Unseen

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 6

Johan Berg was awakened by the merry tune from his cell phone that stubbornly kept on playing. At first he had no idea where he was. The melody stopped. He stretched and saw pastel flowers on the wallpaper. There wasn’t a sound. None of the noisy traffic that he was used to hearing outside his window. Oh, that’s right.

The beach hotel in Visby. The murder. His eyes fell on the digital alarm clock next to the bed. It was five thirty in the morning. Then the tune from his cell phone started up again. With a groan he climbed out of bed to answer it.

It was the editor of the morning news. “Hi. Did I wake you? Sorry to call so early. But of course we’d like to have a fresh spot this morning. If you can’t come up with anything new, maybe we could do a phone interview?”

“Sure,” said Johan wearily. “Not that I know anything more than I did at midnight, but I can always call the duty officer.”

“Great. How much time do you need? Shall we say in an hour?”

“That’ll work. I’ll get back to you later.”

After a quick breakfast, he emerged onto the cobblestone street outside the hotel to head over to the TV offices. It had rained during the night; here and there puddles of water glistened. The air held a scent of the sea.

The cramped editorial office of the Regional News division, which still existed, was located next to the Radio Gotland building in the center of town. It made Johan mad to think that the local team had been laid off when Swedish TV had to cut costs. Their huge deficit had to be turned around, and this had been done partially at the expense of regional coverage. With the reorganization, the responsibility for covering Gotland had been shifted from the Norrkoping newsroom to Stockholm. The new management at Swedish TV headquarters felt that the Gotlanders had more in common with the citizens of Stockholm than with Norrkoping. Johan basically agreed with this, but it was a shame that they had laid off the local reporters and cameramen, the people who were truly close to their viewers. At the same time, he was happy to be here. He had always felt a great fondness for Gotland.

A skinny old man was in the process of putting up Swedish flags outside the hotel. Oh, that’s right, today is National Commemoration Day, thought Johan. The sixth of June.

It looked as if it was going to be a beautiful day for the celebration. The sun was caressing the facades of the medieval buildings, and there was no wind. The town was practically deserted. It should take him only a few minutes to reach the TV offices. Right now he was wishing it was a longer walk.

He decided to allow himself a slight detour, even though he really didn’t have time. Only a few yards away he saw the northern section of the ring wall extending beyond the buildings. There was a break in the wall on this side of the old Gunpowder Tower, which originally had been a defensive stronghold. Johan enjoyed the view until he turned onto Rostockergrand. He walked past the low stone buildings with their budding rose vines and the planking that protected the gardens inside. Many of the buildings had windows that were only a foot or two above the ground. The street doors were so low that anyone taller than five feet had to duck his head to go in.

A radio was blaring from the open window of a bakery, and he breathed in the fragrance of freshly baked bread. A black cat was sitting on the curving stairs outside a building, watching him as he walked past.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called the duty officer.

“Good morning. It’s Johan Berg from Regional News, Swedish TV. Any new developments during the night with the murder of the woman in Frojel?”

“Yes, the prosecuting attorney has decided to arrest the boyfriend, under suspicion of murder.”

“No shit. On what grounds?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. You’ll have to take that up with the head of the investigation, Anders Knutas.”

“Is he there now?”

“No, he should be in around eight, but then there’s a meeting scheduled.”

“Where’s the boyfriend?”

“He’s still in the hospital. He’s going to be picked up sometime this morning and taken into custody.”

“Who’s the prosecuting attorney?”

“Chief Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg.”

“When did he decide to arrest him?”

“At four o’clock this morning. Otherwise we couldn’t hold him any longer.”

“Do you know whether Anders Knutas will be out at the crime scene today?”

“I can’t say. You’ll have to take it up with him.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Johan dashed for the TV offices.

The logos of both Radio Gotland and Swedish TV adorned the facade of the radio building. The blue-and-white awnings above the windows were looking rather the worse for wear in the morning sunlight. Several cars belonging to local radio were parked in the lot in the courtyard. He noticed that one space was reserved for Regional News. It stood empty and gaping, as if it were mocking him. In the past the local TV van was parked there, but, of course, that didn’t exist anymore, either. Johan was ashamed to think about how badly Regional News had been covering the island lately. Most often the only news from here dealt with tourism, oil spills, and the traffic.

