Unseen

MONDAY, JUNE 18

The second homicide was a juicy story for the tabloids. The fact that the panties of both victims had been stuffed in their mouths made the crimes even more sensational, of course. After the Sunday evening news had reported on the new information, all the other media picked up the story. Naturally, speculations about a serial killer were rampant. They were splashed in big headlines across the front pages of the newspapers on Monday morning. Frida

Lindh’s face was all over the tabloids, which screamed: SERIAL KILLER RAVAGING GOTLAND. KILLER LOOSE IN VACATION PARADISE. MURDER IN SUMMER HAVEN.

On the TV news programs, the murders were the top story. The decision to publish the information about the panties had been made after a discussion among the news managers at TV headquarters. Everyone had agreed that publicizing that particular detail was the right thing to do. If they weighed the unpleasantness for the families against the public interest, the scales tipped in favor of the people’s right to know. The early morning talk shows featured discussions with criminologists, psychologists, and representatives from various women’s groups.

The radio fanned the flames by repeating the details in one news program after another.

On Gotland the murders were the topic of conversation on everyone’s lips. People were talking about them at work, on the buses, and in the shops, cafes, and restaurants. Fear of the murderer began creeping along the walls of the buildings. There had been plenty of time for a lot of people to get to know Frida Lindh. Such a nice, cheerful woman. The mother of three. Who could have done that to her? Murder was not very common on Gotland, and a serial killer was something you only read about.

Johan and Emma chose an Italian restaurant that was a little out of the way, down one of the lanes radiating out from Stora Torget, the main square.

Since the tourist season hadn’t really started yet, the place was still half empty. They sat down at a table in the very back of the restaurant. Emma felt guilty, even though nothing had happened between them. She hadn’t told Olle she was having lunch with Johan. She had lied and said she was going to meet a girlfriend. The lie made her conscious of her guilt. She had always been honest with Olle.

Shortly before they were supposed to meet, Emma had almost called Johan to cancel, but even though she knew she was headed into deep water, she couldn’t make herself do it. Her interest in Johan took the upper hand.

As she let him pull out a chair for her, she could feel that she was already lost.

They each ordered a different type of pasta. The waiter brought their drinks. White wine and water for both of them.

I need a glass of wine, Emma thought nervously. She lit a cigarette and looked at him across the table.

“I’m glad to see you again,” he said.

“Are you?” She couldn’t help smiling.

He smiled back. His dimples deepened. Annoyingly charming. Johan’s brown eyes were fixed on her. She made an effort not to hold his gaze too long.

“Let’s not talk about the murders. At least for the moment,” he pleaded. “I want to know more about you.”

“Okay.”

They talked about themselves. Johan wanted to know everything, both about her and her children. He seems genuinely interested, she thought.

Emma asked him about his job. Why had he become a journalist?

“When I was in high school, I was angry about everything in general,” he said. “Especially all the social injustices. I had seen them firsthand, even in the suburb where I grew up. The railroad tracks cut right through the community and divided it in two. On one side was the nice residential area for people who had money. On the other side there were nothing but big apartment buildings, tenements covered with graffiti and the basement windows smashed in. That’s where most of the drug addicts lived, along with people who were unemployed. Two different worlds. It was really quite disgusting. At the middle-school level, kids from the whole suburb went to the same school, and that was a wake-up call for me.”

“In what way?” asked Emma.

“I ended up having friends who lived in those big apartment buildings. I realized that not everyone has the same opportunities. Some of us started a school newspaper, and we wrote articles about the injustices. That was how it all started, with passion and idealism. And here I am now, just a simple crime reporter.”

He laughed and shook his head. “When I started at journalism school, I wanted to be a newspaper reporter, like most people, I assume, but I wound up getting an internship in television, and that’s where I stayed. And what about you? How did you end up being a teacher?”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t have the same passionate involvement that you did. It’s the classic story. Both of my parents were teachers. Probably a lot of it had to do with wanting to please them. I’ve always liked school. And I’m also very fond of children,” she said as the thought of her own children flitted past like a guilty reminder that she shouldn’t really be sitting here at all.

Johan noticed the shadow that passed over her face. Quickly he changed the subject.

“What do you think about this new murder?”

“It’s totally crazy. How could that happen here? On little Gotland? I don’t understand it at all. First Helena and now this.”

