

KARIN JACOBSSON BEGAN the interrogation as soon as they arrived at police headquarters with Sten Boberg. Wittberg insisted on being present in the role of witness.

Boberg’s face was white, and he seemed very nervous as he was led into the interview room in the basement. Jacobsson switched on the tape recorder and then studied the man sitting in front of her. He had classic features and wavy, ash-blond hair. His eyes were an unusual deep blue. Dark eyebrows and long, thick lashes. A real dreamboat, actually. But his eyes kept shifting, and he was constantly licking his lips. Jacobsson estimated his age to be about forty. He was tall and muscular, dressed in jeans and a navy-blue tennis sweater.

‘Tell me about your relationship with Andrea Dahlberg.’

Boberg cleared his throat and again licked his lips.

‘We met a year ago when I moved to Terra Nova with my girlfriend of the time. We met Andrea, her husband, and some other neighbours, and we spent a lot of time with them. But we didn’t live there for long. Monica and I split up, and we moved away.’

‘How would you describe your relationship with Andrea?’

‘Good. Actually, it was fantastic.’ Boberg rubbed the bridge of his nose.

‘We know about the swinger parties you had. Was there anything in particular that happened between you and Andrea in connection with those parties? Did you meet at other times too?’

‘No. I wanted to, but…’

‘But what?’

‘She insisted that it was all just a game. That it was OK at the parties, because everybody else was doing it too. But she didn’t want to see me at other times.’

‘So you didn’t have sex outside of the parties.’

‘No.’

‘Not even once?’

Sten Boberg shook his head.

‘Then how were you able to take pictures of her?’

‘I brought my camera to one of the parties. She was in some of the pictures. Then I secretly took other pictures of her.’

‘What’s your relationship with Andrea today?’

‘I love her, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.’

‘And you feel so strongly about her that you’d be willing to kill her husband?’

The man on the other side of the table met her eyes. He suddenly seemed perfectly calm.

‘No. I didn’t murder anybody. I’ve just been trying to get in touch with Andrea.’

‘Couldn’t you have found a better way to do that than spying on her in the middle of the night and taking a lot of photographs in secret? You could have phoned her, for example.’

‘I did that, but she didn’t want to talk to me.’

‘Why not, if the two of you have such a good relationship?’

‘There were problems. I’m sure you know all about it. Monica was jealous, and everybody in the group got upset and wanted us to leave. I tried to forget Andrea, but then I found the cardboard box with those photos of her, and all of the feelings came flooding back. I tried to contact her again, but I knew that she was afraid of what her husband would think. I thought that if I went out there, we might run into each other, but I didn’t want to scare her, so I started by just watching her.’

‘And you also took pictures, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘A lot of pictures. The fact is, you took a perverse number of photographs. We also have statements from witnesses who saw you sneaking around in her garden, and you were even bold enough to enter her house.’

Jacobsson was taking a gamble. The police knew only that a man had been seen sneaking around, but they didn’t know whether it was Boberg.

He hid his face in his hands for a moment.

‘Yes, but it was only because I wanted to see her. Be close to her.’

‘Where is Andrea now?’ Jacobsson finally asked him.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘When did you last meet her?’

‘The day before yesterday.’

‘Where was this?’

‘Here in Visby.’

‘How did you happen to meet her?’

‘I’d been trying to contact her for a long time, but she refused to talk to me. Finally I managed to get hold of her, so I lied and said that I knew who had killed Sam and Stina. I thought that would make her want to see me. She was really shocked and wanted to know who it was. But I said we had to meet, and I would only tell her in person. So she agreed to meet me the following day.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘We had coffee together and talked. No more than half an hour. Then she left.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘I tried to talk some sense into her, but it didn’t go very well.’

‘Talk some sense into her? What do you mean by that?’

Suddenly the man on the other side of the table got angry. He rose halfway out of his chair.

‘Nobody, not even Andrea, can deny how good the two of us were together. There was a special chemistry between us, something you find maybe once in a hundred years; the odds are maybe one in a million that you get to experience something like that. She gave herself to me. Do you understand? Totally and completely! I could do whatever I wanted with her, and I mean anything. But somebody like you can’t possibly imagine what that’s like. I tried to get her to remember what we’d had together – when things were good, and before the others intervened and ruined it all. They sabotaged everything for us; they put ideas into Andrea’s head and made her lose confidence. So I was trying to get her to realize that it’s the two of us now. Sam’s dead. He doesn’t exist any more, so there’s nothing standing in our way.’

