The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘I’ve lost a few kilos,’ she admitted. ‘Haven’t you noticed? But it doesn’t matter. How are you?’

  ‘I’m OK. My wrist hurts a little, but that’s all.’

  ‘The doctor told me that you also have a concussion. I was so worried when they called me. It could have been a lot worse. You’re not allowed to go up on the roof ever again. We’ll hire a handyman from now on. And the doctor said you can’t go back to work for at least a week.’

  ‘But we’re in the middle of an investigation.’

  ‘That’s not important. Concussion is a serious matter, and it’s not worth taking any risks. You’ll have to stay at home and take it easy.’

  ‘Does Karin know?’

  ‘I haven’t called her yet. But I’m sure they’ll manage without you.’

  As if on cue, Knutas’s mobile rang, and Jacobsson’s name appeared on the display.

  ‘You need to come over to the office as soon as possible. There’s a lot happening here.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you get here,’ said Jacobsson impatiently. ‘Hurry up.’

  Knutas could only sigh.

  THE AROMA OF grilled meat hovered over the neighbourhood. Those who hadn’t gone away on holiday were holding the obligatory outdoor barbecues this evening. On nearly every terrace and balcony, in almost every back garden, smoke was rising up from some sort of grill. Children were laughing as they played around the hedges and flowerbeds. The grown-ups were sipping wine as they sat on patio chairs, enjoying the warm summer night.

  Andrea was smoking a cigarette as she sat alone on her veranda, which was shielded from view. The children were again staying with her mother. Beata had just phoned again. She was constantly calling Andrea. Of course it was because she was concerned, but she came over so often that Andrea was starting to get annoyed. Even so, she had accepted the invitation when Beata had suggested that she and John could come over to make her dinner. It wasn’t good for Andrea to be alone, Beata had insisted. As if she had a clue. Håkan would come too. He was a nervous wreck, out of his mind with worry about Stina. It was lucky that his children were also staying with relatives. His nervous state was hard on the kids, and he didn’t have the energy to deal with their unhappiness on top of his own. It was the same for Andrea. She couldn’t be strong in front of the children, so it was just as well that they were away.

  The doorbell rang. She got up to open the door. There stood Håkan, awkwardly clutching a bunch of flowers in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other. He looked as if he might fall apart if anyone so much as blew on him.

  ‘I’m sorry for losing my temper last time.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she replied, giving him a hug. ‘We’re all feeling a bit off balance.’

  Beata and John appeared a second later. They’d made lamb kebabs and potato salad. John took Håkan outside to put the lamb on the barbecue. Beata started bustling about the kitchen without really doing anything. She knocked a bowl of snacks on the floor, where it landed with a bang.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she cried. ‘How clumsy of me.’

  Andrea was already taking the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard. She cleaned up the mess while Beata perched on a stool at the kitchen island, holding a glass of wine and watching helplessly.

  When Andrea was finished, she took Beata by the hand.

  ‘Come on.’

  They went out to the deck, where Håkan was already seated, looking like a forlorn puppy. Andrea poured more wine for everyone, and John turned the kebabs on the rack. No one spoke for a while. They didn’t have to ask how everyone was feeling since they knew each other so well. The outburst from the last time they’d met was forgotten.

  Then the kebabs were ready.

  ‘Here,’ said John, holding out the serving dish. They each took a kebab and helped themselves to the potato salad and Beata’s freshly baked bread.

  No one commented on the food as they ate. Finally Beata broke the silence.

  ‘What did the police say about that horrible phone call?’ she asked Andrea.

  ‘They came over here, and then stayed all night in a patrol car outside. But they can’t very well give me round-the-clock protection just because of some pervert breathing down the phone.’

  ‘But your husband was just murdered,’ said Beata. ‘Wouldn’t that make the police take this more seriously?’

  ‘I think they are taking it seriously. They asked me whether I could stay with friends for a while.’

  ‘Of course you can! You can come and stay with us,’ Beata quickly replied.