“Did you know Frida Lindh?”

“No. She only lived here a year, right? Although I think there’s something familiar about her face.”

“She worked at a beauty salon in Ostercentrum. Maybe you saw her there.”

“Oh, you’re right. I took my kids there a couple of times to get their hair cut.”

“Do you think Helena might have known her?”

“No idea. I wonder whether it’s just a coincidence that the two of them were murdered, or whether there’s some sort of connection. I’ve been thinking about Helena nonstop, turning everything over in my mind. I’ve tried to figure out what could be behind such a crime, and who could have done it. I went to Stockholm for her funeral, and I met a lot of people there who knew Helena. Her parents, her siblings, her friends. Per’s parents were at the funeral, too, of course. No one believed for a minute that he was the killer. Since then all of us who were at the party on that evening at Per and Helena’s house have gotten together. We can’t think of anything. I wonder if she had met some new man that none of us knew about, someone she started a relationship with and who turned out to be crazy.”

She poked her fork at the remnants of the food on her plate.

“Maybe she was trying to break off the relationship because she realized that she loved Per, and then the other man got horribly jealous.”

“Maybe,” said Johan. “Sure, it’s a possibility. Do you know whether she was ever unfaithful to Per?”

“Yes, that actually did happen. At least once, several years ago. She met someone at a party, and they ended up in bed together. They had an affair that lasted several weeks. She was having her doubts at the time about Per. Didn’t really know what her own feelings were anymore. She thought things had gotten to be so routine between them. Helena was completely obsessed with that other guy. She talked about nothing else and said that he was like a drug that calmed her down. She even left work a few times to meet him. That wasn’t like her.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. I thought she was being ridiculous. She refused to say anything about who he was or what he did or where he lived.”

“Why is that?”

“No clue. Of course I tried to squeeze the information out of her, but she was really impossible. ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ she told me.”

“So what happened?”

“One day she told me that it was over. I don’t know what happened or why. She just said it was over and that she had decided to stay with Per.”

“When was that?”

“Hm… a few years back. It must have been three or four years ago, I guess.”

“Didn’t she ever talk about him after that?”

“No. Time passed and I forgot all about it. Until now.”

“That’s something that should be checked out,” said Johan. “Somebody else must know about it. Did you discuss it with any of her friends over in Stockholm when you were there?”

“No, I didn’t. It didn’t occur to me.”

She glanced at her watch. Two thirty. An hour and a half until she had to pick up the kids. She could feel the effect of the wine, but she took another sip and met his gaze.

“I need to keep an eye on the time because I have to catch a bus so I won’t be late at the daycare center.”

“I can drive you there. I’ve only had one glass of wine. It’ll be okay.”

They drove through the town in silence. Emma leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling more at ease than she had in a very long time.

She opened her eyes and let her eyes rest on him.

Good Lord, she thought, am I falling in love? This is idiotic. At the same time, she couldn’t help enjoying the moment. She felt relaxed in his company, happier and more talkative than she’d been in a long time. She looked at his hands on the steering wheel. Very tan and manly. Short, clean fingernails.

He turned his head to look at her. “What are you thinking about?”

She blushed. “Nothing.” She felt a smile tugging at her lips.

Without warning, he turned off the main road to Roma onto a gravel road, stopping at the edge of the woods. She was neither surprised nor frightened, merely felt a fluttering in her stomach.

He didn’t say a word, just leaned over and kissed her. She kissed him back. He was startled by her intensity. He touched her hair, her arms, her thighs. Emma felt desire seize hold of her. Just a few more minutes, she thought as her tongue began playing a tender wrestling match with his. Just a little while longer. Until his hand crept under her shirt and she pushed him away.

“We have to stop. We can’t do this right now.”

“Just a little more,” he begged.

But Emma was firm. Reason began trickling back into her brain.

The rest of the drive to Roma took place in silence.

When they reached the school, he turned to her. “When can I see you again?”

“I can’t tell you that right now. The kids are waiting. I have to think about it. I’ll call you.”