He sank back on to the chair. Jacobsson had listened without changing expression.

‘Was that why you killed him? To get him out of the way?’

Boberg sighed heavily.

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Where is Andrea now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So your meeting didn’t turn out the way you’d hoped?’

‘You might say that.’

‘How did you react when she wanted to leave?’

Boberg threw out his hands.

‘What was I supposed to do? She was suddenly in a big rush. I said that I’d be in touch again soon, and she just nodded. Then she was gone.’

‘And you haven’t seen her since?’

‘No.’

‘And you have no idea where she might be?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘OK.’

Jacobsson ended the interview.

‘Can I go now?’

‘No, you’re staying here.’

Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg decided during the course of the afternoon to arrest Sten Boberg, on suspicion of murdering Sam Dahlberg, Stina Ek and Valter Olsson. But one question kept reverberating through Jacobsson’s mind.

Where was Andrea Dahlberg?

I WILL NEVER forget that terrible day. When I told Mamma what I’d heard at the parsonage, she fell into despair. But at least she believed me and immediately rang the pastor. We went over there together; Mamma demanded that I go along. He looked nervous when we came in, as if he knew. We sat in his office, and Mamma confronted him with what I’d said, without any attempt to disguise what she meant. He started shaking, trembling all over and sweating profusely. Almost as if he were the guilty party.

‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ he apologized. ‘Lennart told me about it in confidence, and as a pastor I’m obliged to remain silent, no matter how awful that may sound. I have a pact with God, and it’s something that I cannot break.’

I cast a sidelong glance at Mamma. She looked furious.

‘A pact with God? Are you out of your mind?’ she snapped. ‘You knew about this for all these years, but you never said anything? You just pretended nothing was going on? You and your wife have been to our house for dinner, sat there with our whole family, including Emilia. And you’re talking to me about a pact with God?’ she repeated, hardly able to stay seated. Her expression was thunderous, and she was spraying saliva on the pastor’s polished desk. I had never seen Mamma so angry before. Her knuckles were white as she held on to the edge of the desk. ‘How could you possibly not say anything? You knew what Emilia was being subjected to, but you never intervened. You’re just as guilty as he is. May you burn in hell!’

‘Please, Margareta. Calm down,’ the pastor pleaded, his voice quavering. ‘There was nothing I could do. My hands were tied; my lips were sealed by our Lord God. Somewhere on this earth there has to be someone who listens to a fellow human being without revealing to anyone else what that person has said. Somewhere in this earthly life there has to be a means for release, a single person who can be trusted, someone you can confide in and at the same time feel completely sure that the confessions will go no further. No matter what the confessions may concern. Do you understand?’ He gave my mother and me an imploring look. ‘And it applies to both murderers and rapists; to anyone at all. There has to be a place of refuge for people on earth. I could not betray my pact with God.’

‘But you betrayed Emilia.’ Mamma spat out the words. ‘You betrayed Emilia and now she’s no longer here. Now she’s dead, and she’s never coming back. Do you understand what you’ve done? You’re a murderer. You killed her, just like he did. What does God the Almighty say about that? You killed a child!’

The pastor’s face was as white as chalk.

‘Please, Margareta. Please.’

All of a sudden Mamma was completely calm. She stood up, and all she said was: ‘Come on, Andrea. We’re leaving.’

Somehow the knowledge of what Pappa had done to Emilia didn’t destroy Mamma. On the contrary. She was suddenly yanked out of her apathy and took action. She filed a police report, which was followed by official charges and a trial. Pappa was sentenced to five years in prison for having raped Emilia over a three-year period, starting when she was fourteen. Mamma and I moved away and got a flat in town, and we never went back. I haven’t spoken to Pappa since. It’s as if he no longer exists. But he destroyed my life when I was only a child.

I thought that I’d already had my share of hell on earth. But I hadn’t. My world was going to be destroyed once again. In the same disgusting, brutal fashion, my happiness was smashed to pieces. The whole orderly and harmonious life that I’d managed to create, in spite of everything, was gone in a matter of seconds. Over. Shattered. It happened on that second day out there on Fårö, while Sam was in the shower. Suddenly his mobile rang, and he had a text message. I couldn’t help reading it.

