“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 Fri
da 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.”
MONDAY, JUNE 18
The second homicide was a juicy story for the tabloids. The fact that the panties of both victims had been stuffed in their mouths made the crimes even more sensational, of course. After the Sunday evening news had reported on the new information, all the other media picked up the story. Naturally, speculations about a serial killer were rampant. They were splashed in big headlines across the front pages of the newspapers on Monday morning. Frida
Lindh’s face was all over the tabloids, which screamed: SERIAL KILLER RAVAGING GOTLAND. KILLER LOOSE IN VACATION PARADISE. MURDER IN SUMMER HAVEN.
On the TV news programs, the murders were the top story. The decision to publish the information about the panties had been made after a discussion among the news managers at TV headquarters. Everyone had agreed that publicizing that particular detail was the right thing to do. If they weighed the unpleasantness for the families against the public interest, the scales tipped in favor of the people’s right to know. The early morning talk shows featured discussions with criminologists, psychologists, and representatives from various women’s groups.
The radio fanned the flames by repeating the details in one news program after another.
On Gotland the murders were the topic of conversation on everyone’s lips. People were talking about them at work, on the buses, and in the shops, cafes, and restaurants. Fear of the murderer began creeping along the walls of the buildings. There had been plenty of time for a lot of people to get to know Frida Lindh. Such a nice, cheerful woman. The mother of three. Who could have done that to her? Murder was not very common on Gotland, and a serial killer was something you only read about.
Johan and Emma chose an Italian restaurant that was a little out of the way, down one of the lanes radiating out from Stora Torget, the main square.
Since the tourist season hadn’t really started yet, the place was still half empty. They sat down at a table in the very back of the restaurant. Emma felt guilty, even though nothing had happened between them. She hadn’t told Olle she was having lunch with Johan. She had lied and said she was going to meet a girlfriend. The lie made her conscious of her guilt. She had always been honest with Olle.
Shortly before they were supposed to meet, Emma had almost called Johan to cancel, but even though she knew she was headed into deep water, she couldn’t make herself do it. Her interest in Johan took the upper hand.
As she let him pull out a chair for her, she could feel that she was already lost.
They each ordered a different type of pasta. The waiter brought their drinks. White wine and water for both of them.
I need a glass of wine, Emma thought nervously. She lit a cigarette and looked at him across the table.
“I’m glad to see you again,” he said.
“Are you?” She couldn’t help smiling.
He smiled back. His dimples deepened. Annoyingly charming. Johan’s brown eyes were fixed on her. She made an effort not to hold his gaze too long.
“Let’s not talk about the murders. At least for the moment,” he pleaded. “I want to know more about you.”
“Okay.”
They talked about themselves. Johan wanted to know everything, both about her and her childr
en. He seems genuinely interested, she thought.
Emma asked him about his job. Why had he become a journalist?
“When I was in high school, I was angry about everything in general,” he said. “Especially all the social injustices. I had seen them firsthand, even in the suburb where I grew up. The railroad tracks cut right through the community and divided it in two. On one side was the nice residential area for people who had money. On the other side there were nothing but big apartment buildings, tenements covered with graffiti and the basement windows smashed in. That’s where most of the drug addicts lived, along with people who were unemployed. Two different worlds. It was really quite disgusting. At the middle-school level, kids from the whole suburb went to the same school, and that was a wake-up call for me.”
“In what way?” asked Emma.
“I ended up having friends who lived in those big apartment buildings. I realized that not everyone has the same opportunities. Some of us started a school newspaper, and we wrote articles about the injustices. That was how it all started, with passion and idealism. And here I am now, just a simple crime reporter.”
He laughed and shook his head. “When I started at journalism school, I wanted to be a newspaper reporter, like most people, I assume, but I wound up getting an internship in television, and that’s where I stayed. And what about you? How did you end up being a teacher?”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t have the same passionate involvement that you did. It’s the classic story. Both of my parents were teachers. Probably a lot of it had to do with wanting to please them. I’ve always liked school. And I’m also very fond of children,” she said as the thought of her own children flitted past like a guilty reminder that she shouldn’t really be sitting here at all.
Johan noticed the shadow that passed over her face. Quickly he changed the subject.
“What do you think about this new murder?”
“It’s totally crazy. How could that happen here? On little Gotland? I don’t understand it at all. First Helena and now this.”
“Did you know Frida Lindh?”
“No. She only lived here a year, right? Although I think there’s something familiar about her face.”
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