Unseen

SUNDAY, JUNE 24

By the next day, Knutas and Jacobsson were in Stockholm. They grabbed a cab to take them from the airport to police headquarters on Kungsholmen. The sun was scorching. It was almost eighty-six degrees, and as they approached Norrtull the traffic got much worse. The air was shimmering with heat and exhaust fumes. Knutas was always fascinated by the incredible snarl of traffic every time he came to the capital. Even on a Sunday in the middle of summer, the cars were just creeping along.

They drove across Sankt Eriksbron, passed Fridhemsplan, choked with traffic with its countless red lights, and turned down Hantverkargatan to head toward Kungsholmtorg.

He had always thought there was something very imposing about Kungsholmen, with the county council building, the city hall, and the courthouse all in one place. He recalled that someone had once told him that the courthouse was built by the architect who was the runner-up in the competition to see who would build Stockholm’s city hall at the beginning of the twentieth century. The winner was Ragnar Ostberg, but in second place was Carl Westman. He was the one who designed the courthouse on Scheelegatan. In Knutas’s eyes it was just as splendid as city hall. Behind it stood police headquarters. They were supposed to have a meeting in the old building, a handsome yellow structure surrounded by a lush park.

What a difference from our sheet-metal box, thought Knutas as they huffed and puffed their way up the grand stone staircase in the heat. They had taken off their jackets. Knutas glanced with envy at Jacobsson’s bare legs. She was wearing a skirt for a change.

It was calm inside police headquarters on this Sunday after Midsummer. A few people were scattered around in offices, working. It was evident that vacation time had started.

In a room that had a view of the park, they met with the police chief and a group from the NCP.

Right after the meeting they had lunch in a nice restaurant across from the courthouse. Then they went with Detective Superintendent Kurt Fogestam to the residential area in Sodermalm where Helena had lived. The house stood almost at the end of Hornsgatan, very close to the water and venerable Liljeholmsbadet, with its floating bathhouse, built on pontoons out in the water. There had been frequent threats to tear it down, but so far it was still standing.

On the corner of Hornsgatan and Langholmsgatan stood the Friskis amp; Svettis gym. That’s where she went to work out, thought Knutas. Maybe that’s where she met the killer.

The apartment was on the top floor. There wasn’t room for all of them in the rickety elevator. Much to the relief of the stockier men, Jacobsson offered to take the stairs. It was a run-down building. Through one door they could hear pop music, through another the faint clinking of a piano. What are people doing indoors on a brilliantly sunny summer day? thought Karin.

Per Bergdal, still on sick leave from his job, opened the door after a couple of rings. They hardly recognized him. He was suntanned and looking healthy. His hair was cut short, and he had shaved.

He greeted them solemnly. “Come in.”

The interior of the apartment was in sharp contrast to the shabby entryway. It was big and bright with high ceilings and beautiful parquet floors that shone in the sunlight. If you leaned to one side to look out the window, you could see the glittering waters of Arstaviken. Extending out from the living room was a big modern kitchen with a refrigerator-freezer and stove hood made of stainless steel. Decorative tiles arranged in a pattern covered the walls. Knutas noticed a fancy blender. A long counter with bar stools on both sides separated the kitchen from the living room, which was furnished with sheepskin chairs and a table topped with a colorful mosaic. An elegant top-of-the-line stereo system took up one wall. The opposite wall was covered with CDs in an attractive birch rack. Bergdal apparently had very expensive tastes.

“I’ll get right to the point,” said Knutas. “As I’m sure you know, three women have now been murdered on Gotland. In each case the method used was the same. We believe the same perpetrator was responsible for all three deaths. We’re here to look for some connection between Helena and the second victim, Frida Lindh. Frida lived here in Sodermalm. To be more precise, she lived on Brannkyrkagatan until a year ago, when she and her family moved to Visby. Her husband is from Gotland. Both Frida and Helena worked out at the Friskis amp; Svettis gym here. We wonder if they might have met each other there, or whether it was at the gym that they met the killer.”

