Unseen

TUESDAY, JUNE 5

When Helena opened her eyes at six thirty the next morning, she had a splitting headache. She always woke up especially early when she was hungover. Now she lay in bed stretched out on her back with her arms pressed tightly to her sides-at attention, but lying down rather than standing. As if during the night she had avoided moving for fear of coming into bodily contact with Per, only four inches away from her in the bed. She looked at him. He was asleep, taking calm, deep breaths and completely wrapped up in the quilt. Only the dark curls of his hair stuck out.

It was quiet in the house, except for Spencer’s light snoring from the floor. The dog hadn’t noticed yet that she was awake. Helena’s body was tense, and she felt sick. She stared up at the white ceiling, and it took a few seconds before she remembered what had happened the night before.

No, she thought, no, no, no. Per’s jealousy had erupted many times before. It had gotten better over the past year-she had to admit that-but now this setback. Like doing a gigantic belly flop. Pain burned inside her when she realized the extent of what had happened, not only between her and Per but also with her friends. And the party. It had all started out so well.

After dinner they had danced. It was true that Kristian’s hand had slid a bit too far down her back when their bodies pressed against each other during a slow song. She had thought about moving his hand away but was too drunk to really care.

Without warning she had been torn out of her trance. Per took a firm grip on her arm and brusquely led her out to the veranda. She was so flabbergasted that she couldn’t pull herself together enough to protest. Outside he showered her with accusations. Then she flew into a rage, screaming back at him, spitting and hissing. He shook her. She hit, scratched, and bit him. The whole thing ended with him giving her a resounding slap, and she dashed into the bathroom.

In shock she stood there in front of the mirror, staring at her face, fixed in a silent grimace. She held one hand over her half-open mouth, her fingertips trembling against her upper lip, which was already swollen. He had never hit her before.

Through the door she could hear the others talking. Subdued yet agitated voices. She listened to them calming Per down, calming Kristian down, calling for a taxi.

Emma and Olle stayed till the end. They didn’t leave until Per was asleep and Helena was almost asleep, too.

In spite of everything, they were now lying here in the same bed.

As he lay there next to her, she didn’t understand how things could have gone so wrong. She wondered what today would be like. How were they going to smooth this over? The jealous quarrel, the actual coming to blows. They were behaving like immature brats who couldn’t even manage to drink a little wine and have some fun with their friends. It was hardly worth it. The shame lay like a heavy stone in her belly.

Cautiously she climbed out of bed, afraid that Per would wake up. She slipped out to the bathroom, peed, and inspected her wan face in the mirror. Looked for visible signs of the abuse from the night before, without finding any. The swelling had already gone down. Maybe he didn’t hit me that hard after all, she thought. As if that were any consolation. She went out to the kitchen and drank half a can of Coke. Then she returned to the bathroom and brushed her teeth.

The floor felt cool under her bare feet as she walked between rooms. Spencer followed her like a shadow. She got dressed and went out into the hall and put on her running shoes, to the dog’s undisguised delight.

The morning air washed over her, cold and liberating, when she opened the door.

She took the path down toward the sea. Spencer trotted along beside her with tail held high, darting out into the grass alongside the gravel path, pissing here and there. At regular intervals he would turn around and look up at her. The shiny black retriever was a good watchdog and Helena’s constant companion. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs, and her eyes teared up from the morning chill.

The instant she climbed over the dune and out onto the beach, she was enveloped in a grayish-white fog. It lay like a carpet of spun sugar all around her. The dog quickly vanished into the silent softness. No horizon was visible. What little she could see of the water was steel gray and almost completely still. It was remarkably quiet. Only a lone seagull screeched far out over the sea. She decided to walk the entire length of the beach and back, even though visibility was poor. As long as I follow the waterline it should be all right, she thought.

Her headache began to subside, and she tried to collect her muddled thoughts. After last night’s fiasco, she didn’t know what to do.

Despite everything, she believed that Per was the one she wanted to live with. She was sure that he loved her. She was going to turn thirty-five next month and knew that he was expecting an answer, a decision. For a long time he had been wanting to set a wedding date, so she could stop taking the pill. Lately, when they made love, he would often say afterward that he wished he had made her pregnant. She felt uncomfortable every time.

Yet she had never felt so secure, so loved. Maybe that was all she could expect; maybe it was time to make up her mind. She hadn’t had much luck with her love life in the past. She had never been truly in love and didn’t know whether she was this time, either. Maybe she wasn’t capable of it.

Helena’s thoughts were interrupted by the dog barking. It sounded like a hunting bark, as if he had caught the scent of one of those small rabbits that were everywhere on Gotland.

“Spencer! Come here!” she commanded.

He came trotting obediently over to her with his nose to the ground. She squatted down to pet him. She tried to look out to sea but could barely make out the water anymore. On clear days you could see from here the outlines of the cliffs in all their detail on both islands, Big and Little Karlso. That was hard to imagine right now.

Helena shivered. Spring was normally cold on Gotland, but it was unusual for the chilly weather to last into June. The cold, damp air penetrated through one layer after another. She was wearing a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, and a jacket, but it didn’t help. She turned around and started heading back the way she had come. I hope Per’s up so we can talk, she thought.

