Unseen

SUNDAY, JUNE 17

When Johan and Peter climbed out of the cab in front of the Strand Hotel in Visby on Sunday afternoon, they were met by a cold gust. The wind had really begun to pick up. They had even felt the cab sway significantly as they drove in from the airport. Shivering, they dashed inside to the front desk. The fact that they were hungover wasn’t helping matters.

They were given the same rooms they had before. I wonder whether it’s a coincidence or if there’s something more to it, Johan thought as he put his card key in the door.

He called Knutas, who explained that they were inundated with journalists and that a press conference would be held at three o’clock that afternoon. He had nothing to say until then.

“You must be able to tell me something,” Johan persisted. “Was the woman murdered?”

Knutas’s voice was thick with fatigue. “Yes.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you anything about how she was murdered.”

“What kind of weapon was used?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“Has she been identified?”

“Yes.”

“How old was she?”

“Born in ’67, which makes her thirty-four.”

“Did she have any sort of previous dealings with the police?”

“No.”

“Is she from Visby?”

“Yes. That’s enough for now. You’ll have to wait until the press conference.”

“One last question. Did she go out to a pub that evening?”

“Yes, she was at the Monk’s Cellar with some of her girlfriends. They said goodbye to each other outside, and then she bicycled home alone.”

“So presumably she was murdered on her way home?”

“That’s one conclusion you might draw, yes,” said Knutas impatiently. “I don’t have any more time right now.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you at the press conference. ’Bye.”

Johan and Peter went over to the cemetery on Peder Hardings Vag to film the crime scene and try to find some-one willing to be interviewed. The place where the body had been found was cordoned off, but a short distance from there they found a police officer who was making sure that no one went inside the area. They tried to talk to him, but it quickly became evident that their attempts were in vain. The officer refused to answer any of their questions.

Johan strolled around the cemetery, trying to imagine what had happened, while Peter shot some footage. The woman had been bicycling home from the inn. Was that where she had met the killer? It was less than two weeks ago that Helena Hillerstrom was murdered. Her boyfriend had been charged, but if Johan’s source had understood the situation correctly, the police believed that the same perpetrator was at work here. That meant they were looking for a serial killer, who might strike again at any time. Here on little Gotland. Incredible.

His source was going to try to get more information. Even though the police believed it could be the same perpetrator, he doubted that he would be able to get that confirmed. Two women viciously murdered within a couple of weeks. Right before the tourist season. The police would be very keen to keep any information to themselves. He was rowing with calm, firm strokes. The oarlocks creaked. They needed to be greased. It had been a long time since he went out in the boat. Several years. He had repaired the hole in the bottom. Then he had dragged the boat down to the water. He knew where he was going. He would head out to the point. That would be a good spot. He had chosen it carefully. The idea came to him in the night. He had lain awake, thinking. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake he did before. He had lost control. Been giddy with a sense of triumph, mixed with fear. Surprised at himself and his power, the fact that he could actually carry out his plan. He was both proud and scared. Mostly proud. Now he felt a different sort of tranquility. He knew what he was capable of. This time they wouldn’t find the murder weapon. He was lucky the sea was so calm. He had considered bringing along a fishing rod so he would have an explanation if anyone happened to see him. But no, it wasn’t necessary. Who would care what he was doing in this boat? He didn’t owe anyone an explanation. To hell with all the people who had no idea what he was up to. To hell with the rest of the world. Nobody cared, anyway. Or understood. He was alone. He had always been alone. But now he was strong. The generous rays of the sun warmed him. He wore only a pair of shorts, rowing so hard that he was sweating. He looked down at his heaving chest, hairy and muscular. He could easily deal with this. He felt invincible. He laughed out loud. Only the seagulls heard him.

A tense mood hovered over the conference room of the criminal department at police headquarters. It was noon, and the lead investigators had gathered prior to the press conference to go over the latest information pertaining to the new homicide. The county police commissioner was present. She was sitting next to Knutas with her lips pressed tight. Sohlman, Wittberg, Jacobsson, and Norrby were seated on one side of the table, while on the other sat prosecutor Smittenberg together with Superintendent Martin Kihlgard and Bjorn Hansson from the NCP.

