Unseen

MONDAY, JUNE 25

Gamla Stan in Stockholm looked a good deal like Visby. Knutas was always struck by that thought whenever he visited the capital. He enjoyed the atmosphere. Many of the beautiful buildings with masonry anchors on the facades and sculptures above the entrances were from the 1600s, when Sweden was a major European power and Stockholm was expanding rapidly. The buildings stood close together, a reminder of how densely populated the city once had been.

The narrow cobblestone streets branched out from the city’s historic midpoint, Stortorget, like the arms of an octopus. Nowadays Gamla Stan was filled with restaurants, cafes, and small shops that sold antiques, handicrafts, and of course tons of knickknacks.

Gamla Stan and Visby had many things in common. The German influence was strong in both cities during the Middle Ages. German merchants had dominated both Stockholm and Visby and set their mark on the buildings and street names. In the past, Gamla Stan had also been encircled by a defensive wall. It was torn down in the seventeenth century to make room for the numerous stately houses that were built along the shore. Beyond the facades facing the street in the stone city, you could find little green oases and flowering gardens, just like in Visby.

Knutas and Jacobsson were plodding toward Osterlanggatan, which appealed to Knutas more than the commercial street of Vasterlanggatan. On the eastern street there were more galleries, handicraft shops, and restaurants.

That was also the location of the shop where Gunilla Olsson’s pottery was sold. In the shop window facing the street, various ceramic objects were on display. A bell rang as they opened the door.

There were no customers in the shop. The owner was a stylish woman in her sixties.

Knutas introduced himself and his colleague, explaining why they were there.

The woman’s face took on a worried expression. “It’s so horrible, all those murders. Completely incomprehensible.”

“Yes,” Knutas agreed. “As I understand it, you sold Gunilla’s pottery in your shop. How long have you been doing that?”

“Only a few months. Things were going well for her. I saw her work at a show on Gotland this past winter, and I fell for it at once. She was talented. My customers thought so, too. I would sell out of her work almost as soon as the pieces were delivered. These bowls are especially popular,” she said, pointing to a tall, wide bowl with lots of small hollows in it. The bowl was enthroned on its own shelf.

“Did Gunilla talk much about her personal life?” asked Jacobsson.

“No. She was very reserved. We didn’t have much personal contact. Usually we talked on the phone. Somebody else took care of the deliveries. She came to visit my shop once in the spring, and I was over on Gotland and saw her just a few weeks ago.”

“What did the two of you do?”

“Well, I was staying at a hotel in Visby. There were several artists that I wanted to visit. One day I went out to her farm, and it was quite pleasant. We had lunch and looked at her workshop.”

“You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“No, not at all.”

“Did she tell you about any new people she had met, maybe a boyfriend?”

“No, but there was actually a young man who stopped by. We were just having lunch, and he didn’t want to disturb her when she had visitors. He greeted me very politely at any rate, and we talked for a bit before he left.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“His name was Henrik. I remember it well because that’s my brother’s name.”

“What about his last name?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Did they seem to be close friends?”

“Well, that’s hard to say. He just stopped by very briefly. I had the feeling that he lived nearby, that maybe he was a neighbor.”

“How would you describe him?” asked Knutas.

“He was about her age. Tall and well built. Thick ash-blond hair. And he had especially beautiful eyes. I think they were green.”

It’s great how artists have such a keen sense of observation, thought Knutas. “Was there anything else you noticed?”

“Yes. Even though I had the feeling that he was a neighbor, he couldn’t have come from Nar originally because he had a real Stockholm accent. I wouldn’t bet five ore that he was from Gotland.”

Knutas’s cell phone rang. He heard Kihlgard’s agitated voice saying that the clothing of the murdered women had been found by some young people in a fishing shack in Nisseviken.

Knutas quickly cut short the conversation, thanking the woman for her help. Then he and Jacobsson went back out to the street.

He told her about the clothes. “We might as well go back home,” he said. “We’ve done just about everything we can here, and he’s on Gotland. That much is clear.”

A couple of hours later they were sitting on a plane, on their way back to Visby.

Emma hadn’t slept well. She had the feeling that it was very early when she awoke. She glanced at the clock. Only five thirty.

Olle lay next to her. He seemed to be sound asleep. His mouth was wide open, and with every exhalation she could smell his bad breath. She got up and went into the bathroom. As she sat down to pee, the thought of Johan flitted past, but in the next second she pushed it aside. Everything was going to be fine between her and Olle now. She turned on the shower and enjoyed the feeling of the water washing over her body. She wrapped a bath towel around herself and went back to lie down beside Olle and put her head right next to his. Of course I love him, she thought at the same time as a tiny bit of doubt intruded. He’s my Olle, after all.

How tired she was of herself! All this vacillating back and forth. Why couldn’t she make up her mind about how she felt?

She sat up and looked at him. He was lying there, unaware that she was studying him, naked and as vulnerable as a child. Maybe she didn’t love him anymore. Maybe it was over. The thought made her dizzy. The father of her children. But wasn’t the whole point to be in love and cherish someone? She had given him her promise for life. To love him in sickness and in health. What about if she no longer felt attracted to him?

Her gaze slid over his forehead and eyelids. She wondered what was hidden inside, what his thoughts were.

What about the children? Their two wonderful children. As parents they had a responsibility that was as big as the universe.

And what about herself? What sort of person was she, to be willing to give up everything so hastily and risk her whole way of life? It was so perilous. How did she dare? It wasn’t just a matter of her and Olle. This had to do with the future of her entire family. The children’s future.

At the same time, the fact that she had fallen in love with Johan was making her rise and fall like a ship on a stormy sea.

She got up, went out to the kitchen, and lit a cigarette, even though it was only six fifteen. She didn’t worry about the fact that she was smoking indoors. There would be time enough to air it out before the children came home.

Her thoughts shifted with each new puff. Maybe she should just wait. Accept her inner turmoil. She didn’t have to make a decision right now. Better just to wait for a while. See how things went.

She didn’t want to spend any more energy on thinking about her chaotic emotional life.

Suddenly her cell phone rang. She took it out of her purse and punched the button for text messages.