Unknown

MONDAY, JULY 5

When Martina still hadn't come home by the following morning, Eva decided to call the excavation leader, Staffan Mellgren, even though it was only 6:00 a.m. She didn't care whether she woke him up. She had lain awake most of the night, gripped by a growing sense of dread. Staffan answered the phone after a dozen rings, sounding bleary with sleep. He came wide awake when he heard that one of his students was missing.

"She's been gone since Saturday night?" he said angrily.

"Yes." Eva regretted not calling Staffan earlier. "We went to the concert, and then a bunch of us sat out on the hotel porch afterward. Martina left to go to the bathroom, but she never came back. We thought she had gone to bed."

"What time was that?"

"Maybe one or two in the morning. I didn't notice the time."

"What did the rest of you do?"

"We stayed where we were, talking."

"Didn't anyone go looking for her when you noticed that she hadn't come back?"

"No."

"How long did you stay there after she left?"

"An hour, maybe two."

"Has anyone seen her since then?"

"No, at least nobody who was sitting on the porch that night."

"And Martina hasn't been heard from since?"

"No."

"Are you sure that she hasn't slept in her bed these past two nights?"

"Of course I'm sure," Eva said in a voice that started to quaver. She couldn't hold back her tears any longer. She was frightened by the fact that he sounded so serious. His reaction confirmed her own feelings, that her concern was justified.

"We need to call the police. It's the only thing to do."

"You think so?"

"Absolutely. Something must have happened, otherwise she would have called. Have you talked to anyone at the front desk in the hotel?"

"No."

"Do that. In the meantime, I'll call the police."

Her legs trembling, Eva ran over to the front desk, which was in the main building. The clerk knew who Martina was but hadn't seen her. She offered to ask the rest of the staff during the course of the morning. Eva sank onto a chair. She punched in the number of her friend's cell phone but no longer got her voice mail. Now a monotone voice informed her: "The party you are trying to reach is temporarily unavailable."

Knutas and Jacobsson decided to drive out to Warfsholm, since Martina Flochten had been missing for more than twenty-four hours and no one seemed to know where she had gone. She hadn't contacted either her family or her boyfriend back home in the Netherlands.

Besides, they didn't have anything better to do. The summertime drought had set in, and the investigation of the decapitated horse had come to a standstill. It was a mystery who the perpetrator could be and where the head might be found.

They first checked at the front desk to see whether Martina's valuables were still in the safe where they'd been kept. Everything was there: her passport, her Visa card, and her insurance documents. So she hadn't left the country-at least not voluntarily.

They met Martina's roommate, Eva Svensson, on the stairs of the main building. She had shoulder-length ash blond hair, and she was wearing a white cotton camisole, a skirt, and sandals. As she led the way over to the youth hostel, they asked her about Martina.

"Does she have a boyfriend?" asked Jacobsson.

"She's seeing this guy back in Holland, or at least she was when she left home. But I actually think she met someone else here on Gotland."

"Why do you think that?"

"She's been gone a lot, and sometimes she slips away without giving any explanation."

"So this isn't unusual? For her to be missing?"

"The difference is that she hasn't called anyone. She always calls."

"How well do you know Martina?" Knutas carefully studied the young woman.

"Not too well. We liked each other at once, and we had a lot of fun right from the start. The course began with two weeks of theory at the college in Visby, so we were in town all the time. Then Martina started going off on her own in the evenings. During the second week I hardly saw her at all."

"Did you share a room in Visby, too?"

"No, we all had our own dorm rooms, so we didn't keep tabs on each other the same way we do here. Since we've been here at Warfsholm, she's often gone off on her own. Her excuse is that she has errands to run or that she wants to meditate, but I don't believe it. She's not the type."

"Has she ever been gone for a whole night before?"

"One night last week she slept somewhere else. She claimed that she was going to meet some friends of her family in Visby. They usually come here on vacation."

"Do you know who they are? These friends?"

"No. I never asked her, and she never told me. I'm not from here, so I wouldn't know them anyway."

"Couldn't that be what's happened now? That she's simply visiting friends?"