Knutas paused and studied Bergdal’s face intently. He looked shocked.

“So you think the murderer is here in Stockholm?” Bergdal asked.

“Yes, that’s a possibility. Do you know any of the people that Helena met when she worked out?”

“Not really,” he said hesitantly. “She usually went over there with a couple of her friends who live in the neighborhood. I don’t know if she used to meet anyone else there. I can’t remember anything special. Of course she sometimes mentioned the people she met. Someone she happened to talk to. Occasionally she would run into an old colleague from work, but I don’t think there was anyone she was seeing more often. You could ask her friends who worked out with her. They might know.”

“Okay. We’ll get in touch with them. Do you recognize the name of Frida Lindh from before?”

“No.”

“Was there anything else that happened prior to Helena’s death? Something that may have come to mind since then?”

“I’ve hardly done a thing except think about Helena and who could have killed her, but I can’t come up with anything. I just want you to catch him, so this horrible nightmare will be over.”

“We’re doing everything we can,” said Knutas.

“There’s one thing I should show you that I found up in the attic yesterday. Wait here a minute,” said Bergdal, and stood up.

He came right back with a cardboard box. He opened the lid and took out a bundle of papers.

“I don’t know whether it’s of any importance to you anymore, but I was absolutely right about this.” He handed the bundle to Knutas.

Knutas glanced through the papers. They were love letters and notes, and e-mails that Helena had printed out and saved.

“The box was hidden at the very back of the attic. Inside an old cabinet. That’s why I didn’t find it earlier. My brother just moved into a big house, and he wants to have the cabinet. I opened it to see if there was anything inside. That’s when I found those.”

The e-mails were four years old. They were written over a month’s time, in October. An autumn romance novel, thought Knutas, and a steamy one. The sender was Kristian Nordstrom.

So that was how things stood. The question was why Nordstrom had so stubbornly refused to admit that there was anything between him and Helena, in spite of repeated queries when he was interviewed. It was incomprehensible.

Knutas phoned Kihlgard and asked him to call Nordstrom in for another round of questioning at once. He cursed himself for not staying in Visby. He would have given a great deal to conduct that interview himself.

That wasn’t possible, though. They were in Stockholm, and they might as well continue with what they had come here to do. It wasn’t certain that the affair with Nordstrom would have any significance in the investigation.

They took the box of letters with them.

After getting the names and phone numbers of Helena’s workout friends, they went over to the Friskis amp; Svettis gym. In spite of the summer heat and the fact that it was only three in the afternoon, the place was crowded with people. They entered the bright, airy reception area, going past benches with a large number of shoes placed underneath. Through a glass window they could see into a room where thirty or more tanned individuals were jumping around to Latin music, led by a muscular girl without an ounce of fat, wearing a tight leotard.

They walked over to the receptionist, a blonde woman in her forties. She looked very healthy in a white T-shirt with the company’s logo printed on the front. Knutas introduced Jacobsson and himself and then asked to speak to the boss.

“I’m the boss,” said the blonde.

“Then you know that we’re looking for someone who can tell us something about two women who came here to work out,” said Knutas. “Do you recognize either of them?” he asked as he took an envelope out of his inside pocket. He pulled out two photographs. “This is Helena Hillerstrom. She was the first one murdered.”

The woman behind the counter cast a brief glance at the photo. She shook her head. “No, I don’t know her. I’ve already seen that picture. So many people come through here. It depends when she worked out. She might not have come here when I was working.”

Knutas showed her the picture of Frida Lindh.

The woman’s expression changed. “Yes, this one I know. Frida. Frida Lindh. She came here to work out for several years.”

“Did she come here alone?”

“Yes, I think so. Almost always.”

“Did you know her well?”

“No, I don’t think you could say that. We used to chat a bit sometimes when she was here, but that was about it.”