She was feeling better after the walk, starting to think that maybe everything hadn’t been ruined after all. She would call around to her friends today, and soon it would all be forgotten and they could continue on as usual. His jealousy wasn’t really so bad. Besides, she was the one who had started clawing and scratching.

When Helena reached their end of the beach, the fog was even thicker. White, white, white, everywhere she turned. She realized that she hadn’t seen Spencer in quite a while. All she could see clearly was her sneakers, half sunk into the sand. She called out several times. Waited. He didn’t come. How strange.

She took a few steps back, straining to see through the fog.

“Spencer! Here, boy!”

No reaction. Damn dog. This wasn’t like him.

Something was wrong. She stopped and listened. All she could hear was the lapping of the waves. A ripple of fear ran down her spine.

Suddenly the silence was broken. A short bark, and then a whimper that died out. Spencer.

What was going on?

She stood utterly still and tried to fight back the panic that was surging in her chest. The fog surrounded her. It was like being in a silent vacuum. She yelled straight out into the fog.

“Spencer! Here, boy!”

Then she sensed a movement behind her and realized that someone was standing very close. She turned around.

“Is anyone there?” she whispered.

There was a relaxed mood inside the regional newsroom in the big headquarters of Swedish National Television. The morning meeting was over.

Reporters were sitting here and there with cups of coffee in front of them. One held a phone to his ear; another stared at his computer screen; a couple were talking in low voices with their heads together. A few cameramen were leafing listlessly through the evening papers, then the morning ones.

Everywhere were stacks of paper, discarded newspapers, half-empty plastic coffee cups, telephones, computers, and baskets full of faxes, files, and folders.

At the news desk, which was the focal point of the newsroom, only the editor, Max Grenfors, could be found this early in the morning.

Nobody knows how good they have it here, he thought as he typed in the day’s agenda on the computer. A certain energy and enthusiasm ought to be expected after the long weekend, instead of this dull apathy. It was bad enough that the reporters hadn’t come up with any ideas of their own at the morning meeting on this dreary Tuesday, but they had also grumbled about the jobs that needed to be done. Grenfors thought that most reporters lacked the spirit and drive that he himself had possessed as a reporter before he was promoted to the editor’s desk.

Max Grenfors had just turned fifty, but he did what he could. By now his hair was salt-and-pepper, but he had it regularly dyed by one of the city’s most talented hairdressers. He kept in shape with long, lonely workouts at the company gym. For lunch he preferred cottage cheese or yogurt at his computer instead of high-fat meals in the noisy TV lunchroom with his equally noisy colleagues.

As editor it was his job to decide on the content of the broadcast: which stories to run and how much airtime to give them. He liked to get involved in how a story was shaped, which often annoyed the reporters. That didn’t bother him, as long as he had the final say.

Maybe it was the long, cold winter, followed by the wet, windy spring with a chill that never seemed to let up, that had made weariness hover like a musty wool blanket over the newsroom. The summer warmth they were all longing for seemed far away.

Grenfors assigned titles to the stories he was going to air and arranged them in order for the broadcast. The day’s top story was the catastrophic finances of the Academic Hospital in Uppsala, followed by the strike at the Osteraker Prison, the night’s shooting drama in Sodertalje, and then Elsa the cat. Two twelve-year-old boys had rescued her from certain death in the recycling room of an apartment building in Alby. A real human interest story, the editor thought contentedly, forgetting his bad mood for a moment. Anything with children acting as heroes, and animals, always drew viewers.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the anchorman enter the newsroom. It was time for a run-through and the same old discussion about which guest would be invited to the studio that evening-a discussion that could develop into a dispute, or a royal squabble if he let it.

He discovered the dog first. Erik Andersson, sixty-three years old and living on a disability pension, was from Eksta in the island’s interior. He was visiting his sister in Frojel. He and his sister took long walks by the sea in all kinds of weather, even on a foggy day like this.

Today his sister had decided not to come along. She had a cold and a bad cough and wanted to stay indoors.

Erik had his mind set on a walk. Together they ate a lunch of fish soup and lingonberry bread, which he had baked himself. Afterward he climbed into his rubber boots, pulled on his parka, and went out.

The morning’s blanket of fog had lifted. Above the fields and meadows on both sides of the narrow gravel path, it was quite clear. The air felt cold and damp. He straightened his cap and decided to walk down to the water. The gravel made a familiar crunching sound under his feet. The black sheep he passed looked up from their grazing as he walked by. Three crows sat in a row on the old half-rotten gate down by the last patch of woods before the beach. They lifted off in unison with an offended cawing as he approached.

Just as he was about to refasten the rusty latch after him, his eye was caught by something odd at the edge of the ditch. It looked like part of an animal. He went closer to the ditch and bent down to look. It was a paw, and it was bloody. Too big to be from a rabbit. Could it be a fox? No, it was black underneath the blood.

Erik moved his gaze along the bloody trail. A little farther off he saw a big black dog. It was lying on its side with its eyes wide open. Its head was twisted at a funny angle, and its fur was completely drenched in blood. The tail looked strangely thick and shiny in the midst of the butchery. When he got closer he could see that its throat had been cut and the head was almost severed from the rest of the dog’s body.

