Unseen

CAN’T SLEEP. CAN YOU? / JOHAN

She went out on the steps and called him.

He answered at once. “Yes?”

A red flame spread from her head to her stomach and out into her arms to the very tips of her fingers.

“Hi. It’s me. Emma.”

“Hi. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“When can we meet?”

“I don’t know. Olle is home right now. We had a talk. He’s going back to be with the children today. They’re at Olle’s brother’s house in Burgsvik. His parents are there, too.”

“So we can meet, can’t we?”

“I don’t know. How?”

“If your husband is going to be away, you’ll be alone. I can come out to see you.”

“Here? No, that’s impossible, you must realize that. We can’t meet here at my house.”

“Then you could come here.”

“I can’t keep sneaking around, scared to death that somebody will see me.”

An idea popped into Emma’s head. It was crazy, of course, but what the hell.

“I just remembered that I have to go out to my parents’ house on Faro one of these days. No one’s there. They’re away on a long vacation, and I promised to keep an eye on the house for them. I was thinking of taking along my friend Viveka and staying for a few days. You could come with me instead. I’d like to get out of here today. I’m going crazy here at home. I really need to get away. The house is right on the sea. It’s an amazing place.”

“What about your friend?”

“That’s no problem. I’m sure that Viveka can come later. I’ll talk to her. She actually knows about you.”

“She does?” He felt his cheeks burning and couldn’t help feeling flattered.

“That sounds great, but I can’t stay for several days. I’ve got work to do, what with the latest murder and all. But one night should be all right, and I can start work a little later tomorrow. I won’t be ready to leave until about six this evening, though.”

“That doesn’t matter. I’ll go out there first.”

Emma went back inside the house. The feeling of doom in her body was mixed with anticipation and a dose of guilt.

When Olle woke up, she served him breakfast in bed.

“I’ve come to a decision,” she said. “I need time to think. I have to have some space. So much has been happening lately. I really don’t know what to make of it all. I don’t know what I want anymore.”

“But last night you said…” He sounded disappointed.

“I know, but I’m still not sure,” she apologized. “About us. I don’t know what we have left anymore. Or maybe it’s just everything with Helena and these murders. I need to get away.”

“I understand,” he said sympathetically. “I know this has been really rough on you. What are you going to do?”

“Well, first of all, I’m going out to my parents’ house. I promised to keep an eye on it anyway. I’m going there today.”

“Alone?”

“No. Viveka said she’d go with me. I’ve already talked to her.” She felt a pang in her heart. Yet another lie. It was scary to see how easy it was to lie.

“I was hoping you’d come with me today, you know. What should I tell the kids?”

“Tell them the truth. That I have to go out and take care of their grandparents’ house for a few days.”

“Okay,” said Olle. “I’m sure they’ll understand, and you’ll have a lot of time to spend together the rest of the summer.”

She felt guilty that he was being so understanding. It would almost be easier if he got mad, she thought. A feeling of irritation rose inside her.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” was all she said, giving him a quick hug.

Knutas had asked Kihlgard to call everyone in for a meeting at police headquarters that afternoon, after he and Jacobsson got back to Gotland. Knutas started the meeting.

“So we’ve found what we think are the clothes of the victims inside a fishing shack in Nisseviken. They’re being analyzed right now by our techs before they’re sent on to SCL. The shack has been cordoned off, and we’re in the process of investigating who the owner is. It was apparently abandoned and hasn’t been used in years. Family members are on their way here to identify the items of clothing. This discovery proves that the killer is probably here on Gotland, so we need to focus all our investigative work here from now on. In the meantime, what else have we found out that’s new?”

“We received an answer today regarding the fingerprints on the asthma inhaler that was found on Gunilla Olsson’s property,” said Kihlgard. “There was no match with any prints in police records. We’ve checked to see who among the victims’ circle of friends had asthma or some similar kind of respiratory allergy. It turns out that both Jan Hagman and Kristian Nordstrom suffer from asthma. Later today their inhalers will be compared with the one found at Gunilla Olsson’s home.”

“Good,” said Knutas. “What did your interviews with them turn up?”

“Regarding the interview with Jan Hagman, we confronted him with the question of why he didn’t tell us about the abortion when we were out at his place earlier. He gave us a reasonably credible explanation. He didn’t think the abortion was of any importance to us. Also, his children don’t know about his relationship with Helena Hillerstrom, so he didn’t want to go into too many details. During the time we were there, he seemed terrified that his son might hear what we were talking about.”

“I can understand that,” said Knutas. “We should have asked him to come here instead. What about Nordstrom?”

“It seemed incomprehensible that he kept on stubbornly insisting that he never had any relations with Helena. When we told him about the letters, he caved in and admitted it at once. On the other hand, he couldn’t explain why he had previously denied it. He just said that he didn’t want to be considered a suspect.”

“What else?”

“Witnesses have told us that a strange man was seen at Gunilla Olsson’s house during the past few weeks. He was seen at her property both in the morning and in the evening, so it’s not unlikely that we’re talking about a boyfriend,” Kihlgard continued. “The witnesses describe him as tall and good-looking, and about the same age as Gunilla.”

“Have the witnesses had a look at any photographs? Of Kristian Nordstrom or Jan Hagman, for instance?”

“No, they haven’t,” Kihlgard admitted, a bit shamefaced.

“Why is that?”

“To be quite honest, I don’t have a good answer for that. Does anyone else?” Kihlgard looked around at his colleagues.

“We just have to acknowledge that it’s something we failed to do. It simply fell through the cracks,” said Wittberg.

“See that it’s done. Right after the meeting,” said Knutas sternly. “What about the alibis for Nordstrom and Hagman? Have they been checked out again?”

“Yes,” replied Sohlman, “and they seem to hold up.”

“Seem to?”

“Hagman’s alibi is based on statements from his son and a neighbor. The neighbor confirms that they were out emptying nets when the first murder was committed. When Frida Lindh was killed, Hagman’s son was visiting him. Both claim to have been asleep at the time of the murder, since it happened in the middle of the night. When the last murder occurred, he was out fishing with the same neighbor who had been emptying nets with him before. That was on the night before Midsummer. After that they celebrated at the neighbor’s house, and Hagman passed out on the couch.”

“What about Nordstrom?”