“Do you know whether she was friends with anyone else here?”

“No, I don’t know. She usually came alone, but once in a while she would bring a friend along.”

“Male or female?”

“Just girlfriends, as far as I remember.”

“Thank you,” said Knutas.

None of the other employees had anything new to add. Most of them recognized the two murdered women, but they couldn’t come up with anything special to say about them.

An hour later the detectives left the gym with Ricky Martin’s “She Bangs” echoing in their ears. Nordergravar, part of medieval Visby’s defenses, was located on the other side of the main road, as seen from the school, completely outside the northern part of the ring wall. Today was Friday, and he skipped out of the so-called rest hour, saying he had a dentist appointment but had forgotten his note from home. It gave him the chance to leave school earlier than everyone else. His teacher had believed him and let him go. He thought it was incredible that she hadn’t noticed anything. Didn’t she know what the others did to him? Or was she just pretending not to notice? He wasn’t sure. As he left the school behind on this Friday afternoon, he felt lighthearted. Almost happy. It wouldn’t be long before summer vacation started, and then all his classmates would disperse. He would be starting middle school on the other side of town, and then he would be rid of his tormentors. Right now he was thinking of celebrating by giving himself a reward. He had found a ten-krona bill lying on the floor under a dresser at home. He took it with him. Now he was going to buy some candy-and not just some ordinary candy. He was on his way to the candy store on Hastgatan, near Stora Torget. It was an old-fashioned shop with big lumps of rock candy hanging in the window. Going there was one of his favorite things to do. When he and his sister were little, they often went there on Saturdays with their father. Nowadays that seldom happened. His father had withdrawn from them more and more, growing increasingly silent and surly as the children got older. The candy store was like a dream, and he jogged across Nordergravar. He had chosen that route because he thought it was exciting. He used to imagine medieval battles between the Swedes and the Danes, and how the wars were waged right here, down to the very last drop of blood. As he ran, all alone, up and down among the hills, he completely forgot about his horrible daily life. He picked up a long stick and began jabbing it in the air. Pretending that he was one of the soldiers fighting for the Swedish king against Denmark’s King Valdemar Atterdag, who conquered Greenland and claimed the island as a Danish province in the fourteenth century. He was so immersed in his game that he didn’t notice the four kids standing at the top of the hill, watching him. With a sudden bellow, they bounded down the slope and threw themselves on him. Since there were four of them, it was easy to wrestle him to the ground. He didn’t have a chance. He was totally taken by surprise and couldn’t even make a sound. “Now you’re really scared, aren’t you, little fatty,” hooted the worst of them, the leader. The others snickered spitefully as they held his hands in an iron grip. “You’re not thinking of pissing yourself this time, are you? No, we’ll see to it that you don’t wet your pants so that Mamma gets mad. Uh-uh, you don’t have to do that,” she taunted him. And to his surprise, she took hold of his belt and unfastened it. When she started unbuttoning his pants, he got hysterical. This was just about the worst thing that could happen. He tried to struggle as best he could, kicking and screaming. He didn’t have a chance. Triumphantly the leader pulled off his pants. He was ashamed when his stomach and legs were uncovered. He tried to bite the hands that were holding him. “Look, what a fat little pig. It’s about time you went on a diet, don’t you think?” Then the leader seized hold of his underpants and took them off, too. “What a tiny dick!” she shouted, and the others laughed loudly. The humiliation burned like fire, and he was panic-stricken. He closed his eyes and screamed as loud as he could until he felt something soft being stuffed in his mouth and smelled his own underpants. The leader and one of the other hated demons were pressing the cloth into his mouth. “Now you’re going to shut your trap, goddamn it,” snarled the leader, and her hard hands clamped onto his mouth to keep the underpants inside. He thought he was going to suffocate. He couldn’t get any air, and he was struggling desperately under their hands. Everything went black before his eyes. From far away he could hear one of the voices. “Stop it. Let him go. He can’t breathe.” The hands released him, and he heard them leave. He lay there for a while, keeping his eyes closed in case they changed their minds and came back. When he finally dared get up, he didn’t know how long he had been lying in that hollow. His underpants were on the ground next to him. Quickly he got dressed. When he stuck his hand in his pants pocket, he discovered that the ten-krona bill was gone.