"I don't think so. She would have called."

"If she has a boyfriend here, who could it be?" asked Jacobsson.

"I actually have no idea. I've been trying to figure it out, to see if there's something going on between her and someone in the group, but it's hard to tell because she jokes around with everybody."

"Why didn't you ask her?"

"I've tried, but she always changes the subject as soon as I bring it up."

"Who would she have an opportunity to meet other than the students in the course? You don't have contact with many other people, do you?"

"No, although there are other guests staying at the hotel and the campground nearby. And she might have met someone in Visby earlier."

When they stepped into the entryway of the youth hostel, they could tell at once that the building was a venerable old place, even though it had been remodeled. In the hall hung a bulletin board with instructions for everything from parties to fishing trips to the laundry room. From upstairs came the smell of toast, and subdued voices could be heard conversing. The room that Eva and Martina shared was on the ground floor, almost at the end of the corridor. It was long and narrow and cramped, with a window on one wall. A modest, iron-framed bunk bed stood on each side of the room, with barely enough space to walk between them. A sink with a mirror above it was fastened to one wall. Every nook and cranny was filled with clutter. A tape player stood on the wide windowsill along with bottles of hairspray, cosmetic bags, perfume, nail polish, bags of chips, and CDs. Clothing was either strewn about or hanging from the posts of the top bunks. Several books about the Viking Age signaled that archaeology students were staying in the room. Knutas gave up as soon as he stood in the doorway and saw all the mess. He let Jacobsson search the place on her own. There wasn't enough space for both of them anyway.

He sat down outside, actually lit his pipe for a change, and made a number of phone calls to see to it that the site was secured. He spoke to Erik Sohlman, who wanted to wait to do a technical examination of Martina's room. For the time being, they had no reason to suspect that a crime had been committed.

Meanwhile, Jacobsson did her search of the room. Eva had told her which side was Martina's, and Jacobsson began systematically going through the girl's belongings. Her toiletry case was there, containing her toothbrush and a pack of birth control pills, which revealed that Martina hadn't taken any pills since Friday, July 2-which was several days ago. If she had left voluntarily, she would have taken her toiletry case with her, thought Jacobsson as she opened the suitcase that had been shoved under the bed. In addition to clothing it held a number of books, an unopened carton of cigarettes, and some makeup. In a slot she found a photograph of a young man with dark hair and brown eyes. Jacobsson turned it over, but there was nothing written on the back.

She slipped the picture into her pocket so she could ask Eva about it later and then looked around the cramped room. There wasn't much else to search. Except for the bed, of course. Carefully she removed the floral-patterned cover. There was a rustling sound, and under the pillow she found a page torn out of a newspaper. She sat down on the edge of the bed and unfolded the page. It was an article from Gotlands Allehanda, which had done a story on the first excavation course of the summer. The article was about what the students would be doing and where they came from. A picture showed the excavation leader, Staffan Mellgren, and several of the students in action out in the field. Jacobs-son studied the article with surprise. Why would Martina keep it under her pillow?

That was where someone would usually keep something that was especially precious, maybe even hiding it there.

Staffan Mellgren was smiling broadly at the camera; the others could be seen in the background. He had to be twice as old as Martina. Jacobsson knew that Mellgren was married and had children. He was well known on Gotland because of his work at the college and at the archaeological excavations. Had they been seeing each other? Was he mixed up in her disappearance?

She hurried off to find Knutas.

Johan was awakened by a bang outside the window. With great effort he got out of bed and pulled aside the curtain.

The pastry shop across the street was getting its daily delivery. The bakery truck was parked in the narrow alley, and the driver was taking out boxes, which he loaded onto a hand truck. The owner of the pastry shop then took the hand truck and with a clatter disappeared through the back door. That meant that it couldn't be more than six in the morning. With a groan Johan went back to bed and pulled the covers over his head. The deliveries were made at six on weekdays, at eight on the weekend. He had learned that by now. If he had known in advance that this upheaval was going to take place every single morning, he would have made Swedish TV arrange for a different apartment.