“Apparently he has no alibi for the first murder,” Sohlman went on. “He was at the party at Helena Hillerstrom’s summer house until close to three in the morning. Then he shared a cab as far as Visby with Beata and John Dunmar. Afterward, he continued on to his house. He arrived home just before four in the morning. He lives in Brissund. The taxi driver confirms that he got out of the cab at his house and that he was very drunk. It seems highly unlikely, to put it mildly, that he would then go back forty miles to the Hillerstrom cabin and wait on the beach to kill Helena. Besides, he flew to Copenhagen that very same day. He took a flight from Visby to Stockholm in the afternoon. And when the other two murders were committed, he wasn’t even on Gotland. When Frida Lindh was killed, he was in Paris, and when Gunilla Olsson died, he was in Stockholm. No one saw Kristian Nordstrom in the Monk’s Cellar on the night that Frida Lindh was killed. They should have recognized him. He could have waited for her on the way home. That’s a possibility. On the other hand, the man that Frida was talking to at the bar still hasn’t come forward, and that puts him at the top of the list of suspects. He was Swedish, and no one could have avoided hearing all the appeals for him to notify the police.”

“Well, there could be other reasons why he hasn’t come forward. Maybe he has something to hide that has nothing to do with all this,” said Jacobsson.

“Sure, that’s always possible,” Sohlman admitted.

“The woman who sells Gunilla Olsson’s pottery told us that she met a man about thirty-five years old at Gunilla’s house. He was tall and good-looking,” said Knutas. “He introduced himself as Henrik. He didn’t have a Gotland accent. She said he sounded like a Stockholmer. Frida Lindh’s women friends reported that the man Frida met at the Monk’s Cellar was named Henrik. The bartender said that the man sitting with her at the bar spoke with a Stockholm accent. That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s not from here. He could be from Gotland but moved to the mainland long ago. Maybe one of his parents is from the mainland. That could explain why he doesn’t have a Gotland accent, or he may have disguised his accent so as not to be recognized. Of course it’s also possible that he’s from the mainland but knows the island well and is living over here at the moment. I’m leaning more toward the idea that we need to be looking for someone who’s from the island. If we at least start with that idea, what do we know about the killer? His name may be Henrik. He’s tall, and he wears a size 11? shoe. He’s between thirty and forty years old, and he suffers from asthma. There are only about fifty-eight thousand of us living here on the island. There can’t be many who fit that description. By now we also have so much information from witnesses about this man that we should be able to create a sketch of him. Maybe it’s time we did that.”

“I disagree,” said Kihlgard. “It would only start a panic.”

A murmur of agreement was heard from several of those sitting around the table.

“Does anyone have a better suggestion?” asked Knutas, throwing out his arms. “All indications are that the murderer is here on the island. A serial killer, who might strike again at any time. We’ve found the clothing, but what else do we really have? We can’t come up with any connection between the victims that seems to have any significance for the investigation. There are no witnesses to any of the murders. He struck when the victims were alone, and no one was nearby. In each instance, he disappeared fast as lightning. Nobody heard anything, nobody saw anything. At the same time, plenty of people must have seen him. He’s been all over the island, for God’s sake. Frojel, Visby, Nar, Nisseviken. He’s been to an inn and out at the beach; he’s been walking around town and out at Nar. A sketch of him might make it possible for us to catch him quickly.”

“That seems to be the only alternative,” agreed Sohlman. “We have to do something extreme. He could kill again at any time. There was only a week between the last two murders. Maybe now it will be only a few days before he strikes again. We’re running out of time.”

“That’s fucking crazy,” thundered Kihlgard. “What do you think will happen when people see that sketch? They’ll associate it with practically everyone they know. We’ll be completely flooded with tips. It’ll be sheer hysteria, I can promise you that. Then we’ll be the ones responsible. And how are we going to find time to deal with it all? We already have our hands full trying to nail down this lunatic.”

“What would we base the sketch on?” Jacobsson asked. “We have two witnesses who have seen a person who might be the perpetrator: the woman who sold Gunilla Olsson’s pottery and the neighbor who noticed a man near her house. Then we have Frida Lindh’s women friends, of course, who saw the man at the bar, but we still don’t know if he could be the perp. That’s just a suspicion. How much do their accounts coincide? And what happens if they’re wrong? There are two big risks with using a sketch. First, the witnesses may have remembered things wrong, so we’ll be putting out a picture that doesn’t gibe with reality. Second, it’s possible that they didn’t see the killer at all. They may have seen someone else instead. I think the risks are too great to use a sketch. It seems stupid to resort to something so drastic right now.”

“Drastic?” Knutas repeated, his voice filled with sarcasm. “Is it so strange that we need to resort to drastic measures in this case? We have three homicides on our hands. An entire island paralyzed with fear. Women who don’t even dare stick their noses outside at the height of the summer heat, while practically the whole country is breathing down our necks. The prime minister is going to be calling us up next! We need to solve this thing. I want the killer caught within a week, whatever the cost. We’re going to bring in a police artist right now and get him to put together a sketch. I want it publicized as soon as possible. I also want to bring in Hagman and Nordstrom immediately for more questioning. And I personally want to talk to everyone who was at the party at the Hillerstrom home. Every single one of them. The same goes for Frida Lindh’s friends. How’s it going with outlining the victims’ lives? Have we gotten anywhere?”

Bjorn Hansson from the National Criminal Police was the one who answered. “We’re working hard on that. Helena Hillerstrom moved to Stockholm when she was twenty, and it looks as if she never met Frida Lindh. Helena and Gunilla Olsson went to different high schools and middle schools and don’t seem to have had any interests in common. We haven’t been able to link Gunilla and Frida together, either. As everyone knows, Frida Lindh lived in Stockholm. Her real name was Anni-Frid, and her birth name was Persson. These things take time, and it’s not easy now that it’s summer. Every other person seems to be on vacation.”

“I know, I know,” said Knutas impatiently. “Keep digging into things and ratchet up the pace as much as possible. There’s no time to lose.”

