Unseen ak-1

by Mari Jungstedt

  “What did the two of you do?”

  “Well, I was staying at a hotel in Visby. There were several artists that I wanted to visit. One day I went out to her farm, and it was quite pleasant. We had lunch and looked at her workshop.”

  “You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Did she tell you about any new people she had met, maybe a boyfriend?”

  “No, but there was actually a young man who stopped by. We were just having lunch, and he didn’t want to disturb her when she had visitors. He greeted me very politely at any rate, and we talked for a bit before he left.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “His name was Henrik. I remember it well because that’s my brother’s name.”

  “What about his last name?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Did they seem to be close friends?”

  “Well, that’s hard to say. He just stopped by very briefly. I had the feeling that he lived nearby, that maybe he was a neighbor.”

  “How would you describe him?” asked Knutas.

  “He was about her age. Tall and well built. Thick ash-blond hair. And he had especially beautiful eyes. I think they were green.”

  It’s great how artists have such a keen sense of observation, thought Knutas. “Was there anything else you noticed?”

  “Yes. Even though I had the feeling that he was a neighbor, he couldn’t have come from Nar originally because he had a real Stockholm accent. I wouldn’t bet five ore that he was from Gotland.”

  Knutas’s cell phone rang. He heard Kihlgard’s agitated voice saying that the clothing of the murdered women had been found by some young people in a fishing shack in Nisseviken.

  Knutas quickly cut short the conversation, thanking the woman for her help. Then he and Jacobsson went back out to the street.

  He told her about the clothes. “We might as well go back home,” he said. “We’ve done just about everything we can here, and he’s on Gotland. That much is clear.”

  A couple of hours later they were sitting on a plane, on their way back to Visby.

  Emma hadn’t slept well. She had the feeling that it was very early when she awoke. She glanced at the clock. Only five thirty.

  Olle lay next to her. He seemed to be sound asleep. His mouth was wide open, and with every exhalation she could smell his bad breath. She got up and went into the bathroom. As she sat down to pee, the thought of Johan flitted past, but in the next second she pushed it aside. Everything was going to be fine between her and Olle now. She turned on the shower and enjoyed the feeling of the water washing over her body. She wrapped a bath towel around herself and went back to lie down beside Olle and put her head right next to his. Of course I love him, she thought at the same time as a tiny bit of doubt intruded. He’s my Olle, after all.

  How tired she was of herself! All this vacillating back and forth. Why couldn’t she make up her mind about how she felt?

  She sat up and looked at him. He was lying there, unaware that she was studying him, naked and as vulnerable as a child. Maybe she didn’t love him anymore. Maybe it was over. The thought made her dizzy. The father of her children. But wasn’t the whole point to be in love and cherish someone? She had given him her promise for life. To love him in sickness and in health. What about if she no longer felt attracted to him?

  Her gaze slid over his forehead and eyelids. She wondered what was hidden inside, what his thoughts were.

  What about the children? Their two wonderful children. As parents they had a responsibility that was as big as the universe.

  And what about herself? What sort of person was she, to be willing to give up everything so hastily and risk her whole way of life? It was so perilous. How did she dare? It wasn’t just a matter of her and Olle. This had to do with the future of her entire family. The children’s future.

  At the same time, the fact that she had fallen in love with Johan was making her rise and fall like a ship on a stormy sea.

  She got up, went out to the kitchen, and lit a cigarette, even though it was only six fifteen. She didn’t worry about the fact that she was smoking indoors. There would be time enough to air it out before the children came home.

  Her thoughts shifted with each new puff. Maybe she should just wait. Accept her inner turmoil. She didn’t have to make a decision right now. Better just to wait for a while. See how things went.

  She didn’t want to spend any more energy on thinking about her chaotic emotional life.

  Suddenly her cell phone rang. She took it out of her purse and punched the button for text messages.

  CAN’T SLEEP. CAN YOU? / JOHAN

  She went out on the steps and called him.