Wrapped up in the warm covers, he lay there thinking about Emma and their newborn child. He had spent nearly the entire weekend over at the hospital. He wasn't allowed to sleep there, since it was already overcrowded, and Emma had to share a room with two other women who had just given birth.

The delivery of their baby was the biggest event of his life so far. The experience of becoming a father was more overwhelming than he could have imagined.

His mother and youngest brother had flown over from Stockholm on Saturday. She could hardly contain her joy at becoming a grandmother. Her first grandchild. Ever since the death of Johan's father a couple of years ago, her life had been very lonely. Johan had always been close to his mother, and he knew that she missed him now that he was working on Gotland. In his role as the eldest son, he had largely functioned as a replacement for his father after his death.

With the birth of the child, Johan realized that everything was going to be different. From now on he had to make his own family his first priority. He had suddenly become a family man with all new responsibilities. He found the thought both appealing and frightening.

The head office in Stockholm had sent flowers, but Grenfors expected Johan to be back at work right after the weekend. He had been assigned to cover the island, and they had agreed that he would wait to take any paternity leave until fall. He now regretted that decision. All he wanted to do was spend time with his new family.

The insistent buzzing of his cell phone interrupted his ruminations. I really need to change the ringtone, he thought as he flew out of bed to grab the phone from under his clothes, which were piled in a heap on the chair. He now paid attention to his phone in a whole different way. Emma might be calling him.

Instead the call was from Niklas Appelqvist, one of the few personal friends Johan had on Gotland. Even though Niklas was ten years younger, they enjoyed each other's company, mostly because they shared an interest in sixties rock 'n' roll. Johan had gotten to know the young archaeology student a year earlier, in connection with a murder case. Niklas lived in the same building as a newspaper photographer on a disability pension who had been found murdered in the basement. Niklas had helped Johan by giving him a number of tips during the investigation. When Johan moved to the island, they started spending time together.

"Hi, how're things going?"

"Fucking great," Johan managed to say. He cleared his throat and wearily sat down. "I became a father on Friday."

"Really? That's great! Congratulations! Boy or girl?"

"A girl," said Johan, feeling himself smile.

"Did everything go all right?"

"Well, it was a little dramatic for a while, but she got here just fine. So beautiful. Eight pounds two ounces, and twenty inches long."

"Wow. How's Emma?"

"Good, although she's really tired, of course."

"We need to celebrate this." Niklas sounded enthusiastic. "Let me take you out for a beer tonight."

"Thanks, but I can't. I'm going to bring Emma and the baby home from the maternity ward. Maybe another time."

"Okay. By the way, I heard about something that might interest you."

"What's that?"

"A girl who's studying archaeology has disappeared. She's taking an excavation course at the college. Students from all over the world come here to work on a dig during the summer."

"How long has she been missing?"

"Since Saturday night. They're really upset about it over at the Warfsholm youth hostel where she's staying. Apparently she disappeared after the Eldkvarn concert on Saturday, and no one has seen her since. I know a girl who's helping out with the course, and she just told me about it."

"Do you have someone visiting you this early?"

"You mean this late."

"What's her name?"

"The girl who disappeared or my visitor?"

"The one who's missing, of course."

"Martina something or other." Johan could hear Niklas murmuring to someone in the background. "Martina Flochten. She's from the Netherlands."

"Flochten," repeated Johan. "How old is she?"

"Young. Twenty-something."

"Okay. Thanks."

Shit, what bad timing. There was nothing he would rather do than go over to see Emma and the baby, but he was the only TV reporter on the island. The story of a missing girl had to be checked out, even though the whole thing sounded a bit vague. He called the hospital, and according to the nurse who answered, Emma and the baby were fine. Both were asleep at the moment. They had stayed at the maternity ward longer than planned because the breast-feeding hadn't started the way it should.

His concern must have been audible in his voice, because the nurse assured Johan that it was completely normal and nothing to worry about: The breast-feeding would undoubtedly proceed as it was supposed to within a few days. He wondered if this was how his life was going to be, now that he'd become a father. Constant worry about all sorts of things.