After the meeting Knutas retreated to his office. He was furious at everyone and everything. He sat down at his desk. His shirt was sticking to him. Big patches of sweat had spread under his arms. He hated feeling so grubby. The heat they had all been longing for was already making him miserable. It made it hard to think, almost impossible to concentrate. More than anything, he would have liked to go home and take a long, cool shower and drink a couple of quarts of ice water. He stood up and pulled down the blinds. Police headquarters had no air-conditioning. It was considered too expensive to install, since it was needed on only a few days of the year. He was looking forward to the remodeling that was scheduled for the fall. He hoped they would have the good sense to install air-conditioning then. A person needed to be able to think, for God’s sake, in order to solve a difficult homicide case.

Finding the clothing was at least a step forward. He would go out to see the shack later on. Right now it was best to let the techs do their work undisturbed. He began leafing through the folders containing transcripts of the interviews. Three folders: one for Helena Hillerstrom, one for Frida Lindh, and one for Gunilla Olsson. He had an uneasy feeling that various things in the investigation had simply passed him by. His visit to Stockholm had proved as much: the interview with Helena Hillerstrom’s parents, the abortion that no one had mentioned before. What about the other interviews? He decided to go through all of the transcripts one more time, starting with the parents.

Gunilla Olsson didn’t have any, and they still hadn’t been able to reach her brother. He opened Frida Lindh’s folder. Gosta and Majvor Persson. Gullvivegrand 38 in Jakobsberg. He had planned to see them in Stockholm, but the discovery of the clothing prevented him from doing so. He started reading. The interview seemed to be in order, but Knutas still wanted to talk to the parents himself.

The phone was picked up after four rings. A faint female voice could be heard on the other end. “The Persson residence.”

He introduced himself.

“You’ll have to speak to my husband,” said the woman. Her voice was even fainter, bordering on inaudible. “He’s out in the yard. Just a minute.”

A moment later the husband picked up the phone. “Yes, hello?”

“This is Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas from Visby. I’m in charge of the investigation into the murder of your daughter. I know that you’ve been interviewed by the police, but I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

“Yes?”

“When did you last see your daughter?”

A brief pause.

The father replied in a toneless voice. “It was a long time ago. We didn’t see each other very often, unfortunately. Our contact with her could have been better. We last saw each other when they were moving. The children wanted to see us.”

Another pause that lasted a little longer.

Then the father spoke again. “But I spoke to her on the phone last week, when Linneas turned five. A man should be allowed to talk to his grandchildren on their birthdays at least.”

“How did Frida seem at the time?”

“She sounded happy, for a change. She said that she was starting to like living on Gotland. It was hard for her at first. She didn’t really want to move there at all. She did it for Stefan’s sake. Typical that she should end up meeting a Gotlander. She hated Gotland. Never wanted to talk about the time when we lived there.”

Knutas was speechless. He had a hard time taking in what the man on the other end had just said.

“Hello?” said the father after a few seconds.

“What did you say? You used to live on Gotland?” Knutas gasped.

“Yes, we moved over there to try it out, but we stayed only a few months.”

“What were you doing here?”

“I worked for the military and was transferred to the P18 regiment. That was a long time ago. In the seventies. We rented out our house here in Jakobsberg, but we didn’t like it there. Frida was especially unhappy. She kept skipping school and seemed completely changed at home. Impossible to deal with.”

“Why didn’t you mention this during the first police interview?” asked Knutas indignantly. He was having a difficult time checking his impatience.

“I don’t know. It was for such a short time, and so long ago.”

“What year did you live in Visby?”

“Let me see… Well, it must have been ’78. It was unfortunate for Frida. She had to change schools in the middle of the semester in sixth grade. We moved at Easter time.”

“How long did you live here?”

“We were planning to stay at least a year, but my wife developed cancer, and we wanted to move back to Stockholm to be near her family. We moved back home at the beginning of summer.”

“Where did you live?”

“Hm, what was the name of the street? It was a short distance outside the wall, at any rate. Iris something. Irisdalsgatan. That’s it.”

“So Frida went to Norrbacka School?”

“That’s right. That was the name of it.”

After he hung up, Knutas grabbed his cell phone and called Kihlgard, who told him that he was just about to enjoy some lamb chops at the Lindgarden Restaurant.

“Frida Lindh lived in Visby as a child.”

“What did you say?”

“That’s right. She lived here for a few months when she was in the sixth grade. Her father was in the military, and he was stationed in Visby.”

“When was this?”

“It was in 1978. In the spring. She went to Norrbacka School, and they lived on Irisdalsgatan. That’s in the same neighborhood as Rutegatan, where Helena Hillerstrom lived. This could be the breakthrough we’ve been looking for.”

“You’re right. I’m leaving now.”

“Good.”

It didn’t take long before the police determined that Gunilla Olsson had attended the same school. Frida Lindh was a year younger than the others, but she had started school at the age of six instead of seven. The police soon found the common denominator. The three murdered women had all been in the same sixth-grade class.

The weather seemed to be turning out the way the meteorologists had predicted. The sky was a threatening grayish black, and moving in from the west was a dark cloud cover that looked as if it held plenty of rain. Emma was standing at the bow of the car ferry, watching the island of Faro come closer. The ride across the sound took only a few minutes, but she wanted to breathe in the sea air and enjoy the view. Faro was her favorite place. She wasn’t the only one drawn to this wild, bare island with its limestone sea stacks and long, sandy beaches. In the summer it was swarming with tourists.

Ten years ago, her parents had enormous luck when they bought the stone house up by Norsta Auren, a beach that stretched for several miles. A family friend knew the woman who wanted to sell the place. She would sell it only to someone from Gotland. Usually the few houses that were up for sale went to affluent Stockholmers. Many celebrities escaped to the island to find some seclusion-actors, artists, and politicians, not to mention Ingmar Bergman, who lived here year round. Without hesitation, her parents had moved out here from Visby. They had never regretted it for a second.

Emma stopped at the Konsum supermarket on the way to pick up some last-minute provisions. She glanced at the headlines for the evening papers as she went inside the store. Both of them had a big picture of the latest murder victim. The photo showed a woman about her own age with long dark hair in braids. Now they were publishing her name and a picture, too. Emma bought both papers. In the car she scanned the articles. A woman viciously murdered, just like the others. A sense of uneasiness filled her stomach. When she reached the house, she would read the papers in peace and quiet. She drove fast, taking the road to the northern part of Faro. At the four-way stop near Sudersand, she turned left. She pulled in at the local bakery, where she always stopped when she was going to visit her parents. She chatted with the girls behind the counter. She knew everyone here.