He felt sick and had to sit down on a rock. He was breathing hard, holding his hand to his mouth. His heart was pounding. It was horribly quiet. After a while he got up with an effort and looked around. What had happened here? Erik Andersson had scarcely finished the thought when he caught sight of her. The dead woman lay half covered by pine boughs and branches. She was naked. Her body was covered by big bloody wounds, like stab wounds. Dark locks of hair fell over her forehead, and her lips had lost all color. Her mouth was half open, and when he ventured closer he discovered that a piece of cloth had been stuffed between her lips.

The call came into Visby police headquarters at 1:02 p.m. Thirty-five minutes later, two police cars with sirens screaming pulled into Svea Johansson’s yard in Frojel. It took another five minutes before the medics arrived to take care of the old man, who was rocking back and forth on a chair in the kitchen. His older sister pointed out the wooded area where her brother had made the discovery.

Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas and his colleague Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson hurried on foot toward the patch of woods. They were followed closely by crime scene technician Erik Sohlman and four other officers with dogs.

On the path, before it reached the beach, lay the slaughtered dog in a ditch. Its throat had been cut, and one front paw was missing. The ground all around was spattered with blood.

Sohlman bent over the dog. “Hacked to death,” he observed. “The injuries seem to have been caused by a sharp-edged weapon, presumably an axe.”

Karin Jacobsson shuddered. She was a big animal lover.

A short distance away they found the mutilated body of the woman. They studied the corpse in silence. The only sound came from the waves breaking on the beach.

She lay there naked under a tree in the grove. The body was covered with blood, through which patches of skin could be seen, shining white. Deep stab wounds were visible on her neck, breast, and stomach. Her eyes were wide open, her lips dry and cracked. It looked as if she were yawning. A tight feeling of nausea settled in Knutas’s stomach. He bent over to look more closely.

The perpetrator had shoved a piece of striped cloth between her lips. It looked like a pair of panties.

Without a word Knutas pulled his cell phone from his inside pocket and called the forensic medicine division in Solna. He needed a medical examiner to fly over from the mainland as quickly as possible.

The first report on the wire service was typed in at 4:07 p.m. Information was scanty. VISBY (TT) A woman was found dead on a beach on the west coast of Gotland. According to a statement from the police, she was murdered. The police will not yet say how she was killed. All roads in the vicinity have been blocked off. A man is being interviewed by the police.

It took two minutes before Max Grenfors noticed the message on his screen.

He picked up the telephone and called the duty officer at the Gotland police department. He didn’t learn much more, except that the police could confirm that a woman, born in 1966, had been found murdered on the beach near Gustavs, the Baptist summer camp, in Frojel Parish on the west coast of Gotland. The woman had been identified as a resident of Stockholm. Her boyfriend was being interviewed by the police. The area was being searched with dogs, while the police were busy going door to door in the vicinity, looking for possible witnesses.

At the same moment, the direct line belonging to reporter Johan Berg rang. He was among those who had worked the longest in the newsroom. He had started in television ten years ago, and it was by chance that he became a crime reporter right from the start. On his first day on the job, a prostitute was found murdered at Hammarby Harbor. Johan was the only reporter in the newsroom at the time, so he was given the assignment, and that night it was the top story. Because of that, he had continued as a crime reporter. He still thought it was the most exciting area of journalism.

When the phone rang, he was engrossed in his story about the strike at Osteraker Prison, polishing up the wording on his computer screen. The piece was due to be edited soon, and everything had to be ready before he and the editor could start working to put together video footage, the script for the anchorman, and sound bites. Preoccupied, he picked up the phone.

“Johan Berg, Regional News.”

“They’ve found a woman murdered on Gotland,” rasped a voice in his ear. “She was butchered, apparently with an axe, and she had a pair of panties stuffed in her mouth. A real lunatic is on the loose.”

The man on the phone was one of Johan’s best sources, a retired police officer who lived in Nynashamn. After an operation for throat cancer, he had to breathe through a tube sticking out of his throat.

“What the hell did you say?”

“She was found today on a beach in Frojel, on the west coast.”

“How sure are you about this?” asked Johan, feeling his pulse quicken.

“A hundred percent sure.”

“What else do you know?”

“She was originally from Gotland but moved to the mainland a long time ago. To Stockholm. She was just over on the island to spend a few days with her boyfriend. He’s being interrogated right now.”

“Who found her?”

“Someone who happened to come past. An old fellow they’ve taken to the hospital. He’s probably suffering from shock. That’s all I know. You’ll have to check it out yourself.”

“Thanks. I owe you a couple of beers,” said Johan as he got up from his chair and then put down the receiver.

The relaxed mood in the newsroom was replaced by feverish activity. Johan reported what he knew to the editor, who quickly decided that Johan and a cameraman should take the first plane to Gotland. Someone else could put together the Osteraker story. Right now it was a matter of getting out there and being first on the scene.

Actually Max Grenfors was obligated to inform the managing editor at the big central desk, who was in charge of the news reports for the whole TV station, but that could wait. We’ll just get a little head start, he thought as he barked out orders. He moved down the top story on the priority list for the broadcast. Who cared about the finances of the Academic Hospital now?

Johan outlined what he knew to a female colleague, who hastily put together a script for the anchorman based on the existing information. She also prepared a telephone interview with the duty officer at the Visby police department, who was able to confirm that a woman had been found dead and that the police suspected murder.