“We have a whole new situation now, and it’s very serious,” Knutas began. “It seems that we’re dealing with one and the same murderer. For that reason, Helena Hillerstrom’s boyfriend, Per Bergdal, is no longer under suspicion for killing her. Birger has decided that he can be released from custody immediately.”

The prosecutor nodded in agreement.

Knutas continued. “There are strong indications that the same perpetrator is behind both murders. There are similarities pointing in that direction. The women were attacked outdoors, and both had their panties stuffed in their mouths. On the other hand, the killer used different weapons each time, and, as I’m sure you all know, that’s extremely unusual for a serial killer. It’s the one thing that contradicts the likelihood that it was the same perpetrator. The first victim, Helena Hillerstrom, was killed with an axe. She died at the first blow to her head. After that the perpetrator delivered ten blows to various parts of her body in what seemed to be a fit of uncontrolled rage. But according to the ME’s preliminary evaluation, the second victim, Frida Lindh, died from a wound that severed her carotid artery. After that the murderer delivered a large number of stab wounds to various parts of her body. There are at least ten in this case as well. None of the blows was directed at her sexual organs. The murder weapon was some kind of sharp instrument, presumably a knife. It has not been found. As you know, Helena Hillerstrom was not sexually assaulted, and there are no indications that the second victim was, either. We won’t know for sure until the preliminary autopsy report on Frida Lindh is ready. It’ll take a few days. As I mentioned, both victims were found with their panties stuffed in their mouths. No trace of semen was found on the ones belonging to Helena Hillerstrom. Frida Lindh’s are being sent to SCL for analysis. Now let’s take a look at a few pictures.”

The lights were turned off, and Knutas pressed a button to display the pictures, one after another, on a screen. No one else in the room said a word.

“First we have the pictures of Helena Hillerstrom, who was killed on June fifth. As you can see, the body was subjected to a brutal assault. No one part of the body was attacked more than any other, and none of the violence was directed at her sexual organs.”

A close-up of Helena Hillerstrom appeared on the screen.

“Fucking hell,” muttered Norrby.

“Next we have the second homicide victim,” Knutas went on. “Frida Lindh, who was killed early yesterday morning. Ten days after the first murder. Her body was found in the cemetery. Frida Lindh was also naked. In this case, the victim lost a lot more blood, as you can see. She, too, suffered multiple wounds. Again there are no external signs of sexual assault.”

“What could the panties in the mouth mean?” asked Wittberg, half to himself. “Why does he do that?”

“It’s certainly damn strange,” Kihlgard agreed. “Did the murderer know these women? Did he have sexual relations with them? Did they break up with him, and so he wanted revenge? Or is this about a killer who hates women in general?”

Kihlgard fell silent and stuffed a piece of chocolate cookie into his mouth. Little crumbs sprinkled onto his lap.

Knutas was seized with disgust, and he wondered how the man could eat at a time like this. He turned off the projector. “We have to figure out what the connection is between the two victims. If there is one.”

He kept on talking in the dark. “This is what we know so far about what the two women had in common: Both of them had strong ties to Stockholm and Gotland. Helena Hillerstrom was born and raised here, and her family still has a summer house on the island, which she visited at least a couple of times a year. She also has relatives and lots of friends here. Frida Lindh came from Stockholm, but she was married to a man from Gotland. About a year ago, she and her family moved here and settled in Sodervarn. According to her husband, they wanted to try living on Gotland because he’s from here and his family lives here. We don’t yet know whether the two victims knew each other. Both women were in their mid-thirties. There was only a year’s difference in age between them. And they were both attractive. That’s about all we know right now.

“What I want us to do is form a work group to map out the lives of the two women, including the people they knew. A second group will be assigned to check on the murderers and assailants who are known in Sweden, concentrating on Stockholm. Do any of them have ties to Gotland? We have the eyes of the whole nation on us at the moment. Not to mention the mass media. As of right now, we’re going to put all our efforts into catching this killer before another murder occurs. I’ve asked for reinforcements from the NCP in Stockholm. We’re going to split up into two teams: internal and external. Kihlgard and Hansson will assist us, especially with the interviews and with charting assailants found in police records. A few officers from here will need to go to Stockholm again. The perpetrator could just as well be over there as here on the island.”

