They walked in silence for a while.
‘How did you happen to join the police force, by the way? I mean, don’t take this wrong, but you seem too soft somehow for that type of work.’
Jacobsson smiled, feeling suddenly embarrassed.
‘I don’t know. I suppose I wanted to do something useful. Something real, if you know what I mean.’
He laughed, kicking aside a stone on the ground.
‘Not like me. I just take pictures of people. And food. Lately I’ve been mostly photographing food. You know, because everyone’s talking about “culinary Gotland”. It’s so trendy at the moment. All those chefs and cookbooks and newly opened restaurants and cafés. Speaking of food, are you hungry?’
They had reached Tott’s newly opened restaurant down on Norderstrand. Both a luxury hotel and a block of condominiums were being built nearby. The restaurant had outdoor seating right on the water, and they could smell the fragrant aroma of grilled meat.
‘As a matter of fact, I am.’
‘Baloo is getting tired, so he won’t want to walk much further. Shall we sit down for a while?’
They chose a table that had a splendid view of the water. Then they ordered grilled steaks and salad, along with a bottle of wine. Karin thought it all seemed totally unreal. Here she sat with a man in a restaurant for the first time in ages, and she’d forgotten how to act. But Janne turned out to be a charming companion. They chatted about all sorts of topics. Baloo fell asleep under the table after having a piece of meat and some water.
‘What’s it like being a police officer, anyway? How do you cope with all the misery you have to see?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Karin. ‘You get used to it, to a certain extent. And when you’re working, you focus on the professional side of the job, so that’s a way of protecting yourself. I suppose I shut out my emotions a lot in order to concentrate on the work.’
‘What about when you get home?’
‘That’s when the feelings can surface,’ she admitted. ‘That’s when you return to being yourself, in a way. Although I try not to let in too many emotions. You have to learn to separate the work from your personal life. Otherwise it would be intolerable in the long run.’
‘I think it’s so admirable that you’re able to do that. I don’t know if I could handle it. I’m too sensitive.’
‘You are? In what way?’
‘I always cry at sad movies, for instance. It can be a problem. If I go to the cinema with my friends, they think I’m really embarrassing. I think so too, but I can’t help it. It just comes over me.’
Karin laughed. She took a sip of her wine, aware how happy she felt in Janne’s company. She gazed out at the sea and thought that, in spite of everything, life was good.
They left the restaurant around midnight. Janne carried the sleeping puppy in his arms as he walked Karin to her door.
‘How will you get home?’ she asked.
‘No problem. I’ll get a cab.’
‘OK,’ she replied. ‘Thanks for a nice evening.’
She gave him a quick hug.
In the stairwell on the way up to her flat, she realized that she hadn’t felt this happy in a long, long time.
THE NEXT MORNING Karin Jacobsson was the first to arrive at the offices of the Criminal Division. That wasn’t unusual. Now that Knutas was on sick leave, she was often alone in the office, at least for the first few hours of the day. Normally Knutas was always there with her, since they were both early risers. She missed him more than she’d expected, on both a professional and personal level.
She got a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the corridor before she went to her office. On the threshold she stopped abruptly, hardly able to believe her eyes. On the desk was a vase with a huge bouquet of red roses. Slowly she moved closer and found an envelope among the flowers. The card inside said simply: Will you have dinner with me again soon? Hugs from Janne in Terra Nova.
Karin sank on to her chair. She couldn’t help smiling. Was he courting her? She could hardly remember what it felt like to be the object of someone’s attention – that hadn’t happened for such a long time. And she couldn’t recall ever receiving a bouquet of red roses.
She sat there staring at the flowers. They were big, long-stemmed, and blood-red. Very beautiful. But red roses, she thought to herself. Is he crazy? Did anyone send flowers like this after meeting only twice? Didn’t red roses signify love? Was this a warning that he might be a psychopath? No, she swore to herself the next second. Why do you always have to think like that? Knocking down anyone who shows a little appreciation? Karin was well aware of her inability to accept gifts and compliments. She always felt embarrassed and thought people were putting on an act; she never thought they were sincere. She couldn’t explain why she’d ended up this way. But at least now she knew that’s what she tended to do.