It took only a few minutes before all the editors from the largest news programs at the state-owned TV station were swarming around the desk in the Regional News office.

“Why are you sending a reporter to Gotland? Is there something special about this murder?” asked the managing editor from the central desk.

Like the others, he had read only the wire report, but he had already heard that Regional News was sending a team to Gotland. Four pairs of eyes were staring inquisitively at Grenfors, who realized he had to tell them that the woman had been viciously attacked, probably with an axe, and that her panties had been stuffed in her mouth.

Since it was a slow news day in the world, all the editors reacted strongly. Finally a story that could save the broadcast! Everyone was aware that this was no ordinary murder, and they all began talking excitedly at once.

After some discussion, the managing editor decided that sending one reporter to Gotland was enough. They agreed that they had enough confidence in Johan Berg to make do with him until more details were known.

Johan was told to take along Peter Bylund, the cameraman he liked working with best. They would catch the plane for Visby that departed at 8:15 P.M.

In the cab on his way home, Johan felt a familiar sense of excitement at being in the middle of a story. The fact that a woman had been grotesquely murdered and all the horror associated with such an event took a backseat to his desire to find out what had happened and then file a report. It’s strange how a person reacts, he thought as the cab drove across Vasterbron and he stared out at the water of Riddarfjarden, bracketed by the city hall and Gamla Stan, the Old Town. You just have to put aside all the usual human emotions and let your professional role take over.

He thought back to the night in September 1994 when the passenger ferry Estonia sank in the Baltic Sea. In the days following that horrible disaster in which over eight hundred people lost their lives, he had rushed around like a madman in the ferry terminal in Vartan talking to family members, the employees of the Estline ship company, the passengers who had survived, the politicians, and the emergency response teams. He went home only to sleep, and then he was back on the job. While he was in the thick of things, he became familiar with all the stories people told him, but as if from a distance. He shut off his own feelings. The reaction came much later. The first bodies recovered and brought home to Sweden were taken in a procession from Arlanda Airport to Riddarholm Church in Gamla Stan for a memorial service before they were transported to their hometowns. When Johan heard a journalist reporting directly from the church on Radio Stockholm, speaking in a deep and somber voice, he broke down. He collapsed on the floor of his apartment, weeping torrents. It was as if all the impressions he had gathered appeared before him at the same time. He pictured bodies floating around inside the ship, people screaming, passengers getting stuck under tables and shelves that were being tossed around, the panic that erupted on board. He felt as if he would go to pieces. He shuddered at the memory.

Back inside his apartment, Johan realized what a mess the place was. He hadn’t had time to take care of all the chores lately.

His one-bedroom apartment on Heleneborgsgatan in Sodermalm was on the ground floor. From indoors you couldn’t tell that the waters of Riddarfjarden were right outside, since his apartment faced the inner courtyard of the building, but that didn’t bother him. He was quite happy with the central location, within walking distance of everything the city had to offer in the way of shops and restaurants. The green island of Langholm was also right at his doorstep, with its paths and big slabs of rock, perfect for sunbathing by the water. There was no better place to live.

At the moment his apartment was not in its best state. Dirty dishes were piled up on the kitchen counter, the laundry basket was overflowing, and several old pizza boxes were scattered around the living room floor. The classic bachelor pad. It smelled stuffy, too. Johan realized that he had half an hour to pack, but he had to clean up the worst of it. The phone rang twice while he was racing around the apartment, washing dishes, airing out the rooms, wiping off the table, throwing out the garbage, watering the flowers, and packing. He didn’t bother to pick up the phone.

The answering machine clicked on, and he listened to his mother’s voice, and to Vanja’s. Even though things had been over between them for more than a month, she refused to give up.

It was going to be great to get away. Far away from there, a solitary man hurries through the woods. His eyes are wild and fixed on the ground. He’s carrying a sack on his back. A black garbage bag. His hair is wet and hanging over his forehead. Now there’s no going back. Absolutely not. He’s agitated, yet at the same time his body is filled with an inner calm. He’s on his way to a specific spot. An explicit goal. Now the sea appears. Good. He’s almost there. That’s where the boathouse is. Gray and rotting. Marked by harsh weather. Storms and rain. Next to it lies a leaky rowboat. It has a hole in the bottom, which he’s going to mend someday. First he has to get rid of this baggage. He fumbles for a long time with the rusty lock. The key hasn’t been used in years. Finally it turns, and with a click the lock opens. At first he considers burying the contents of the sack. But why should he do that? No one ever comes here. Besides, he’s not completely ready to give up these things. He wants to keep them here. Accessible, so he can come back to look at them. Smell them. In the boathouse there’s an old kitchen bench with a compartment under the seat. He opens the seat. Inside are some old newspapers. A phone book. He empties the contents of the sack. Closes the seat. Now he’s happy.

Visby police headquarters is located right inside the ancient stone wall surrounding the town. It’s an uncommonly ugly building. A long rectangle with light-blue metal siding, it looks more like a fish cannery somewhere in Siberia than a police department in this beautiful medieval city. The building is called “the Blue Mound” by the locals.