  Andrea dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand.

  ‘Thanks, but that’s not necessary. We have a really sophisticated security system. I just have to be better about turning it on when I’m at home.’

  ‘Who do you think made that call?’ asked John. ‘Do you think it’s somebody you know?’

  ‘That seems unlikely. Who would do such a thing? I think it might have to do with Sam’s death and all the media attention. As soon as your name appears in the newspapers, you run the risk of attracting all sorts of loonies.’

  Andrea lit a cigarette. Normally she didn’t smoke, but right now she felt the need for some kind of drug. And she thought it was better to smoke than to resort to consoling herself with food, which would just make her fat.

  ‘Who the hell could it be?’ John glanced around at the others. No one had any suggestions. ‘It’s damned unpleasant, at any rate. Wouldn’t you rather come and stay with us for a while? We have plenty of room for both you and the children.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I really need to be alone right now.’

  ‘Håkan, what are the police doing about finding Stina?’ asked Beata.

  ‘They’re not saying much. I phone them several times a day to find out how it’s going, but they’re being really secretive about what they’re doing. Of course they’re looking for some connection between Sam’s death and Stina’s disappearance.’

  ‘Who have they interviewed?’ asked Beata. ‘Aside from us, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything. But I’ve seen them knocking on doors around here, and I’m sure they’ve talked to all the neighbours.’

  ‘Do you know whether—?’ Beata ventured cautiously.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Andrea interjected before Beata could finish her sentence.

  HER TRIP TO Stockholm had to be postponed. With Knutas off sick, and the discovery of the dead man in Latvia, Jacobsson couldn’t possibly take time away from work. The meeting with her daughter would have to wait.

  On Sunday an investigator from the Visby police had flown to Latvia along with Valter Olsson’s sister, Märta, to identify the body. Any doubts had now been erased about whether he was the one who had drifted ashore in a rowing boat. Offshore winds had driven the boat towards the Latvian coast and the town of Ventspils, which was located right across the sea from the east coast of Fårö. Since the winds had later subsided, the boat had probably bobbed about for quite a while before it finally drifted close to land.

  Kihlgård was sitting in Jacobsson’s office, ready to discuss the latest developments. He stuck his hand into a bag of crisps. The crunching sound that he made as he frenetically chewed was really getting on his colleague’s nerves.

  ‘Now we have two murders and one missing woman,’ said Jacobsson. ‘We have to be grateful that the media hasn’t yet found out about Valter Olsson. But I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.’

  Kihlgård chewed pensively before he replied.

  ‘With every day that passes, I’m more and more inclined to think that Stina Ek has also fallen victim to the murderer.’

  ‘So we’re talking about a serial killer?’ Jacobsson sighed. ‘If that’s true, what do these three people have in common? OK, I know that Sam and Stina belonged to the same circle of friends. But what about Valter Olsson? What the hell does he have to do with the case?’ />
  ‘You sure swear a lot,’ complained Kihlgård, giving her a disapproving look. He took out another handful of crisps made from genuine Swedish potatoes.

  ‘Let’s go back to the beginning. It feels as if it all started on Fårö. That’s where Olsson lived, and he was friends with Ingmar Bergman. That’s where Stina was last seen, and she was apparently on her way to Bergman’s house for some reason. It seems Bergman is the common denominator.’

  ‘What did Sam Dahlberg have to do with Bergman?’

  ‘He was a film director, so they shared a profession, which might not be an insignificant factor in the case. Sam was also an ardent fan of Bergman’s work. He’d seen all his films and read most of the books written about him. You’ve read the transcripts of the interviews with Sam’s wife, haven’t you? They even used to watch Bergman movies on Sunday mornings while they were having breakfast.’

  ‘Sure, but what does that really signify? There are plenty of people who like Bergman. Why should it have any connection with the murders?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Jacobsson shrugged. ‘But maybe that’s the angle we should be taking. Something to do with the actors … Maybe Sam had a score to settle with some crazy celebrity.’

