Jacobsson lifted the hasp and stepped inside the gate; then she stopped among the trees to look down at the rocky shore. There she saw an old rotting boathouse that looked as if it might collapse at any minute. An upside-down rowing boat lay near the water’s edge; it was in disrepair and bleached from the sun. It clearly hadn’t been used for a long time. According to Märta Gardell, her brother kept his fishing boat inside the boathouse. Right now it was empty.
A few terns glided over the surface of the water. Jacobsson turned to peer with curiosity in the direction where she assumed Ingmar Bergman had lived. Cliffs; barbed wire ending out in the sea. The house must be beyond the next bend.
The cabin seemed deserted. A rusty old bicycle was parked outside. A few dirty and dented plastic containers lay on the grass. There was no real garden to speak of. The ground was barren, covered with stones, the only vegetation a few juniper shrubs clustered together inside the stone wall that surrounded the property.
The door opened with a creak. Quietly Kihlgård pushed it further open so they could go inside. They were instantly struck by the view of the water. Straight ahead, at the other end of the cabin, was a row of windows. The small, cramped kitchen faced the other direction. There they saw a table and two chairs with floral-patterned cushions. Jacobsson guessed that it was Valter’s sister who had made them. The curtains had the same pattern. She felt a lump settle in her stomach. Life was so strange. Would it really finish in this lonely way? Was this all that was left at the end? Thoughts of Lydia flitted through her mind. She was interrupted when Kihlgård shouted from the bedroom.
‘Look at this.’
Kihlgård was standing next to the bed, holding a photograph in his hand. Jacobsson stood on tiptoe to peer at an old black-and-white photo, probably taken sometime in the 1960s. Bergman, wearing a beret and polo-neck sweater, was standing on a rock near the sea with his arm around a lean-looking man clad in a vest and peaked cap. Both were suntanned and smiling at the camera.
‘This must be him,’ said Kihlgård. ‘Valter Olsson. They certainly look like they were good friends.’
‘They certainly do.’
‘The bed seems to have been recently made. But it’s impossible to tell when it was last used.’
Jacobsson sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, feeling discouraged.
‘What should we do?’
‘First we’ll search the cabin, and then we’ll have a look at the boathouse down by the water. I’m afraid that since his boat is gone and he hasn’t been seen for a whole week, we have to expect the worst. He may have drowned when he was out fishing.’ Kihlgård got out his mobile. ‘I’ll ask the others to find out if a rowing boat has come ashore anywhere along the coast. If so, we’ll soon have our answer.’
Jacobsson stared up at her colleague from under her fringe.
‘Don’t you think this is all a bit strange? First Sam Dahlberg is found dead on Stora Karlsö a couple of days after he’s been here on Fårö to attend the Bergman festival. Then Stina Ek disappears from the island during the same week while taking a bicycle ride. And now another man is missing. And who does he happen to be? Bergman’s closest neighbour. I don’t think it’s just a coincidence. There must be a connection.’
Kihlgård nodded pensively.
‘I’m sure you’re right. The question is: What on earth does Ingmar Bergman have to do with all of this?’
KNUTAS LOOKED AROUND the room. The hospital smells prickled his nose. Cautiously he turned his wrist, grimacing with pain.
Fortunately his neighbour had been able to take him to accident and emergency after he fell off the roof. He was feeling dazed and gratefully accepted a painkiller and a glass of water from a nurse who came into the room. She gave him a smile.
‘So how’s it going?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Knutas. ‘I feel sick. My wrist hurts. My head does too.’
‘You have a bad concussion, and your wrist is broken. It was a nasty fall. Considering the circumstances, you’re doing well.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Twelve ten. We’ve phoned Lina, and she’s on her way.’
Everyone knew Lina. She’d worked at the hospital for fifteen years.
‘We need to put a cast on your wrist. We’ll do that later this afternoon.’
‘Will I be able to go to work?’ asked Knutas worriedly.
‘That’s for the doctor to decide, but I think you’ll probably need to stay home for a week at least. A serious concussion is nothing to muck around with. There can be complications if you don’t take it easy. But it was lucky that it was your left hand. You’re right-handed, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Could I make a phone call?’
‘Of course. Would you like your mobile?’
‘Yes, please. But first I’ve got to use the toilet.’
‘Let me help you.’
With great effort he sat up and put his feet on the floor. At that moment his head started to spin, as if someone had struck him.
‘How are you doing?’ asked the nurse, holding him by the arm.
Knutas sighed. It seemed very unlikely that he’d be back at work on Monday.
THE FLAT WAS situated in a row of dilapidated buildings with external walkways built sometime in the 1960s.
At the moment no lights were on in any of the windows. No one seemed to be at home. That suited him perfectly.