Helena Hillerstrom’s parents lived in the well-to-do neighborhood of Stocksund just north of Stockholm. Jacobsson and Knutas had decided to go out there themselves to talk to the parents. Hans and Agneta Hillerstrom were home, and the father had said on the phone that they were welcome to come over.

Neither of them had ever been out to Stocksund before, and they were impressed by the big houses with the generous yards. They passed Vartan, with its glittering water. The well-dressed inhabitants of Danderyd were out, strolling along the shoreline promenade. The turn-of-the-century house belonging to the Hillerstroms stood on a hill with an enormous plot of land around it. They could glimpse parts of it through the huge lilac hedge.

Helena’s father opened the door. He was a tall, lanky man with thinning hair, a fresh complexion, and plenty of wrinkles on his suntanned but solemn face. “Good day,” he greeted them with a certain formality. “Please come in.”

They stepped inside the hallway, which had an impressively high ceiling. Round columns framed the grand wooden staircase that led up to the second floor.

Jacobsson sighed to herself. What a magnificent house.

From the hall they caught a glimpse of the living room and several sitting rooms with a row of big windows facing the yard. Agneta Hillerstrom appeared at once. She, too, was tall and slender, with steel gray hair cut in an attractive page-boy style.

They sat down on a soft, comfortable sofa group in the living room. Dainty coffee cups and a plate of cookies were on the table. Coconut balls, Knutas observed, and put one in his mouth. How strange. Somehow that type of cookie didn’t really fit in with the rest of the setting. That’s what he and the twins usually baked for their birthday. His kids loved them.

“We know that you’ve talked to the police several times before, but I wanted to meet you in person,” he said. “I’m in charge of the investigation on Gotland. At the present time, we do not have a suspect, but a good deal of information has come to light during the investigation, and I’d like to talk to you about some of it. Is that all right?”

“Of course,” they said in unison, giving him an inquisitive look.

Knutas cleared his throat. “To get right to the point. It has come to our attention that your daughter had a relationship with one of her high school teachers. A PE teacher by the name of Jan Hagman. Did you know about this?”

The husband was the one who answered. He spoke in a resigned tone of voice. “Yes, we knew about it. Helena told us after it had been going on for a while. She ended up getting pregnant by that scumbag. She was only seventeen.” Hans Hillerstrom’s expression grew tense, and he began wringing his hands.

“She was pregnant?” Knutas raised his eyebrows. They didn’t know about this.

“The whole thing was hushed up. She had an abortion, of course. We forbade her to see him ever again. We talked to the principal, and Hagman was asked to leave. He got a job at another school, someplace down south in Sudret. The man was married and had two children. That swine even had the nerve to call us here at home. He said that he loved Helena. What a fool. He was more than twice her age. He said he was ready to leave his family and take care of Helena and the child. I threatened to kill him if he ever tried to get in touch with her again.”

“How did Helena take all of this?” asked Jacobsson.

“She was deeply depressed at first. She had fallen in love with that idiot, and she was mad at us for not letting her see him anymore. She didn’t think we understood. The abortion wasn’t a nice experience, either. She was sad for a long time afterward. We took a trip to the West Indies so that she could get away from the whole thing. In the fall, she started her third year in school as planned. Things didn’t go well at first, but she recovered quite quickly. Helena has always had lots of friends, and I think that was really important,” he said thoughtfully.

A brief silence followed. Both Knutas and Jacobsson felt rather low-spirited. It was a sad story. On the wall hung a big portrait of Helena in a gold frame, a photograph from her graduation. She was smiling, and her long dark hair framed her face. Knutas felt a pang as he looked at it. It was terrible that her life should end the way it had.