“It’s actually rather likely that the murderer lives in Stockholm,” said Wittberg. “Helena Hillerstrom came to Gotland only a few times a year, and she was here only a few days before he struck. Frida Lindh lived in Stockholm until a year ago. It seems very possible that they met him over there. They might have had an affair with him. Maybe it was still going on. Do we know whether Frida Lindh ever went over to Stockholm? How many times has she been back there since they moved? Maybe she went there to visit relatives and had an affair at the same time.”

“In that case, he’s smart to kill the women over here. That puts the focus on Gotland, and he can go back to Stockholm in peace and quiet,” said Norrby.

“Are we sure that she had never met the man in the bar at the Monk’s Cellar before? Maybe she was just pretending she didn’t know him for the sake of her girlfriends. What if they already had some sort of relationship going on?” Sohlman suggested.

“He could also be a customer,” interjected Jacobsson. “Frida Lindh worked in a beauty salon at Ostercentrum, the one that’s in the gallery near the Obs supermarket. She could have met him there. It’s a really vulnerable type of work. Any lunatic could have been spying on her for days without her knowing it.”

“That’s a possibility, of course,” Knutas conceded. “We haven’t yet talked to her colleagues at work. Could you follow up on that at the hairdresser’s?”

Jacobsson nodded as she jotted a note on her pad of paper.

“As I see it, this might very well involve a madman who chooses his victims at random,” said Kihlgard. “Maybe it was just bad luck for Helena Hillerstrom that she happened to be on Gotland when he decided to start his killing spree. He caught sight of her somewhere, followed her, and waited for the right opportunity. As simple as that.”

“If that’s true, it’s just too awful,” said Jacobsson. “That means that he could strike any woman, at any time.”

An uncomfortable tension spread through the room. They were all thinking about their wives, girlfriends, sisters, and female friends. No one was safe.

“We can sit here and speculate forever,” Knutas snapped. “Right now we need to deal with the facts.” He glanced at his watch. “Okay, we’ll stop here for the time being. As you know, the press conference is at three. We’ll meet afterward and discuss how to divide up the work. Shall we say five o’clock?”

Karin Jacobsson and Anders Knutas went over to a pizzeria a few blocks from police headquarters. They ate their food quickly and in silence. After almost fifteen years of working together, they understood each other very well. Sometimes they joked about themselves as the hard-working older couple, even though there was a big age difference between them. Karin Jacobsson would be thirty-eight this year, while Anders Knutas was forty-nine. He thought she was charming. He had always thought so. The big gap between her front teeth never prevented her from being quick to laugh. Many times when they worked together, he thought it was her laugh that carried her through. Her male colleagues were not always easy to deal with, especially not when Karin was the newcomer in the group. The fact that she was unusually short, only five foot one, didn’t help matters. It made her male colleagues act even more like big brothers toward her. But she had proven herself to be a smart and no-nonsense colleague, and she quickly won their respect.

Karin swallowed the last bite of her pizza. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“The man at the inn. Frida Lindh sat and talked to him for over an hour. The question is: Who is he? He ought to come forward when he hears about the murder.”

“Did they leave together?”

“No. Apparently he left the restaurant about half an hour before the others did. According to her friends, Frida was alone when she got on her bike to head home.”

“What do you think about the idea that both Helena and Frida might have had an affair with the same man? Maybe even the one that Frida met at the Monk?”

“Of course that’s always possible. Even though they don’t seem to have been raped, the motive could still very well be sexual. The panties indicate as much. But what’s so damn strange is the part about the different types of weapons. First an axe, then a knife. I wonder why.”

“It’s incomprehensible,” Jacobsson agreed. “Maybe he’s just doing it to mess with our minds.”

Knutas leaned back in his chair. “I wonder whether we shouldn’t be concentrating on Stockholm, in any case. That’s certainly where they might have met the murderer. Then he decides to kill them on Gotland to throw us off the scent. He wants us to be looking over here.”

“We still need to check up on Frida’s customers,” Jacobsson pointed out. “It could be one of them. She hadn’t worked here very long-I think only five or six months-and she hadn’t lived here more than a year. All her acquaintances were new. Of course the killer could be from Stockholm, but he still had to have spent some time on Gotland to spy on them, to find out where they lived, what their routines were, and where they usually went. I think it all seems very well planned.”