It was eight forty-five. He phoned Knutas but was told that the superintendent would be busy all morning, and no one could or would say anything about the missing young woman. He took a shower, shaved, and gulped down a cup of coffee and ate a piece of toast. Then he called Pia. She could pick him up in fifteen minutes. They decided to drive straight out to the Warfsholm hotel and youth hostel.

The hotel consisted of a late-nineteenth-century wooden building painted yellow, with a lovely tower. It stood on a headland overlooking the sea. On one side of the building was an idyllic sandy beach. Beyond it could be seen the bird sanctuary at Vivesholm, where the spit of land stuck straight out into the water. On the other side of the building was the harbor, which, with its silos and wind-power station, formed a sharp contrast to the beach.

When Johan and Pia got out of the car in the parking lot, they discovered a police car. Two uniformed officers were walking along the beach and talking to families with children. The news team went down to the water and admired the view of the nature preserve on the islands of Big Karlso and Little Karlso.

"What's that?" asked Johan, pointing at something that was sticking out of the water just beyond the harbor entrance.

"That's the wreck from a freighter, the Benguela, that went aground out there. It must have been at least twenty years ago now."

"What happened?"

"The freighter was coming from Sodertalje, on its way to Klintehamn. The accident happened in the winter. I think it was early morning. It was foggy, with a strong wind, and the vessel went aground so hard that they couldn't get her to budge."

"What about the crew?"

"I think they all made it, actually."

"Why hasn't she ever been salvaged?"

"There was something about a loophole in the law that meant the shipping company couldn't be held responsible, and the owner didn't feel he could afford to have the boat towed away. That's why it's still there."

"Incredible." Johan shook his head.

"Yes, isn't it? You used to be able to see a lot more of the boat. She seems to be rusting apart. It won't be long before she completely disappears below the surface."

For the time being they decided not to bother the police officers and walked up to the hotel entrance. They had made an appointment to meet with the manager, Kerstin Bodin. She was a slender, dark-haired woman who gave them a smile but looked tired.

They sat down in the outdoor section of the restaurant, with a view of the harbor. Pia didn't have the patience to sit still, so she went off with her camera.

"This is so unpleasant," said Kerstin. "Of course, it's not certain that anything awful has happened to her, but what if it has? I'm terrified that they're going to find her drowned out there. It's impossible to say what happened. She was apparently very drunk when she left."

"Do you know Martina?"

"We've talked a good deal. I've had more contact with her than with many of our guests. She's extremely nice. A very happy and open sort of girl. Her mother's from Gotland, you know. Martina has been to the island quite often."

"Where is her mother from?"

"Hemse. Both her mother and her grandparents are dead now, and Martina told me that she doesn't have any other relatives on Gotland. But she usually spends a week here every summer, on vacation."

"Do you know where she usually stays when she's here?"

"From what I understood, her family usually stays at the Wisby hotel. Apparently there's a special suite that they always reserve. She told me that her father knows the owner."

"I see. What's his name? Or her name?" Johan quickly added, realizing that he was in fact sitting across from a female hotel manager.

Kerstin smiled. "His name is Jacob Dahlen. We were in the same class in middle school."

"Maybe that's where Martina is."

"I don't think so," said Kerstin, shaking her head. "If so, why hasn't she called anyone? Surely she would know that everyone is worried."

"Yes, you're right," Johan agreed.

The link to the hotel owner in Visby was interesting. He would follow up on it later.

Kerstin took her cell phone out of the pocket of her linen shirt and punched in a number. When someone answered, she got up and went over to the railing that surrounded the restaurant area. She hopped up to perch on the railing as she talked. Sitting there and dangling her legs like that, she looked like a young girl. Johan instantly started thinking about his newborn daughter. In a few years she would be able to sit like that.

Kerstin came back to the table. "Jacob Dahlen doesn't know anything," she said. "He was shocked. He said he didn't even know that Martina was on Gotland."

Because of the photo torn out of a newspaper that Jacobsson had found under Martina's pillow, they decided to drive farther south to Frojel, which was about six miles from Warfsholm. They wanted to have a talk with the excavation leader, Staffan Mellgren.