He broke the silence. “How was your relationship with your daughter?”

“Not without its problems, I suppose,” replied Hans Hillerstrom. “As she got older she stopped talking to us about anything important. She became more reserved. Not with other people, just with us. We didn’t understand why.”

“Did you try to find out what the reason was?”

“Well, not directly. We thought that with time it would pass.”

“From what I understand, you continued to go out to the cabin in the summertime, and you still have family on Gotland. Do you know whether Helena ever saw Jan Hagman again?”

“Not as far as we know,” replied the father. “We never discussed the matter.”

Now the mother spoke for the first time. “I tried to talk to her about it a few times. Tried to find out how she felt and how she was doing. She said that she had gotten over it. She realized that it was impossible for them to continue the relationship. As for the baby, she said that she thought it was the right thing to do, to have an abortion. She couldn’t have taken care of a child on her own. She didn’t want to, either. She viewed it mostly as something bad that had to be gotten rid of. Like an illness.” She pressed her lips together.

“How were things between her and Per?” asked Jacobsson.

“Things were good. They were together for a long time, and in my view he seemed to be very much in love with her. The fact that he was at first suspected of committing the murder was really hard on us. I think she was everything to him. I’m sure they would have gotten married. If all this hadn’t happened,” said the mother, and her voice faded away.

“Do you know whether she ever met anyone else while she was with Per? Whether she had any kind of crisis for a period of time? They were together for many years, after all.”

“No, I don’t know about anything like that. Things always seemed so good when we asked. Weren’t they?” Agneta Hillerstrom gave her husband a questioning look.

“I never heard anything, either, about there being any problems,” he concurred.

“We’ve found some new connections between Helena and the second victim, Frida Lindh,” said Knutas. “For one thing, they both worked out at the Friskis amp; Svettis gym in Hornstull. Have you ever heard mention of anyone she might have met there?”

Both Hillerstroms shook their heads.

“Why didn’t you say anything about the Jan Hagman story before?” asked Knutas.

“We didn’t think it was important,” said the father. “It happened so long ago. Do you think that Hagman murdered Helena?”

“We can’t rule out anything, and everything that has to do with Helena is of importance to the police. Is there anything else in Helena’s past that you haven’t told us?”

“No,” said Hans Hillerstrom. “I don’t think so.”

“Nothing that happened recently, either?”

“No.”

Knutas wondered how the previous interviews with the couple had proceeded. How could it be that none of this had come out right from the beginning? He decided to discuss it with Karin later on. If all the interviews are equally incomplete, we’re going to have to do them over, every last one of them, he thought grimly.

His stomach was growling. It was time to leave. “Well, I think we’re done for now. Did Helena still have her own room in the house?”

“Yes, upstairs.”

“Could we take a look at it?”

“Yes, sure. The police have already gone over the room, but of course you can look at it if you like.”

Hans Hillerstrom led the way up the impressive staircase. The second floor had ceilings just as high as the rooms downstairs. They walked along a big, bright hallway and then through a sitting room where Knutas caught sight of a balcony and a flash of water. There were fireplaces everywhere.

Helena’s room was quite large. High mullioned windows faced out on the yard. It looked as if the room had not been used in a long time. An old-fashioned wooden bed with tall bedposts stood in one corner. Next to it was a white nightstand. Near one of the windows stood a writing desk, an old easy chair, and several bookshelves filled with books.

Hans Hillerstrom left them alone, closing the door behind him. They searched through the drawers, the shelves, and the closet without finding anything of interest. Suddenly Jacobsson gave a whistle. Behind a photograph of the summer house on Gotland, a slit had been made in the wallpaper. A photo had been slipped inside the rip.

“Look at this,” she said.