“I agree. I actually do think that the murders were premeditated, but we still need to keep all avenues open. It’s too easy to get locked into one idea. The whole thing is damned unpleasant,” said Knutas, shaking his head. “Do you have time for a quick cup of coffee?”

“Sure, thanks. With milk. No sugar.”

“I know.” He rolled his eyes. They had had countless cups of coffee together.

Johan didn’t care anymore. Even though he knew full well that he shouldn’t do it, he was going to call her. Contrary to all expectations, he was back on Gotland, and he had spent too much time thinking about Emma to be able to ignore his desire to call her. His feelings were too strong. He sat on the bed in his hotel room, torturing himself. It doesn’t have to mean anything, he thought. We could just talk for a while. That can’t be so dangerous. Soon he would have to leave for the press conference, and after that he’d be working full steam for the rest of the day and night. He knew that.

He picked up the phone and punched in her number.

It rang once, then twice.

Shit, he thought. To hell with the whole thing. What if her husband answers? But he didn’t hang up the phone.

“Emma Winarve.”

A joyous warmth spread through his body when he heard her voice.

“Hi, it’s me. Johan Berg. From Regional News. How are you?”

Three seconds of silence. He clenched his teeth so as not to panic.

“I’m okay. Are you here on Gotland?” she asked.

He thought he detected a touch of happy surprise in her voice.

“I’ve just come back. The second murder, you know. What are you doing right now? Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all, don’t worry. Olle took the children to the swimming pool. How are things with you?”

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, and held his breath.

“Really?” she said hesitantly.

He could have bitten his tongue off. Shit.

“I’ve been thinking about you, too,” she added.

He could breathe again.

“Could we get together?” he suggested.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Just for a short time?”

Now that a hope had been lit, he was his usual self again, persistent and single-minded. “How about later tonight?”

“No, I can’t. Maybe tomorrow. I have to go into town anyway.”

“Tomorrow would be great.”

The room where the press conference was going to be held was full to bursting when Anders Knutas and Karin Jacobsson entered several minutes before it was scheduled to start. This time not only the local media was represented but also the morning papers that covered national news, the evening papers, the TT wire service, Eko radio news, several commercial TV channels, and the state-run Swedish TV. Johan Berg and Peter Bylund from Regional News were there as well.

The air was buzzing with voices. The reporters settled into the rows of chairs, clicking their ballpoint pens and rustling the pages of their notebooks. Some of them were outfitted with radio gear. The guys with their big TV cameras took up strategic positions and adjusted their equipment. Microphones were set up, one after another, along the dais.

The onslaught of journalists had forced the investigative team to change rooms at the last minute. They were now sitting in the big conference hall in a different section of police headquarters. Eva Eriksson, the county governor, had called to say that she would attend.

I wonder what she’s doing here? thought Knutas as he made his way through the crowd. Already seated on the dais were Martin Kihlgard and the county police commissioner.

The murmuring in the room ceased as Knutas welcomed everyone. He introduced himself and his colleagues seated next to him and then started off with a brief report about the latest murder. The police were trying to be generous with the amount of information they would share. At the same time, it was important not to release any details that might hamper the investigation. It was a difficult balancing act.

When he was done, he opened the floor to questions.

“Are there any similarities between this homicide and the murder of Helena Hillerstrom?” one reporter asked.

“Yes, there are certain similarities, but I’m afraid I can’t go into any further detail about that now.”

“Obviously the same weapon couldn’t have been used,” said the reporter from one of the local papers, sounding very sure of himself. “But was the same type of weapon used this time? Was the latest victim also killed with an axe?”

“No. The latest murder was committed with a sharp instrument.”

“You mean a knife?” asked Johan.

“As to what type of sharp instrument, it’s too soon to say.”

“Are there any witnesses?” wondered the reporter from Gotlands Tidningar.

“At this time, it appears that no one saw or heard anything. We’re still in the process of interviewing a large number of people.”

“Do you suspect that it’s the same perpetrator as before?”

“Both yes and no. There are certain things that indicate it might be someone else-for example, the fact that the killer used a different kind of weapon. Other circumstances point to one perpetrator, so at the present time we don’t know. Of course we can’t rule out that possibility.”

“Have you found any connection between the victims, other than that they’re both women about the same age?”