He unlocked the front door and entered the hall. Since he had just stepped in from outside, he noticed how stuffy it smelled. He walked through the living room, which was furnished with a white leather sofa, a coffee table with smoked glass and gilded feet, and a bookcase made of cherry. A porcelain Dalmatian adorned one corner of the room. The blinds were drawn, hanging drearily in front of the window and blocking the view of the building on the other side of the street. Just the way he liked it. He didn’t want to be aware of the world outside. Not now. He needed to concentrate on what was ahead. He had to prepare. He went into the bedroom, where the bed was still unmade, and pulled out the drawer of the nightstand to get the key to the locked room. In addition to the kitchen the flat consisted of three rooms, but he used only two of them on a daily basis. The empty room was intended for special purposes. He turned the key in the lock. It was pitch dark inside, with a faint aroma of incense. The fragrance called up memories for him, and if he stayed inside for any length of time, he almost felt dizzy – from both desire and yearning. He had meticulously furnished what he called the Red Room – although it had nothing to do with Strindberg’s novel of the same name.
He switched on the ceiling light and went in. The purple-coloured carpet was soft under his feet; the walls were inviting with their warm, rustred colour. It was the biggest room in the flat, and was most likely intended to be the living room. He had placed the water bed in the centre, and the ceiling was covered with mirrors. In each corner stood a pillar sprayed gold and topped with a scented candle and incense burner. The opposite wall was papered with photos of her. Naked on the bed, seminude in the garden on the other side of the hedge, fully dressed with the children outside the Coop Forum.
He was going to bring her here, and they would re-experience what they’d once had. It would be even better than before. If only he could manage to persuade her, if only she would allow him near her again, then she would realize it was here she belonged. In the Red Room. With him and no one else. And now he had taken a definite step closer to his goal. A very important step. Pleased and filled with confidence he opened his bag and took out another stack of photos.
Then he began tacking them up on the wall, one after the other.
JACOBSSON AND KIHLGÅRD decided to have lunch at the Kuten restaurant, which was right across from where the ill-fated Terra Nova group had stayed.
Kihlgård looked astounded as Jacobsson pulled into the small car park near the road and stopped next to an old American Ford Falcon. They could hear fifties rock music as soon as they got out of the car. Playing on the restaurant ju
kebox was Little Gerhard’s big hit, ‘Buona Sera’.
‘What a place!’ he exclaimed. ‘It takes me right back to the fifties.’ He pointed at a sign above the entrance. ‘What an original name for a restaurant. Kuten,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t that mean seal pup?’
Jacobsson shrugged.
‘I have no idea.’
Inside the restaurant a genuine French chef was busy making crêpes. Kihlgård exchanged a few words with him in his native tongue. They ordered lunch and managed to find a free table. It was stifling inside, and Jacobsson felt a band of pressure on her forehead.
‘I can tell we’re in for a thunderstorm before tonight.’
As soon as the food appeared, they both fell silent. Kihlgård was so preoccupied with his fragrant crêpe filled with salmon that he couldn’t talk. Only when his plate was empty did he feel like conversing.
‘That was fantastic,’ he said. ‘Don’t you agree? So crisp. And what flavour! You can tell that the chef is a real expert.’
‘Yes, but it’s incredibly rich.’ Jacobsson put down her fork. She’d eaten only half of her crêpe.
‘A real Frenchman, too,’ Kihlgård went on with satisfaction. ‘You can always tell when something is genuinely French.’
Kihlgård’s weakness for France was well known, and a couple of years earlier he had told his colleagues that he had a French boyfriend. Jacobsson assumed that they were still together. She and Kihlgård liked each other on a professional basis, but they almost never talked about anything personal.
She studied her colleague, unable to ignore his hungry glances. Swiftly she shoved her plate over to his side of the table.
‘I’m done. Have the rest if you like.’
Kihlgård looked like a child on Christmas Eve.
‘Really? Thanks.’
After lunch they found their way out to Arne Gustavsson’s place. He ran a farm in Hammars and lived close to Valter Olsson’s cabin. They declined the offer of coffee since they were starting to run out of time. A dog barked from an enclosed dog run. They sat down in the yard, and Gustavsson told them how Stina had ridden past on her bicycle a week ago, on Saturday afternoon.
‘Do you recall what time it was when you saw her?’
‘It was sometime after three o’clock, but no later than four. I’m afraid I can’t be more exact than that.’
‘How did she seem?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘I didn’t see much because she was going so fast. She rode past my house, with my dog barking after her. I think she wanted to get away as quickly as possible. My dog can seem a bit scary.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I called after her, trying to get her to stop, but she just kept going. Then she disappeared.’
‘And you didn’t see her again?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Did you notice anyone following her?’
‘No. Although I didn’t stand there to watch. I was busy with my own things. There’s always work to do here on the farm.’
‘Do you remember seeing any other traffic on that day? Cars or bicycles, people walking past?’
‘Not many people come by here. Most stay away because they realize that they’ll have to cross our property if they want to keep going. And the rest of the promontory is private. It all belongs to Bergman. There’s no reason for anyone to come here.’
‘So you didn’t see anyone else pass by?’
‘Not that day. But there was someone in the night.’
Jacobsson was suddenly alert.
‘When was that?’
‘Later, after I’d gone to bed on Saturday. I woke up in the middle of the night. Being a farmer, I’m a light sleeper, because of the livestock, you know.’
Jacobsson nodded even though she didn’t really understand what the man meant by that. She was waiting impatiently for him to go on.