She picked up the card and read it again.
There was a knock on the door. Wittberg appeared in the doorway. He was about to say something but stopped when he caught sight of the flowers.
‘What’s going on? Is it a big birthday? No, that can’t be right. You’re already over forty.’ He grinned. Wittberg was always teasing Jacobsson about her age. ‘I know – you’ve got a lover! About time. Congratulations!’
‘Shut up,’ said Jacobsson, moving the vase off to the side. ‘How come you’re here so early? What do you want?’
‘Seriously. Have you met someone?’
‘No. But even if I had, you’d be the last person I’d tell. Come on, tell me what you want.’
‘I’m here early because I never went home. Kihlgård and I and a few others from the NCP have been up all night trying to locate Andrea Dahlberg while you were home in bed. We’ve checked out all the possible places we could think of, but she’s nowhere to be found. Not at home, not in her shop. None of her friends know where she is, or any of the neighbours in Terra Nova, or anyone else in her gigantic social circle. A couple of officers drove over to her house and went inside. No one was there, but they didn’t find any sign of where she might have gone. The whole thing seems really weird. It’s been three days since anybody saw her.’
Jacobsson felt an uneasiness clutch at her stomach. Not another victim.
‘What about Sten Boberg? Is there any news about him?’
‘Yeah, listen to this. We had an address for him outside Stockholm, and our colleagues went over to his flat during the night, but it was empty. We just found out that it was the wrong address. He no longer lives in Stockholm. He lives here on Gotland.’
Jacobsson jumped out of her chair.
‘What the hell are you saying?’
‘And his place is very close to Andrea’s house. He lives in Gråbo – on Jungmansgatan. He moved there six months ago.’
Jacobsson grabbed her jacket and service weapon and was already out of the door.
THE PARSONAGE WAS about a kilometre from our house. I cycled over there. I was going to return a pie plate that had been left behind after dinner a few days before. Now the pastor’s wife needed it back. She had been out picking blueberries and wanted to surprise her husband with his favourite pie. When I reached their house I stopped at the grand iron gate and walked my bike up the gravel path to the forecourt. It was a short distance from the church, beautifully situated on a hill with a view of the fields and meadows. The parsonage consisted of a main building with a wing on either side. One was used for visitors and the other served as the pastor’s office. Mamma and Pappa had been here many times after Emilia’s death. I still could barely comprehend that my sister had actually killed herself. That she no longer wanted to live. It was hard to accept. And we never talked about it at home. But it seemed so empty at the dinner table and in front of the TV in the evening. Emilia had left behind a terrible void. I don’t remember what my thoughts were right after it happened. I felt like I was on automatic, eating the food put in front of me, going to school, doing my homework. The school counsellor
had tried to talk to me, but I wasn’t interested. It felt as if she wanted me to say a lot of things that I had no intention of saying. As if I were sitting there for her sake, so that she could feel that she’d done her job. Mamma just lay in bed with the blinds drawn. Pappa had been forced to move out of the room. She refused to let anyone in. I longed for her to hug me, comfort me, but she couldn’t. She was too immersed in her own sorrow. People came over to visit. They sat at the kitchen table and drank coffee, fidgeting because they didn’t know what to say. People talked about a ‘cry for help’. A cry for help that nobody had heard. That made it even worse. As if it was our fault that Emilia had taken her own life. Take care of your mother, they told me. Pappa sought refuge in his farm work. Nobody cared about me. I closed off my grief; my defence mechanisms set in and made me able to get through the days.
As I cycled up to the parsonage on that day, I saw that our car was parked at the side of the building. Pappa was here. I could hear low voices coming from the pastor’s office. Someone was crying, and I assumed it was Pappa. It was a hot day, the air was stifling, and the window stood open. Instinctively I pricked up my ears and hesitantly crossed the gravel forecourt so as not to draw attention. I stopped next to the wall of the house, so no one could see me from the window, and listened intently. Now I could clearly hear Pappa sobbing inside the room.