He went in and put together a story running just over a minute for the morning program. He could handle the simpler types of editing himself. When he was ready, he sent the story by e-mail on the new computer system. In a few minutes they would be able to open the file and watch it in Stockholm. He was also interviewed on the phone by Madeleine Haga, one of the reporters he liked best at Swedish TV.

The morning news had gotten what they wanted. Now it was past seven, and Johan thought it was worth giving Knutas another try. The superintendent himself answered.

“I heard the boyfriend was arrested last night,” said Johan. “Why?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Surely you can tell me something?”

“No.”

“Will you be out at the crime scene today?”

“Yes, for a while this morning. I’m going out there around ten.”

“How long will you be there?”

“A few hours, I would think.”

“Could I do a short interview with you out there?”

“I suppose that’s all right.”

“Good, then that’s agreed. Thanks. See you there.”

When Knutas switched off his cell phone, he thought to himself that this time he was going to be prepared for the interview. No unpleasant questions were going to throw him off balance. The room was almost completely dark when he woke up. The shades were pulled down, but a little of the white night still managed to seep through. Rain was pelting the windowpanes. His body was sore, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. With an effort he got out of bed. Outside he could hear the sea rolling in. He turned on the faucet to get a drink. The cold water gushed out and hit the porcelain bottom of the sink before he managed to hold out the glass. He drank the water in big gulps, then stuck his feet into his wooden clogs and went outside. With precision he made the stream of urine strike the hole in the stone wall surrounding the house, the spot he was always trying to hit. The fresh nighttime chill felt wonderful on his bare skin. He wasn’t cold, even though he was wearing only pajama bottoms. He had dreamed about her. About how he had followed her along the beach. About her fear when he stood right behind her in the fog. He had been so focused. Totally focused. When she turned around, his hatred had exploded like red fireworks inside his head, and he took pleasure in the terror he could see in her eyes before he struck. When she collapsed to the ground, he felt like a conqueror. He kept on hacking. Even though he realized that he had done something terrible, something irrevocable, he had never felt so good. The dog had interrupted his elation. It turned out that the animal wasn’t dead, even though the first blow had landed right on its head. When he was done with her and was dragging the body into the grove, he heard a whimpering. The fact that the fucking dog was still alive filled him with rage.

Normally Anders Knutas stayed at the police station whenever anything dramatic happened, in order to gather his forces around him like a spider in his web. Nothing like this murder had ever occurred before on Gotland, though, and he wanted to go over the crime scene one more time, in peace and quiet. Right now he was in Frojel, standing on the steps of the summer house that belonged to the Hillerstrom family. He was dressed in blue jeans and polo shirt, as usual, with soft walking shoes on his feet. He had left his jacket in the car. It was a cloudless day, and the air was clear and fresh. Between the trees he could see glimpses of the shimmering water. So this is where she started out yesterday morning, he thought.

He decided to follow the route they assumed Helena Hillerstrom had taken.

Just beyond the yard surrounding the house, a narrow gravel path led down toward the water, a few hundred yards away. Several police vehicles were parked near the shore.

Crime scene tape fluttered in the wind. He stayed outside of it so as not to disturb the work of the techs. It took him only a few minutes to reach the beach. He climbed over a sand dune and he was there.

Today the sea was choppy. The waves were breaking and foaming. Flocks of seagulls flapped over the crests, screeching. The islands Big and Little Karlso looked exotic out there, sticking up from the sea. The rock formations were clearly visible, at least on Little Karlso. Big Karlso lurked behind the smaller island, flatter and farther away.

He looked out across the beach. It wasn’t long, half a mile at most, with fine, light-colored sand. A short distance from the water’s edge, grass and reeds grew on the dunes. Perfect for sunbathers seeking a haven in the summertime, since it was often windy on the beach itself.

Knutas glanced at his watch. Nine thirty.