At the church Knutas turned off from the main road and parked outside the former school building, which now contained a cafe and a small exhibition space with a display about the excavations.

A ladder led down to the dig area, and as they approached, they saw Mellgren walking among the students, who were hard at work. The ground had been divided into rectangles that were about a foot and a half deep. In several of the pits, portions of skeletons could be seen, along with other objects that Knutas had a hard time identifying. On a long table in the middle of the area lay folders, maps, and plastic bags marked with various labels. Mellgren had stopped and was writing some notes in a folder. He looked up when Knutas and Jacobsson greeted him. A tall, athletic man with thick, dark brown hair with a touch of gray, he had to be in his forties, Jacobsson guessed. His eyes were an intense brown, and she concluded that he was good-looking- more attractive than in the photos she had seen.

"We'd like to talk to you about the disappearance of Martina Flochten," Knutas began.

"Of course. Just a minute," said Mellgren. He turned to a younger woman in the next pit, asked her a question that they couldn't hear, and jotted down some illegible squiggles.

There were objects inside the plastic bags on the table-bone fragments or tools. Jacobsson exclaimed with surprise when she saw a bag containing a silver necklace and another with silver coins.

"What are you going to do with all this?" She turned to Mellgren, who now seemed to have finished writing his notes.

"Every item we find is documented." He gestured to the ground behind them. "These spaces are called pits. We divide up the ground to facilitate both the excavation and the documentation. The items we find are placed in a bag on which we record the exact location and time of the find, in which pit and at what depth. When the workday is over, we lock up everything in those carts you walked past on your way here. Later the material is taken to our office at the college, where it's sorted and examined. Finally it ends up in the Antiquities Room for storage."

"Could we sit down somewhere and talk?" asked Knutas.

"Of course."

Mellgren led them to a corner of the excavation area where there was a plastic table and a few simple chairs.

"How long have you been digging here?" asked Knutas after they sat down.

"You mean during this course? We're just starting our third week of excavation."

"So by now you've all gotten to know each other well, is that right?"

"Of course. We've spent an intense amount of time together."

"Also in the evenings?"

"Not always, but there are a number of evening lectures and other activities, and sometimes we eat supper together. My responsibilities as the leader don't end when the workday is over." Mellgren smiled.

"What do you think of Martina?" asked Knutas.

The excavation leader turned serious again. "She's very knowledgeable for someone so young. She knows a surprising amount about the Viking Age in particular. Other than that, she's a lively person with a lot of enthusiasm, which rubs off on the others. So she's definitely an asset to the group."

"What do you think about her disappearing like this?" asked Jacobsson.

"It's incomprehensible. I'm sure that she would have called if everything was okay. Now I'm worried that she's in some kind of trouble. I don't know how much longer we can keep digging if she doesn't turn up soon. The fact that she's missing has created an enormous sense of uneasiness among all of us."

"When was the last time you saw her?" Knutas looked at the excavation leader attentively.

"On Saturday, after we finished digging for the day. She rode home in the bus with the rest of the students, the same as usual."

"What time was that?"

"It was around four, I think. Everybody was going to the concert that evening, and they were in high spirits when they left here."

"You didn't go?"

"No. I stayed home with my family."

"I see." Knutas wrote something in his notebook. "Could you describe your relationship with Martina?"

"We get along well. As I said, she's doing a great job."

"And you don't have a more intimate relationship?"

"No, we don't."

Jacobsson took the newspaper clipping out of her bag. "We found this under Martina's pillow on her bed."

Mellgren glanced at the article. His face was expressionless. "What am I supposed to say?"

"Why do you think she had a picture of you under her pillow?" asked Knutas.

"I have no idea. And by the way, the article is about what we do in the course. It's not just about me."

"Do you think that it's out of devotion to her archaeological work that she keeps a photo of the excavation under her pillow?" Knutas's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Mellgren shrugged his shoulders. "How would I know? I don't know my students very well."

"So you don't have a closer relationship with Martina? That would be easy to assume, from looking at this."