  ‘That seems like a long shot. Maybe we should focus more on the actual setting of Fårö – from a purely physical point of view. That’s where Sam, Stina and Valter were. And they all had some connection to Bergman. I’m starting to wonder whether Stina ever left Fårö.’

  ‘What if …?’ Jacobsson fixed her eyes on her colleague. ‘What if that’s where we should be looking? On Bergman’s property. What if Valter Olsson happened to find Stina out there and tried to get her to leave? What if a third person is involved?’

  Kihlgård stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘A third person who killed both Stina and Valter. He drifted ashore in Latvia. So where in the world is Stina?’ he said.

  Jacobsson didn’t reply.

  She had stood up and was already heading for the door.

  IT TOOK A couple of hours to get Chief Prosecutor Smittenberg to issue a search warrant for Ingmar Bergman’s property.

  Three police cars parked outside the gate. Two officers with dogs were also present.

  Kihlgård and Jacobsson went first, accompanied by Valter Olsson’s sister. The gravel crunched under their feet. Erik Sohlman had asked to have the area cordoned off, just to be safe. Even if they didn’t find a body, it was best to take preventive measures. If the theory turned out to be correct, that Stina Ek and Olsson had been murdered in the vicinity, every piece of evidence would be crucial.

  Suddenly they caught sight of the house between the trees. It blended in beautifully with the natural setting – a long, one-storey structure surrounded by a high stone wall that hid the property from view. So this was the world-famous director’s home, which had been kept private from outsiders all these years. Jacobsson couldn’t help feeling a little excited.

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s a long building,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘There you go again, swearing,’ said Kihlgård drily.

  To reach the side facing the sea, they had to go through the gate next to the house. Jacobsson couldn’t help peeking in through the windows. First a long hallway. To the right a modest kitchen with pine cupboards and a table next to the window. A few simple chairs.

  ‘You’d think he would have indulged himself with something a bit more luxurious,’ said Jacobsson in surprise.

  ‘He was probably content to enjoy the luxury of being alone and left in peace. It’s a big house, after all. And look at the view,’ said Kihlgård with a sigh. ‘It’s not something that just anyone could afford.’

  They went over to the veranda, which faced the sea. There they stood in silence for a moment, looking out at the horizon and the entire rocky shoreline.

  Jacobsson peered into the library. The walls were covered with books, and in the middle stood bookcases holding rows of files and folders. It almost looked like a public library, with a ladder and everything. At the far end stood a beautifully designed office chair in black leather next to a desk.

  ‘So that’s where he sat, gazing out at the sea and writing. How bloody marvellous!’

  ‘Watch your language, Karin,’ admonished Kihlgård. ‘Now, if you’re done peeping in the windows, maybe we should get to work.’ He turned to the dog-handlers who were standing nearby. The dogs were panting and yapping and tugging at their leads, eager to start the search. When the two Labs were let loose, they immediately began sniffing at every centimetre of the property.

  Suddenly both dogs set off for the sea and the fence that separated Bergman’s land from Valter Olsson’s. They jumped at the enclosure, barking like crazy. Officers came running from all directions. The dogs soon found a big hole in the fence, and they easily slipped through.

  ‘There’s something on the neighbouring property,’ said one of the dog-handlers. ‘Without a doubt. Over there on the other side.’

  ‘OK,’ said Jacobsson resolutely.

  The police followed. At the water’s edge they found the upside-down rowing boat that Jacobsson had noticed on their earlier visit to Olsson’s cabin. The dogs dashed straight for the boat and continued to bark.

  The two dog-handlers lifted up the boat and moved it away.

  The dogs sat down nearby as the two officers began to dig. It didn’t take long before their shovels struck something, and slowly a decaying body came to light. Bloated and greenish-grey in colour, the skin had come loose in several places, and maggots were crawling all over the corpse. The eyes were sunken and cloudy. The hair a shiny black. Jacobsson turned away and threw up in the water.

