Unknown

SATURDAY, JULY 31

Knutas had promised to go out to the country on Saturday, but by lunchtime he could already tell that he didn't have the peace of mind to drive off and just do nothing. So far the lead with the hotel project hadn't panned out. Both Jacobsson and Wittberg were going to spend the weekend doing some more digging; they had volunteered to work. Knutas realized that he needed to do the same. He called Lina to explain. Her parents were visiting from Denmark, so they still had a full house. She assured him that they would manage fine without him.

He put on another pot of coffee and petted the cat while he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. He eyed the yellowing lawn with displeasure, thinking that he needed to water it that evening. In terms of the Martina Flochten case, it felt as if they still hadn't made much progress. He was going to talk to Gunnar Ambjornsson as soon as he arrived home from his trip on the following day. Knutas decided to put aside any consideration of possible connections and just concentrate on Staffan Mellgren. If his wife wasn't the killer, then maybe his relationship with Martina didn't have anything to do with the murders. The police might have gotten too fixated on that particular lead. He decided to completely ignore Mellgren's love affairs as he reconsidered the case.

What else was there in Mellgren's life that might make someone want to kill him? He needed to find out more about the man. He tried calling Mellgren's wife at various phone numbers but didn't manage to get hold of her. She probably wanted to be left in peace after all the upheaval. He would try to phone her again later. Instead he tried calling the college, but no one was there to answer on a Saturday. Knutas leafed through his notes about the excavation leader and found the phone number for Aron Bjarke. Maybe he knew something more. He'd been well aware of Mellgren's love life, after all, and he seemed quite candid and talkative.

It turned out that Bjarke was at home. He lived downtown on Skogrand, inside the city walls, and they agreed to meet there.

"I'll put on some coffee. We can sit outside in the garden," said Bjarke, as if he were planning a social event.

Knutas decided to walk. A fresh breeze was blowing, so it wasn't unbearably hot. He left his jacket at home. He walked through the South Gate and continued along Adelsgatan. It was only a few minutes past ten, and most of the shops had just opened. For the time being the town was deserted. He crossed Stora Torget, where the stall owners were setting out their wares, getting ready for the day's transactions. The contrast with the nearby ruins of St. Karin's Church from the thirteenth century was quite striking.

Aron Bjarke's house was small. Shims had been installed to make the door align properly. The windows were so low that it was only a few inches from the windowsill to the street, where roses had been planted outside the house. The archaeology teacher was apparently a gardener.

Bjarke opened the door after the first knock; there was no doorbell. Knutas had to stoop as he stepped inside in order not to bump his head. The ceiling was low and the interior quite drab.

On his way out to the garden in back of the house, Knutas cast an inquisitive glance at the kitchen. It was bright and old-fashioned, with white wooden cabinets, a small drop-leaf table, and blue-and-white — checked curtains. Various knickknacks were lined up on the windowsill. The living room had the same low ceiling, with rustic beams. All the pieces of furniture were antiques.

"What a nice place," commented Knutas. "Are you interested in antiques?"

"Not especially, as a matter of fact. I inherited most of them."

They sat down in the small garden. A coffee tray was already on the table, and Bjarke poured without asking Knutas whether he'd like to have any. He had put some little chocolate macaroons on a plate, to serve with the coffee.

"I'm actually here to talk about Staffan Mellgren," Knutas began.

"Is that right? It's certainly terrible, what happened, completely incomprehensible. It's frightening that a student and then a teacher have been murdered. It makes you wonder if you're going to be next. Everyone is probably thinking the same thing. There's a great sense of uneasiness among the teachers and the students at the college."

"I can understand that," said Knutas curtly.

All week long, frightened and angry people had been calling the police-college students' parents who felt their children's lives were in danger, the Business Association, which was worried that the tourists would be scared off, and what seemed like everyone affiliated with the college, all on the verge of collapse when they called to demand that the police find the murderer immediately. Of course it was understandable, but the police had better things to do than function as a crisis call center. He sighed at the thought and met Bjarke's eye.

"How well did you know him?"

"Quite well, you might say. We worked together for years. For the past five years at the college, and before that at Hemse Folk High School, which was previously in charge of the archaeological excavations."

"Did you also meet socially?"

"No. He had his family, after all. Four children and everything. We lived very different lives."

Bjarke smiled and stuffed a macaroon in his mouth.

Knutas studied the middle-aged man sitting on the other side of the table. He was casually dressed in shorts and a polo shirt. Friendly, bordering on ingratiating. Knutas had a feeling that Bjarke, in spite of his amiable and open demeanor, was very lonely. He found himself wondering about the man sitting across from him, even though it was Staffan Mellgren he wanted to ask about.

"Good coffee," he said to break the silence that had settled in. "You told us before about Mellgren's love life, and you seemed very well informed. Was it common knowledge that he was romantically involved with his students?"

"Unfortunately, I'd have to say that there were quite a few people who knew about it, at least among the students that attended Mellgren's classes. These are college students, of course, so we're talking about adults. I know that the head of the college thought it was inappropriate, but there wasn't much she could do. It was also a sensitive issue. Mellgren was very talented and respected, both as a teacher and an archaeologist."

"Didn't anyone ever complain?"

"I think people chose to turn a blind eye. He was married, and he and Susanna kept having one child after another. I don't think his colleagues really knew how to handle the whole situation."

"How about you?"

"Staffan and I knew each other professionally, but we didn't discuss our personal lives. I never told him what I thought about his behavior. Maybe that was stupid, now that we're sitting here with the facts in hand."

"What do you mean?"

"I think we can assume that his murder has to do with his infidelities. At least that's what my colleagues are saying at the college."

"Do you know of anyone he used to socialize with when he wasn't working?"

"Not really. I don't think he spent much time with any of his work colleagues. Maybe he realized that people were aware of what he was doing and he felt ashamed. I have no idea whether he and Susanna had other friends."

Knutas left Bjarke's home