‘Anyway, I was woken by the sound of a car. I wondered who would be driving around at that ungodly hour, so I got out of bed to look outside. The bedroom window faces the road.’ He turned around to point at an upstairs window of his house. ‘I managed to see a car driving down the road, but I couldn’t tell what kind it was. Or who was driving.’
‘Could you tell if there was more than one person in the car?’ asked Kihlgård.
‘I’m afraid not. It happened so fast.’
‘Do you know what time it was?’
‘As a matter of fact, I checked to see the time. It was almost morning. Ten past four.’
‘And you’re sure of that?’
‘A hundred per cent sure. I looked at the alarm clock that I keep next to the bed. And it keeps good time.’
‘Did you see what colour the car was?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘No. I think it was a very dark colour, but it’s difficult to say. It was just before dawn, so the morning fog had come in and made it hard to see. I couldn’t really make it out properly; I just heard the sound.’
‘And can you tell us anything about that? Did it sound like an old car?’
‘No, I don’t think so. There was nothing special about it. Just a droning sound.’
‘And that’s the last you saw of it?’
‘Well, I went back to bed but I couldn’t sleep. So I got up and made coffee. Then I went out to the barn. And that’s when I heard the car again. When I was inside.’ The farmer shook his head.
‘What time was it then?’
‘That must have been almost an hour later. About five.’
Jacobsson and Kihlgård exchanged glances.
‘Do you know whether anyone else here in Hammars noticed that car?’
‘No, but I haven’t really asked anyone. I happened to think about it when I saw the pictures of the woman who’s gone missing. I recognized her at once and then I thought maybe the car had something to do with her disappearance, since it was headed in the same direction. And the road goes only to Bergman’s place. And to his neighbour’s house, of course. Valter.’
AFTER THEIR EXPEDITION to Fårö, Jacobsson went into her office and closed the door. She turned on her computer and checked the flights to Stockholm on the following day. There were still seats on the 10.30 departure, and she could return at 5.30. That would give her six hours in the city. She couldn’t wait any longer. At the same time as she was busy with the investigation, the name Hanna von Schwerin kept buzzing in the back of her mind. At this point Jacobsson wasn’t planning to contact her daughter’s adoptive family; she just wanted to see Hanna. Nor did she intend to announce her presence right now. Just have a look. It should be possible on a Sunday. She booked a return ticket to Stockholm. She hoped that Hanna wasn’t away on holiday, but that was a risk she’d have to take. At least she would see the house where her daughter lived. That was always a start.
Kihlgård and Knutas would have to hold the fort while she was away. Pleased that she’d finally made a decision, Jacobsson leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands behind her head. She tried to imagine what her daughter might look like. Almost twenty-five. Her name didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe she was a completely ordinary young woman.
Her musings were interrupted when the phone rang. It was a call from the police in the Latvian town of Ventspils. Surprisingly enough, the officer spoke Swedish. Before she could ask, he explained that his mother was Swedish.
‘I’m calling because we discovered a dead man in a rowing boat south of the harbour here in Ventspils. Two boys found it when they were searching for amber along the beach. It’s possible that the victim is Swedish.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘We’ve spent the whole day trying to match the description of the dead man with any missing persons in Latvia. Without success. The next step is to contact our neighbouring countries. And when it comes to Sweden, I decided to start with the police in Visby, since it’s most likely that the boat would have drifted across from Gotland. It’s a pretty direct route.’
Jacobsson felt her interest growing.
&n
bsp; ‘How old is the man?’
‘I’d say he’s in his seventies. He looks weatherbeaten, like an old fisherman. He also had a lot of fishing gear in the boat.’
‘Did he suffer any injuries?’
‘Yes. The ME hasn’t been here yet, but according to our technical officer, the man probably died from a violent blow to the head. He was obviously assaulted and has numerous contusions. He has clearly been in that boat for a while. Our crime tech thinks that he must have been dead at least a week.’
‘Can you give me a more detailed description?’
‘Five foot ten, dark hair with hardly any grey. A thin, wiry body. No moustache or beard. He was wearing dark trousers, sandals and a blue shirt. He had a key in his pocket. A pair of binoculars and a thermos of coffee were in the boat along with some fishing gear. That’s all.’
Jacobsson swallowed hard. The description was an exact match.
KNUTAS COULD TELL from the footsteps approaching the door that Lina was on her way. His wrist was now in a cast, he’d slept for a few hours, and he’d had something to eat. He was feeling better.
When his wife appeared, Knutas felt a warmth spread through his body. He was glad to see her. She was holding a bag and a big bouquet of flowers.
‘Hi, sweetheart.’ She smiled and gave him a big hug. Knutas felt tears come to his eyes, but he managed not to cry.
‘Hi.’
She’d brought one of the hospital’s stainless-steel vases, which she filled with water at the sink. She put the flowers in the vase and opened the bag, which contained grapes, a chocolate cake and a stack of newspapers.
Then she sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand.
‘How are you feeling?’
She looked worried. All of a sudden he noticed that she seemed thinner. He hadn’t noticed that before.
‘Have you lost weight?’
She laughed.
‘What sort of question is that?’
The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7) Page 17