  He answered at once. “Yes?”

  A red flame spread from her head to her stomach and out into her arms to the very tips of her fingers.

  “Hi. It’s me. Emma.”

  “Hi. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “When can we meet?”

  “I don’t know. Olle is home right now. We had a talk. He’s going back to be with the children today. They’re at Olle’s brother’s house in Burgsvik. His parents are there, too.”

  “So we can meet, can’t we?”

  “I don’t know. How?”

  “If your husband is going to be away, you’ll be alone. I can come out to see you.”

  “Here? No, that’s impossible, you must realize that. We can’t meet here at my house.”

  “Then you could come here.”

  “I can’t keep sneaking around, scared to death that somebody will see me.”

  An idea popped into Emma’s head. It was crazy, of course, but what the hell.

  “I just remembered that I have to go out to my parents’ house on Faro one of these days. No one’s there. They’re away on a long vacation, and I promised to keep an eye on the house for them. I was thinking of taking along my friend Viveka and staying for a few days. You could come with me instead. I’d like to get out of here today. I’m going crazy here at home. I really need to get away. The house is right on the sea. It’s an amazing place.”

  “What about your friend?”

  “That’s no problem. I’m sure that Viveka can come later. I’ll talk to her. She actually knows about you.”

  “She does?” He felt his cheeks burning and couldn’t help feeling flattered.

  “That sounds great, but I can’t stay for several days. I’ve got work to do, what with the latest murder and all. But one night should be all right, and I can start work a little later tomorrow. I won’t be ready to leave until about six this evening, though.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I’ll go out there first.”

  Emma went back inside the house. The feeling of doom in her body was mixed with anticipation and a dose of guilt.

  When Olle woke up, she served him breakfast in bed.

  “I’ve come to a decision,” she said. “I need time to think. I have to have some space. So much has been happening lately. I really don’t know what to make of it all. I don’t know what I want anymore.”

  “But last night you said…” He sounded disappointed.

  “I know, but I’m still not sure,” she apologized. “About us. I don’t know what we have left anymore. Or maybe it’s just everything with Helena and these murders. I need to get away.”

  “I understand,” he said sympathetically. “I know this has been really rough on you. What are you going to do?”

  “Well, first of all, I’m going out to my parents’ house. I promised to keep an eye on it anyway. I’m going there today.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. Viveka said she’d go with me. I’ve already talked to her.” She felt a pang in her heart. Yet another lie. It was scary to see how easy it was to lie.

  “I was hoping you’d come with me today, you know. What should I tell the kids?”

  “Tell them the truth. That I have to go out a
nd take care of their grandparents’ house for a few days.”

  “Okay,” said Olle. “I’m sure they’ll understand, and you’ll have a lot of time to spend together the rest of the summer.”

  She felt guilty that he was being so understanding. It would almost be easier if he got mad, she thought. A feeling of irritation rose inside her.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” was all she said, giving him a quick hug.

  Knutas had asked Kihlgard to call everyone in for a meeting at police headquarters that afternoon, after he and Jacobsson got back to Gotland. Knutas started the meeting.

  “So we’ve found what we think are the clothes of the victims inside a fishing shack in Nisseviken. They’re being analyzed right now by our techs before they’re sent on to SCL. The shack has been cordoned off, and we’re in the process of investigating who the owner is. It was apparently abandoned and hasn’t been used in years. Family members are on their way here to identify the items of clothing. This discovery proves that the killer is probably here on Gotland, so we need to focus all our investigative work here from now on. In the meantime, what else have we found out that’s new?”

  “We received an answer today regarding the fingerprints on the asthma inhaler that was found on Gunilla Olsson’s property,” said Kihlgard. “There was no match with any prints in police records. We’ve checked to see who among the victims’ circle of friends had asthma or some similar kind of respiratory allergy. It turns out that both Jan Hagman and Kristian Nordstrom suffer from asthma. Later today their inhalers will be compared with the one found at Gunilla Olsson’s home.”