It showed a man on a big boat, a passenger ferry-presumably the Gotland Ferry. He was standing on deck with the wind blowing through his hair and the blue sky behind him. He was smiling happily at the photographer, and he had one hand in his pants pocket. It was without a doubt Jan Hagman, almost twenty years younger and forty pounds lighter than when they last saw him.

“Look,” said Jacobsson. “He has that silly look of delight on his face that only someone newly in love ever has. It must be Helena who took the picture.”

“We’ll take this with us,” said Knutas. “Come on, let’s go.”

It was a relief to leave that melancholy house and get out into the green of summer. The flower beds were dazzling, children were playing on the street outside the house, and in a yard a short distance away the neighbors were having a barbecue.

“We need to look into this story with Hagman a lot more closely. We have to check out his alibi again. He didn’t say a word about the abortion. Why was he keeping that a secret? But why would he want to kill Helena? From what I can see, he loved her. And why so many years later? Could he have been jealous? Did he see her with her new boyfriend and become seized by madness?”

“That seems highly improbable,” Jacobsson said. “And it’s been twenty years since they had that affair. Why would he kill his wife now? Why didn’t he do it back then, in that case?”

“That’s a good question. And how does this all fit together with the death of Frida Lindh? And Gunilla Olsson?”

“It may not have anything at all to do with Hagman,” said Jacobsson. “Maybe we’re on the wrong track. All the victims have ties to Stockholm. The murderer could just as well be over here somewhere.”

“You could be right,” said Knutas. “But it’s past seven, and my stomach is screaming. We’ll go see Frida Lindh’s parents tomorrow, and then we’ll check out the shop in Gamla Stan where Gunilla Olsson’s pottery was sold. Right now I want a strong drink and a proper meal. What about you?”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Jacobsson, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

Wittberg knocked on the door of Kihlgard’s office and stepped inside, out of breath.

“We’ve collated the answers to the question about who has asthma among all the people close to the victims. Look at this,” he said, placing the paper on Kihlgard’s desk. “These are the names of the people who either have asthma or suffer from some other respiratory allergy.”

Kihlgard read through the list, which consisted of about twenty names. Both Kristian Nordstrom and Jan Hagman were on it.

“Hmmm,” he murmured, and looked up at Wittberg. “I see that Nordstrom is an asthmatic. I’ve just heard from Knutas that he had a sexual relationship with Helena Hillerstrom after all.”

“No shit. Recently?”

“No, it was a few years ago. I want two officers to go out to see Hagman and two to see Nordstrom. Don’t call them ahead of time. I want to surprise them. Bring both of them in for questioning, and see that you bring back an inhaler from both of them, too.”

They were sitting facing each other at the kitchen table with cups of coffee in front of them. The children were still out in the country visiting their cousins. Olle had come home to Roma to talk to Emma. He seemed nervous as he looked at his wife across the table. At the same time, he couldn’t hide his frustration.

“What’s going on with you?” he began.

“I don’t know.”

He raised his voice. “You’ve been completely unreachable for several weeks now. Ever since Helena died. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated tonelessly.

“Goddamn it, you can’t just keep saying you don’t know,” he flared up. “You don’t want me to hug you or touch you. We haven’t had sex in I don’t know how long. I try to help you by talking about Helena, but you don’t want that. You don’t give a shit about me or the kids, and every five minutes you’re going off to town and leaving my mother behind as a babysitter. What’s going on? Have you met someone else?”

“No,” she said quickly, hiding her face in her hands.

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think?” he shouted. “You’re not the only one suffering, you know. I knew Helena, too. I also think it was horrible, what happened. I’m in shock, too, but you only think of yourself.”

Suddenly she exploded.

“All right!” she screamed. “Then to hell with it all. Let’s just get divorced. We don’t have anything in common any-more anyway!” She jumped up and dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door.

“Nothing in common!” he bellowed. “We have two children in common, for God’s sake. Two young children. Don’t you give a damn about them, either? Don’t they mean anything to you?”