The sky was growing darker.

When she turned off onto the last bumpy section of road and headed toward the sea where the house stood, she discovered a red Saab behind her. A lone man was at the wheel. A pair of binoculars lay on the dashboard. Must be a birdwatcher, she thought. The point near her parents’ house was a popular haunt for ornithologists. When she parked outside the house, she saw the man turn around and drive back the way he had come. So that’s it, a birdwatcher with no sense of direction, she thought.

Emma had just shut the door behind her when it started to rain. As she put down the grocery bags in the hallway, she saw a flash of lightning outside the window. Thunder rumbled, and the rain began pounding on the tin roof. Because of the storm, it was very dark inside.

The house smelled stuffy. Her parents had already been away for a week. She went out to the kitchen and cautiously tried to open a window, but the strong wind made it impossible. She set the bags on the kitchen bench and started filling up the cupboards. Good thing she had brought food, since there wasn’t much in the house. Her parents were planning to be away for a long time. They would be traveling through China and India for three more weeks. After they both retired several years ago, they had taken one long trip each year.

Emma unpacked. First she would put all the food away in the kitchen, then put clean sheets on the double bed in her parents’ room. She was looking forward to Johan arriving. To spending a whole evening and a whole night with him. Eating dinner and breakfast together.

Her emotional life had been a roller coaster over the past few days. One minute she wanted to continue her secure life with Olle; the next she was ready to leave everything for Johan. It was true that she was in love with Johan, but what did she really know about him?

It was easy to fall in love in the summer, and the fact that they had to meet in secret undoubtedly added some spice to it. He didn’t have to take any responsibility. He lived alone, had no children, and only had himself to think about. Of course it was easy for him. She had a whole family to consider, especially the children. Was she really prepared to destroy their whole life just because she was in love with someone else? How long would that love last?

Emma pushed these thoughts aside. She turned on the radio for a little music and then went upstairs to make the bed. She felt heat wash over her as she thought about what they would be doing in that bed later on.

Rain was pelting against the panes, but she couldn’t resist opening the window to let in some fresh air. Up here it was better. The bedroom window faced the woods.

When she was through arranging things, she made some coffee, sat down at the kitchen table with a cigarette, and looked out.

A low stone wall surrounded the house. Looking over it, she had a clear view of the sea, which surged up and down in the wind. Here the beach was quite narrow. It grew wider the farther out you went on the point. At the very end, where the beach was widest, people often sunbathed in the nude. Many times she herself had run naked out into the sea, shrieking with joy, her voice drowned out by the roar of the waves.

Maybe we can go skinny-dipping tomorrow morning, she thought, before Johan has to go to work. If only the weather would improve.

Viveka had promised to come for lunch the next day. Emma didn’t want to be alone.

She stood up and roamed through the house. It had been a long time since she had visited her parents. She didn’t really have much contact with them. There had always been a certain distance between them, even when she was little. She had always felt as if she needed to achieve something to make them happy, and of course they had been pleased whenever she made a nice drawing, got all the answers right on a test, or performed well at a gymnastics tournament. The distance between Emma and her parents had not diminished any over the years, though, and by now it was impossible to bridge. She found it so difficult to act natural in their company. She usually felt guilty because she didn’t call or visit them enough. At the same time, she thought that since they were retired and had oceans of time, they could show a greater interest in coming to visit her. They could help out with the children, maybe take them on an outing or go to Pippi Longstocking Land, which the kids loved. She and Olle seldom had time for that. Whenever her parents finally did come to visit, they would sit glued to the sofa and expect to be waited on. They would often make comments about how messy things were in the house or say that the children needed haircuts. It was exhausting, but she couldn’t see any way to change the situation. Her parents wouldn’t stand for any criticism, and if she ever challenged them, they just became defensive. It always ended with her father getting mad.

The living room looked the way it always did. A sofa with floral upholstery and an antique table from one of the countless auctions that her parents loved to go to. The fireplace probably hadn’t been used in a while. It had been neatly swept clean. She was pleased to find firewood in a basket next to the hearth.

The wooden stairs up to the second floor creaked. She went into the guest room, which she and her sister, Julia, counted as their own. This was where they always slept when they visited their parents, staying among the things that they had left behind when they moved out.

She sat down on the bed. It smelled even more stuffy in here, and dustballs had collected in the corners.

The bookshelves that covered one wall were filled with books. Her gaze swept over the spines. Kitty, The Five of Us, Children 312, the horse books about Britta and Silver, Kulla-Gulla, and her mother’s old childhood books. She pulled one off the shelf and giggled at the language and the cover. It was a drawing of a slender young woman with red lips and a kerchief just about to hop into a sports car with a dark, Kendoll kind of man at the wheel. Obstacles to Love was the sensational title.

That might very well apply to me, she observed dryly.

She found a thick stack of well-thumbed issues of Starlet and The Story of My Life. Emma smiled to herself when she recalled how she and her sister had devoured them, discussing the gripping fates that befell these young girls. On another shelf stood a row of old photo albums. For a long time she sat looking at pictures from her childhood. Birthdays, riding camp, last days of school. With her friends at the beach, at a barbecue on a summer evening, and with her mother and father and Julia at Grona Lund amusement park in Stockholm. Helena was in a lot of the pictures, too.

There they were: as thin eleven-year-olds at the beach; when they were thirteen at a class party, wearing far too much eyeliner; and then in the choir, neatly lined up. Happy girls who loved horses and went to riding school. Dressed in white for confirmation. Ladylike and glittering in long dresses for their senior prom.

Her eye fell on a stack of old school yearbooks. She pulled one out and looked up the class that she and Helena had belonged to.

CLASS 6A it said at the top. Below was a photo of the school, the principal, and their teacher, then photographs of their classmates, each with a name underneath. How young we were, she thought. Some were childish-looking, with round, rosy cheeks. Others were pale, with bored expressions. A few had the early traces of a teenager’s complexion. Some of the girls wore makeup, and the downy upper lips of some of the boys bulged faintly from the snuff they used. She looked at herself, at the very bottom of the page, since her maiden name, Ostberg, came last in the alphabet. And Helena. So sweet, with her dark hair hiding half her face. She was staring straight into the camera with a solemn expression.

