Unseen ak-1

by Mari Jungstedt

  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.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 7

  The house stood in an older residential neighborhood in Roma, in the center of Gotland, right next to Roma School and the sports field. It was surrounded by houses with well-established gardens. The whole area breathed an idyllic calm. Johan had already ferreted out the name of the friend of Helena’s they had met in the corridor of the police station, and he had called her up. At first she was very hesitant to submit to an interview, but Johan was good at persuading people, and after a short conversation she had reluctantly agreed to meet with him and Peter.

  They parked outside the overgrown lilac hedge; its lavender and white blossoms were just starting to open. The garden was impressive, with large expanses of lawn and flower beds with all sorts of flowers that Johan couldn’t name. Black clouds were building in the north. It would undoubtedly rain before lunchtime.

  Emma Winarve opened the door, dressed in a white T-shirt and soft gray pants. She was barefoot. Her hair was wet and hung loose. How beautiful she is, thought Johan before he managed to collect himself. It took him a few seconds too long. She was starting to look puzzled.

  “Hi. Johan Berg from Regional News, Swedish TV. This is Peter Bylund, my cameraman. How nice of you to see us.”

  “Hi. Emma Winarve,” she said, shaking hands with them. “Come in.”

  She showed them into the living room. It had a dark hardwood floor, white plastered walls, and big windows looking out on the garden. There wasn’t much furniture. Along one wall stood two grayish-blue sofas facing each other. They sat down on one of them. Emma sat on the other and looked at them. Pale, with a red nose.

  “I don’t know that there’s much I can say.”

  “We want to hear about your relationship with Helena,” said Johan. “How well did you know her?”

  “She was my best friend, although we haven’t spent much time together over the past few years,” she said in her soft Gotland accent. “We went through all the school years together, and we’ve known each other since kindergarten. After the ninth grade we ended up in different classrooms, but that didn’t stop us from spending just as much time with each other as before. During that period we lived in the same row-house neighborhood in Visby, on Rutegatan near the Ericsson company. Or rather, Flextronics nowadays.”

  “Did you still spend time together when you got older?”

  “Helena’s family moved to Stockholm about a year after high school. That was the summer she turned twenty, by the way. I remember because she had a big party here on Gotland for her twentieth birthday. They moved to Danderyd. But we still kept in touch and called each other several times a week, and I used to go to Stockholm to visit her. She always came back here in the summer. They still had their summer house near Gustavs.”

  “What was Helena like as a person?”

  “She was almost always happy. Lively, you might say. Extremely extroverted. It was always easy for her to meet new people. She was an optimist. She saw the bright side of everything.”

  Emma stood up hastily and left the room. She came back at once with a glass of water and a roll of paper towels.

  “What about Helena’s boyfriend?” asked Johan.

  “Per? He’s really great. Sweet, considerate, and he adored Helena. I’m positive that he’s not guilty.”

  “How long have they been together?”

  Emma took a gulp of water. She’s amazing, thought Johan.

  “It must be almost six years now, because they started seeing each other the same summer that I got married.”

  “So things were good between them?” Johan went on, at the same time that he felt a touch of disappointment when she mentioned her marriage. Of course she was married. Big house and a sandbox and little tricycles in the yard. You idiot, he told himself. Stop thinking about her as your next conquest!

  “Yes, I think so. Of course, now and then she would get tired of him, and she’d wonder whether she was really in love. I guess most people feel that way after they’ve lived together for a long time. But I think she had made up her mind that he was the one. I know that several times she said that if she ever had children, it would be with Per. He made her feel secure.”

  “Could we ask you a few questions in front of the camera? We’ll only use the parts that you think are okay.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

  “How about if we give it a try? If you think it’s too uncomfortable, then we can stop.”

  “All right.”

  Peter brought in his camera. He didn’t bother with a tripod or extra lighting. The situation was touchy enough as it was. Johan moved over to sit on the sofa next to Emma. He could smell the scent of her newly washed hair.

  The interview went well. Emma talked about Helena and their friendship, about her own fear and about how her life had been shaken as a consequence of the murder.

  “Let me give you my card in case you happen to think of anything else you want to say, or if you just want to call me about something,” said Johan before they left.

  “Thank you.”

  She put his card on a chest of drawers without looking at it.

  When they reached the stretch of gravel outside the house, Johan took a deep breath.

  “What a woman,” he groaned, and turned around to look at Peter, who was walking right behind him with the camera on his shoulder.

  “The prettiest one I’ve seen in a long time,” his colleague agreed. “What a charming accent. And those eyes. And what a body. I’m a goner.”

  “You, too? Too bad she’s married and has kids.”

  “That’s just my luck,” said Peter with a grin. “We need some shots of the outside, too. Give me a few minutes.” He disappeared around the corner of the house.