Inside one of the interrogation rooms, Per Bergdal was leaning over the table with his face in his hands. The ashtray in front of him was full of cigarette butts, even though he didn’t usually smoke. His hair was standing on end, he was unshaven, and he smelled of old, sour wine.

He hadn’t seemed very surprised when the police knocked on the door. His girlfriend was missing, after all. They decided at once to bring him in for questioning.

Now he was sitting here, holding a cigarette with trembling fingers. Hungover and miserable. Apparently also in shock.

Although it’s actually impossible to say whether that’s the case, thought Detective Superintendent Knutas as he sat down on the other side of the table. Regardless, Bergdal’s girlfriend had been found murdered, he had no alibi, and he had visible scratches on his neck, arms, and face.

Karin Jacobsson sat down on a chair next to Knutas. Silent but alert.

Bergdal raised his head and looked out the only window in the room. A hard rain was pelting the windowpane. The wind had picked up, and on the other side of Norra Hansegatan, over by the parking lot, sections of the stone wall near Osterport could be seen. A red Volvo drove past. For Bergdal, it seemed so far away that it might as well have been on the moon.

Anders Knutas adjusted the tape recorder on the table, cleared his throat, and pressed the record button.

“Interview with Per Bergdal, the boyfriend of murder victim Helena Hillerstrom,” he said in an authoritative voice. “The time is four ten on the fifth of June. The interview is being conducted by Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas, and the witness is Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson.”

He cast a somber look at Bergdal, who was slumped forward, staring down at the table. “When did you discover that Helena was missing?”

“I woke up just before ten. She wasn’t in bed. I got up, but she wasn’t in the house, either. So I thought she must have gone out with the dog. She usually takes the first walk with Spencer in the morning. I’m a sound sleeper, so I didn’t notice when she left.”

“What did you do?”

“I lit a fire in the woodstove and made breakfast. Then I sat down and drank my coffee and read yesterday’s paper.”

“Didn’t you wonder where she was?”

“When the eleven o’clock news came on the radio, I started thinking it was strange that she hadn’t come back yet. I went out on the porch. You can see all the way to the water from our house, but today there was a thick fog, so I could see only a few yards. Then I got dressed and went out to look for her. I walked down to the beach and called, but I couldn’t find her or Spencer.”

“How long did you look for her?”

“I must have been out there at least an hour. Then I thought that maybe she’d returned to the cabin in the meantime, so I hurried back. The house was still empty,” he said, and his voice faded out. He hid his face in his hands.

Anders Knutas and Karin Jacobsson waited in silence.

“Are you ready to continue?” asked Knutas.

“I just can’t believe she’s dead,” Bergdal whispered.

“What happened when you got back to the house?”

“It was still empty, so I thought maybe she’d gone to visit some friends of ours nearby. I called them, but she wasn’t there, either.”

“What are their names?”

“Their last name is Larsson. Eva and Rikard, her husband. Eva’s an old friend Helena has known since childhood. They live year-round in a house a short distance from ours.”

“Did they have any idea where she might have gone?”

“No.”

“Who answered the phone?”

“Eva did.”

“Was her husband home, too?”

“No, they own a farm, so I guess he was out working.”

Bergdal lit yet another cigarette, coughed, and then took a long drag.

“What did you do next?”

“I lay down on the bed and thought about various places she might have gone. Then it occurred to me that she might have fallen and hurt herself. Maybe she couldn’t get up. So I went out looking for her again.”

“Where?”

“Down at the beach. The fog had lifted a little. I saw her footsteps in the sand. I also searched in the woods, but I didn’t find her. Then I went back home.”

His face crumpled. He started crying, quietly, without moving. The tears poured out, mixing with snot, but he didn’t notice. Karin didn’t really know what to do. She decided not to disturb him. He took a couple of gulps of water and regained his composure.

Knutas continued the interview. “How did you get those marks on your neck?”

“What? Oh, these?” Embarrassed, Bergdal touched his hands to his throat.

“Yes, those. They look like scratches,” said Knutas.

“Well, you see, we had a party last night. We had invited some friends over. Helena’s friends, actually. We ate dinner and partied and had a good time. Everyone drank a little too much. I have a problem with jealousy. Well, sometimes I get really jealous, and that’s what happened last night. One of the guys was coming on to Helena when they were dancing.”

“In what way?”

“He was grabbing her, a little too much… several times. I was drunk, and it made me see red, to be quite honest. I pulled Helena outdoors in back and told her what I thought of it all. She got mad as hell. I guess she’d drunk too much, too. She screamed and flew at me, and that’s when I got these scratch marks.”

“Then what happened?”

“I hit her. I gave her a slap, and then she ran into the bathroom and locked the door. I’ve never hit her before,” he assured them, giving Knutas a pleading look. “Then Kristian came out to talk to me. He’s the one she was dancing with, and I slugged him, too. He didn’t have a chance to strike back, because the others intervened. Then everything calmed down, and they all went home.”

“What did you do next?”

“Helena’s best friend, Emma, and her husband, Olle, were still there. Olle made sure that I got into bed, and he must have stayed until I fell asleep. I don’t remember anything else until I woke up this morning.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about all this right from the start?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was at the party?”

