Unseen

FRIDAY, JUNE 15

With long, powerful movements, Knutas covered one yard after another, swimming the breaststroke. He raised his head above the surface for a brief moment to draw in more air and then lowered it back down. In the water he was weightless and timeless. It gave him a different perspective, which made his thoughts clearer.

It was seven in the morning, and he was alone in the seventy-five-foot swimming pool at the Solberg Baths. Almost a week had passed since Per Bergdal was charged. Even though the murder of Helena Hillerstrom was considered solved, it wouldn’t leave him alone. Bergdal was supposed to appear in the Gotland district court on August 15 to be indicted for the murder of his girlfriend. He was still maintaining his innocence, and Knutas was inclined to believe him. Uncertainty was plaguing him like a toothache. He had spoken to SCL in Linkoping on the previous day. It turned out that the blood on the axe did come from Helena. So they could establish that the axe was the murder weapon, and it was true that Bergdal’s fingerprints had been found on it. Yet Knutas still couldn’t shake the feeling that the boyfriend was innocent.

He switched from the breaststroke to the backstroke.

According to Bergdal, the axe belonged to the Hillerstrom family, and it must have been stolen from the unlocked shed on the property. It had been in their possession for several years, and Per Bergdal had used it to chop wood any number of times. It was no wonder that his prints were found on it.

Knutas expressed his doubts to prosecuting attorney Smittenberg during one of their conversations. The prosecutor was a reasonable man who upheld the principle of maintaining objectivity. He encouraged Knutas to continue working on trying to uncover the facts. Of course, he had to admit that the technical evidence was convincing, but if new circumstances should come to light supporting Bergdal’s story, then he wouldn’t stand in the way. Unfortunately, Knutas hadn’t had any luck. The fact that Per Bergdal also wore a size 11? shoe, which corresponded to the print found at the crime scene, didn’t help matters. On the other hand, the police hadn’t been able to find a shoe belonging to Bergdal that matched the print. The fact that Helena Hillerstrom had not been raped or subjected to any other sort of sexual assault perplexed Knutas. The question was: What did the panties in her mouth signify if the murder had no sexual motivation? Something doesn’t fit, thought Knutas, and he summoned all his energy to swim the last few laps of the pool.

After he had swum his mile, he was happy. He spent some time in the sauna, then took a cold shower, and he felt like a new man. In the locker room he stood in front of the full-length mirror in that ruthless lighting and critically examined his body. His gut had definitely gotten bigger lately, and his arm muscles were no longer worth showing off. Maybe he should start lifting weights. There was a small gym at police headquarters. He ran his hand through his hair. It was streaked with gray, but at least it was still thick and shiny.

Back at headquarters he ate a breakfast of fresh cheese rolls and coffee in his office.

Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg had returned from Stockholm and submitted a detailed report on the interviews they had conducted. They had found nothing remarkable about Helena Hillerstrom’s life.

She took judo classes several times a week at a Friskis amp; Svettis gym, and she was known as something of a workout addict among her friends. In addition, she had developed a great interest in dogs over the past several years. She often went to dog training classes with her smooth-coated retriever named Spencer, who almost never left her side when she wasn’t at work. They had all attested to the fact that the animal was a superb watchdog.

The meeting with Helena’s parents hadn’t yielded much. Both parents were still so shocked that they had a hard time talking. The mother had been taken to the emergency room of the psychiatric ward at Danderyd Hospital, where she had been kept under observation for a couple of days. When Wittberg and Jacobsson met the parents, Helena’s mother had just returned home. She gave only brief answers to their questions. The father couldn’t think of anything unusual in Helena’s life. No jealous old boyfriends, no threats, or anything else that might be of interest to the homicide investigators.

Helena’s siblings, friends, and work colleagues had all presented the same picture of her. A stable, career-oriented woman. Smart and socially talented. She had plenty of friends but didn’t easily allow anyone to get too close. The person who seemed to be closest to her was Emma Winarve, in spite of the fact that they lived far away from each other.

Per Bergdal’s parents were, of course, in despair over the fact that their son was accused of murder. Most of the people who knew him and who had been interviewed by the police were certain that he was innocent. The only one who seemed convinced that Bergdal was the killer was Kristian Nordstrom. Ah yes, Nordstrom, thought Knutas. There was something sneaky about him. Knutas couldn’t really put his finger on it, but it was there. He was also positive that Nordstrom hadn’t told them everything.