‘It was my fault,’ he said. ‘All my fault. I’ve killed my own daughter.’ At first I was filled with tenderness. Poor Pappa. He shouldn’t shoulder all the blame for Emilia’s death. She’d been suffering from depression, and it was worse and more serious than anyone could have imagined. It was no one’s fault. I heard the pastor murmur something, and then Pappa spoke again.
‘It’s my fault. But I couldn’t help myself.’
I was stunned and felt an icy shiver race through my body at the implication of Pappa’s words.
‘Now, now. Now, now,’ said the pastor.
Pappa went on, whimpering pitifully: ‘You know what I mean. I told you about it from the very beginning. I should have realized when she stopped talking. In my heart I knew it was an intolerable situation, but I couldn’t help myself. I felt like sick demons were egging me on. I’m just a man after all, and Margareta never wanted to do it.’
‘We talked about that,’ said the pastor sternly. ‘What you did is a sin and perverse and I told you so many times that you needed to stop. You can’t blame your assaults on male urges.’
The words echoed inside my head. It was impossible to take them in, impossible to understand. Had Pappa …? I was breathing hard, my head started to spin, and I dropped the pie plate on the ground. Suddenly everything was crystal clear.
The nausea came without warning. I threw up in the rose bushes. From far away I could still hear Pappa’s churning, whining voice. It had been going on for several years. And our good friend, the pastor, had known what was happening the whole time but had never said anything. Not a single person had said a word about what was happening to Emilia.
I managed to get back on my bicycle and then left the parsonage behind.
I was never going back there again.
THE BLOCKS OF flats, plastered a dirty grey, stood in a row in the rundown residential district on the outskirts of Visby. In the car park was a mangy-looking caravan as well as several rusty old bangers that looked as if they were at least twenty years old.
Jacobsson turned off the engine and pulled on the handbrake.
‘OK, how shall we do this?’
Wittberg took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.
‘He lives at Jungmansgatan 142.’
‘It’d probably be best if we surprise him.’
They quickly walked over to the first building. A dilapidated sign on the peeling façade told them that it was number 120. They continued along the deserted street.
Jacobsson gave an involuntary start when a person appeared from around the corner. A young guy wearing a cap pulled down over his forehead came walking towards them with a pit bull on a chain. Jacobsson and Wittberg were not wearing uniforms, but he gave them a scornful look and spat on the pavement as he passed. I’m sure we smell like cops, thought Jacobsson. When they came to number 142 they found the letters ‘KSS’ sprayed in black paint all over the front entrance. It was the acronym for ‘Keep Sweden Swedish’.
‘Nice neighbourhood,’ muttered Wittberg. They paused at the door. The glass in the top part was broken.
Jacobsson looked up at the façade of the building, then she stepped inside. What a contrast it was to the sunlight outside. Dim lighting, the walls a speckled brown, and a faint smell of rubbish. Wittberg took the lead and headed up the narrow stairs. Not a sound was audible. One storey, two. Each floor had four plain doors leading to the flats.
When they reached the third floor, they found what they were looking for. A handwritten piece of paper had been stuck in the nameplate: ‘Sten Boberg’. And above the letter slot there was another sign. ‘No junk mail, please’. Jacobsson and Wittberg took up position on either side of the door and then they rang the bell. The sound reverberated inside the flat. They waited thirty seconds. No reaction. Jacobsson rang the bell again. They waited. Still nothing. They exchanged glances. A few more attempts with no results. Wittberg pushed open the letter slot as far as it would go and shouted: ‘Police! Open up!’
Suddenly they heard the clattering of a lock from the floor above, and a weak, trembling voice said: ‘What’s going on?’