“Mostly Helena’s childhood friends. Emma and Olle Winarve, as I mentioned, and our neighbors Eva and Rikard Larsson. Helena has known them for a long time. A friend named Beata and her husband, John, the Dunmars. They’ve been living in the States, so I’ve never met them before. And the guy named Kristian, who made me so mad. He’s single, and Helena has known him a long time, too. I think they were really into each other for a while.”

“What do you mean by ‘into each other’?”

“Well, I think they might have slept together a few times. Helena denied it, but I have a feeling I’m right.”

“Do you think that might be your jealousy talking?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“How long have you and Helena been together?”

“Six years.”

“That’s quite a long time. How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Why haven’t you gotten married or had kids?”

“I’ve wanted to for a long time. Helena was more reluctant. She started her studies rather late, and she wanted to work some more before we had a family. We were thinking of getting married, though. We talked about it.”

“Were you unsure about the relationship? Since you were so jealous?”

“No. I don’t know. It was getting better and better. It’s been a long time since I got so mad. Yesterday it all just exploded.”

“Do you know whether she’d had a falling-out with anyone here on the island? Anyone who disliked her?”

“No, she was the sort of person that everyone liked.”

“Do you know whether she’s ever received any threats?”

“No.”

“Were you friends with anyone else here on Gotland, other than the people who were at the party?”

“Just with some of Helena’s relatives. Her father’s sister, who lives in Alva, and a few cousins in Hemse. Otherwise we usually kept mostly to ourselves. We came here to relax, you know… and to get away from all the stress back home… and then something like this has to happen.”

He could hardly speak.

Knutas could see that there was no reason to continue for the time being, and he stopped the interview.

When Anders Knutas had concluded his interview with Per Bergdal, he went to his office for a few minutes to think and reflect. He sat down heavily in his old desk chair, which was worn shiny. It was made of oak and had been with him all these years. It had a high back, and the seat was covered in soft leather. Gently he spun around, rocking the chair a bit as he leaned against the back. The chair seemed to have become molded to his body over the years. He did his best thinking while sitting in that old chair.

Knutas, who was the head of criminal investigations in Visby, was always careful to set aside time like this. It was especially important whenever there was a lot of drama surrounding him. Like today. His long experience with the police had taught him to pay attention to every impression at the beginning of an investigation. Otherwise it was easy, in all the fervor, to overlook things that might turn out to be important or even crucial to solving the case. He started filling his pipe.

In his mind he went back over the impressions he had brought back from the murder scene. The bloody body. The panties in the mouth. The slaughtered dog. What did the macabre scene tell him? It was difficult to say whether the murder been planned or not, but there was no doubt that it had been committed in extreme rage.

The medical examiner had arrived by plane from Stockholm in the afternoon. He was already out at the site. Knutas decided to go out to the murder scene the next day, when things should be significantly calmer.

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Karin Jacobsson stuck her head in. “Everyone’s here now. Are you coming?”

“Of course,” said Knutas, and stood up.

There were twelve police detectives in Visby. At the moment most of them were out at the site in Frojel, working to gather statements from witnesses and secure any evidence at the crime scene. Knutas and his closest colleagues were meeting with the prosecuting attorney, Birger Smittenberg, to go over what should be divulged to the media and what they should hold back for the time being. They were all sitting around the worn pine table in the conference room, which was right across from Knutas’s office. The room had glass walls facing the corridor, so it was possible to see everyone who went past, but at the moment the thin yellow cotton drapes were drawn.

Knutas sat down at the head of the table and looked attentively at his colleagues. He liked this group. Karin Jacobsson was his closest associate and best sounding board, a smart, short, thirty-seven-year-old woman with brown eyes who lived alone. Next to her sat Thomas Wittberg, ten years younger and a very capable detective, especially with regard to his interrogation techniques. Somehow he always managed to get more out of the people they interviewed than anyone else. Lars Norrby, divorced, had two sons who lived with him. Almost six foot six, he was a pleasant man with a very proper appearance, perfect for dealing with the press. Erik Sohlman, the technician of the group, was energetic and temperamental, close to being hot-tempered. Birger Smittenberg, the hardened chief prosecutor of the Gotland district court, was originally from Stockholm. He had married a singer from Gotland, having fallen in love with both her and the island, and had now lived here for twenty-five years. Knutas had always thought they received excellent cooperation from him.

“Just a brief discussion right now,” said Knutas as he started the hastily organized meeting. “We’re putting all our efforts into the homicide investigation, but at the same time, unfortunately, we have to deal with the press. They’ve already started calling, both from here, the local media, and from the mainland. It’s incredible how fast news like this travels.” He shook his head. “I always wonder how that happens. At any rate, we’re not going to divulge the victim’s identity, even though the press will find it out sooner or later. We’ll tell them that all indications point to homicide, but we won’t give them any details. We say nothing about the dog, the panties, or the hacking wounds. We say nothing about a possible murder weapon. We reveal nothing about any leads. This is probably going to make the reporters call all sorts of people here at the department, trying to get more information. Refer everyone to me or Lars. Nobody is to say 89 anything. Nothing at all. Okay?”

A murmur of agreement was heard.

“I’ll send out an internal memo with instructions after this meeting,” said Norrby. “A basic ground rule will be in force: Keep the reporters at a distance. They’re going to pounce on you, both in town and here. Don’t tell them a thing.”