He strolled along the edge of the water, outside the area that had been cordoned off. She had walked along the shoreline with her dog. Not suspecting a thing. It had been foggy yesterday morning, so the killer wouldn’t have had any trouble keeping out of sight. Sohlman had reported finding several tracks from shoes down on the beach. They had secured the shoe prints left by Helena; the others found at the crime scene must belong to the killer. Bloodstains and marks on the ground revealed that she had been murdered on the beach and then dragged into the grove of trees. The crime techs were working intently inside the restricted area. Everything of interest that they found in connection with the crime scene would be sent to SCL-the Swedish Crime Laboratory-in Linkoping for analysis.

He came to the end of the beach without noticing anything special and started back. All indications were that the murderer had killed the dog first. Of course, that had to be the case. It had been a good watchdog, so naturally he was forced to kill it. If the dog didn’t know him, that is. Otherwise it was a whole different story. The perpetrator could have been an acquaintance of the victim. That was most often the case with a murder. Knutas had a strong feeling that the boyfriend wasn’t guilty. That was his personal theory, and for the time being he was keeping it to himself. One of the people at the party seemed most likely. Kristian Nordstrom?

He was the only one Knutas hadn’t yet talked to. The interview was scheduled for the following day.

Knutas didn’t believe it was a coincidence that Helena Hillerstrom had been murdered, that she just happened to come upon a killer carrying an axe on this calm stretch of beach several weeks before the start of the tourist season. The murder had the mark of rage, which was often associated with revenge. That didn’t necessarily mean that it had to do with Helena. It could be revenge on women in general.

By this time Knutas had returned to the place where he started his stroll on the beach, without being any the wiser.

There were almost no cars on the road. It was past nine o’clock, and Johan and Peter were on their way south. On both sides of the road, the landscape stretched out flat in the glow of the morning sun. On the right side, they occasionally caught a glimpse of the sea, while on the left, cultivated fields alternated with meadows.

Herds of livestock were grazing in the green meadows. Johan wondered why the sheep on Gotland were black while almost all the cattle were white. On the mainland it was exactly the opposite: white sheep and black or brown cows.

They passed the Tofta artillery range and Tofta Church with its wood-covered tower before they slowed down through the little village of Vastergarn and drove past the larger town of Klintehamn.

After several miles they came to Frojel’s white-plastered church, which stood by the road. From here they could see the water much more clearly. A few brown horses were trotting around in a yard. The fields of grain took on still more shades of green. Down near a strip of woods close to the sea, they caught sight of police cars and tape cordoning off the area. They parked next to the other vehicles.

Knutas was engaged in a conversation with a female colleague. He glanced up as they approached. He would give them an interview in fifteen minutes, he explained, and they were not allowed to go inside the restricted area.

An area that looked to be several hundred square yards had been blocked off. Johan gazed out at the strip of woods, the sand dunes, and the sea. So it was in this beautiful, idyllic spot that the bestial murder had occurred. He wondered how it happened, and whether the woman who was killed had enough time to be scared.

They walked down to the beach. Inside the restricted area, a couple of police officers, most likely technicians, were walking around and staring at the ground. Now and then they would pick up something and then put it inside a plastic bag.

Was it the boyfriend who had sneaked up on her and murdered her so viciously? thought Johan. He had been arrested, after all. At the same time, experience told him that occasionally the prosecuting attorney would arrest individuals on quite flimsy grounds.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by Peter.

“Hey, could you move over?” he shouted, hidden behind the camera, concentrating on his shot and with his eye at the viewfinder. He had attached the big TV camera to a tripod, and Johan was standing in the way of the shot he was considering, panning across the beach.

It was eleven o’clock. The editor of the noon news was prepared to make do with the morning’s material, so they didn’t need to worry about that.

“I think we should drop by and see the sister of the old man who found the body,” said Johan as they got into the car. “Her name is Svea Johansson, and she lives nearby. We can try to get an interview with her.”

“Sure,” replied Peter, who was usually quite cooperative.

Svea Johansson opened the door after they knocked four times. The fragrance of newly baked cinnamon rolls greeted them.

“Yes? And who might you be?” she asked bluntly with a lilting Gotland accent, peering up at them.

They had never seen such a tiny old lady before. Her hair was white and pulled back into a bun. Her face had a rosy hue and delicate little wrinkles, and there was flour on the tip of her nose. She was wearing a striped cotton apron. She can’t be more than four foot seven, thought Johan, fascinated. He introduced himself and Peter.