"Absolutely not. Don't you understand that? I'm married and have four children. Besides, naturally I could never get mixed up with my students in that way."

Jacobsson tried a different tactic. "Could it be that Martina is in love with you?"

"I really don't think so."

"Has she given you any signs to that effect?"

"No."

"Maybe you've encouraged her in her work, and she misinterpreted what you said?"

"Of course that's possible, but not as far as I know, at any rate."

"Has anything happened between the two of you?"

"What do you mean by 'happened'?"

"Well, is there anything going on between you?"

"No. And now that's enough."

Mellgren was about to stand up, but Knutas took his arm to stop him.

"You haven't had a fight? Some sort of confrontation?"

"Let's drop this topic. I have exactly the same relationship with Martina as with all the others. No more, no less."

"Then what about someone else?" asked Jacobsson to ease the tension. "Do you know whether she's with someone else in the group?"

"I don't really keep tabs on their relationships with each other."

"You haven't noticed that she's had a fight with anyone?"

"No. Martina was as happy as always when I last saw her. I just hope that she turns up soon."

Jacobsson could see that they weren't going to get any further and changed the subject. She had become quite curious about what was going on around them.

"Could you tell us a little about this site and the excavation work?"

Mellgren sighed and leaned back in his chair, as if to collect himself after the assault on his integrity. Apparently he saw that Jacobs-son's interest was genuine, because as he began talking a new gleam appeared in his eye.

"The fields that you see all around here, which to the naked eye look like ordinary fields and meadows, conceal a Viking Age settlement extending over what we estimate to be a hundred and twenty thousand square yards. In other words, the area is huge. Excavations have been carried out here since the late eighties, and so far we've explored only a small section."

"How did you know that this would be an interesting area to excavate in the beginning?" asked Jacobsson.

"Several reasons. A farmer who was planting his crops discovered something glittering in the soil. It was a bracelet from the tenth century. In addition, the location of the church interested archaeologists." He pointed toward the lovely whitewashed Frojel Church, which stood on a hill. "It wasn't built in the middle of the parish where people live, like other churches. Instead it's on the edge of Frojel parish, near the sea. Archaeologists pondered that and came up with the idea that it was probably because there was a harbor down here that was very busy, with people coming and going, and so the church was built nearby. You can also tell from the color of the soil that people and animals have lived here. It's rich in phosphate, which manifests as a darker color in the soil. After the discovery of the bracelet in the field, we initiated some test digs, and that led to the discovery of traces of a trading site with a permanent settlement-rather like Birka on Lake Malaren on the mainland. We've found the remains of houses, several gravesites, a picture stone, coins, tools, and jewelry. Since we started excavating, we've found a total of thirty-five thousand artifacts."

Jacobsson whistled.

"From what time period?" asked Knutas.

"Mostly the Viking Age, meaning around a.d. 850 to 1050, but we've also found artifacts from the seventh century and the twelfth century, so altogether we're talking about a period of five hundred years."

"How do you know where to dig?"

"When we start an excavation, we decide on a specific area that we think is interesting. Then we divide it into various pits that are each twenty-four square yards, as you can see here."

The quadrants were marked off with string.

"Each participant is given several areas, and then we dig until we reach a depth of ten to twelve inches. That's necessary if we're going to find the artifacts at their proper location; everything above that has usually been disturbed by working the earth, by plowing, for instance. After we've dug down a ways, we slice off the earth, almost like using a cheese slicer, very carefully, half an inch at a time, so as to minimize the risk of disturbing anything. It takes a few weeks to reach the level where it starts getting interesting."

"I had no idea that you had found so much," said Jacobsson, fascinated. "Of course, we've all read and heard about the excavations, but I at least hadn't realized the extent of them until now."

"Good Lord," said Mellgren with a sigh, looking at Jacobsson with amusement. "Nowhere else in the world have there been as many Viking Age coins discovered, for instance, as here on Gotland. The island was in the middle of the trade route between Russia and the Continent, after all, and the islanders were masters at trading goods from various regions."

"What did they trade?" asked Jacobsson.