  The parking lot outside Obs supermarket in the Ostercentrum shopping center was almost empty. In a couple of weeks it’ll be nearly impossible to move, thought Knutas as he sat at the desk in his office. He had talked to his wife on the phone. With the greatest enthusiasm she had described bringing a pair of twins into the world that day. She waxed poetic, since she herself was the mother of twins. Her positive attitude rubbed off on him, but it only lasted a little while. The warmth he had felt during their conversation was quickly replaced by a nagging uneasiness over Helena Hillerstrom’s murder.

  Up until now, Gotland had been relatively murder free. Since 1950 only twenty murders had been committed on the island, and ten of them occurred during the nineties. The increase disturbed him. Almost all the murders had to do with internal disputes, usually within a family. Jealousy and drunken fights, for the most part. Two murder cases remained unsolved. One involved an elderly woman who was killed with a cane in her own home in Frojel in 1954, and one at the Visby Hotel in December 1996, when a female night clerk was murdered, presumably in connection with a break-in. That killing had taken place during Knutas’s time as head of the criminal department. In spite of the fact that the NCP were brought in at an early stage and three of their detectives stayed in Gotland for six months after the murder, they never managed to crack the case.

  It still rankled inside him, like a thorn, but he tried not to think too much about it. The hotel murder had already given him enough sleepless nights.

  He pulled out his pipe and carefully began filling it.

  And now this. But this is something completely different, he thought. A young woman killed in a bestial way and with her panties stuffed in her mouth.

  Two inspectors from the NCP had arrived in the morning, and that’s when they had their first meeting. The jovial Detective Superintendent Martin Kihlgard, convivial and loud, seemed almost a little too
hearty. Previously Knutas had only heard people talk about him, and he knew that the man was quite competent. Even so, he didn’t really feel comfortable with him. No doubt things would get better with time. Kihlgard’s assistant, Detective Inspector Bjorn Hansson, made a more formal and precise impression, and that suited Knutas better.

  Helena Hillerstrom’s body had been sent to the forensic medicine division in Solna, but first the medical team had examined the body at the scene. He was grateful for that. Experience told him that the chance of solving this murder increased significantly if the body was examined at the scene of the crime itself by the ME. In addition, a large area had been immediately cordoned off after the body was found. That was something else he had learned over the years. The bigger the area that was off limits, the better.

  One problem was the lack of witnesses. No one had seen or heard anything. There were no buildings in close proximity to the beach. The only houses in the area stood some distance up the slope.

  No murder weapon had been found, and no other clues of major significance. The only concrete evidence they had was several cigarette butts, which could just as well have been discarded there at some previous time, and a couple of shoe prints. The only thing they thought they knew about the killer was that he had big feet.

  Everyone who had been at the party, except for Kristian Nordstrom, had now been interviewed. Nothing useful had come out. Knutas was almost positive that Per Bergdal was innocent. He had conducted enough interrogations in his years with the police that he could depend on his gut feeling. There was something straightforward and sincere about Bergdal’s manner of responding. By all accounts the scratches had been made by Helena, and the ME had found bruises on Helena’s cheek and behind her ear, indicating that she had been struck before she died. On the other hand, they knew that there had been a fight. The fact that Bergdal had not immediately admitted as much might be understandable. Now they needed to find something new, and quickly.

  Knutas turned halfway around in his chair and looked out the window. It was a dreary gray day. This early summer season hadn’t been worth much so far. Yesterday’s sunshine had been a welcome change, but now the clouds were back.

  Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg were now in place in Stockholm. Jacobsson had called him earlier in the day. They were very busy interviewing people who knew Helena Hillerstrom, and they would most likely have to stay a few more days. Knutas missed Karin whenever she wasn’t at the station. Of course, he was on good terms with the others in the group, but there was something special between him and Karin. They had found it easy to talk to each other from her very first day with the Visby police, after she had spent several years as a trainee in Stockholm. It wasn’t long before he had the utmost confidence in her. In the beginning, when they were getting to know each other, Knutas thought for a short time that he was in love with Karin, but it was just then that he met his future wife and fell instantly in love with her.

  Karin Jacobsson did not have a boyfriend, as far as Knutas knew. Even though they worked so closely together, she rarely talked about her personal life.

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Johan and Peter finished editing and sent off the interview with Emma Winarve. It took ten minutes for Grenfors to call. He praised them for the story, which was going to be shown on all the news programs that evening. Even so, Grenfors, who was never completely satisfied, wanted them to talk to the neighbors in the area as well. The murder had occurred right in their own backyard, after all, he said.

  “But we’ve already been out there and talked to the old lady in Frojel,” Johan objected. His voice crackled with displeasure.

  Peter was sitting in an armchair, watching him.

  “Channel Four had the neighbors on their noon broadcast,” the editor pointed out.

  “And so we have to include them, too?” said Johan, annoyed.

  “You have to admit that it’s good to talk to anyone who happens to live in the neighborhood of a murder scene.”