Emma sat down on the lid of the toilet and turned on the faucets full blast so she wouldn’t have to hear Olle’s shouting. She pressed her fingers against her ears. She was totally at a loss. What should she do? It was unthinkable to tell him about Johan. Not now. She just couldn’t. At the same time that she was mad at Olle, she was plagued by a guilty conscience. She felt trapped. After a while she turned off the water and sat down on the toilet lid again. Just sat there for a very long time. Her life was in chaos. Someone had killed her best friend. It might even be someone she knew. The thought had crossed her mind, but it was just too awful to be true.

What did she know about the people around her? What dark secrets were hidden behind the closed doors in people’s homes? The murderer had shattered all sense of security in her life. What did she have to fall back on?

Then she started thinking further. There was one person in the world she trusted completely, and that was Olle. If there was anyone who had ever stood by her, it was him. He always had time to listen; he got up in the middle of the night to make her tea if she was having nightmares; he took care of her when she was pregnant. He cleaned up her vomit when she had the stomach flu, and he wiped her brow when she gave birth to their children. He loved her when she cried, when her nose was running, when she was sick with chicken pox or had her period. Olle. What on earth did she think she was doing?

Resolutely she stood up and rinsed off her face. There was total silence on the other side of the door. Cautiously she opened it.

He wasn’t there. She went into the living room. He wasn’t there, either. It was dead silent in the house. Emma went upstairs and peeked into the bedroom. There he was, lying on his stomach on the bed, hugging a pillow. His eyes were closed, as if he were asleep. She lay down next to him and moved close. He didn’t answer right away. Then he put his arms around her and kissed her all over her face.

“I love you,” she murmured. “It’s just the two of us.”

Handwritten pieces of paper lay in a big pile on the desk in front of him. Some of them had numbers on them. Johan had written down everything he knew about the three murders. Then he started putting the puzzle together. First Helena. The party. The fight. The murder on the beach. The axe. The people at the party. Kristian. The boyfriend, Per.

He continued in the same way with the other two. When he was done, he put the pieces of paper into three piles. What is it that connects all three? he thought.

Frida Lindh met a man on the night she was out with her girlfriends. Why hadn’t he come forward? It could mean that he was involved in the murders. If he wasn’t out of the country, that is.

On a piece of paper he wrote Frida + a man, 30–35. Afterward the man goes up in smoke. Gone.

The neighbor woman Johan had talked to told him about a man in Gunilla Olsson’s house. He was also between thirty and thirty-five and attractive. On another paper he wrote Gunilla + man, 30–35.

When it came to Helena, she had flirted with Kristian at the party on the night before she was killed. He was thirty-five and good-looking.

On a piece of paper he wrote Helena + man, 35 = Kristian.

Kristian had been questioned by the police several times, and he undoubtedly had an alibi for the night of the murder; otherwise they would have taken him in. Still he was the most obvious suspect. Was he the one who showed up at the Monk’s Cellar on the evening Frida Lindh was murdered? If so, why didn’t any of the employees or anyone among the guests remember him? They ought to know him. Kristian Nordstrom worked abroad a good deal, but even so. He could have disguised himself, of course. But what could be Kristian’s motive?

He got up, crossed the editing room, and put on what must be his third pot of coffee that night. It was a quarter to midnight. He yawned, making an effort to think along new lines. What if he dropped Kristian? Then what was left? The police investigation in Stockholm. What did that mean? They were most likely following up on some new lead that he didn’t know about. He had tried to pump Knutas before they left, but without results.

Emma couldn’t think of anything else about Helena, either. Yet they had known each other since school.

A sense of longing came over him.

Emma. The image of her when they last met. The light in her hair as she sat there in the chair by the window, her face pale. Her very being enchanted him. Her power terrified and enticed him. He wanted to call her but realized that it was much too late.

He laid his head down on the pile of papers and fell asleep.