She moved her index finger from one picture to the next. Ewa Ahlberg, Fredrik Andersson, Gunilla Brostrom. Her finger stopped on the blonde girl with a shawl around her neck, peering at the photographer from under her bangs.

Gunilla Brostrom. She had just seen that face on a grown-up. It was the woman in the newspapers. The same Gunilla who had been murdered. Emma dashed down to the kitchen to get the evening papers. It was definitely her. Back then she had blonde hair, but it was the same face. She had forgotten about Gunilla. They hadn’t been especially good friends.

Both Gunilla and Helena had fallen victim to the same killer.

In the next second, when it became clear to her what they had in common, she felt as if she had been struck on the head.

Anni. Where is Anni-Frid? She must be Frida… It couldn’t be true. Her eyes searched through the faces… Why wasn’t Anni there? Oh, that’s right, she didn’t arrive until the spring. From Stockholm. Then they moved back. We called her Anni, even though her name was Anni-Frid, thought Emma. She realized that it must be the same person.

All three in the same class. Now she was the only gang member left.

The girls who belonged to the gang weren’t all friends. She and Helena were best friends, of course, but then that oddball Gunilla joined in along with the newcomer, Anni. Something made the four of them decide to gang up together and torment him. It didn’t go on for very long, maybe a few months. It started rather innocently, just a little teasing and some shoving. Then it got worse and worse. They egged each other on. Everyone took part, but Helena was the one who took the lead. It was really the only thing they had in common: persecuting him. Maybe Gunilla and Anni saw the harassment as a way of being friends with her and Helena, who were considered the tough girls at school. Maybe it was their way of being included in the gang.

That wasn’t what happened. Summer vacation arrived, and they all scattered. Anni moved back to Stockholm, and Emma never saw her again. Only Emma and Helena ended up in the same class in middle school. For them, the harassment didn’t mean a thing. After that summer, all four of the girls had presumably forgotten all about it.

He apparently had not.

Her hands were shaking as she turned the pages in the yearbook. A couple of pages farther on. Class 6C. She scanned the faces. There he was. The fifth picture from the left.

His round face was pale and solemn, with the hint of a double chin. Short, cropped hair. It was him. He was the common denominator.

A great wave of nausea welled up inside her. She hardly had time to react before she threw up violently on the floor.

Just then the phone rang. The ringing echoed stubbornly through the house.

Instead of answering, she went into the bathroom to clean herself up. She felt so dizzy that she was weak in the knees. He had killed them, one after another. Now she was the only one left.

The phone rang again. She stumbled down the stairs.

It was Johan.

“Hi. It’s me. I got done early. I’m leaving now.”

Emma couldn’t get a word out.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

She sank down onto the floor with the receiver pressed to her cheek. She whispered the words.

“I figured out the connection between the victims. All of them were in the same class in sixth grade. In my class… We were in a girl gang that harassed a boy in one of the other classes. He must be the murderer. One time we stuffed his underpants in his mouth. Just like he did to the others. He killed them all except for me. Do you understand? I’m next in line. What if he’s here? I might be overreacting, but there was a car driving behind me on the last part of the road out to the house. Then it just turned around. There was a man driving it.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“An old Saab. I think it was red, and-”

That was as far as she got. The line went dead.

The shower had just started spraying cold water over his shampooed hair when his cell phone rang. Knutas had taken a break and gone home to eat. He was taking a cold shower to try to clear his mind. Now he heard his wife answering his phone.

It took only twenty seconds before she was pounding on the bathroom door.

“Anders, Anders, come out here! You have to take this. It’s urgent!”

He turned off the shower, tore open the door, and reached for the phone. His wife grabbed a towel and helped dry him off while he listened. There was an agitated voice on the other end.

“This is Johan Berg from Regional News. Send cars and people over to Faro. Right now! Emma Winarve is over there all alone at her parents’ house, and she thinks the murderer is after her. That he might be there right now. She figured out the connection. All the victims were in the same sixth-grade class. They were in a gang that tormented a boy in another class. He’s killed all of them except her.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“Emma is positive that it’s the boy they tormented. He’s the killer. They once stuffed his underpants in his mouth.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t have time to tell me. We got cut off. But she thinks he’s out there right now. A car was following her all the way up to the house. Then it disappeared. It was an old Saab. It was red. You have to go out there right now. I’m on my way myself.”

“Where on Faro?”

Johan read off the directions that Emma had given him. “You drive past Ekeviken and the sign for Skar. Then you come to an abandoned ice cream stand. Turn left onto the forest road leading out to the sea. Drive until the road ends. That’s where the house is.”

“Wait for us,” said Knutas calmly. “Don’t go out there ahead of us.”

“Like hell I will. Get out there, and do it fast.” Johan hung up.

Knutas punched in the number for the duty officer.

“Send three cars to Faro. Now! The killer we’ve been looking for is probably out there. Notify the local police in Farosund and tell them to go up to Norsta Auren and take along weapons and bulletproof vests. The suspect is believed to be driving an older-model red Saab. Tell them to leave immediately. I’ll have further instructions later. Block off the ferry, at least on the Faro side, until we get there. No one leaves the island. Understood? I’ll call Jacobsson. You get hold of Wittberg and Norrby. Tell them to contact me. I want them over on Faro, too. And someone needs to get hold of Olle Winarve. Tell him to call me.”

Knutas hung up and then punched in the number for Jacobsson’s cell phone.

“Anders here. Where are you?”

“Shopping at Hemkop.”

“Leave your groceries and go out and wait on Norra Hansegatan. On the same side as police headquarters. I’ll pick you up.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Knutas pulled on his underwear and pants. His wife didn’t ask any questions. She just held out his bulletproof vest and his service pistol. He didn’t need to say anything, and he was grateful for that.