A sense of relief swept over her when she saw Sara waving from the playground. On his way to school, the pain in his stomach grew stronger. With each step he took, it got worse. When he turned onto Bromsebrogatan and saw the redbrick facade of Norrbacka School, he felt the usual pressure in his chest that made it even harder to breathe. He tried to push the feeling aside. Right now he had to be his normal self. Appear unaffected. There came Jonas and Pelle. Chattering and kicking pebbles back and forth, shoving and teasing each other. Completely natural and confident. Just a few months ago he was one of them, but now everything had changed. They reached the playground at the same time. He stretched and then spat into the road. Glanced furtively at his classmates. The boys ignored him. He could feel his face turning red and looked down at the ground as he quickly crossed the playground. The feeling of desperation grew in his stomach. How could everything have changed in such a short time? School was now nothing more than a big, black object of hatred. Total darkness. Would it ever pass? How he wished he could turn back the clock! To the way things were last fall. Back then he went to school and played with his friends as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They played soccer and hockey during recess. Back then school was the most fun part of his life. That’s where he always longed to be whenever he was home. In school everything was normal. Everyone around him was happy and nice. It wasn’t like at home, where he couldn’t understand all the weird moods and he didn’t know how he was supposed to react to them. At home he was often walking on eggshells, trying to please his mother. Not make any trouble. He had gotten used to the fact that his parents hardly ever talked to each other anymore, and to the odd atmosphere at the dinner table. The main thing was to get away as quickly as possible without annoying anyone. In the past it had never felt so dangerous at home. Back then he had friends to visit. Kids he could go out and play with. But not anymore. That’s why the unpleasant atmosphere at home was making him feel so much worse. He had nowhere to go. Instead, he would escape to his room. Into himself. He read books. Worked on complex and difficult puzzles that took a long time to solve. Did his homework with great care. Lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Mostly he felt lonely and worthless. No one wanted to be around him anymore. No one asked about him. He wasn’t wanted, either at home or at school. His sister had her own friends and spent most of her free time at the stables. Who wanted to be with him? By now he had reached the classroom door. He hung his jacket and book bag on a hook. When the bell rang for first period, he felt relieved. Even though he knew the feeling was only temporary.

Karin Jacobsson could hear a commercial for Radio Mix Megapol playing in the background as she stepped inside the beauty salon. The only customer was a middle-aged woman who was having her curls wrapped in foil papers.

In a basket on the floor in one corner lay a shaggy little dog who wagged his tail when he caught sight of Jacobsson.

The hairdresser was wearing a blouse and skirt made of natural-colored linen and red shoes. Her legs were slender and tan. She turned toward the door when Jacobsson came in. “Hi,” she said with an inquisitive look at Jacobsson.

Karin introduced herself.

“I’m just about finished here,” said the hairdresser in a friendly voice. “Why don’t you have a seat.” She nodded toward a brown sofa.

Jacobsson sat down and leafed through a glossy magazine filled with different types of hairstyles.

It was not a large room. Three black leather chairs for the salon customers stood lined up along the opposite wall. The woman in the only occupied chair kept casting curious glances at Jacobsson. The walls were painted a light color but were bare. Very little had been spent on the decor. Mirrors and a clock on one wall, but otherwise nothing. It was more like a typical barbershop for men, spartan and slightly old-fashioned. After a few minutes the hairdresser was through wrapping up the woman’s hair. She placed a dryer over the customer’s head, supplied her with some coffee and several magazines, and then motioned Jacobsson to follow her behind a curtain.

“How can I help you?” she asked after they were seated at a little coffee table.

“I’d like you to tell me about Frida Lindh.”

“All right, but what can I say? She worked here for six months. I took a risk by hiring her. She was from Stockholm, and I didn’t really know much about her. The only experience she had was a part-time job for a couple of years at a salon in Stockholm, but that was a long time ago, so I had my doubts. She turned out to be a big hit, at least financially. She was talented, she worked fast, and she was cheerful and nice to the customers. They really liked her. She rented a chair here, and after only a few weeks she was totally booked up. She also brought in new customers that the rest of us took care of if she didn’t have time.”

“What did you think of her yourself?”

“To be honest, I didn’t particularly like her. Simply because she was a little too flirty with the male customers. And it was mostly men who made appointments with her.”

“Why did you react so strongly?”

“Well, of course I think that anyone who works here should have good relations with the customers, but Frida didn’t know where to draw the line. She would giggle and chatter loudly about all sorts of things with her customers, and I often thought she got too personal with them. In this place it’s impossible not to hear what everyone else is saying, and sometimes it could be rather embarrassing. She quite simply went too far.”