The young people left the party at its height. The Strand Restaurant in Nisseviken had been rented out for the evening, and the dance floor was packed with festively dressed teenagers. The music was turned up to the absolute maximum. In the bar, glasses were being filled, one after the other. The mood was one of wild exhilaration. It was the last night of the Midsummer holiday, and it was high time for a party, even though it was a Sunday evening.

Carolina giggled at Petter, who was holding her hand in his, leading her down toward the beach. “You dope, what are you doing?”

He headed past the beach huts that were rented out to tourists as cabins during the summer season.

“Come on, come here,” he said, kissing her on the throat.

Both of them were drunk. Happy, too. In just a few days they would have to part. Carolina was going to the States to study, while Petter’s eleven-month military service way up north in Boden was awaiting him. It was a matter of enjoying the time they had left.

They romped around on the beach, with Petter shoving Carolina ahead of him at the same time he kissed the back of her neck. His hand fumbled inside her clothes as their entwined bodies moved forward, away from the beach and any people.

It was close to three in the morning, almost daylight. Since several other couples would certainly be coming down to the beach, they wanted to find an out-of-the-way spot. When they came farther out on the point, they discovered a solitary fishing shack a short distance away.

“That’s where we’ll go,” said Petter.

“You’re crazy. It’s too late to go out there now,” protested Carolina. “Someone might be out there.”

“Let’s check!”

He took Carolina by the hand, and they ran across the stones at the edge of the shore.

They could see that the shack was deserted. It didn’t look as if it had been used in a long time.

“Perfect. Let’s go in,” said Petter.

A rusty lock was the only thing blocking their way.

“Do you have a hairpin?”

“Should we really do this?”

“Why not? We can stay here as long as we want without anyone bothering us.”

“What if someone comes?”

“Uh-uh. You can see that it’s all locked up. I don’t think anybody’s been here in years,” said Petter as he worked to open the lock with the hairpin. Carolina stood on her toes and tried to peek in through the single window at the back. A dark blue curtain hung in front of it, blocking the view. This is great for us, she thought, elated. Petter’s enthusiasm was contagious. This was really exciting.

Making love in an old, abandoned fishing shack.

“Okay, I got it.”

With a creak, the door opened. They peeked inside. The shack consisted of only one room. There was a wooden bench, a rickety table, and a chair. The walls were a filthy yellow and cold. An old calendar from the ICA supermarket hung askew on a hook. It smelled damp and stuffy.

Delighted, Petter spread out his hoodie on the floor.

They had been asleep for several hours when Carolina woke up because she needed to pee. At first she had no idea where she was. Then she remembered. Oh, that’s right. The party. The shack. She untangled herself from Petter’s arms and with some effort managed to get to her feet. She felt sick.

She tottered out of the shack and squatted down to pee. Afterward she washed herself in the clear, cold water of the sea.

She should wake Petter up. How were they going to get home? They were way out in the sticks. Shivering, she walked back to the shack. Petter lay stretched out on the floor with an old blanket over him.

The table was covered with a red oilcloth with coffee stains on it. A thermos stood on the floor. Even though the shack seemed to have been abandoned, Carolina had a feeling that someone had been here recently.

She was freezing after her hasty bath. The blanket covering Petter looked awfully thin. At the same time, she felt like lying down for a while longer. She would try to sleep a little, and maybe the nausea would pass. She looked around for something else to use as a cover and noticed that the bench had a lid that could be opened. She lifted it up. Inside was a bundle of clothes, or rather several bundles.

She took out one of the pieces of clothing and held it up. It was a shirt, and it had big patches of what looked like dried blood on it. Cautiously she began rummaging among the clothes. A dress, a top, a pair of bloody jeans, a torn bra, a dog leash. Her head started to spin. She shook Petter awake.

“Look, look inside the bench!” she urged him.

Petter got up, groggy with sleep, and looked at the clothes. “What the hell?”

He let the lid fall shut with a bang, took out his cell phone, and called the police.