Knutas was beginning to get a tense look on his face. They weren't here to listen to a lecture on archaeology. They were here to find out facts that might help them locate Martina Flochten. He made a deliberate show of leaving the others to get a firsthand look at the area. Jacobs-son seemed completely captivated by Mellgren, hanging on every word he was saying. Knutas hadn't realized that Jacobsson was so interested in history. Yet another side of her that he knew nothing about.

He sat down on a bench that stood next to the area. Below him gaped a pit with a skeleton that lay completely exposed to the air.

It was incredible to think that he was sitting here looking down at the skeleton of a human being that hadn't seen the light of day for a thousand years. How many people had walked across this field since then? Even he felt a certain fascination with the whole thing.

So this was where Martina had sat, scraping away at the earth with the others a few days ago. Where in the name of heaven had she gone? Had she committed suicide? That seemed highly unlikely. She was so full of life, or at least that was the image she presented. Had she been the victim of an accident? She was apparently drunk. Maybe she had simply fallen into the water. So far they had only searched on land. Maybe it was that simple.

Knutas decided to bring in divers on the following day if Martina hadn't turned up.

In the car on their way back, Jacobsson was full of enthusiasm.

"Just think how fantastic that is, all the things they've found. It's unbelievable. I was allowed to hold an amber charm from the tenth century. Can you imagine that? In my next life I'm going to be an archaeologist, no doubt about it."

"At one point I thought we were going to spend all day there," muttered Knutas. "My stomach is completely empty. Don't you ever need to eat?"

"Don't be so grumpy. I thought it was incredibly interesting. We'll pick up some food along the way. What do you think about Mellgren and his relationship with Martina?"

"He seems sincere. I don't think he'd get himself mixed up with one of the participants in the course. It's not just his marriage that would be at stake, if you can use the word 'just.' He'd be risking his whole professional career."

"Maybe he's tired of his job," said Jacobsson matter-of-factly. "Maybe it's a form of self-destructive behavior, although it could also be unconscious. Maybe deep inside he wishes that the whole thing would go to hell."

"Another possibility is that he's fallen head over heels in love," suggested Knutas, who had a more romantic outlook than his colleague.

"Sure," she said, smiling, "but the one doesn't have to exclude the other."

Back at police headquarters they were stopped by Lars Norrby.

"I've talked to a witness who had something interesting to say."

"Let's take it in my office," said Knutas.

They sat down on the little sofa group that stood over by the wall.

"It was a man who called. One day he was biking along the road toward the Warfsholm hotel. He was actually going over there to have dinner. Apparently that's what he does every Monday, and this happened to be a Monday. Suddenly he caught sight of Martina walking along the road. He described her in great detail. He seemed positive that he had seen her."

"And?" Knutas sounded impatient.

"She was walking away from the hotel, along the edge of the road. The man said that he thought it was the left side of the road, but he wasn't positive. She was wearing a blue skirt; he remembered that quite clearly, but he couldn't remember what kind of top she wore at all."

"Get to the point," barked Knutas.

His colleague's long-windedness and tendency to report unnecessary details could drive Knutas crazy. Norrby glared at him, looking insulted.

"Well. In any case, she got into a car that was parked right at the entrance to the mini-golf course."

"How can he be so sure that it was Martina he saw?"

"Apparently her archaeology colleagues have been going around showing people pictures of her. Or maybe it was just one picture."

"I see. So they're doing their own investigative work?"

"Exactly, and it has actually produced results."

"Did he see who was sitting in the car?" asked Jacobsson.

"He thinks it was a man about thirty-five or forty. Maybe older. He was wearing dark glasses, so it wasn't easy to tell. He wasn't sure about the man's hair, but he didn't think it was blond. Closer to brown."

"When did this happen?"

"A week ago. Last Monday, around five or five thirty."

"Martina has been missing for three days. No longer than that," interjected Jacobsson.

"Yes, but this could still be of interest," Norrby protested. "Obviously someone was waiting by the side of the road for her."

"And we might ask ourselves why he didn't drive up to the hotel parking lot. Clearly he didn't want to be seen," said Knutas.