“In what way?”

“For instance, sometimes she and the customer would tell jokes with all sorts of sexual innuendoes. I don’t think that’s proper. Visby is a small town, and lots of people here know each other well.”

“Did you ever speak to her about this?”

“Actually I did, just a week or so ago. Frida and a male customer were joking around, and she started laughing so hard that she couldn’t even cut his hair. It was a Saturday, and we had so many walk-ins that people were lined up waiting, but she acted as if she didn’t even see them. The customer got so lively and carried away by her giggling that he just kept going on and on. It took her over an hour to finish a typical man’s haircut. That’s when I had a talk with her.”

“How did Frida react?”

“She apologized and promised me it would never happen again. And I believed her.”

“When did this happen? You said it was a week ago?”

“Yes, it must have been last Saturday.”

“Did you know the customer from before?”

“No, he was new. I’d never seen him before.”

“Can you describe him?”

“I guess he was a little older than she was. Tall and good-looking. That was probably why she started acting that way.”

“Do you think he was from Gotland?”

“No, he didn’t speak with a Gotland accent. I noticed that because they were carrying on and making so much noise. He sounded like a Stockholmer.”

“Did they seem to know each other?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you happen to remember what he was wearing?”

“No, actually I don’t. He was probably very neatly dressed. I would have noticed if there was anything special about his clothes.”

“And with your walk-in customers you don’t write down their names?”

“No, not the walk-ins. We don’t do that.”

“Have you seen that customer since then?”

“No.”

“Did you notice anything else here in the salon? Anyone who showed a particular interest in Frida?”

“No. Of course she was very popular, but I didn’t notice anything special. But I can ask Malin. She works here, too.”

“We’ve already talked to her. Are there any other employees?”

“No, just the three of us. Well, two now.”

At that moment a buzzer went off in the salon. It was the timer on the hair dryer.

The hairdresser stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I have to go back to work. Is there anything else?”

“No,” said Jacobsson. “If you happen to think of anything, don’t hesitate to call. Here’s my card.”

“Is there any reason why Malin and I should be afraid? Do you think one of our customers might be the murderer?”

“Right now it doesn’t look as if there’s anything to indicate that. Although it wouldn’t hurt to be extra alert about anyone you happen to see in the area. If you see or hear anything suspicious, give us a call.”

Knutas sat in his office, filling his pipe. Once again he went over in his mind what he knew about the two homicides. There were two things in particular that were puzzling him: the murder weapons and the panties.

Helena Hillerstrom was killed with the family axe. The perpetrator had stolen it from the shed, just as Bergdal had said. How did that happen? How close had he been to Helena? He must have been spying on her for a while. Provided it wasn’t someone she knew, of course-one of the guests at the party, for example.

Frida Lindh was killed with a knife. Why did the perpetrator use two different types of weapon? Maybe he didn’t want to walk around town carrying an axe. A knife was much easier to conceal. It could be as simple as that. Presumably he had waited for her near the cemetery. That meant that he knew where she lived. Was it someone she knew? The mysterious man at the bar in the Monk’s Cellar had not yet turned up.

The bartender remembered him quite well but couldn’t recall having seen him before-or since that night, either. The interviews with the other employees who were working that Friday night at the restaurant had produced no results. If the murderer had been spying on her for a while and then decided to kill her, why did he choose that moment to act? He was taking a big risk by killing her in the middle of town, where he might easily be seen. There was also a big risk that the body would be quickly discovered.

Then there was the part about the panties. Knutas had reviewed similar incidents elsewhere in Sweden and even abroad. In every case in which the perpetrator had done something similar, he had also raped the victim or subjected her to some other kind of sexual assault. Whether Frida Lindh had been raped or not was something he wouldn’t know until the preliminary autopsy report was ready, but there was nothing to indicate that she was.

A group of experts from the National Criminal Police was working to find information about previous assailants with similar MOs. His own core team of Wittberg, Norrby, Jacobsson, and Sohlman was fully occupied with conducting interviews and compiling reports on the interviews they had already completed. The forensic medicine department in Solna would issue a preliminary statement about Frida Lindh, and they were still waiting for the response from SCL. Everything had been set in motion. Yet he was filled with impatience. No matter how he twisted and turned everything, he kept coming to the same conclusion. All indications were strong that the victims had known the perpetrator. That was also most often the case in homicides.