To my surprise, the message was from my best friend. Found Bergman’s house. Completely deserted. Wild strawberries is the password. I want you. Now. Want to play somewhere that’s better than anywhere else?

She also sent a picture of herself. Wearing only a bra and a skimpy skirt, she was lolling on a deckchair. She had her legs spread wide, and I couldn’t help noticing that she wasn’t wearing any knickers.

Even though it should have been crystal clear what this all meant, it took me a few minutes before I grasped the whole picture. And understood what was going on.

That’s when I lost control.

KNUTAS CLIMBED THE ladder up the slope. Far below lay the rocky shore and the sea. Andrea stood only 30 metres above him, her back to him, not moving. She looked so small, almost as if she’d shrunk since he last saw her. She was wearing jeans and a white sweater. Her hair hung down her back in a thick plait. He approached cautiously, uncertain what her state of mind might be, afraid that she was about to jump. When he was close enough, he spoke her name.

‘Andrea.’

With a start she turned around and stared at him in astonishment.

‘Take it easy,’ he admonished her. ‘It’s me, Inspector Anders Knutas. Don’t you recognize me?’

Andrea Dahlberg flinched as if she’d been struck. She looked as if she might topple over. Since she was standing at the very edge of the steep cliff, Knutas reacted instinctively. He threw himself forward and grabbed hold of her. Then he pulled her towards him and cupped her face in his hands. She offered no resistance.

Her body went limp, and tears ran down her cheeks.

‘There, there,’ Knutas consoled her. ‘It’s all right.’

He sat down on the cliff, holding Andrea in his arms, gently rocking her as she sobbed loudly. He stroked her hair.

‘There, there,’ he repeated. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’

The poor woman, he thought. She must be totally devastated with grief.

Knutas continued to speak gently to the despairing woman, and gradually her sobs subsided. He handed her a packet of tissues that he dug out of his jacket pocket. After she calmed down, she looked up at him.

‘That’s the first time I’ve cried. I haven’t been able to cry the whole time. I haven’t shed a single tear since Emilia died.’

‘Go ahead and cry,’ said Knutas. ‘That’s good for you. I know what happened to your sister.’

‘But I didn’t want it to happen,’ she said tonelessly. Her lower lip quivered.

Her big grey eyes were expressionless.

‘There, there,’ he comforted her.

‘I didn’t want that to happen,’ she went on in a low voice, almost a whisper. ‘I didn’t want her to die.’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Knutas. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Not at all. It was her own decision.’

‘I suppose you could say that it was her decision. She took sides against me. She betrayed me. Do you understand that? She fooled me. She was pregnant, and she said that she loved him. That it was his child, his and hers. That they were going away together to get married. He said the same thing to me, up here on the bird mountain. He said that he didn’t love me any more, that he loved her. Do you understand? They’d been secretly cheating on me. Both of them. We stood here, on this very spot.’ Andrea pulled away from Knutas and pointed with a trembling finger. ‘We were standing right here. And I was planning to tell him about the present. I was going to show him the card that I’d made for him and everything. We were going to Florence. It was supposed to be a surprise. But he didn’t react the way I thought he would. He said that he wanted to live with her. That Stina was the one he loved.’

Knutas hadn’t moved. Her words were starting to sink in, and at last he saw the whole picture.

‘They had to die. Don’t you see that? Although that wasn’t my intention at first. I hadn’t planned to kill her. I was just so angry that I wanted to hit her. But she fought back. Screaming hysterically. Saying that she was in love with Sam. Do you understand? And she was my best friend. My very best friend. And there she stood, practically naked, telling me that she loved my husband, that they were together now. She was expecting him, she’d sent him a text message and wanted him to come out there to have sex with her. But the thing is, I happened to see her message while Sam was in the shower. I got in the car and drove over there. She’d even included directions.

‘When I saw her, wearing only a bra and sitting on the veranda in a deckchair, I hit her. I hit her over and over again. She fought back and screamed like crazy. She tried to get away, but I chased her over to the property next door. That’s where I picked up a big rock and slammed it against her head. Finally she stopped screaming. But suddenly her body went limp. She wasn’t moving at all, and blood was running from her head. Lots of blood. My clothes were totally soaked with it. And her eyes were blank, as if the light had gone out of them. I had killed her.