  “Sure, but I don’t know if we can make it in time for the evening news.”

  “Try,” Grenfors urged him. “If nothing else, we can use it for later programs.”

  “Sure thing.”

  They left immediately, driving down toward Klintehamn once again, and then in the direction of Frojel. It was still only two days since the murder. Johan thought it felt like a lot more time had passed. It’s actually incredible how much a person can get done, he thought.

  They stopped at the first farm after the turnoff to Gustavs, a red house and a barn with a chicken coop. The hens were scratching the dirt inside a pen, cackling merrily. A dog came running up to them, wagging its tail. Obviously not much of a watchdog.

  They rang the bell. A woman opened the door at once. She had curly blonde hair and an alert expression on her face.

  “Yes?” She gave them an inquisitive look.

  A long-haired cat rubbed affectionately against their legs. They could hear children’s voices inside the house.

  Johan introduced Peter and himself. “We’re out talking to people who live around here. Because of the murder, you know. Did you know the woman who was killed?”

  “No, I can’t say that I did. Of course we knew who the family was, but we didn’t spend any time with them.”

  “What do you think about what happened?”

  “It’s terrible that something like that could happen here. I certainly hope they catch the person who did it as quickly as possible. It’s so upsetting. I can’t stop thinking about it. And the children, well, I’m keeping a close eye on them. We have five.”

  The woman called to her children, then closed the front door and sat down on the single bench on the porch. She pulled out a can of snuff, pinched off a piece, and stuck it under her lip. She held out the can to Johan and Peter, but both of them declined the offer.

  “There’s one thing I happened to think about last night. The police were here earlier, asking about things. They talked mostly to my husband. Last night when I couldn’t sleep, it popped into my head.”

  “What was that?” asked Johan.

  “I have a hard time sleeping, so I lie awake a lot at night. Last Monday night I heard a car turn down our street outside. There are never any cars going past here at night, so I thought it was odd. I got up to see where it went, but when I looked out, I couldn’t see anything. As if it had been swallowed up by the earth. And it’s strange because the road continues down toward the sea. I just had to go out and have a look. When I opened the front door, I heard it again. Then it went past our house. The street curves just outside here, so I never managed to see what kind of car it was.”

  “Did you notice anything else?”

  “I noticed the sound. The engine sounded… what should I say… it sounded older somehow. It didn’t sound like a new car.”

  “Could it have been one of your neighbors?”

  “No, I asked all the neighbors today, just because I thought it was strange that someone was out driving past here in the middle of the night. But no one had been out, and besides, I know what all my neighbors’ cars sound like.”

  “How many of you live around here?”

  “Well, there’s us and the veterinarian who lives on the next farm. Then there’s the Jonsson family, who are farmers and own the fields you see all around here. They have a big farm on the left side of the road a little farther down, past the veterinarian. And then there’s a family with children, the Larssons, closest to the water on the right-hand side.”

  “Do you know what time it was when you heard the car?”

  “I think it must have been around three.”

  “Have you told the police about this?”

  “Yes, I called them this morning. I went over there to be interviewed earlier today.”

  “I see,” said Johan. “Could we ask you a few questions on camera?”

  After a little coaxing, the woman agreed. The rest of the people who lived in the area firmly decline
d.

  Yet Johan reluctantly had to admit that Grenfors had been right. It was a good idea to go out and interview the neighbors.

  Once again they sat in the newsroom and spliced together a two-minute story that was sent over to Stockholm five minutes before the main news broadcast, to their editor’s great satisfaction.

  Kristian Nordstrom arrived at the police station at precisely five o’clock in the afternoon, as agreed. He looks good, Knutas observed as they shook hands. He had decided to hold the interview in his office, with Detective Inspector Lars Norrby present.

  “Would you like some coffee?” asked Norrby.

  “Yes, please. With milk. I came straight from the airport, and the coffee on the plane tasted like cat piss.”

  He brushed his hair back from his forehead and leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg of his elegant trousers over the other. He smiled a bit tensely at the superintendent, who got out a tape recorder and placed it on the desk in front of them.

  “Do we really need that?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s necessary,” said Knutas. “I hope it doesn’t bother you too much.”

  “Well, it’s just a little distracting.”

  “Try to pretend it’s not there. As I said on the phone, this is a purely routine interview. We’ve talked to everyone who was at the party except you. That’s why you’re here.”

  “I see.”

  Norrby returned with the coffee, and then they could begin the interview.

  “What were you doing on June fourth, meaning on the second day of Whitsun?”

  “As you already know, I was having dinner with my old friend Helena Hillerstrom and her boyfriend, Per Bergdal. Helena and I have known each other for many years. We went to school together.”

  “Did you come alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell us about the evening.”

  “At first it was very pleasant. We had dinner and drank a lot of good wine. It had been a year since the whole gang had seen each other. After dinner we started dancing. No one had to go to work the next day, so I think everybody was really planning to party.”