Frida Lindh had a very small circle of acquaintances on Gotland. Of course lots of people knew her, but her actual circle of friends was not large. It wasn’t at all unlikely that she had met her killer at the beauty salon.

As for Helena Hillerstrom, she didn’t have many friends on Gotland, either. Apart from her relatives, the people she knew were mostly confined to those who had been at the party. Once again it was the face of Kristian Nordstrom that appeared in his mind. Nordstrom had been interviewed once, but Knutas wanted to talk to him again. He decided to go out and pay him a visit. Unannounced.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Real summer heat had finally arrived, and with a vengeance. It was eighty-two degrees without a breath of wind. His Mercedes was in its usual spot outside police headquarters, and Knutas saw to his great regret that at the moment it was parked in direct sunlight. When he opened the car door, it felt like stepping into a sauna. He tossed his jacket onto the backseat and practically burned himself when he got into the driver’s seat. The car had no air-conditioning. He rolled down the window, which helped a lot, but his jeans were sticking to his legs. I should have worn shorts, he thought. The heat made him irritable, and he was having a hard time concentrating. He pulled out onto Norra Hansegatan, and several minutes later he had left the town behind. He was headed north on the road to Brissund, six miles outside of Visby.

When he reached Kristian Nordstrom’s address, he was struck by the spectacular view. The modern wooden house stood in lonely majesty on a high cliff facing the sea and Brissund’s old fishing village. The house was built in a semicircle that followed the curve of the hill, as if the structure were climbing up the slope. Enormous glass windows covered every wall, and a truly huge wooden deck faced the water. Parked outside was a newer-model car, a dark green Jeep Cherokee.

Knutas was sweating. He got out of the car, pulled out his pipe, and stuck it between his teeth without lighting it. He walked over to the front door, which was painted blue. Just like in Greece, thought Knutas, and rang the bell. It had been a long time since he had traveled abroad. He could hear the doorbell ringing inside the house. He waited. Nothing happened. He rang the bell again. Waited. Sucked on the stem of his pipe.

He decided to take a little stroll around the house. The sea was calm. The sun was blazing. He heard a buzzing in the air. He peered up at the sun, shading his eyes with one hand. Thousands of tiny black dots formed a giant swarm and were raining down from the sky. It was rather disgusting. He looked down at the ground and realized they were ladybugs. The lawn in front of the house was glittering with the tiny red bugs with their black-spotted shells. A ladybug sat on every single blade of grass. How strange. He looked up at the sun again. They looked like snowflakes drifting down in winter. That’s what they were: ladybug snowflakes.

He stepped up onto the wooden deck in back. The house seemed empty and deserted. He peered into one of the windows that reached all the way to the ground.

“Can I help you with something?”

Knutas almost dropped his pipe on the newly varnished planks of the deck. Kristian Nordstrom had popped into view from around the corner.

“Hello,” said Knutas, reaching out to shake hands. “I wanted to have a little talk with you.”

“Certainly. Shall we go inside?”

Knutas followed the tall man into the house. It felt cool in the hallway.

“Would you like something to drink?” asked Nordstrom.

“A glass of water would be great. It’s damn hot outside.”

“For my part, I think I need something stronger.”

Kristian Nordstrom poured himself a Carlsberg Elephant beer and handed the inspector a big glass of ice water. They sat down on leather armchairs that stood near one of the panoramic windows. Knutas took out his worn old notebook and a pen.

“I know you’ve told us all this before, but how well did you know Helena Hillerstrom?”

“Quite well. We’ve known each other since we were teenagers. I’ve always liked Helena.”

“How much time did you spend together?”

“In high school we were part of a group that did everything together, both at school and in our free time. Several of the people who were at the party over Whitsun were part of that group. We did our homework together, went to the movies, and hung out together after school and on Saturday and Sunday nights. I’d say we spent a lot of time together during those years.”

“Was there ever anything else between you and Helena, other than friendship?”

His reply came quickly. Maybe a little too quickly, thought Knutas.

“No. As I already told you, I thought she was pretty, but nothing ever happened between us. Whenever I was single, she was seeing someone else, and vice versa. We were never single at the same time.”

“What were your feelings for her?”

Kristian looked him straight in the eye when he answered. A certain irritation was evident in his voice. “I’ve already told you. I thought she was great. An attractive girl. But she didn’t mean anything special to me.”