“I can’t go into that right now, for the sake of the investigation, but I can tell you this much: Both women had ties to Stockholm and to Gotland.”

“Could the killer have come over from Stockholm?”

“Certainly.”

“Why aren’t you looking for him there?”

“We are.”

“Where?”

“I can’t answer that. I’m sure you’ll understand why.”

“Are there any similarities in the MO of the killers?” asked Johan.

“I can’t comment on that.”

There was a great deal of frustration among the reporters, but Knutas was unyielding. The investigative team had decided not to reveal anything about the way in which Frida Lindh was killed. That left the field wide open for speculation.

“Are we dealing with a serial killer here?” asked the woman from Radio Gotland.

“It’s much too early to say. We have no idea,” said Knutas.

“But you wouldn’t rule it out?”

“Of course not.”

“What’s going to happen to the boyfriend of the first victim?” the reporter from the local radio station continued.

“He’s going to be released from custody. He’s no longer a suspect.”

A murmur spread through the room.

“Why not?” the radio reporter asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that.”

“How can you be so sure he’s innocent?”

“We can’t divulge anything about our reasons for letting him go. The only thing I can tell you is that the boyfriend is no longer suspected of having anything to do with the murder in Frojel,” repeated Knutas, whose face was starting to flush with annoyance.

“That must mean that you think the same person committed both murders,” Johan ventured. “The murder of the woman in the cemetery couldn’t have been committed by Per Bergdal, since he was being held under arrest in Visby.”

“As I’ve said several times, we can’t go into any further details about the circumstances,” said Knutas, forcing himself to remain calm.

Johan dropped the matter of the perpetrator.

“What about the murder weapon? Was it found?” he asked instead.

“No.”

“What are the police doing now?” asked the reporter from Eko.

“We’ll be getting additional reinforcements from the National Criminal Police. We’re conducting extensive searches and trying to come up with any points of connection between the two victims.”

“Did the victims know each other?” asked another TV reporter.

“No, not according to the information we have now. We’re in the process of checking their backgrounds.”

Almost an hour later, after all the journalists had finished their individual interviews, Knutas hurried out of the conference room. The governor took his arm.

“Have you got a minute?”

“Of course,” he said wearily.

He turned to lead the way to his office and closed the door behind them.

“This is a very serious situation,” said Eriksson, who was a vigorous woman of fifty-five or so. Normally she was outgoing and cheerful, but right now there were signs of great anxiety on her face. With a sigh she sank down onto the visitors’ sofa in Knutas’s office, then took off her glasses and wiped her brow with a handkerchief.

“This is a very serious situation,” she repeated. “Here we are in the middle of June. Everyone is hard at work preparing for the tourist season at all the hotels, campgrounds, youth hostels, rental cabins. The reservations are pouring in. For the time being, at any rate. The question is what will happen now. This seems to be a case of a serial killer, and that’s not something that will attract tourists. I’m concerned that these two murders will scare people away.”

“I know,” agreed Knutas, “but there’s not much we can do. None of us wants a killer on the loose.”

“What are you planning to do now? What resources are you using? I’m sure you realize how important it is that we catch this killer as soon as possible.”

“My dear governor,” said Knutas, unable to hide his irritation. “We’re doing everything we can, especially in view of our limited resources. My entire department, which means the twelve officers that are left in the criminal department after all the cutbacks and reorganizations, are working full-time on the case. I’ve also called in four investigators from the NCP, and they’ll stay on as long as necessary. I’ve put in a request to borrow a few men from the local police, even though they’re already stretched thin. We’re about to be deluged by six hundred thousand tourists, and we have to handle it with eighty-three officers for the whole island. Including the island of Faro. You can figure out for yourself what our capacity is like. There just aren’t any other resources to draw on.” He gave Eriksson a stern look.

“Oh, I know. I understand. I’m just worried about the consequences. And the employment situation. So many people make their living from tourism.”

“You’re going to have to give us a little time,” said Knutas. “It’s scarcely been forty-eight hours since the second homicide was committed. Maybe we’ll be able to catch the perpetrator within a few days. Then the whole thing will be over. Let’s not rush to think the worst.”

“I hope to God you’re right,” said the governor with a sigh.

“Shit.”