‘Then I heard someone shouting behind me. It was that fisherman. He’d seen everything from out on the water and had rowed ashore. He was standing up in his boat, yelling and waving his arms about. I hit him on the head with a shovel, and he collapsed into the boat. I saw an anchor lying on the bottom, one of those collapsible kinds. I picked it up and slammed it against his head as he lay there. Then I pushed the boat out into the water as far as I could. I don’t know why I did that, but I wanted to separate those two from each other.

‘But that’s what I regret the most. Killing that poor man. He just happened to get in the way.’

She gave Knutas a pleading look now, as if seeking his understanding. He gave her a slight nod.

‘Well, then I realized how late it was. I had to go back to the others and clean myself up because I was covered in blood.’

‘What about Sam? Why did you kill him too?’

‘We went for a morning walk. I’d brought along the card that was my gift for him. For the trip to Florence. I’d hidden Stina’s body so well that she would never be found. And then I wanted everything to go back to normal. We were standing here, in this very spot, and then I started talking about Stina. Of course I didn’t tell him that I’d killed her, but I said that I knew about their relationship, or at least that they’d been sleeping together. I was so sure that he’d tell me it didn’t mean anything…’

‘Then what happened?’

‘He said that he loved Stina and wanted to live with her. That our marriage was over. Then he took out a cigarette and was just about to light it. That’s when something snapped inside of me. I just stepped forward while he was fumbling with the cigarette and shoved him as hard as I could. So hard that he fell off the cliff and plummeted straight down, all the way down. That’s what happened.’

Andrea fell silent. Knutas’s face was stony.

‘What about the sleeping bag?’

‘I panicked after killing Sam. I thought I needed to do something that would shift the blame to Stina. I had her hair ribbon, and I thought her body might never be found. So the police would think she was the one who did it.’

A trembling sigh escaped from her lips. She didn’t say another word.

Finally Knutas spoke.

‘Shall we go home now?’

Andrea simply nodded.

THE NEWS THAT a man had been arrested for the three murders was out within the hour. Lars Norrby had insisted that the police send out a press release at once. Finally they’d had a breakthrough in this high-profile case. It would calm down the governor, the county police chief, and the chairman of the municipal board, not to mention everyone who was involved with tourism on the island. The murders had not exactly been good PR for Gotland as an idyllic holiday paradise. The public needed to be reassured.

Pia and Johan hurried over to police headquarters as soon as they read the press release. As they were driving, Pia got a phone call. Her face changed colour as she listened to the person on the line.

‘What are you saying? The coastguard? What could that mean? Hmm. OK. What time?’

She held out her wrist to look at her watch. Johan noticed that today her fingernails were purple. A nice combination with the lilac-coloured gemstone in her nostril.

‘All right. I understand. Thanks. Talk to you later.’ Pia turned towards Johan. ‘You’re not going to believe this. That was my friend who works as a guide on Stora Karlsö. She told me that the coastguard has just been over there to pick up two people.’

‘And?’

‘Guess who they are? None other than Knutas and Andrea Dahlberg.’

‘What’s that all about? What were they doing out there?’

‘That’s a good question. At any rate, it seems that they’re on their way to the police station. They left Stora Karlsö half an hour ago, so they can’t have arrived yet.’

Pia Lilja stomped on the accelerator, making the tyres shriek.

Outside police headquarters a crowd of reporters had already gathered, hoping for an interview. At the moment that seemed unlikely to happen. Johan tried ringing every officer in the Criminal Division. The police spokesman was not available, and he’d asked the officer on duty to say that for now the journalists would have to be content with the press release. Johan was filled with impatience.

‘Come on, Pia. Let’s go over to the other door, the side entrance that leads to the crime-tech offices,’ he said. ‘Maybe they’ll try to slip in that way.’

Discreetly they started moving away. Pia pretended to be filming the façade of the building so as not to draw attention. When they came around the corner, they caught sight of a police vehicle just turning into the small car park near the entrance. Then Knutas got out.

And he had Andrea Dahlberg with him.

IT WAS WITH mixed emotions that Knutas arrived at police headquarters late in the afternoon with Andrea Dahlberg and two colleagues.

He studied Andrea as she quietly sat beside him in the back seat of the police car, her hands cuffed in front of her. She had insisted that he sit next to her. She seemed to find his presence soothing. And she was clearly relieved that the whole thing was over. In silence, she stared out of the window. He wondered what she was thinking. Suddenly she turned to face him, putting her hand on his.