Knutas decided to change tactics. “What do you know about her previous boyfriends?”

“Oh, not much, really. She had a lot of them over the years. She was almost always with someone. Usually not for more than two or three months at a time. They were guys from school, or sometimes she’d meet them somewhere else. Guys from the mainland who came over here for the summer. She’d have an affair with one of them for a few weeks, until it was time for the next guy. She was usually the one to end it. I think she probably managed to break a lot of hearts.”

Knutas sensed a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“Then there was that teacher she used to meet with in secret.”

Knutas frowned. “Who was that?”

“The PE teacher at school. What was his name?… Hagman. Goran? No, Jan. Jan Hagman. He was married, so there was a lot of talk about them.”

“When did this happen?”

Kristian seemed to give it some thought. “It must have been in our second year in high school, because the first year we had a different teacher, who retired after that. Helena and I were in the same class in high school, too, specializing in the social sciences.”

“How long did their relationship last?”

“I don’t really know, but I think that it went on for quite a long time. For more than six months, at least. I think it started before Christmas, because Helena told Emma that she was going to see him during Christmas vacation. Emma told me about it when she got a little drunk at a party. I don’t think she was supposed to say anything. On the other hand, she was probably worried about Helena. They were best friends, you know. He was married, with kids, and he was much older. I remember that they were together on a school trip that we took to Stockholm before summer vacation started. Hagman was one of the teachers who went along with us. Someone noticed when Helena slipped into his room at night, and the news spread to the other teachers. When we got back from the trip, a lot of rumors started circulating about them. Then it was summer, and everyone went away on vacation. After that, I at least heard no more about it. When fall came, he was no longer teaching at our school.”

“Did you ever talk to Helena about her relationship with this teacher?”

“No, actually I didn’t. All of us could see that she took it really hard. I remember that she wasn’t around all summer. When we went back to school after vacation, she looked like she’d lost at least twenty pounds. She was pale and wan, while everyone else looked healthy and tan. I’m sure everybody remembers that, because it was so unlike her.”

“Why didn’t you mention any of this before?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think about it. It happened so long ago. More than fifteen years ago.”

“Do you have any idea who might have killed her? Has anything else occurred to you since we last talked?”

“No,” replied Kristian. “I have no idea at all.”

Kristian Nordstrom walked with Knutas to the door. The heat washed over them as they came out of the cool house onto the stairs. Outside, all of nature was clad in the tender green of early summer.

As Knutas drove back to Visby in the afternoon light, thoughts kept swirling through his mind. What did the story about the teacher mean? Why hadn’t anyone mentioned it before, not even her best friend Emma?

It had happened a long time ago. And yet…

After reaching police headquarters, Knutas noticed how hungry he was. Going home for dinner was out of the question. After obtaining this new information, he wanted to call a meeting at once. He punched in his home phone number to say he would be late.

His long-suffering wife received the news calmly. Years ago, she had quite simply given up counting on him for dinner during the week. Maybe that’s why our marriage works so well, Knutas managed to think as he took the stairs up to the criminal investigations department. The fact that they each had their own role in life, without expecting to share every single second, definitely made their life together much easier.

The detectives who were present in the building called up their usual pizzeria to put in a collective order. Between bites Knutas reported on his meeting with Kristian Nordstrom and told the others what he had said about Helena Hillerstrom’s love affair with the PE teacher, Jan Hagman.

“Did you say his name was Hagman?” exclaimed Karin Jacobsson. “I talked to him not long ago. We went out to his house in Grotlingbo.” She turned to Thomas Wittberg. “Don’t you remember? His wife had committed suicide.”

“Oh, that’s right. It was only a few months ago. She hanged herself. He was rather strange, that guy. Introverted and hard to make contact with. Do you remember, we thought it was odd the way he didn’t seem the least bit upset or even surprised that his wife had taken her own life?” said Wittberg.

“We did an investigation, of course,” said Jacobsson. “But everything pointed to suicide, and when the autopsy report came back, we were convinced that’s what happened. She had hanged herself in a barn they had on their property.”

“We need to check up on him,” said Knutas.

“But why should Hagman have anything to do with these murders?” asked Wittberg. “It was twenty years ago that they were together. I don’t see why we should spend any time on such an old story. An affair with a high school teacher? She was thirty-five years old when she was killed, for God’s sake.”

