Unspoken

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 20

As Knutas sat in his office drinking coffee, someone knocked on the door. Karin Jacobsson stuck her head in.

“Good morning! It sure is interesting how people can forget all about something and then suddenly remember the most important details.”

She dropped onto a chair across from him and rolled her eyes.

“That guy Jan Olsson from the stable called to say that Fanny had gone out to visit Tom Kingsley.”

“Is that right?”

“One time last fall Jan Olsson had to go over to Tom’s place to drop something off.”

“What did he drop off?” queried Knutas.

“He didn’t say,” Jacobsson went on impatiently. “But listen to this. Fanny’s bicycle was outside Kingsley’s house, and Olsson noticed that her jacket was hanging in the hallway.”

“Did he see her?”

“No. Tom didn’t invite him in.”

“Okay, that’s enough to bring Kingsley in. I’ll call Birger so we can get a search warrant for his house.”

Knutas reached for the phone to call the prosecutor.

“Sure, but there’s just one problem,” said Jacobsson dryly.

“What’s that?”

“Tom Kingsley has left. He’s on vacation in the States.”

“For how long?”

“He has to be back at work on Monday, according to the stable owner. But he booked an open-ended round-trip ticket and hasn’t yet made his return reservation. So we don’t know when he’ll be flying home.”

“We’re going in anyway.”

Tom Kingsley’s house stood in a wooded glade, not far from the racetrack. It was actually a summer cottage that he had been renting ever since he came to Gotland.

The road up to the house was not much wider than a tractor path. The police cars jolted their way forward. Knutas and Jacobsson were in the first car, with Kihlgard and Wittberg following behind. Prosecutor Smittenberg had immediately given the go-ahead to search the premises. Ordinarily, Tom Kingsley should have been notified, but no one knew where he was.

All the windows were dark. When they got out of the cars, it looked as if no one had been to the house in a while. The snow cover was untouched.

They had obtained keys from the landlord, whom Jacobsson had managed to locate during the course of the morning.

The ground floor of the house consisted of a small entryway and a living room on the right, with access to a cramped kitchen. The house was furnished simply but nicely: a dining table next to the window, a fireplace, and against one wall an old-fashioned wooden sofa with seat cushions covered with striped fabric. Between the kitchen and the living room was a woodstove. The kitchen, with windows facing the woods, was sparsely furnished: low kitchen benches, a pantry, an old electric stove, and a small refrigerator.

A narrow staircase curved up to the second floor, which had two small bedrooms and a hallway. It was neat and clean. Knutas lifted up the bedspreads. The bed linen had been removed and the mattresses underneath were worn. The police officers began methodically going through all the drawers and cupboards. Kihlgard and Jacobsson took the second floor, Knutas and Wittberg the first floor.

It wasn’t long before Wittberg shouted, “Come and look at this!”

With tweezers he was holding a piece of paper that looked like instructions of some kind.

“Do you know what this is?”

The others shook their heads.

“It’s instructions for taking morning-after pills.”