Knutas had just taken a bite of a dry sandwich from a vending machine and got a piece stuck in his throat, which led to a lengthy coughing fit. His colleagues, who had all gathered to watch the Sunday evening news in the lunchroom, shushed him.

Knutas felt a throbbing in his temples. The story about the latest homicide had contained far too much information.

“How can they know so much? That part about the knife wound? And the panties?” exclaimed Knutas when he was done coughing.

His face was bright red, both from coughing and from anger.

“How did that happen? How the hell are we supposed to do investigative work under these conditions! Who’s been leaking information to the press?”

Everyone exchanged surprised glances. Scattered murmurs of denial were heard. People were shaking their heads. Some decided it was best not to get involved.

Knutas strode back to his office, slamming the door so hard that the windowpane in the upper part of the door rattled. He rummaged around to find Johan Berg’s business card. The journalist answered after two rings.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” thundered Knutas without identifying himself.

“What do you mean?” asked Johan, who knew exactly what this was all about.

“How can you broadcast the sort of information that was just on the news? Don’t you realize that it interferes with our work? We’re in the middle of hunting for a killer! And what kind of proof do you have? Where did you get that information?”

“I can understand why you’re upset.” Johan was speaking in his most soothing tone of voice. “But you have to try to see things from our point of view.”

“Just what kind of fucking point of view would that be? We’re conducting a homicide investigation here!”

“First of all, we would never report any information unless we were a hundred percent sure that it was true. I happen to know that things were exactly the way we described them in the story. Second, we consider it’s relevant to report that all indications point to a serial killer at work. The panties in the mouth is the most convincing proof of that, and the information is of such general interest that it had to be made public.”

“Who do you think you are, to make that sort of decision? General interest!”

Knutas spat out the words. Johan could just imagine the saliva spattering the receiver.

“Okay, all right,” said Knutas. “But the fact that all this information is also being broadcast straight to the murderer-you’re not taking that into consideration at all!”

“People have the right to know that a serial killer is on the loose. We’re just doing our job. I’m truly sorry if it interferes with your work, but I also have to think about my own work.”

“And what tells you that all of those details are true? How do you know for sure?”

“Naturally I can’t tell you that, but I have a very reliable source.”

“A reliable source, you say. That can only mean someone inside headquarters. One of my closest associates. You have to tell me who it is. Otherwise we’re not going to be able to continue working as a team.”

Knutas sounded somewhat calmer, but Johan felt his patience running out. “As a police officer, you should know the law well enough to know that you can’t ask me that question,” he said acidly. “You have no right to investigate our sources. But since I respect your work, I can tell you this much. It’s not any of your closest associates or anyone on the investigative team itself. At least not the person who’s been giving me the information. That’s all I can say. And keep in mind that just because we journalists find out about something, that doesn’t mean that we have to make it public immediately. It depends whether it’s justified or not. I knew about the panties right after the murder of Helena Hillerstrom, but it wasn’t until now that there was any reason to make it public.”

Knutas sighed. “I expect you’ll warn me, at least, the next time you’re thinking of publicizing sensitive and confidential information. I’d like to avoid having a heart attack.”

“Sure, I can do that. I hope you can understand my side of the issue.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to. But don’t ask me to understand how you journalists think,” said Knutas, and he hung up.

It was past eight in the evening, and it wasn’t until now that Knutas realized how tired he was. He leaned back in his chair. Who the hell had leaked the information? He trusted his colleagues, but right now he didn’t know what to think. Yet he believed what Johan Berg had said, that it wasn’t anyone who was part of the investigation.

Even though he had been annoyed by that reporter several times during the investigation, he had a feeling that Johan Berg was serious about his work. Not like certain other journalists who didn’t pay any attention to what was said but just continued on, endlessly asking questions about matters that he had told them he couldn’t discuss. He got so mad at Johan not because of his manner but because he was so well informed. Reluctantly, Knutas had to acknowledge that he actually could understand the way Johan thought. But how was he finding out so much? Naturally Knutas was quite familiar with how easily information could spread. Something had to be done about it. Was it happening via the police radio? They had to look into how much was being said and what was being said. The Gotland police had little experience when it came to dealing with the press on such a large scale.

Someone knocked on the door.

Jacobsson peeked in. “Malin Backman is here, one of Frida Lindh’s friends.”