"It seems that she has some sort of secret relationship," said Jacobsson, "and it wouldn't take much to conclude that he had something to do with her disappearance. Whether she went with him voluntarily or not."

"It couldn't very well be voluntary," Norrby objected. "Otherwise why hasn't she called?"

"Everyone is speculating that she's been kidnapped," Knutas said. "We can only hope that nothing worse has happened to her. What kind of car was it?"

"The witness knows nothing about cars. He doesn't even have a driver's license. This much he could say: it was an ordinary blue sedan, and it didn't look new."

Jacobsson turned to Knutas.

"What color car does Mellgren drive?"

"No idea, but we'll find out, of course."

"Has the man ever seen her at any other time?"

"No, just that once."

"Which way did they drive off?"

"The car headed toward the main road."

"I don't suppose he got the license plate number?"

"No." Norrby gave them a little smile. "We're not that lucky."

"I want to talk to this witness as soon as possible."

"He lives and works in Klintehamn, so that should be easy to arrange."

"Good."

The phone rang, and Knutas answered. There was a roaring in the receiver, and it took several seconds before Knutas understood that it was Martina Flochten's father on the line. In stumbling English, Knutas did the best he could to answer the anxious father's questions. They agreed to meet the following day, when Patrick Flochten would arrive in Visby to take part in the search for his daughter.

The door was locked when he tried the handle. He got out the key and unlocked it. Everything looked the same as when his parents were alive: The bureau in the hall was just as brightly polished now as it was back then; the kitchen clock was ticking off the seconds with the same regular clacking sound; the Chinese plates hung in the same place on the wall where they had hung all those years; even the paper towel holder on the table was the same. He went into the living room and silently looked around. It was different from other Swedish living rooms, above all because there was no sofa. Everyone else had a sofa, but in their house there had never been one. A sofa was meant for socializing, something to sit on while you relaxed in front of the TV. There was no sofa here because that would have been an impossibility. A sofa presented the risk that they might sit so close together that their bodies touched, and that was a sin. Most things that were fun were sins. They had no TV because it was a sin. They never listened to music on the radio because it was a sin. Comic strips and party games were sins, along with laughing on Sunday. Although there wasn't much risk that anyone in that house would laugh on a Sunday. There was little chance that anyone would ever laugh at all. He couldn't recall ever seeing his father or mother smile even once. Their home was marked by silence and seriousness, prayer, discipline, and punishment.

It had taken him time to muster the courage to drive out here, but each time he did, he lost a little more of the guilt and shame that he had felt since childhood. The influence of his parents was slowly being erased.

He had come up with the idea a few months earlier. It would be the ultimate betrayal of his parents, the fact that they were going to hold their meetings here. This was the first time, and he was full of anticipation. He'd made all the preparations, down to the last detail. He went into the next room and opened a big cupboard. He took out the figures one by one, holding them carefully before lining them up on the table in the living room. This was where it would happen, right here and nowhere else. When he was done, he stuck his feet into his wooden clogs and went out. Inside the barn was a door that led to a storage room. That's where the bowl was. He went to get it, carrying it cautiously because the contents were precious. It was now going to be put to use; next time it would be even better.

He went to stand at the window and looked out. The evening sun colored the sky red, and it was so warm that they'd be able to conduct a number of the exercises outdoors. No one would see them or notice what they were doing.

The sound of an engine interrupted his thoughts, and the next instant a car appeared around the curve, a car that he recognized. How nice that he had arrived first. Maybe they'd have time to talk and settle a number of things. They had been more and more at loggerheads lately, and their differences of opinion had grown deeper, which concerned him. Now that they had come so far, he didn't want any monkey wrench in the machinery.

The power battle between them had been going on for a long time. It had to end. The moment was fast approaching when the whole situation would become untenable. He had always believed that they shared the same commitment, but lately he'd been forced to see that this wasn't the case. He hoped that the other man's reluctance was based on things that wouldn't play a major role in the long run. He hoped that he would be able to convince him that there was only one way and that the wheel had already started to turn. They were under way, and now there was no going back.