  “Good,” said Knutas. “What did your interviews with them turn up?”

  “Regarding the interview with Jan Hagman, we confronted him with the question of why he didn’t tell us about the abortion when we were out at his place earlier. He gave us a reasonably credible explanation. He didn’t think the abortion was of any importance to us. Also, his children don’t know about his relationship with Helena Hillerstrom, so he didn’t want to go into too many details. During the time we were there, he seemed terrified that his son might hear what we were talking about.”

  “I can understand that,” said Knutas. “We should have asked him to come here instead. What about Nordstrom?”

  “It seemed incomprehensible that he kept on stubbornly insisting that he never had any relations with Helena. When we told him about the letters, he caved in and admitted it at once. On the other hand, he couldn’t explain why he had previously denied it. He just said that he didn’t want to be considered a suspect.”

  “What else?”

  “Witnesses have told us that a strange man was seen at Gunilla Olsson’s house during the past few weeks. He was seen at her property both in the morning and in the evening, so it’s not unlikely that we’re talking about a boyfriend,” Kihlgard continued. “The witnesses describe him as tall and good-looking, and about the same age as Gunilla.”

  “Have the witnesses had a look at any photographs? Of Kristian Nordstrom or Jan Hagman, for instance?”

  “No, they haven’t,” Kihlgard admitted, a bit shamefaced.

  “Why is that?”

  “To be quite honest, I don’t have a good answer for that. Does anyone else?” Kihlgard looked around at his colleagues.

  “We just have to acknowledge that it’s something we failed to do. It simply fell through the cracks,” said Wittberg.

  “See that it’s done. Right after the meeting,” said Knutas sternly. “What about the alibis for Nordstrom and Hagman? Have they been checked out again?”

  “Yes,” replied Sohlman, “and they seem to hold up.”

  “Seem to?”

  “Hagman’s alibi is based on statements from his son and a neighbor. The neighbor confirms that they were out emptying nets when the first murder was committed. When Frida Lindh was killed, Hagman’s son was visiting him. Both claim to have been asleep at the time of the murder, since it happened in the middle of the night. When the last murder occurred, he was out fishing with the same neighbor who had been emptying nets with him before. That was on the night before Midsummer. After that they celebrated at the neighbor’s house, and Hagman passed out on the couch.”

  “What about Nordstrom?”

  “Apparently he has no alibi for the first murder,” Sohlman went on. “He was at the party at Helena Hillerstrom’s summer house until close to three in the morning. Then he shared a cab as far as Visby with Beata and John Dunmar. Afterward, he continued on to his house. He arrived home just before four in the morning. He lives in Brissund. The taxi driver confirms that he got out of the cab at his house and that he was very drunk. It seems highly unlikely, to put it mildly, that he would then go back forty miles to the Hillerstrom cabin and wait on the beach to kill Helena. Besides, he flew to Copenhagen that very same day. He took a flight from Visby to Stockholm in the afternoon. And when the other two murders were committed, he wasn’t even on Gotland. When Frida Lindh was killed, he was in Paris, and when Gunilla Olsson died, he was in Stockholm. No one saw Kristian Nordstrom in the Monk’s Cellar on the night that Frida Lindh was killed. They should have recognized him. He could have waited for her on the way home. That’s a possibility. On the other hand, the man that Frida was talking to at the bar still hasn’t come forward, and that puts him at the top of the list of suspects. He was Swedish, and no one could have avoided hearing all the appeals for him to notify the police.”

  “Well, there could be other reasons why he hasn’t come forward. Maybe he has something to hide that has nothing to do with all this,” said Jacobsson.

  “Sure, that’s always possible,” Sohlman admitted.