‘Thank you,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Thank you for coming.’

As the police vehicle was about to turn into the car park in front of headquarters, they saw a crowd of journalists gathered outside.

‘Damn it,’ swore Knutas. ‘I should have known this would happen. Let’s go around to the side.’

Before the reporters noticed the car, it turned in the other direction. When it came to a halt everyone quickly got out and hurried towards the entrance. Knutas immediately caught sight of two people standing near the door. Johan Berg and Pia Lilja. Of course. Making no decision how to handle them, he approached the door.

‘Can you tell us what’s going on?’ asked Johan, looking down at Andrea’s cuffed hands. Pia was unabashedly filming, without even considering asking for permission. As usual.

‘Nothing that I can discuss at the moment. I’m sorry, but I can’t comment.’

‘Why is Andrea Dahlberg under arrest if the perpetrator has been caught?’

Knutas stopped abruptly to stare at Johan.

‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

‘Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg arrested a man on suspicion of murder just a couple of hours ago.’

Then something happened that no one could have expected. Before Knutas or any of the other police officers could react, Andrea leaned forward and looked Johan right in the eye.

‘I’m the one who killed them. It was me.’

Then she continued moving forward, keeping her gaze fixed on the façade of the building.

THE PLANE LEFT at two in the afternoon. Karin had a window seat, so she watched as the flat Gotland landscape disappeared far below. About a week had passed since the murder drama of the summer had finally been resolved – and what a commotion there had been. Two potential perpetrators had been arrested almost at the same time, with a disappointing result for Jacobsson. She and Wittberg had been on the wrong track. It turned out that Sten Boberg was a stalker, but he’d had nothing to do with the killings.

Andrea Dahlberg had confessed, and technical evidence had also been provided by the crime lab. They discovered that the skin underneath Stina Ek’s fingernails had come from Andrea. So the game was over, and now they were just waiting for the arraignment.

Andrea would have to undergo a psychiatric examination. Karin couldn’t help feeling sorry for the woman. Life was a labyrinth, and the human being was such a fragile creature. She found it hard to judge anyone. I’m really too soft-hearted to be a police officer, she thought, looking out of the window as the plane rose through the cloud cover.

Now she was on her way to see her daughter. When Karin thought about that, she felt her stomach churn. She was glad the plane was only half full so she had the row to herself. She needed to retreat for a while. She’d decided to meet with Hanna von Schwerin face to face, but without phoning her in advance. She’d just have to wait and see how things went. Knutas was the one who had helped her make up her mind. He had offered support and encouragement all along. She pictured his face in her mind and couldn’t help feeling both admiration and a bit of envy because he was the one who had actually caught the murderer.

The plane landed at Bromma Airport outside Stockholm, and Jacobsson headed straight for the taxi queue. She hadn’t bothered to bring along any luggage. On the way she switched on her mobile and discovered a text message. It said: Saturday 8 o’clock at Packhuskällaren? Interested? Hugs from Janne. Karin smiled and replied: Sounds great.

She got into a cab.

‘I’m going to Wollmar Yxkullsgatan 51,’ she said, noticing that her voice quavered. If Hanna wasn’t at home, she’d just wait outside. It didn’t matter how long it took.

The cab stopped in front of a grand red-brick building with a beautifully carved door. Karin paid the fare and got out. Her heart was beating twice as fast as normal. Through the glass panes in the door she could make out a gold nameplate engraved with the names of all the residents who lived in the building.

Hanna von Schwerin lived on the fifth floor, which meant that her flat was at the very top. Karin wondered if it faced the street. She backed up a few metres and peered at the façade from the opposite pavement. A beautiful, ornamental wrought-iron balcony covered nearly half the width of the building on the top floor. Was that her flat? Karin assumed that it must have cost several million Swedish kronor. Her courage sank. How would this all end?

She walked back across the street and over to a small café. She sat down at a table nearest the door and ordered a caffè latte and a glass of water. She lit a cigarette, preparing herself for a long wait. She’d brought along some newspapers, which she absent-mindedly leafed through as she sat there. An hour passed. Then another. Several times the door opened and various people came and went. An elderly couple, a young man, a father with a baby in a pram. No one who could possibly be Hanna von Schwerin.

Karin needed to use the toilet, but she was afraid of missing her daughter. For a long time nothing happened, and she began to lose hope. What if Hanna was out of town?