Knutas devoted the morning to dealing with a pile of paperwork. For several hours he pushed aside all thoughts of Helena Hillerstrom’s murder. His office was quite large, although looking the worse for wear. The paint around the windows had begun to peel in several places, and the wallpaper had yellowed over the years. The wall behind him was hidden by rows of orange, green, and yellow ring binders. Near the window facing the parking lot, four visitor’s chairs were grouped around a table, intended for small meetings. Several brochures about the community police substations lay on the table. Over the years he hadn’t devoted much attention to sprucing up his office, and it showed.

A photograph on his desk bore witness to the fact that he had a life outside of police headquarters. Lina and the children, laughing in the sand at Tofta beach. A single flowering plant stood on the windowsill, a hardy white geranium that he talked to and watered practically every day. Karin Jacobsson had given it to him as a birthday present several years ago. He was in the habit of saying good morning to the plant and asking it how it was doing, but he kept that habit private.

He went out to lunch by himself. It was liberating to get outdoors. The height of summer was almost upon them. The approach of the summer season could also be seen in town. More and more restaurants were opening, tourists were streaming in, and there was more life and commotion in the evenings in Visby. Many school groups and conference participants came to Gotland at this time of year.

After lunch he shut himself up in his office with a cup of coffee. He didn’t feel like talking to any of his colleagues, and on this Friday everything was calm at police headquarters. He leafed through the documents from the Hillerstrom investigation and studied the photographs.

He was interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Karin stuck her head in. She gave him a big smile, displaying the gap between her front teeth.

“Are you still here? It’s Friday, for God’s sake, and it’s past five. I have to stop at the state liquor store. Do you need anything?”

“I’ll go with you,” he said, and got up from his chair.

A good dinner with a bottle of red wine would undoubtedly put him in a better mood.

The inn was packed. The Monk’s Cellar was still popular. The rustic inn with its medieval archways had been in business for more than thirty years now, and it was practically an institution in Visby. In the winter, only the smaller bar and part of the restaurant were open. Then it could get crowded on weekend evenings. During the high season “the Monk” was transformed into a pleasure palace with several restaurant sections, bars, and dance floors, as well as a stage for live performances. On this Friday evening, several of the smaller bars were already open: the salsa bar, the vinyl bar, and the little intimate beer bar. All of them were full to the bursting point.

Frida Lindh and a group of women friends were sitting at a round table in the middle of the vinyl bar. They had positioned themselves so that they had a full view of the room, and they were also quite visible themselves.

There was a great deal of noise and commotion. From the loudspeakers, “Riders on the Storm” by the Doors was blaring at top volume. People were drinking beer from big tankards and doing shots. At one table several young guys were playing backgammon.

Frida was feeling pleasantly tipsy. She was wearing a tight-fitting top and a short black skirt made of a clinging fabric. She felt attractive and sexy and full of energy.

It was great to be out with her newfound girlfriends. She had moved to Gotland with her family only a year ago, and at the time she didn’t know anyone in Visby, but through her children’s daycare center and her job in a beauty salon, she had met lots of women who had become good friends, and she had grown quite fond of them. They had already made it a tradition to try to go out and have fun several times a month. This was the third time, and everyone at the table was in a great mood. Frida enjoyed the interested looks from various men in the bar, lapping up their attention. She laughed loudly at a joke, and out of the corner of her eye she noticed a newcomer. A tall medium-blond man had sat down at the bar. Dark eyebrows, thick hair, broad shoulders, wearing a polo shirt. He reminded her of someone who did a lot of sailing.

The man was alone. He glanced around the room, and their eyes met. A real cutie, she thought. He took a gulp of his beer and then fixed his eyes on her again, holding them there a little longer and smiling. Frida blushed and felt heat wash over her. She was having a hard time concentrating on what the others at the table were saying.

Her friends liked to talk about all sorts of subjects, from books and movies to recipes. Right now they were all engrossed in a conversation about how little their husbands helped out at home. Each of them had the same opinion about her husband’s lack of imagination and insight when it came to realizing that the kids couldn’t go to daycare wearing grubby shirts, or that the dirty clothes were actually overflowing in the laundry basket. Frida listened with half an ear, sipped her wine, and now and then looked over at the man at the bar. When the conversation around the table started focusing on how poorly the daycare center was operating and how big the classes were, she completely lost interest. She decided to go to the ladies’ room so that she could walk past the newcomer at close range.

On her way back he tapped her on the shoulder and asked if he might buy her a drink. She happily said yes and sat down next to him at the bar.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Frida. And you?”

“Henrik.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Is it that obvious?” he said with a smile. “I live in Stockholm.”

“Are you here on vacation?”

“No. I own several restaurants with my father, and we’re thinking about opening a place in Visby. We’re scouting out the territory a bit.”

He had almost unnaturally green eyes that gleamed at her in the dim light.

“That’s great. Have you been to Gotland before?”