“I agree that it seems like a long shot,” said Norrby.

“That may be, but I still think it would be worthwhile to talk to Hagman,” said Knutas. “What do you think, Karin?”

“Yes, of course. We don’t have anything else concrete to go on. Although it’s strange that none of the people we interviewed ever said anything about this PE teacher. And why would Kristian Nordstrom decide to mention it now?”

“He told me that it just didn’t occur to him,” said Knutas. “That it happened so long ago. And no one else said anything about it, either.” He pushed aside his pizza box.

“If we turn our focus back to the present, is there anything new to report about the victims?” asked Jacobsson.

“Well, yes, the group that’s mapping out their lives is hard at work. Kihlgard from the National Criminal Police is on his way over here. He was asleep when I phoned,” said Knutas. “Taking an after-dinner nap, as he called it.”

Norrby rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks a lot. I’m glad some people have time to rest.”

The murmuring that spread through the room was cut off by the door opening.

Kihlgard’s big, wide body filled the whole doorway. “Hey, sorry I’m late.” He greedily eyed the pizza boxes. “Anything left for me?”

“Here, take mine. I can’t eat the whole thing.” Jacobsson slid her pizza box over toward him.

“Thanks,” Kihlgard growled as he rolled up the rest of the pizza and bit into it. “This is good,” he managed to say between bites. The others had stopped talking and were watching him with fascination. For a moment they even forgot why they were there.

“Didn’t you already eat?” asked Knutas.

“Sure, but it’s always good to have a little pizza.” Kihlgard chuckled before taking another bite. “So where were you? Tell me about this teacher story.”

Knutas reported one more time on his conversation with Kristian Nordstrom.

“Hm. I see. We’re in the process of mapping out the lives of the two women, and so far we haven’t heard anything about this,” said Kihlgard. “It’s true that she had a lot of relationships, but not with any teachers, as far as I know. But this was supposedly much earlier, in high school, right?”

“Yes. Apparently they started a love affair sometime during the fall semester when Helena was in her second year. According to Nordstrom, they made plans to meet during Christmas vacation. Then the relationship must have continued through the whole spring, because it ended sometime during the summer. The teacher, Jan Hagman, was married and had children and evidently decided to stay with his wife. When the fall came, he started teaching at a different school.”

“Do we know whether he still lives on the island? The teacher, that is?” said Kihlgard, using his radar eyes to search the collection of pizza boxes on the table. There might be a piece of crust left.

“Yes, he lives in the southern part of Gotland. Jacobsson and Wittberg were out there a few months ago. His wife committed suicide.”

“Is that right?” Kihlgard raised his eyebrows. “So the guy’s a widower. How old is he?”

“Hagman was supposedly in his forties when they were together, which means that he was more than twice Helena’s age. Today he should be around sixty.”

The evening sun flooded in over the kitchen benches, lighting up the children’s hair in its glow. Emma leaned down over Filip and drew in his scent with a feeling of pleasure. His soft blond hair tickled her nose.

“Mmmm, you smell good. Mamma’s little sweetie,” she said tenderly, and then moved over to her daughter. Sara’s hair was thicker and darker, like her own. She took in another deep breath. The same tickling in her nose.

“Mmmm,” she said again. “You smell so wonderful, sweetheart.” She stroked her daughter’s head. “You’re both my little darlings. That’s what you are.”

Emma sat down next to them at the counter in the middle of the big open kitchen. It was the room she liked best in their house. She and Olle had built the kitchen themselves. Part of it, where they were now sitting, was the work area, with clinker bricks on the floor, beautiful tiles above the sink, and a big island with a free-hanging vent over the stove. She loved to stand there and cook. At the same time, she could savor the view through the windows facing the garden. There was even room for four place settings, perfect for a quick breakfast or a drink before dinner with good friends. A couple of steps led down to the dining area with the oiled pine floor, the sturdy beams in the ceiling, and the big rustic table. The windows that opened onto all sides meant that her kitchen plants flourished there, just as she did.

The children were perched on tall bar stools, drinking chocolate milk and eating warm cinnamon rolls. It was their treat after the sting of shampoo in their eyes and water that was alternately too cold or too hot as their mother sprayed it over them in the shower they had just taken.