A minute later he was sitting in his car with the blue light on, the siren wailing, and shampoo in his hair. Carefully he washed his hands. Rubbing them over and over with the soap. He wanted to feel totally clean when it was time. He had taken a long, hot shower, washed his hair, and shaved. Really squandered the hot water that his parents were always so stingy about. Then he took out a shirt, pants, and tie and dressed with care. His mother had given him the tie for Christmas. It was perfect for the occasion. He was alone in the house. His father was out fishing with a neighbor. His mother had gone out shopping, but she would be back soon. He heard the gravel crunching as the car turned into the yard. He was totally calm. He had prepared carefully. Everything he needed was in the box. Neat and tidy. He looked in the mirror, pleased with what he saw. A man in his prime who is finally taking control of his own life, he thought before he closed the bathroom door and went downstairs to meet his mother. She had her arms full of bags. “Why didn’t you come out to the car and help me?” she said reproachfully. “Didn’t you hear me drive up? You must have known I’d have a lot to carry.” She didn’t even look at him as she spoke. She didn’t notice all the trouble he’d taken to look nice. She just took off her shoes, hung up her ugly old coat on the hook in the hallway, and started carrying in the bags. Her usual reproachful martyr voice, full of self-pity. He just stood there, staring at her in silence. He always disappointed her. It had been that way ever since he could remember. Her expectations never matched up with reality. She always demanded something more from him. A little extra. He had never felt that his mother was completely satisfied with anything he did. On the other hand, she had always favored his sister. His little sister. Everything always went so well for her. She never quarreled, never caused any trouble. She got good grades in school, had lots of friends, and never whined or complained. All these years he had longed for a warm hug and unconditional love. A mother who placed no demands on him, who was simply there. That was something he had never had. Instead, she had shut him out and constantly looked for faults. He had made great efforts, he had tried, but things never really worked out. She had no idea that he was harassed and tormented. He had shut it all inside and felt ashamed, and he bore all of it alone. He had never felt that he could confide in anyone. His mother blamed him for her own shortcomings. It was because of him that she hadn’t been able to fulfill her dream of becoming a nurse. He had to suffer because his mother was unhappy with her own life. Because she couldn’t get a good job. Because she didn’t love her husband. She had shriveled up into a bitter, dried-up woman, full of self-pity. Had she ever taken responsibility for anything? For her own life? For her children? For him? Hatred welled up inside him, blocking out all thoughts as she muttered and unpacked the groceries. What a wretched person she was. Now he couldn’t wait any longer. He took three long strides toward her and grabbed her from behind. “What are you doing?” she cried as he held her as if in a vise. He pulled out a piece of rope that he had in his pocket and tied her hands behind her back. Then he dragged her out into the hall, used his elbow to press down the door handle, and lugged her across the yard and into the barn. She was kicking and screaming. She bit his hand so hard that he started to bleed. He didn’t notice the pain. He didn’t say a word. Now he was in control. He held on to her as he picked up the thick rope that he had prepared that morning. It was already tied into a noose and firmly attached to one of the beams in the roof. He gripped her wrists hard and forced her to spread out her fingers and touch the chair before he hauled her up onto it. He climbed onto a ladder next to the chair and made her touch the beam and the rope with the noose, knots and all. When that was done, she just stood there, staring at him with a look of astonishment on her face, the noose around her neck. She had fallen silent, and her lower lip was quivering. How ugly she is, he observed coldly, and then checked the noose one last time. Then he positioned himself right in front of her and looked at her. His eyes were filled with contempt. He felt a peace inside that he had never felt before. A total sense of calm that filled him like warm milk. Without hesitating, he kicked away the chair.

The line was dead. Why had they been cut off? True, the phone service had gone down before in bad weather. Or had the wire been cut? That thought terrified Emma. She had to get hold of her cell phone. It was out in the kitchen. She dashed out there and punched in Johan’s number without getting through. The reception was poor out here, of course. Damn it. What if the killer was nearby? He couldn’t have come inside the house; she would have heard him. It would take Johan more than an hour to get here. Maybe an hour and a half.

She remembered that she had opened a window in the bedroom, and she ran upstairs to close it. When she leaned out to grab hold of the window latch, she saw him. He was standing on the other side of the wall, just outside the yard. She knew it was him even though she didn’t recognize him. He looked up at her. She had time to notice that he was wearing dark clothing before she swiftly drew back behind the curtains.

She wouldn’t have a chance against him. Quickly she went out of the bedroom to look around for something she could use as a weapon.

Johan must have called the police, she thought. I just need to fend him off until they get here. But how the hell was she going to do that?

He was undoubtedly on his way in, now that he had seen her. The greatest chance of finding some kind of weapon would be in the kitchen. At least there were knives. She had just made up her mind to venture downstairs when she heard the front door open.

It occurred to her that she had forgotten to lock it. How could she not have locked the door? She cursed herself.

Her eyes fell on her sister’s baseball bat that stood leaning against the wall in a corner of the guest room. Julia had brought it home with her after spending a year as an exchange student in the United States. It had never been used before, but right now it might come in handy.

Tingstade, Larbro, and then full speed ahead for Farosund. Knutas glanced again at the clock on the instrument panel. The minutes were ticking away at the speed of a rocket. He had spoken to the two local police officers from Farosund, who were much too slow for his liking. They were now up by the four-way stop at Sudersand and had just turned off for Ekeviken and Skar. The fact that the rain was coming down like a wall in front of the car and obscuring his view didn’t make the driving any easier. It was six fifteen in the evening, and as luck would have it, there were very few cars on the road. Jacobsson was sitting next to him with her cell phone pressed to her ear, busy filling Kihlgard in on the latest developments.

They had tried many times to get in touch with Emma on the cell phone. A recorded voice kept stubbornly repeating that it was not possible to reach the desired number at the present time. Please try later. The phone at the house was dead as a doornail.

Knutas drove fast, his eyes fixed on the main road that led to Farosund. They had to reach Emma Winarve in time. He floored the accelerator and stared hard through the rain curtain on the windshield, taking the curves as fast as he could.

Jacobsson ended her phone conversation.

“Kihlgard is on his way with several others from the team. They’re right behind us. This is horrible,” she said, looking at him.

“How many are on their way to the house?”

“The two local officers, who should be there soon, and then the two of us and three other cars. About ten in all. Everyone has a bulletproof vest except me.”

“You’ll have to stay outside and keep watch,” said Knutas. “If only he doesn’t get there before us. But we need more manpower. We might have to set up a roadblock. Call and ask for more backup. Tell them to bring the dogs, too. And then there’s that crazy TV journalist, who’s on his way out there. I tried to stop him, but now he’s not answering his phone, either. If only he doesn’t make a mess of the whole thing.”

The Bunge Museum appeared on the right-hand side, and right after that they reached Farosund.

At the ferry dock they found the area cordoned off by police tape and guarded by several part-time firemen at the request of the local police. Knutas gratefully greeted them. Immediately afterward the ferry, which had been waiting for them, was on its way across the sound.