“By the way, I’d like us to meet in my office right after the press conference to compare notes,” Knutas continued. “Make sure you get something to eat to tide you over. We’re going to have to work all night. I’ve also contacted the National Criminal Police. They’re sending down a few men tomorrow. This is all going to take a lot of time and resources if we don’t catch the killer quickly.”

Even though it was horrible that such a grisly murder had been committed, he felt a fluttering of excitement in his stomach. He recognized that tingling sensation. A kind of anticipation at being able to seize hold of something solid. What should he call it? Taking pleasure in his work? It was a paradox that he couldn’t explain, not even to himself.

Maybe it was his form of motivation.

It was still light out when the plane landed at Visby Airport just after 9:00 p.m. The cab ride into town went fast, since the airport was less than two miles north of Visby.

“That’s some thick wall!”

Peter had never been to Gotland before.

“It was built in the thirteenth century,” Johan told him. “It’s more than two miles long, and one of Europe’s best preserved ring walls. You can see how many towers it has. Soon we’ll be driving through Norderport, the north gate, to get to our hotel. There are several archways. The big ones are named for the points of the compass: Osterport, Soderport, and Norderport. There has never been a Vasterport, because to the west is the sea and Visby Harbor.”

He pointed out the window.

“That’s St. Mary’s Cathedral. It’s also from the thirteenth century.”

Its three black towers loomed against the sky.

Luckily they had been served dinner on the plane. They stopped at the hotel just long enough to drop their suitcases and then headed straight for police headquarters, where the press conference was going to be held at 10:00 P.M.

In the cab Johan scribbled out a report from what he had learned so far. They would edit the piece at the local television offices, which still existed even though the Gotland editorial operation of Swedish TV had been shut down six months ago. The old equipment was still there and at their disposal, for the time being at least.

Inside police headquarters, people were dashing up and down the corridors. The air was vibrating with excitement. Several journalists and photographers from the local media were already there: Radio Gotland and the newspapers Gotlands Tidningar and Gotlands Allehanda.

Johan and Peter briefly greeted their colleagues, and then it was time to go into the room where the press conference was being held. Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas and Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson sat down at the head of the table.

“Welcome,” said Knutas, clearing his throat. “We’ve found the body of a woman on the beach known as Gustavs, in Frojel Parish. For those of you who are not from these parts, it’s located on the west coast of Gotland, approximately twenty-five miles south of Visby. The body was discovered by a passerby today around lunchtime; to be more precise, between 12:30 and 12:45. The victim was born in 1966. She was originally from Gotland, but her family moved away from the island and settled in Stockholm fifteen years ago.”

Knutas took a drink of water and glanced down at his papers. “The woman was on Gotland with her boyfriend, spending a few days at the summer house that her family still owns here on the island,” he went on. “This morning she went out to take her dog for a walk, and at some point during that walk, she was murdered.”

“How was she murdered?” asked the female reporter from Radio Gotland.

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that,” said the superintendent.

“What type of weapon was used?”

“I can’t comment on the investigation.”

“How can you be so sure that she was actually murdered?” asked a reporter from Gotlands Allehanda.

“The wounds sustained by the victim can only have been caused by another person. The cause of death has not yet been ascertained, but we assume that the woman’s death was homicide.”

“Was she subjected to sexual assault?” asked Johan.

“It’s too early to comment on that.”

“Are there any witnesses?” asked the representative from Gotlands Tidningar.

“We’re in the process of interviewing a large number of people who live in the area or in some other way had contact with the victim during the final days of her life. The police are very interested in receiving any tips from the public. If anyone saw or heard anything unusual at the site or in the vicinity during the last twenty-four hours, or if anyone thinks he has other information that might be of use in our search for the perpetrator, he should contact the police immediately.”

“How do you know that only one person was involved?” asked the local radio person.

“Of course, we don’t know that for sure,” replied Knutas, a little annoyed.

“She was staying at her summer house with her boyfriend. Is he a suspect?” asked Johan.

“The boyfriend has been questioned by the police. He’s suffering from shock and is currently in Visby Hospital. At the present time he is not a suspect. The interview with him will continue tomorrow morning. This afternoon and evening, the canine unit searched the area, and officers have been going door to door to locate any possible witnesses. We will be continuing with these efforts. Now I think that’s all we have to tell you at the moment. Are there any further questions before we adjourn?”

The superintendent answered the journalists’ questions as best he could. There wasn’t much else to say.

Johan Berg from Regional News decided to hold back any mention of the axe wounds on the woman’s body or the panties in her mouth. For the time being, he was clearly the only one who knew about them.

When the press conference was over, he went up to Anders Knutas for an individual interview. First Johan asked the obvious questions about what had happened, what the police were doing now, and what evidence they had found. Then he asked quite bluntly, “What conclusions have you drawn from the fact that she suffered multiple wounds, presumably from an axe?”

Anders Knutas gave a start.

“What do you mean?”

“The killer murdered her with an axe or some type of similar weapon, hacking her body multiple times. He also stuffed her panties in her mouth. What does that signify?”

Knutas glanced around self-consciously, looking both left and right, as if hoping for help from his colleagues. The bright glare of the camera shone in his face, blinding him.

“I know from a reliable source that these facts are true,” Johan persisted.