“This is my first time. Pappa comes here often. He’s thinking of opening an inn with good Swedish food and live music in the evenings. For people who want to eat well and enjoy a little entertainment without having to go to a club. And not just a summertime inn, but one that’s open all year round. What do you think of that idea?”

“Oh, I think that sounds wonderful. It’s not really as dead around here in the wintertime as many people think.”

By now her girlfriends had discovered what was going on. They eyed the pair sitting at the bar. Their expressions were by turns inquisitive, gleeful, and envious.

Frida straightened her skirt and sipped the wine that had been placed on the bar in front of her. She stole a glance at the man next to her. He had a cleft in his chin and looked even better close up.

“And what do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a hairdresser.”

Involuntarily he ran his hand through his hair. “Here in town?”

“Yes, at a salon over at Ostercentrum. It’s called the Hairline. Drop by if you ever need a haircut.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I notice you don’t have a Gotland accent.”

“No, I moved here about a year ago. How long are you staying?”

She had quickly changed the subject to avoid having to explain why she had moved here or to mention her husband and children and all that. Frida was aware of her power to attract men. She liked to flirt, and she wanted to keep this tasty morsel interested. At least for a little while. Just because it was fun.

“I don’t know. It depends on how things go,” he said. “Maybe a week. If we find a place I’ll probably be here most of the summer.”

“I see. How nice. I hope you find something.”

She sipped her wine again. What an exciting man.

He looked around the room, and when he turned his head, she was positive: He was wearing a hairpiece. I wonder why, she thought. Maybe he has really thin hair. He didn’t look particularly old. About her own age. There are plenty of people who lose their hair early on. Good Lord, guys should be able to look good, too. Her thoughts were interrupted when he asked a question.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She could feel the color rising in her face.

“How sweet you are,” he said, squeezing her knee.

“Do you think so?” she said foolishly and removed his hand.

After about an hour her girlfriends called to her, and she decided to go back to their table. Henrik was leaving, anyway. He had asked for her phone number. That’s when she decided to break the spell. She told him that she was married and that it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to call.

Around one o’clock the bar closed, and the group of women broke up. They said goodbye outside with hugs and reassurances that they’d get together again soon. Frida was the only one who lived in the section of town called Sodervarn, about three-quarters of a mile south of the ring wall. She got on her bike and pedaled off alone in that direction.

When she went through Soderport, a cold wind greeted her. It was always windier outside the wall. How nice that it’s still so light out, at least, she thought. She kept on pedaling, but her foot slipped on the pedal and she scraped her leg so that it started to bleed. It stung.

Shit. She realized she was drunker than she thought. But she kept on going, wanting to get home as fast as possible now.

She turned left at the parking lot and rode past the Gutavallen sports center. She crossed the street and headed up the long, steep slope near the water tower. Halfway up the hill she had to stop and get off her bike. She was too worn out.

On the left side of the road was the cemetery. The headstones were lined up as if for some sort of dreary parade inside the low stone wall. Even though she was practically numb from all the alcohol, she felt a sense of uneasiness creep over her. Why had she insisted on taking her bike? Stefan had tried to persuade her to take a cab home, especially because of Helena Hillerstrom’s murder less than two weeks ago. She had dismissed the idea by saying it was too expensive. They needed to save their money. Their finances were shaky after buying the house. Besides, the killer had been caught. It turned out to be the boyfriend.

Now she was regretting her decision. Damn, how stupid she was. A cab ride home wouldn’t have cost more than a hundred kronor. It would have been worth it.

She was all alone on the road. Not another person in sight. The only sound was her own footsteps in her high-heeled shoes. They were hurting her feet terribly.

The cemetery continued for another hundred yards. She had to walk past it.

When Frida had gone half the distance, she heard foot-steps behind her. Heavy and firm. She listened. She had a strong urge to turn around but didn’t dare. She picked up her pace.

The footsteps were louder now. She had the distinct feeling that she was being followed. Or was she just imagining things? She tried stopping for a moment. The footsteps stopped. All of a sudden her brain was crystal clear. The road was still climbing uphill, so there was no sense in getting on her bike. On one side of the road was the cemetery. The other side was lined with houses with big shady yards. All the windows were dark.

She walked as fast as she could, no longer feeling the cold. Damn her short skirt and these shoes that hurt her feet.

She considered flinging the bicycle to the ground and trying to head across someone’s yard. Instead she started to run. That made the person behind her start running, too. Terrified, she ran as fast as she could. The road leveled out and started sloping downward.

She was just about to jump onto her bike when two strong hands grabbed her by the neck from behind and pressed their fingers into her throat. She couldn’t breathe and let go of the bicycle. It fell over with a crash.