“Ah, well, come in then,” said Svea, letting them into the cramped, dark hallway. “I’m in the middle of baking rolls, so you’ll have to come sit in the kitchen.”

They sat down on the kitchen bench, and in an instant two coffee cups were set on the table before them.

“You’ll have a little coffee, won’t you?” murmured the old woman without waiting for them to reply. “You’re in luck, because the first batch of rolls will be done soon.”

“That would be great,” they said in unison.

Johan looked out at the yard and realized that this was going to take some time.

“We were wondering if you could tell us about your brother finding the dead woman,” said Johan.

“Of course I can,” she replied as she took a pan of cinnamon rolls out of the oven. “It made him very upset, the poor thing. He’s still in the hospital. They wanted to keep him another day. I talked to him this morning, and he was sounding quite cheerful.”

“How did he happen to find her?”

“Well, we were supposed to go out for a walk. That’s what we usually do every day, but yesterday I didn’t want to go along. No, I didn’t. Because I had a sore throat and a terrible cough. Today I’m feeling much better,” she explained, pinching the skin of her wrinkled neck.

“Well, anyway, he came over around eleven, as usual. We had a little lunch together, the way we always do. Then he went out alone. I stayed here and did some needlework. It didn’t take long before he was back, pounding on the door even though it was open. He was very upset and babbling something about a dead woman and a dead dog and that he had to call the police.”

Johan gave a start. “A dead dog? Can you tell us more about that?”

“Yes, apparently there was a dog that was killed. The head had been cut off, and it was quite horrible,” she lamented, shaking her head.

Johan and Peter exchanged glances. This was something new.

“Did the dog belong to the woman?” asked Johan.

“Yes, apparently she went everywhere with that dog. That’s what the police said when they were here.”

Half an hour later Johan and Peter left the farm. By then they had Svea Johansson’s account on videotape.

Emma Winarve was hot and sweaty. She had a disgusting taste in her mouth and a knot of fear in her stomach. The nightmare still had a grip on her. She and Helena were walking on the beach together, as they had done so many times before. Helena walked on a short distance ahead. Emma called to her to wait but received no reply. Then she picked up her pace and called Helena again. Her friend still did not turn around. Emma tried to run but made no headway. Her feet lifted off the ground in slow motion, and even though she tried as hard as she could, she didn’t get any closer. She never caught up with Helena, and she woke up with a shout.

Angrily she kicked off Olle’s blanket, which had slipped onto her side of the bed on top of her own, making her much too hot. She felt like crying, but she shook off the feeling and instead got out of bed. Sunlight was filtering through the thin cotton curtains, and it lit up the big, airy bedroom.

She had stayed home from work even though there were only two days left until the end of the school year and she had a lot to do. She didn’t want to leave her pupils in the lurch, but she just couldn’t bear to see them at the moment. From home she would try to take care of all the last-minute preparations before school closed for the summer. The principal understood. The shock. The grief. Emma and Helena. Helena and Emma. They had been the best of friends.

Mechanically she went through her usual morning routine. The shower water sprayed against her warm body, but it didn’t feel refreshing. Her skin was a thick shell, far away from all that was inside her. The contact between her exterior and interior had been broken.

Olle had taken the children to school before he went to work. He offered to stay home, but Emma had firmly declined this suggestion; she wanted to be alone. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and went out to the kitchen in her bare feet. She frequently went barefoot in the house, even in winter. After a cup of strong coffee and a couple of pieces of toast, she began feeling a little better, but the sense of unreality swirled inside her. How could this have happened? Her best friend murdered on the beach, where they had played in the sand with buckets and shovels; where they had held horse races when they were horse-crazy twelve-year-olds; where they had walked as teenagers, discussing their problems; and where they had ridden motorbikes and gotten drunk for the first time. She had even lost her virginity on that beach.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. It was Detective Superintendent Knutas.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but it would be good if we could have a little talk as soon as possible. I also wanted to tell you that Per Bergdal was arrested this morning. Would it be all right if I come out to see you after lunch?”

Emma felt chilled. Per, arrested? That couldn’t be possible. The police must know everything about the fight, she thought.

“Why was he arrested?”