“I’m coming,” said Knutas, and got up.

Malin Backman was the only one of the victim’s friends he had not yet met. She was one of the two women who lived on Tjelvarvagen. Wittberg and Norrby had talked to her last night, but that was before they knew that Frida Lindh had been murdered. Now the situation was completely changed, and Knutas wanted to meet with Frida’s women friends in person. Malin Backman was also Frida Lindh’s colleague at work. The conversations that he had in the morning with her other friends had not produced anything new.

Karin Jacobsson was present during the interview. They went into the conference room.

“Please have a seat,” said Knutas.

Malin Backman sat down on the chair across from him. “I’m sorry to be late. My husband has been out of town and didn’t come home until this evening. I didn’t have anyone to leave the children with.”

Knutas made a dismissive gesture. “It’s perfectly all right. We appreciate that you took the time to come here. How did you happen to know Frida Lindh?”

“We worked at the same beauty salon.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Since she started working there. That must be about six months ago, I think. Yes, that’s right, she started right after Christmas. In early January.”

“How well did you know her?”

“Quite well. We saw each other every day at work, and we also used to go out together once in a while.”

“Did you notice anything different about her lately?”

“No, she was just the same as always. Very lively and cheerful.”

“She didn’t talk about anything special that had happened? Any customer who was unpleasant?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you know whether anyone had been acting strangely toward her or threatening her?”

“No, our customers are usually very nice. We know most of them.”

“But occasionally you have customers come in that you’ve never seen before, don’t you?” asked Jacobsson.

“Well, yes, of course. We get walk-ins, too. Every Saturday.”

“Do you remember any of the customers from last Saturday?”

“No, I had the day off.”

“Who was working that day?”

“Frida and the woman who owns the salon, Britt. There are only two of us on Saturdays.”

“How long are you open?”

“Until three o’clock. On Saturdays, that is. Otherwise we close at six. And we’re not open on Sundays.”

“I want you to be very candid with me. Do you know whether Frida was having an affair on the side? Was she going out with anyone?”

“No, she wasn’t. She would have told me if she was. I don’t think she would ever go that far.”

“How was Frida at work?”

“She was a really good hairdresser, and the customers liked her a lot. She had a very winning way about her. She was cheerful and sociable.”

“Do you think any of the customers might have felt she was encouraging them?”

“I don’t know. Of course she talked and laughed a lot. I guess that could be misinterpreted.”

“Could you describe the evening at the Monk’s Cellar?”

“We had dinner in the restaurant. Then we went into the vinyl bar. It was full of people, and we were having a great time. Frida met a man, and she sat and talked to him for a really long time.”

“Did he introduce himself to the rest of you?”

“No, they were sitting at the bar the whole time.”

“What did he look like?”

“Ash-blond hair. Tall. He looked quite fit. A slight stubble. Very dark eyes, I think.”

“What was he wearing?”

“He had on a polo shirt and jeans. Really nice-looking clothes.”

“How long did they talk to each other?”

“For about an hour. Then Frida came back to the table and said that he had to leave.”

“Did she tell you anything about him?”

“He was from Stockholm. He and his father were going to buy a restaurant in Visby. Apparently they owned several cafes in Stockholm.”

“Did she say what his name was?”

“Yes, his name was Henrik.”

“No last name?”

“No.”

“Where was he staying here on Gotland?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long was he going to stay?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Did he seem to know anyone at the Monk?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t see him talking to anyone besides Frida.”

“You didn’t recognize him?”

“No.”

“What else did Frida say about him?”

“She thought he was sweet. He asked for her phone number, but she didn’t give it to him.”

“When did he leave the Monk?”

“He left right after she came back to our table. We probably stayed another half hour after that. Until they closed.”

“Did you notice when he left?”

“No, Frida said that he had to go.”

“How was Frida when you said goodbye to her?”

“The same as always. We said goodbye, and she headed off toward home on her bicycle.”

“Was she drunk?”

“Not especially. We were all a little tipsy.”

Jacobsson chose to change tracks. “How did Frida get along with her husband?”

“Great, I think. At least I never heard about any big problems. No relationship is perfect, you know. The children kept them really busy, of course.”

“Just one more question. Do you have any idea who might have wished to hurt her?”

“No. I don’t have a clue.”