  “The woman who sells Gunilla Olsson’s pottery told us that she met a man about thirty-five years old at Gunilla’s house. He was tall and good-looking,” said Knutas. “He introduced himself as Henrik. He didn’t have a Gotland accent. She said he sounded like a Stockholmer. Frida Lindh’s women friends reported that the man Frida met at the Monk’s Cellar was named Henrik. The bartender said that the man sitting with her at the bar spoke with a Stockholm accent. That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s not from here. He could be from Gotland but moved to the mainland long ago. Maybe one of his parents is from the mainland. That could explain why he doesn’t have a Gotland accent, or he may have disguised his accent so as not to be recognized. Of course it’s also possible that he’s from the mainland but knows the island well and is living over here at the moment. I’m leaning more toward the idea that we need to be looking for someone who’s from the island. If we at least start with that idea, what do we know about the killer? His name may be Henrik. He’s tall, and he wears a size 11? shoe. He’s between thirty and forty years old, and he suffers from asthma. There are only about fifty-eight thousand of us living here on the island. There can’t be many who fit that description. By now we also have so much information from witnesses about this man that we should be able to create a sketch of him. Maybe it’s time we did that.”

  “I disagree,” said Kihlgard. “It would only start a panic.”

  A murmur of agreement was heard from several of those sitting around the table.

  “Does anyone have a better suggestion?” asked Knutas, throwing out his arms. “All indications are that the murderer is here on the island. A serial killer, who might strike again at any time. We’ve found the clothing, but what else do we really have? We can’t come up with any connection between the victims that seems to have any significance for the investigation. There are no witnesses to any of the murders. He struck when the victims were alone, and no one was nearby. In each instance, he disappeared fast as lightning. Nobody heard anything, nobody saw anything. At the same time, plenty of people must have seen him. He’s been all over the island, for God’s sake. Frojel, Visby, Nar, Nisseviken. He’s been to an inn and out at the beach; he’s been walking around town and out at Nar. A sketch of him might make it possible for us to catch him quickly.”

  “That seems to be the on
ly alternative,” agreed Sohlman. “We have to do something extreme. He could kill again at any time. There was only a week between the last two murders. Maybe now it will be only a few days before he strikes again. We’re running out of time.”

  “That’s fucking crazy,” thundered Kihlgard. “What do you think will happen when people see that sketch? They’ll associate it with practically everyone they know. We’ll be completely flooded with tips. It’ll be sheer hysteria, I can promise you that. Then we’ll be the ones responsible. And how are we going to find time to deal with it all? We already have our hands full trying to nail down this lunatic.”

  “What would we base the sketch on?” Jacobsson asked. “We have two witnesses who have seen a person who might be the perpetrator: the woman who sold Gunilla Olsson’s pottery and the neighbor who noticed a man near her house. Then we have Frida Lindh’s women friends, of course, who saw the man at the bar, but we still don’t know if he could be the perp. That’s just a suspicion. How much do their accounts coincide? And what happens if they’re wrong? There are two big risks with using a sketch. First, the witnesses may have remembered things wrong, so we’ll be putting out a picture that doesn’t gibe with reality. Second, it’s possible that they didn’t see the killer at all. They may have seen someone else instead. I think the risks are too great to use a sketch. It seems stupid to resort to something so drastic right now.”

  “Drastic?” Knutas repeated, his voice filled with sarcasm. “Is it so strange that we need to resort to drastic measures in this case? We have three homicides on our hands. An entire island paralyzed with fear. Women who don’t even dare stick their noses outside at the height of the summer heat, while practically the whole country is breathing down our necks. The prime minister is going to be calling us up next! We need to solve this thing. I want the killer caught within a week, whatever the cost. We’re going to bring in a police artist right now and get him to put together a sketch. I want it publicized as soon as possible. I also want to bring in Hagman and Nordstrom immediately for more questioning. And I personally want to talk to everyone who was at the party at the Hillerstrom home. Every single one of them. The same goes for Frida Lindh’s friends. How’s it going with outlining the victims’ lives? Have we gotten anywhere?”