The thunder and rain were gone. Emma was standing behind the door to the guest room. She couldn’t think of any other place to hide. She could hear the faint sound of music coming from the radio downstairs. She wished she could just slip inside the wall and disappear. Her muscles were tensed, and she was concentrating on trying to hold her breath. The faces of her children flitted past her mind’s eye. She wanted to cry but controlled herself.

Suddenly she heard the familiar creaking of the stairs. Cautiously she peeked out at the hall through the slit in the door. Her heart was pounding so hard that she thought it must be audible. She saw his hand. It was gripping a shaft of wood. An axe. A trembling sob escaped her. She bit her own hand to make herself keep still. The man went into her parents’ bedroom. In a flash she made up her mind. Out into the hall and two big leaps down the stairs before he was after her. She stumbled and fell headlong onto the living room floor. He grabbed her ankle when she tried to stand up. With a howl she turned over and managed to land a direct hit on his hand with the baseball bat. He screamed and released his grip long enough for her to get to her feet.

Sobbing, she stumbled out to the hall and headed for the front door. She grabbed the door handle, but the door was locked, and she couldn’t get it open before he was on her. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her backward into the kitchen.

“You fucking slut,” he snarled. “You bitch, you fucking bitch. Now I’m going to make you beg. You disgusting whore.”

He shoved her into a sitting position, keeping one hand in a tight grip on her throat.

“Now it’s your turn, you little slut. Now it’s your turn, goddamn it.”

His face, only a few inches away from hers, was dark with rage. His breath smelled of mint, which reminded her of something. Her paternal grandfather. He smelled the same way. Throat lozenges. Big, white, and transparent, the kind that you could suck on forever. They came in a brown paper bag. Grandfather was always offering them to everyone.

Just as he raised the axe in the air and took aim, he loosened his grip on her throat slightly. Somehow she summoned up great strength. With a bellow she used both hands to tear his hand away from her throat and at the same time slammed him down to the floor. She landed on top of him and bit his cheek so hard that she could taste blood in her mouth. This time she managed to get the door open and flee outside.

She ran toward the stone wall and threw herself over it. Now she was down on the beach. She cursed the light and kept going. The sand was hard packed, which made it easy to run. And she was used to running. She had gone out jogging here hundreds of times before. When she had gone some distance, she couldn’t help looking back to see how close he was. To her surprise she discovered that he wasn’t there at all. She stopped and looked around in bewilderment. Not a soul as far as the eye could see.

He must have been more hurt than I thought, she told herself. Relieved, she kept on running toward the lighthouse. There were usually people around there. If only she could reach it, she would be safe. It wasn’t yet in sight. First she had to round the point of the shore, and that was still a good distance away. She was now running at a more even pace. It was almost ghostly on the beach. Completely deserted. All she heard was the panting of her own breath and the gentle thudding of her own feet.

On the last stretch of shoreline the sand was replaced by stones. She almost fell but kept her balance. When she reached the other end of the beach, she was completely exhausted. Sweat was running down her back. No one seemed to be there, but soon she’d be up on the road, and then safety wouldn’t be far away.

On the path to the lighthouse she allowed herself to take a little breather. The small cluster of houses near the lighthouse looked deserted. She continued running toward the parking lot and discovered a car parked at the edge of the woods.

When she got closer, she saw that it was a red Saab.

All her running had been in vain.

She managed to think that he must have gotten in the car and driven to the lighthouse, and then the blow struck her on the back of the head.

Two police officers were standing outside the house when Johan finally reached it. Emma was nowhere in sight. He parked his car outside the wall and went into the yard.

“My name is Johan Berg. I’m a journalist,” he said, and showed them his press card. “I’m a friend of Emma Winarve. Where is she?”

“We don’t know. The house is empty, and we’re waiting for reinforcements. You’ll have to leave the area immediately, sir.”

“Where’s Emma?”

“I told you, we don’t know,” said one of the officers sternly.

Johan turned on his heel and ran around the wall of the house, heading down toward the shore.

He ignored the police, who were shouting after him. As soon as he reached the beach, he saw tracks in the sand. Very visible footprints.

He ran in Emma’s tracks, rounded the point, and saw the lighthouse. The footprints continued. With relief he observed that the tracks were still from only one person. She must have gone to the lighthouse to seek help. But where was the killer?

He looked up at the raised grassy berm that ran along the beach before the woods took hold. He might have been following her from up there. He would have a good view from there, too.

Exhausted and out of breath, Johan reached the lighthouse and headed up the path toward the parking lot.

“Emma,” he shouted.

No answer. No cars in the parking lot, and he couldn’t see any people, either. Where had she gone?

He tried to make out any tracks in the grass, but there was nothing distinct. Instead, he continued along the deserted asphalt road. Silent and desolate, with woods on both sides. He looked at the nearby houses. No sign of life. The sound of an engine suddenly came closer, and he turned around.

A police car stopped with screeching brakes, and out climbed Knutas and Jacobsson.

“Have you seen or heard anything?” Knutas demanded.

“No, but I saw some tracks in the sand, and I think they’re Emma’s. They led this way.”

Knutas’s cell phone rang. The conversation was brief.

“Jens Hagman is probably the murderer,” he reported after hanging up. “Jan Hagman’s son. They found him in the school records. He’s the same age as the victims. He was in another sixth-grade class. His father, Jan Hagman, owns a red 1987 Saab. And it’s missing.”

Jacobsson stared at him in surprise. “It was the son?” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t we figure that out earlier!”

“Not now,” snapped Knutas. “We’ll have time for self-reproaches later on. Right now we’ve got to catch him.”

The main road that led to the ferry dock was blocked off at several places. The police set up a temporary base at the Sudersand campgrounds. A search party of officers with dogs started combing the wooded area between Skarsande and the lighthouse. Olle Winarve arrived.