Jacobsson ran up the stairs in three bounds. The door in the corner was slightly ajar. A bleary-eyed old woman was visible in the gap. A thick security chain prevented the door from opening further. Jacobsson guessed that the woman was in her eighties. She was short, with white hair, wearing soiled trousers and a nubbly old cardigan. She seemed almost blind.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ said Jacobsson. ‘We’re from the police, and we’re looking for Sten Boberg, who lives on the floor below. It’s nothing to worry about. We just want to talk to him.’
‘What? What’s going on?’ the old woman repeated. She smelled strongly of urine. Jacobsson noticed a bunch of rubbish bags in the hall inside the flat.
‘We’re from the police,’ she said, raising her voice and showing her police ID. ‘We’re here to talk to your downstairs neighbour, Sten Boberg. Do you know if he still lives here?’
The old woman turned pale and looked terrified.
‘No, I don’t want any. I don’t want any, I tell you. Do you hear me?’
And she shut the door. More security chains clattered.
Silence descended over the building once again. Jacobsson sighed. The old woman seemed utterly confused. She hesitated for a moment, but then rang the bell. She glanced at the nameplate, which was made of white plastic, with officially printed letters. It had been attached to the door by the municipal housing association. Nothing happened. Then Jacobsson heard the sound of a TV. Someone was talking in a loud voice that was quickly drowned out by accordion music.
Wittberg appeared in the stairwell.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘Just an old woman. But I’m going to try again.’
Jacobsson rang the bell. After a moment she heard the rattling of chains, and the door opened slightly. The old woman peered out as if she’d never seen Jacobsson before.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi,’ said Jacobsson, giving the woman her friendliest smile. ‘My name is Karin, and I’m from the police.’
She didn’t get any further before the old woman lost her temper.
‘Are you from the home-help services? I told you I didn’t want any help. Can’t you understand that? I can clean my own home. I’ve done that my whole life, and I’m not going to change.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Jacobsson, her voice a bit sterner. ‘But I’m not from the home-help services. I’m a police officer.’ Again she showed the woman her ID. ‘POLICE. We’re looking for your neighbour.’ She pointed downstairs, to clarify whom she mean
t. ‘Your neighbour whose name is Sten Boberg. Do you know where he is?’
For a moment the old woman looked confused. Her gaze shifted and her lower lip quivered. Jacobsson was afraid that she was going to burst into tears.
‘It’s all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. We just want to have a little talk with the man.’
She pointed again and then held up her ID.
‘I have his keys. If he’s not at home, you can go in and wait for him.’
Jacobsson gave the woman a doubtful look.
‘You have his keys? Well, how fortunate. Could we borrow them?’
‘Just a minute.’
Jacobsson watched in surprise as the old woman disappeared into the dimly lit flat. She heard drawers opening and closing as the woman muttered to herself the whole time. It almost sounded as if she were scolding someone. After several minutes she was back behind the security chain, holding out a gnarled, trembling hand to give Jacobsson a key ring.
‘I have the keys from when Asta lived there. Before she died. I used to water her flowers when she went out of town to visit her son on the mainland. Gunnar. He was a nice boy. He always brought flowers for his old mother. Such a nice boy. But now Asta is dead, and everyone else is too. I’m the only one left, except for that man, who comes and goes. I don’t trust him, so I didn’t tell him that I had the keys. Here you are, young lady. Take them.’
‘Thank you so much.’ Jacobsson grabbed the key ring. ‘I’ll bring them back when we’re done.’
‘That’s not necessary. I have no use for them any more. Asta is dead, and soon I’ll be gone too.’
‘Unbelievable,’ Jacobsson whispered to Wittberg, who was sitting on the stairs, having resigned himself to wait. ‘One minute the old woman was totally confused, and the next she was sharp as a tack.’ She waved the keys before her colleague’s eyes. ‘And she had his keys. It’s too good to be true.’
‘You’re out of your mind. We can’t just barge in. We have nothing on him. He’s not under suspicion for any sort of crime.’
The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7) Page 24