“There are several reasons, which I can tell you about when we meet.”

Shocked and confused as she was, she didn’t want any police officer in the middle of her private hell. It would be better to meet on neutral ground.

“Could we meet at the police station? Around two o’clock?”

“That would be fine. As I said, I’m sorry I have to disturb you, but it’s important,” Knutas repeated.

“That’s okay,” she said in a toneless voice.

Knutas took a gulp of coffee from the china mug decorated with the emblem of the local AIK soccer team, a present from his brother. It infuriated his colleague Erik Sohlman, who had been a fan of the archrival Djurgarden team since birth.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Quarter to twelve. His stomach growled. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep, and he always had to compensate for that by eating. Soon it would finally be time for lunch.

The investigative team had gathered to go over what had been uncovered so far. The prosecuting attorney was also present.

The room was hot and stuffy. Wittberg opened the window facing the police station parking lot. Rays of sunlight played tag among the light green foliage of the trees. The Swedish flag flapped and fluttered in the wind. A truck filled with bellowing high school graduates wearing white student caps drove past over on Birkagatan. It was the end of the school year and a national holiday, and here they sat indoors, talking about what was probably the worst murder ever to occur on Gotland.

“We’re here to sum up the situation,” Knutas began. “Helena Hillerstrom was murdered sometime between 8:30 A.M. and 12:30 P.M. yesterday. The shoe tracks, the blood, and the dragging marks down from the beach indicate that the murder was committed near Gustavs, the Baptist summer camp. Which means that the body was not transported there from somewhere else. The preliminary report from the medical examiner says that she died from extensive trauma to the head. The nature of the head wounds indicates that they’re the result of blows from a sharp-edged weapon, presumably an axe. The body was also subjected to numerous blows from the axe. In addition, the perpetrator stuffed her panties into her mouth. Helena Hillerstrom was found naked. We don’t know yet whether she was raped or not. There are no outward signs of sexual assault, nofr were any of the blows directed at her sexual organs. The body is being taken to the forensic medicine lab in Solna. It will take a few days before we have a preliminary autopsy report. The panties were sent to SCL for analysis. No trace of semen was found on the body or the panties, at least not any that the techs could discover. We’ll have to wait and see what the results of the analysis are. Her other clothing has not been found.”

“What about the murder weapon?” asked Wittberg.

“That’s gone, too,” interjected Sohlman. “We’ve searched the area where the body was found. Nothing special turned up except for a few cigarette butts that have also been sent to SCL. We’ve interviewed witnesses in the vicinity, but no one saw anything, no one heard anything. The only real clues we have so far are the shoe prints. The same prints show up both on the beach and in the forest grove. A running shoe of unknown manufacture, size 11?. They had to belong to the perpetrator.”

Sohlman stood up. With some difficulty he unrolled a map and fastened it to the wall. It was a map of the beach at Gustavs and the surrounding area. Sohlman wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and pointed out the scene of the crime.

“This is where the body was found. The tracks show that the victim walked in this direction along the shore. Then she must have turned around and walked back the same way. At the other end of the beach, meaning where she started out, the grass has been trampled down. It looks as if that’s where he stood waiting for her. He may have known which way she would walk and then intercepted her before she could reach the road. There are no tire tracks, so the killer must have been on foot. He most likely murdered her there. The bloodstains on the ground indicate as much. Then he dragged the body over to the grove.”

“What about the dog?” asked Karin Jacobsson.

“It must have been disposed of first. According to the boyfriend, it was an alert and excellent watchdog, who always kept close to Helena, ready to protect her. The dog was struck on the head and the neck with an axe. The head was practically severed. One paw was also chopped off. We can only wonder why.”

The others stirred uneasily. Jacobsson grimaced.

“How many people knew she was here on the island?” asked Norrby.

“About thirty or so, if I’ve counted correctly,” said Jacobsson as she leafed through her notes. “Her family, her work colleagues and a couple of friends in Stockholm, her friend Emma Winarve, the closest neighbors, and the people who were at the party, of course.”

“What leads you to believe that it could be the boyfriend?” Wittberg asked, turning to the prosecuting attorney.