After talking to Grenfors back in Stockholm, Johan called Peter. Of course they had to report on what was happening. At the same time, his concern for Emma was practically tearing him apart. It was when he found the letter that he decided to kill Helena. He was sitting in his mother’s bedroom. His parents had had separate rooms for years. He didn’t see anything strange about that. He had never seen them hug or give each other any other sign of affection. His mother was hanging out there in the barn. It would be a while before his father came home. He had several hours to go through things in her room before he would have to call the police and report that he had found his mother dead. He pulled open the drawers in her dresser and systematically went through them. Old pieces of paper with almost illegible notes, receipts, photographs of that stupid cat that his mother had loved. She loved the cat more than us, he thought bitterly. A few ugly pieces of jewelry, a thimble, ballpoint pens with ink that had dried up. How long ago was it that she went through these drawers herself? he thought with annoyance. Then he found something that caught his interest. At the very bottom of one of the drawers lay a crumpled envelope, yellow with age. He read what it said on the front: To Gunvor. It was his father’s handwriting. He frowned and opened the envelope. It was only a one-page letter. There as no date. * Gunvor I’ve been up all night, thinking, and now I’m prepared to tell you what’s been going on with me lately. I know that you’ve been wondering what has happened, even though, as usual, you haven’t said a word. The truth is that I’ve met someone else. I think this is the first time in my life that I’ve understood what real love is. It’s not something that I planned. It just happened, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. We’ve been seeing each other for six months. I thought that it might just be something fleeting that wouldn’t last, but it’s turned out to be just the opposite. I love her with all my heart, and I’ve decided that I want to share my life with her. She’s also pregnant. I want to take care of her and our child. We both know that you’ve never loved me. So many times I’ve been surprised and frightened by your coldness. Both toward me and toward the children. It’s over now. I’ve found someone that I love. She’s one of my students. Her name is Helena Hillerstrom. By the time you find this letter, I’ll be living in an apartment in town. I’ll call you later. Jan He crumpled up the letter as the tears streamed from his eyes. Helena Hillerstrom, of all people. It was easy for him to make up his mind.

Emma woke up because she was freezing. It was dark, and the air was dripping with moisture. She was lying on something hard and cold. It took a few minutes for her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. A narrow strip of light was seeping in through an opening higher up on one wall. She was inside what seemed to be an underground room. The floor and walls were cement, and the room was bare except for two benches attached on either side. She was lying on one of them. She estimated that the room was about eight feet square. The sloping ceiling was low and made the space seem even more cramped. It was no more than seven feet to the highest point. There was no door. Instead, there was an iron hatch in the ceiling. A rusty iron ladder was fastened to the wall and led up the hatch. She realized that she must be imprisoned inside one of the old defense bunkers. There were a number of them on Gotland and Faro. She and her friends used to play in them when they were kids.

Her throat was dry, and she had a sour taste of vomit in her mouth. She also had a throbbing ache at the back of her head. She wanted to touch it to see if it was bleeding, but that turned out to be impossible. Her hands and feet were tied tight with rope. Her eyes swept over the damp gray walls. The hatch in the ceiling was the only way out, and it was closed. Probably locked on the outside. What was she doing here? Where was Hagman? And why hadn’t he killed her at once? The fact that she was still alive made her think that maybe there was still hope. The rope was chafing her skin. She had no idea what time it was or how long she had been lying here. Her body felt stiff and tender. With some effort she managed to sit up. She raised herself up, trying to look out the small opening, but she couldn’t do it. She tried to twist her hands around, but the rope made that almost impossible. She could move her feet only a few inches.

Emma listened for any noise, but no sounds seemed to penetrate from outside. The room was almost completely silent. Leaves rustled on the floor. A brown-spotted frog had slipped inside the bunker. Then she noticed another one. Several moths were up on the ceiling, asleep. The air was musty and raw.

She lay down again and closed her eyes, hoping the aching would stop. She needed to be able to think clearly.

Suddenly there was a rattling noise. The hatch in the ceiling was lifted away. A pair of legs became visible, and a man climbed down into the bunker. It was Jens Hagman.

He gave her a cold stare as he held a bottle of water to her lips. With his help she greedily took several big swallows without daring to look up at him. Afterward, she sat there without uttering a word. She didn’t know what to do, but she was determined to be on guard, to see how he would react.

He sat down on the bench across from her. He had closed the hatch, and the room was once again almost totally dark. She could hear him breathing in the dim light. Finally she broke the silence.

“What are you planning to do?”

“Shut up. You have no right to talk.”

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

“I need to pee,” she whispered.

“What the hell do I care?”

“Please. I’m going to pee my pants.”

Reluctantly he got up and loosened the rope. She had to squat down and pee as he looked on. When she was done, he tied her up again. He glared at her and then climbed back up the ladder and was gone.

The hours passed. She lay on her side on the bench, slipping in and out of sleep. Dreams mixed with thoughts. She couldn’t distinguish one thing from another. Occasionally a thick blanket of apathy settled over her. She was in his hands. There was nothing she could do. She might as well just lie down and die. Finish out her days in this bunker on Faro. Then images of her children would flash past, like bits of crystal. Sara and Filip. The last time she had seen them was out at the home of Olle’s brother in Burgsvik. She pictured the children waving to her at the gate as she drove away. Would that be the last time they ever saw each other?

Her joints ached, and her hands were prickling. They were about to go numb. She held them up toward the narrow strip of light. The tight rope had turned her wrists red. She decided to try thinking constructively and sat up again. What options did she have? Could she try to overpower him when he opened the hatch next time? Hardly. He was much bigger than she was, and there was nothing she could use as a weapon. She wondered where this bunker was located. Presumably far from the nearest house, although at this time of the summer there were always people around-people taking walks and hiking through the woods and the fields, taking advantage of Sweden’s legal right of access to private land. She looked up at the narrow slit in the wall. Should she try screaming? Hagman might be right outside. She guessed that he must be staying in his car. What did she have to lose if he heard her? She was probably still alive because he needed her to make his escape from here. That meant the police were out there, searching for her. As long as they stayed on Faro, he couldn’t kill her.

Her legs were tied as tightly as they had been before. It was hard for her to move, but she managed. She succeeded in reaching the opposite wall. She stretched up as close to the opening as she could and began screaming for help at the top of her lungs. She kept on shouting until she was worn out. Then she sat down on the bench and waited, her eyes stubbornly fixed on the opening. The minutes ticked by. Not a sign from Hagman or anyone else. She repeated the process until she couldn’t do it anymore.

She lay down again. Maybe it was better to try some sort of strategy. To talk to him. Ask him to forgive her. Convince him that she was sorry.

Yes, that’s what she should do.