It was past five o’clock when the front door opened again. First she saw the dog. A big, shaggy mongrel that was tugging at its lead. The next second a young woman appeared. She looked to be about twenty-five. Karin stared, holding her breath. She was just as short as Karin, with tousled dark hair under a cap that said ‘Fuck You’ on it. A hoodie, jeans and trainers.

‘Come on, Nelson,’ she said to the dog, which had spotted Karin sitting at the nearby table and had come over to say hello. Karin leaned down to let him lick her hand. And then she couldn’t help it – she started to cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Hanna, who hadn’t noticed Karin’s tears. ‘He loves people.’

Karin raised her head, with tears still streaming down her face.

Hanna’s smile vanished. At first she looked surprised.

‘Oh, what’s wrong…?’

Then her voice faded. Her gaze quickly took in Karin’s face. The young woman froze.

Karin looked at her daughter. There was absolutely no doubt.

Hanna even had a little gap between her front teeth.

KNUTAS WAS SITTING at his desk, filling his pipe. The corridor outside his office was quiet. It was past midnight. He had stayed on at headquarters to go through all of the paperwork that had piled up while he was on sick leave. It felt good to put that whole depressing murder case behind him. It was time to move on.

Besides, there were plenty of other things that required his attention. In spite of his good intentions, the whole summer had now passed and he hadn’t yet decided what to do about Karin. A feeling of guilt kept nagging at him, and he couldn’t stand it any longer. If only that double murderer, Vera Petrov, could be found, he thought. Then everything could be looked at in a new light – it could be worked out. But so far that hadn’t happened, and there was no indication that an arrest was imminent. The police still had no idea where in the world Petrov and her husband, Stefan Norrström, might be. The international authorities were looking for her, but most likely she was staying put in one place. And as long as she stayed away from Sweden and didn’t draw attention to herself, she would probably remain free.

Knutas stood up with a heavy sigh and went over to the window. He opened it to let the warm night air sweep into the room. He lit his pipe and exhaled smoke into the darkness.

The murder investigation had taken a toll on him, as usual. The whole story about Andrea Dahlberg’s past was so sad. The tragedy that had struck her family. Her father’s betrayal. And the pastor’s too. Then, as an adult, she had experienced the same sort of betrayal all over again. She had truly believed that she had everything she could possibly want, but it turned out to be an illusion.

And Ingmar Bergman had wound up in the middle of the whole case. Actually, he didn’t have anything to do with the investigation, but there did seem to be parallels between his depictions of people and the individuals whom Knutas had encountered while investigating the homicides this summer.

Knutas was reminded of a picture that hung on the wall in the Dahlberg home. It was a big, black-and-white movie poster for the Bergman film Persona. It showed the actresses Bibi Andersson and Liv Ullmann in a tender pose, with their faces close together. Next to the poster was a small card with a quote from the film: Can you be one and the same person, at exactly the same time? I mean, be two people? That quote sums up this whole sodding case, he thought.

Knutas took one last puff on his pipe, then he tapped out the embers and put it away in his desk drawer. It was time to go home.

Just then his phone rang. He cast a glance at the clock on the wall. Twelve forty-five. Who would ring at this time of night?

There was a crackling sound on the phone and someone rattled off a string of words in a foreign language. It sounded like Spanish. Then he heard a voice that he recognized.

‘Hi, Anders. It’s Kurt.’

Kurt Fogestam, inspector with the Stockholm police. They’d known each other for a very long time.

‘I’m here on holiday in Las Terrenas in the Dominican Republic.’

‘Did you say the Dominican Republic?’

‘Yes, and wait till you hear this. Do you know who I just saw get into a car outside the hotel?’

‘Who?’

‘Stefan Norrström.’

Knutas sank on to his chair. His head was spinning. Vera Petrov’s husband. So the tip they’d received earlier from the tourist was correct after all. They’d dismissed the information because the man had been drunk and the photograph was too blurry to make a conclusive identification. But had he really heard right?

‘Who did you say?’

‘Stefan Norrström, Vera Petrov’s husband. I’m certain it was him. But I didn’t see the number plate and I couldn’t follow him. I was coming back from the beach, on foot, with my wife, and I caught sight of him just as he got in the car. At first I wasn’t sure, so I ran towards the street and got a good look at his face as he drove past. I’m a hundred per cent positive. It was him.’