“A fight erupted between him and Helena at the party, and it ended with him slapping her,” replied Smittenberg. “He was jealous. She was apparently dancing with an old school friend, Kristian Nordstrom. In Bergdal’s view, Kristian was groping Helena, and she let him do it. He pulled Helena outside, they started fighting, and he slapped her. He in turn was scratched and bitten by Helena. The fight lasted only a couple of minutes. Then Nordstrom came out to talk to Bergdal, and he got punched, too. The other friends intervened, so it never turned into a real fistfight. They say that everything was calm when they left the house. Bergdal was asleep, and Helena had also gone to bed and was even lying next to him. The most serious strikes against him are that he was the last one to see her alive and the fact that they had a fight on the night preceding the murder. I view that as sufficient grounds for arrest, as things now stand. On the other hand, in order to charge him with a crime, I need something more. If you don’t come up with any new evidence, such as some sort of forensic proof, we’ll have to let him go. You’ve got two days.”

“What do we know about Helena?” asked Jacobsson. “What was her life like?”

Knutas glanced down at his notebook. “Helena seems to have led an ordinary life. She was born on July 5, 1966, so she was thirty-four years old. She would have been thirty-five next month. Born and raised on Gotland. Her whole family moved to Stockholm in 1986, when Helena was twenty. They kept the summer cabin near Frojel, and they came to stay here several times a year. They used to spend every summer here. She was educated in computer science at Stockholm University, and she has worked for a computer company for the past three years. She had lots of friends. Before Bergdal, she seems not to have had any long-term love relationships. Never married or engaged. According to Bergdal, she once had something going with this Kristian who was at the party. That might also be complete nonsense. The boyfriend suffers from jealousy, as you know. None of the friends has been able to confirm that the story was true, and surely at least one of them ought to know something about it. We haven’t been able to interview Nordstrom yet because he flew to Copenhagen the day after the party. That’s where his parents live. I’ve talked to him on the phone, and he’s flying back here tomorrow.”

“Does Helena Hillerstrom have any kind of record?” asked Wittberg.

“No. The question now is how we should proceed. We’ll conduct more interviews with the people who were at the party. Above all, I want to talk to Kristian Nordstrom. Someone needs to go over to Stockholm and interview Helena’s family, colleagues, friends, and other people she knew. We should do that as soon as possible. We need to keep working with an open mind. It’s not at all certain that Bergdal is the killer. If he’s not the one, then we don’t know whether the murderer is on the island or whether he followed her here from the mainland. Or whether it’s someone she didn’t even know, someone she met by chance.”

“I’d be happy to go to Stockholm,” said Jacobsson. “We need to talk to the people she knew as quickly as possible. I can leave this afternoon.”

“Take someone with you. There’s a lot to be done in Stockholm, and plenty of people to interview. I’m sure you’ll have the assistance of the National Criminal Police over there, but I think two of you should go.”

“I’ll go,” said Wittberg.

Jacobsson gave him a grateful smile. “All right, that’s decided, then. By the way, we’re waiting to hear back from SCL. In the meantime, we need to map out Helena’s circle of acquaintances here on the island. Who did she spend time with when she was here? Aside from her best friend. We need to do another round of interviews with the neighbors. I’ll conduct a more intensive interview with Emma Winarve. What did Helena do on the days preceding the murder? Conversations on her cell phone? E-mail messages? The boyfriend says that they switched off their cell phones as soon as they got off the ferry. How do we go about searching for her clothes? We need to expand the area around the crime scene, both in terms of searching the area and talking to the neighbors. Those are what I see as the most pressing matters right now. Any comments?” Knutas concluded.

No one had any objections, and so the tasks were divided up.

After a late lunch, Johan and Peter went to the police station to do a supplemental interview with the superintendent. They wanted to have the new information about the dog confirmed before the story for the evening news was edited.

Pulling open the glass door to the criminal department, Johan collided with a woman. She had shoulder-length sand-colored hair and dark eyes that glared at them. She said a curt hello and then walked away down the corridor with her bag over her shoulder-tall and attractive, wearing washed-out jeans and cowboy boots.

“Who was that?” asked Johan even before greeting Knutas.

“A friend of the murder victim,” replied the inspector briefly. “Come in.”