  Kihlgård gloomily studied the dead woman, who was wearing only a skirt and bra. In spite of the sorry state of the body, there was no question about the victim’s identity.

  ‘So at last we’ve found Stina Ek,’ he murmured.

  THAT AFTERNOON, THE entire area surrounding Ingmar Bergman’s domain was cordoned off, and it didn’t take long before journalists began turning up on Fårö. Rumours spread quickly, and reporters from all over Sweden flew to Gotland. Later that evening the foreign press also began to appear, mostly from Germany, where interest in Bergman was especially strong, since he had lived in Munich for almost ten years.

  Word got out that a murdered woman had been found on property belonging to Bergman. When the foreign reporters realized that the victim had actually been discovered on a neighbour’s land, their interest waned.

  But the Swedish media was difficult enough to handle, and police spokesman Lars Norrby asked for help after only a few hours.

  ‘This is fucking sick,’ snapped Jacobsson to Wittberg as she hurried along the corridor of the Criminal Division, on her way to the late-night meeting of the investigative team. ‘We can’t even do our job because of all the media hysteria. Those journalists are nothing but a bunch of lunatics. We’re going to have to call in the armoured troops on Fårö to keep the reporters away.’

  They’d already heard that the police officers on the scene were having a hard time keeping out curiosity-seekers. Wittberg merely shook his head as they entered the conference room. At that moment Knutas phoned Jacobsson, but she didn’t take the call. She’d ring him later, after the meeting was over.

  ‘All right. We now have a lot of things to discuss,’ she began, looking at her colleagues gathered around the table. ‘We found the body of Stina Ek near Valter Olsson’s home on Fårö. Only twenty metres or so away from Ingmar Bergman’s property. The body was buried in the sand underneath an overturned rowing boat, so there’s no doubt about the fact that she was murdered. What we don’t yet know is when she was killed, but the ME will be able to determine that from the post-mortem. I’ve requested top priority for this case, and the ME has already flown over from the mainland. He’s on the scene right now, along with Erik Sohlman and the other crime techs. Stina Ek was last seen when she cycled past Arne Gustavsson’s farm on the afternoon of Saturda
y, the twenty-eighth of June. Sometime around three or four o’clock, after leaving her husband behind at the Slow Train Inn. An hour later she phoned him to say that she’d met a childhood friend. Then later that evening, as you know, he received a text message saying that she’d been called in to work.’

  ‘So she must have been killed after sending the text message – if she was the one who sent it, that is,’ said Wittberg. ‘But why did she lie?’

  ‘Why did she want to stay away?’ Jacobsson asked.

  ‘And why did no one besides this Arne Gustavsson notice her?’ interjected Kihlgård. ‘She was quite striking in appearance. Not somebody who could disappear in a crowd.’

  ‘Not a single witness seems to have seen her other than Gustavsson,’ Jacobsson confirmed. ‘And all indications are that she headed straight for Hammars, turned off the main road, and then took only side roads. Sheep are the only living things to be found out there.’

  Wittberg ran his fingers through his blond mane.

  ‘How did she happen to end up at Valter Olsson’s place?’

  ‘Either the perpetrator found her there, or if they ran into each other near Bergman’s house, Stina may have tried to flee through the neighbour’s property. Maybe she was being chased. Or else she was killed on Bergman’s property and then her body was dragged next door, even though that’s a long way. The question is: Who was in the vicinity at the same time Stina was there?’

  ‘Well, it happened during the Bergman festival,’ said Wittberg. ‘So plenty of people could have been out there.’

  Jacobsson was interrupted by the ringing of her mobile. When she saw that it was Sohlman, she took the call.

  The others seated around the table watched her in silence as she listened to the crime tech. When he was done with his report, she turned to her colleagues.

  ‘That was Sohlman. They’ve found blood on Bergman’s veranda and on the wall of the house facing the shore. And one more thing. In a nook of the veranda they found a top and a thong, neatly folded. They seem to be Stina’s size.’