“That’s not something I can confirm,” snapped Knutas, shoving aside the microphone.

“Switch off the camera,” Johan told Peter. He took hold of the superintendent’s arm and said to him, “I know that it’s true. Wouldn’t it be better if you confirmed the information?”

Knutas gave Johan a stern look. “I can neither confirm nor deny what you’ve said, and I advise you to withhold such speculations for the time being. We’re dealing with a murderer, and what we need to concentrate on right now is catching him as soon as possible and nothing else,” he bellowed. “And I expect you to respect that.”

His voice was sharp as an awl, and it was easy to see what he thought of journalists as he turned on his heel and strode off down the corridor.

For Johan and Peter, Knutas’s reaction was sufficient confirmation that their information was accurate. The question was how much of it they should make public.

Johan called Max Grenfors from the cab on the way to the TV offices where the story was going to be edited. Even though he thought Grenfors was a slave driver of an editor, Johan trusted his journalistic judgment. After a brief discussion, they decided not to divulge the information about the victim’s panties being stuffed in her mouth, out of respect for her family. On the other hand, they did choose to report that the murder weapon was most likely an axe.

In the late-night news broadcast, Swedish TV was the first to report how the murder had been committed. The feature story began with images of police headquarters, then a map showing the scene of the crime. Next, Johan appeared on the screen.

“Here at police headquarters in Visby, a press conference was held a short time ago. The police confirm that a woman was murdered, but they are being quite reticent about the circumstances surrounding the death. The police will not yet say how the woman was killed. According to information provided this evening to Regional News from a very reliable source, she was killed with what is believed to be an axe. Multiple wounds were sustained on various parts of the body. It is not yet known whether she was subjected to sexual assault, but the woman was naked when she was found. Her clothes are still missing. The body will be sent to the forensic medicine division in Solna for autopsy. In spite of an intensive search of the area with dogs, which continued all afternoon and evening, at this time the police have no clues as to the killer’s identity.”

This was followed by a brief interview with a pale and resolute-looking Knutas, before the story concluded with what little was known about the murdered woman.

It turned out to be a long workday for the Visby police. The light June night facilitated their work down at the beach area. They kept on knocking on doors until late in the evening. At the same time, those who had been dinner guests at the home of Helena Hillerstrom on the previous evening were brought in to be interviewed. Except for Kristian Nordstrom, who had flown to Copenhagen to visit his parents. The police had contacted him, and he was supposed to fly back to Visby early Thursday.

By the time the most important interviews had been conducted, it was close to one in the morning. Earlier that evening Knutas had called home and told his wife, Lina, that he would be late. As usual, she was very understanding and asked him if she should wait up with a cup of tea for him. Reluctantly he had declined her offer. He didn’t know how late he would be.

Now, as he walked home through the streets of Visby, he regretted his decision. It would have been pleasant to sit down for a while and talk about his impressions of the day. It always did him good to share his thoughts with his wife. She would often come up with a new way of looking at things because she was not part of the investigative work. Many times she had turned his thoughts to new avenues that helped him to solve a case. Knutas felt a twinge of warmth in his heart. He loved her above all else. Except for their children, of course. Their twins, a boy and a girl. Petra and Nils. This summer they would be twelve.

When he got home, he looked in on them. They still shared a room, but in the fall they would each have their own. He was in the process of remodeling the study into a bedroom. The study would be moved down to the basement. They used it so seldom, anyway.

The children were sound asleep, breathing calmly. He left the door to their room slightly ajar and went to his own.

Lina lay stretched out across the whole double bed with her arms above her head. Look how much room she takes, he thought. She always did everything with the greatest enthusiasm. Whether she was sleeping, eating, working, laughing, or making love, she did it with such zest. She truly threw herself into life. No matter what she did, she did it properly. If she was baking, she never made do with just one batch. No, she had to make two hundred cinnamon rolls. When she did any major grocery shopping, she gave the impression that a war was on the way, and she always cooked too much food, so the freezer was full of leftovers. That was one of the things he loved about her, her sensual vitality. Right now she was sleeping heavily, wearing a long orange T-shirt decorated with a big flower. Her hair was ruffled, her cheeks rosy. Her arms were sprinkled with freckles. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known.

Her profession was perfectly suited to her personality. She was a midwife. How many children had she helped come into the world? Lina worked part-time in the childbirth center at Visby Hospital, and she loved it. She was used to unanticipated events and having things not turn out the way you expected, and that made her very patient. Many times she would stay with an expectant mother because she didn’t have the heart to leave even though her shift was over, or else out of sheer curiosity. If she had been working for hours with a birth, she didn’t want to let it go before everything was resolved. Sometimes this could irritate her colleagues. Lina didn’t care. She was strong-willed and the most wonderful woman he had ever met.

Cautiously he closed the door again and went downstairs to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of milk and dug into a package of cookies. He took out a handful and sat down at the kitchen table. He often found it difficult to sleep after an eventful day. He petted the cat, who jumped up on the table and lovingly brushed against him. She’s more like a dog, he thought. Faithful and always in need of company. She also loved to play fetch. He threw a foam-rubber ball a few times. She ran off and got it, then brought it back to his feet. What a funny thing you are, thought Knutas, and went off to bed. Contrary to custom, he fell asleep at once.