Knutas sat down heavily behind his desk and said wearily, “So, what is it you want now? I’m very busy.”

Johan dropped into one of the visitors’ chairs. He chose to get right to the point.

“Why haven’t you said anything about the dog?”

Knutas’s expression didn’t change. “What dog?”

“The killer chopped off the head of the girl’s dog. It was found right near the body.”

Red patches appeared on Knutas’s neck. “I can’t confirm that.”

“What conclusions have you come to, based on this information?”

“Since I can neither confirm nor deny what you’ve said, I can’t offer any conclusions, either.”

“We’ve now heard from two different sources that she was killed with an axe. That part has already come out, and it’s in all the newspapers. Wouldn’t it be just as well for you to confirm it?”

“It doesn’t matter how many sources you have, I’m not saying anything regarding the investigation. You’ll just have to accept that,” said Knutas, controlling his impatience.

“In any case, I need to do another interview.”

“Sure, but I’m not going to say any more than I already have. As far as the police are concerned, we’re not ready to divulge anything else at the moment. So far, the suspect has not been charged, and the prosecuting attorney has not submitted a request for indictment to the district court. For that reason, with regard to the investigation, we cannot confirm what you’ve said about the dog. It’s possible that the murderer is still on the loose, and if so, it’s important that sensitive information does not get out. I hope that you’ll show enough sense not to report anything about this but to wait until we know more,” said Knutas, giving them a stern look.

After the interview, which had been quite tiresome for both parties, Johan and Peter hurried back to the office. They worked for a couple of hours, putting together three evening stories that differed enough from each other to satisfy the various editors at TV headquarters. Heaven forbid the news programs were too much alike.

After consulting with Grenfors, they decided to report on the dead dog and include the interview with Svea Johansson. The information was considered relevant because it revealed something about the personality of the murderer. It was also deemed to be of interest for the viewers to hear what the sister of the man who found the body had to say.

Grenfors was happy that they had managed to get an interview with the sister, who without hesitation had granted permission for the story to be broadcast on TV. When Johan warned her about the widespread impact of television, she merely said that this was how it happened, and there was no reason why people shouldn’t know what had taken place. The old woman should have been a journalist, thought Johan.

When they were ready in the newsroom, he called Knutas and explained that they were going to air the interview with Svea Johansson and that she had told them about the dog. He knew how important it was not to get on the wrong side of the police. That would make it more difficult for him to obtain any information in the future. Knutas did not get angry; he just seemed resigned. As compensation, Johan promised to say in his report that the police would be grateful to receive any tips from the public.

They walked home in the mild early summer evening. Peter suggested taking a walk and having a bite to eat at an outdoor cafe instead of going straight back to the hotel.

Johan knew Gotland well. He had spent numerous summers on the island, mostly on bicycle vacations when that was a big fad back in the eighties and practically everybody had to go bicycling on Gotland in the summertime-families, school classes, teenagers, and couples newly in love. He wondered why it wasn’t popular anymore. The island was still just as well suited to bike riding, with its flat terrain, the flower-filled roadsides, and the long sandy shores along the roads.

They walked down to Strandgatan and continued through an opening in the wall and out to Almedalen, a big open square with park benches, fountains, grassy spaces, and a stage that had been constructed for the politicians who usually gave speeches there during the week traditionally devoted to politics in July. In the summertime the park was filled with sunbathing tourists and families with children.

Right now it was deserted. Johan and Peter walked through the park and then made a circuit of the harbor, where the wind was blowing in from the sea. The harbor was almost empty of boats. Most of the outdoor cafes and restaurants were still closed. In two or three weeks they would be nearly full every evening.

The town took on quite a different look when it wasn’t overflowing with hordes of tourists. Johan and Peter climbed up Kyrktrappan to see the picturesque buildings on Klinten. Visby was spread out before them, with a maze of houses, old ruins, and narrow lanes all compressed inside the ring wall, and the sea in the background.

Twilight had settled over the town as they walked down Rackarbacken and past the cathedral. Inside, the choir was practicing. The lovely tones of a Swedish hymn came floating out through the wooden door.

Late that evening, as they walked back to the hotel, they agreed to try to get an interview with Helena Hillerstrom’s friend the next day.