Emma watched them as they ate. Sara, seven years old and just finished with first grade. Cheerful, popular, a good student, with dark eyes and rosy cheeks. Things have been going well so far, she thought gratefully. Her gaze shifted to Filip, who was six. Blond, with a fair complexion, blue eyes, and dimples in his cheeks, good-natured but rowdy. Only a little more than a year between them. She was happy about that now.

It was rough in the beginning, though, with a child on each arm. Sara hadn’t even learned to walk yet when Filip was born, and Emma wasn’t finished with her degree. She had kept on plugging away during her last year at the teachers’ college, with one baby at her breast and another in her belly. Now she couldn’t understand how she did it, but it had all worked out-with a lot of help from Olle, of course. At the time he was also in his last year, working on a degree in economics, so they had taken turns tending to the babies and studying. It had been a struggle, what with the kids, little money, and difficult studies. Back then they were living in a sublet apartment in Stockholm. She smiled when she thought about how she had lugged around a double baby buggy, bought bruised tomatoes cheap at the Rimi supermarket, and how they had used cloth diapers with plastic ties. It was a matter of saving money as well as doing their part for the environment. In the evenings Olle would sit and fold diapers while he watched the news on TV and she nursed the baby. What a struggle it had been. Yet at the same time, their love had blossomed, and they had shared everything with each other.

Back then she thought they would stay together forever. Now she was no longer so sure.

Sara gave a big yawn. It was eight o’clock. Time for bed. After the kids brushed their teeth, Emma read them a short story and kissed them goodnight. Then she sat down on one of the sofas in the living room. She didn’t bother to turn on the TV, just looked out the window. The sun was still high in the sky. Strange how a person’s perspective changes with the light, she thought. Right now, with the garden bathed in light, it seemed absurd to put the children to bed. In December it would seem like bedtime at four in the afternoon.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and curled up in a corner of the sofa. Then her thoughts wandered back in time.

Of course things were good between her and Olle for a long time. When the kids were little, she had scrupulously made sure that they had their cozy dinners on Friday night, in spite of the children crying and the necessity of changing diapers. Many a night they had sat at the table with the candles lit while one of them rocked the children to sleep and the other ate before the food got cold. But sometimes things worked out well, and those moments were precious, she thought.

They hadn’t neglected each other just because they had children. That was a mistake that plenty of couples in their circle of friends had made, and it often resulted in divorce. But Emma and Olle kept on having fun together, laughing and joking, at least for the first few years. Back then Olle would often buy her flowers and tell her how beautiful she was. She had never felt so fufilled with anyone else.

Even after she put on almost sixty-five pounds when she was pregnant with their first child, he had looked at her naked body with admiration and said, “Sweetheart, you’re so sexy.”

She had believed him. When they strolled through town she had felt so pretty, at least until she caught sight of her own image in a shop window and realized that she was three times bigger than her husband.

They had carefully guarded their love, and she had been in love with him for a long time.

During the past two years, something had happened. She couldn’t really pinpoint when the change occurred; she just knew that it had.

It started with their sex life. She thought it seemed more and more dreary and increasingly predictable. Olle did what he could, but she had trouble feeling any real desire. Of course they still made love with each other, although less and less frequently. Most often she was only interested in putting on a soft nightgown and reading a good book until her eyes fell shut. Deep inside, a feeling of discontent began gnawing at her. Would they ever get back to the sex life they had shared before? She had her doubts.

Other things had changed, too. Nowadays Olle had a tendency to work like a dog during the week, and that seemed to be enough for him. He apparently had no need to think up fun things to do with her anymore. If they happened to go out to eat or to a movie, she was the one who had to make the arrangements. Olle was happy to stay at home. The bouquets of tulips and the personal compliments were getting to be few and far between. That was a big difference compared to the first years, and it became even greater with time.

She looked out the window again. Olle was at a conference on the mainland. He’d be gone for three days. He had called twice today, sounding worried. He wanted to know how she was doing. Of course she appreciated his concern, but at the moment she just wanted to be left in peace.

Her thoughts shifted to Johan. She couldn’t see him again. It was impossible. Things had already gone too far. But she was astonished by how he made her feel. She had forgotten what that was like. She had such a wild desire for him. In some strange way it had felt so right. As if she were entitled to feel that way and her whole body were meant to burn like that. Johan made her feel alive, like a whole person.

The realization was painful.