The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘Right now I couldn’t care less. But OK, I’ll phone Smittenberg.’ Without waiting for a response, she tapped in the phone number for the prosecutor. No answer.

  ‘What a shame,’ she told Wittberg with a grin. He didn’t reply.

  And before her colleague could object, Jacobsson unlocked the door.

  KNUTAS WOKE UP early. The ache in his wrist was almost gone. He was alone in the bed because Lina was out of town again. Lately she’d done nothing but take off from work, using up any holiday time and days off in lieu that she was owed. The kids weren’t at home either. He was almost starting to think that he was getting used to the solitude.

  He thought about his wife and how she had changed. Maybe it has something to do with the menopause, thought Knutas, but then he was ashamed of such an idea. Why did people always blame hormones as soon as a woman wanted changes and started to make demands or to seek more time for herself? He wasn’t going to fall into that trap. Maybe he should just leave her in peace.

  Andrea Dahlberg’s face appeared in his mind. His first impression of her was that she was extremely controlled. Even though her husband had been murdered in the most cruel way, she had been composed during the first interview he’d had with her at police headquarters. She hadn’t shed a single tear.

  Andrea seemed determined to maintain a façade. Every time he’d seen her she had been amenable; she had been well groomed and properly dressed. She wore her long hair loose, but it was beautifully styled. She kept her home in perfect order, and the shop that she owned on Adelsgatan had been meticulously arranged and designed down to the smallest detail. Andrea seemed to be someone who left nothing to chance.

  Now she had sent her children to stay with their grandparents, but she herself had decided not to join them for the sailing expedition. She’d changed her mind at the last second. Knutas wondered why. Apparently someone had contacted her. Was it a friend of hers? How could she leave her children like that when they’d just lost their father? And strangely enough, she’d made herself unavailable, even though her husband and best friend had just been murdered, and the police might need to contact her.

  Within a short time she’d lost the two people who meant the most in her life, other than her children. How had that affected her? He thought again about what had happened in her childhood. That must have been tremendously traumatic. First her sister’s suicide, and then finding out the reason behind it: their father’s sexual assaults. A terrible betrayal back then. A terrible betrayal now.

  Suddenly Knutas sat up in bed.

  Andrea Dahlberg had switched off her phone and left the children where they would be safe. She had lost everything. A thought refused to leave him. Was that possible? If so, how and where? There was really only one place that seemed likely.

  Now Knutas knew exactly what he had to do. Impatiently he got out of bed and checked the timetable on the Internet.

  THE FRONT ENTRY was cramped and dark. Wittberg crept in first, his gun drawn. Jacobsson followed close behind. It was possible that Boberg was in the flat and had just refused to open the door. They continued along a narrow hall with doors on both sides. The floor creaked faintly under their feet, and a clock ticked on the wall. The kitchen was empty, as was the bedroom. Jacobsson opened the door to the bathroom and a clothes cupboard. No one there.

  They quickly concluded that the flat was empty. In the living room they found a white leather sofa, a glass table with lion’s feet, and a large porcelain Dalmatian set in one corner.

  ‘Good God, how ugly,’ exclaimed Jacobsson.

  The kitchen was long and narrow with a modern white plastic table next to the window. A fruit bowl holding fresh bananas indicated that the tenant had recently been at home. The flat was clean and tidy.

  ‘He seems to be an orderly person, at any rate,’ said Wittberg as he continued over to another room at the end of the hall.

  The door was locked.

  ‘I don’t suppose we’re likely to find the key,’ murmured Jacobsson. ‘And he could come home at any moment.’

  Wittberg kicked open the door.

  And whistled.

  ‘I’ll be damned.’

  The room was painted bright red, and the entire ceiling was covered with mirrors. Strings of tiny red lights were hung around the windows. The walls were papered with hundreds of pictures, all apparently of one woman, showing her in various settings. Wearing a quilted jacket on a skating rink, in a white summer dress with a flower wreath on her head at a Midsummer celebration, wearing shorts and a top as she clipped the hedge. Naked with only a hat on her head, wearing a black negligee in the bedroom, in various provocative positions as she apparently posed for the photographer. A bizarre cavalcade with Andrea Dahlberg in the leading role. The photos had been professionally done. The photographer seemed to know his stuff.

  ‘Good Lord,’ gasped Jacobsson. ‘Looks like we’re dealing with a stalker.’

  ‘And potentially a triple murderer. Judging by all of this, it looks like Andrea might be his next victim.’ Jacobsson suddenly went ice cold. ‘And she’s been missing for three days, or more. Shit, shit, shit.’

  She looked around. A thought had begun to take shape in the back of her mind. It had something to do with the porcelain dog in the living room. A Dalmatian. Jacobsson’s gaze fell again on the photographs, taken by a professional. Slowly she realized what it might mean. She pictured Janne Widén’s smile and greyish-green eyes. His business card on which it said ‘Photographer’. He was the one who had told her about the sex parties. Red roses in her office. The man she’d had dinner with last night. They’d been practically flirting with each other. She’d felt something that resembled a budding attraction as they said good night outside the door to her building. What an idiot she was. A sense of betrayal burned in her stomach. For the first time in ages she had felt appreciated as a woman. She’d thought he was really interested in her. And he was single. Her cheeks burned with indignation. Was Janne Widén really Sten Boberg?

  She sank down on the sofa in the living room and pulled off her jacket. Thoughts were tumbling through her head. Could the situation be that bad? She felt totally confused.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Wittberg, who had seen Jacobsson’s face go from pale to bright red.

  ‘It’s nothing. I just thought of something. Have you seen any indication that he owns a dog?’

  ‘No.’

  Jacobsson forced herself to push the feeling of humiliation aside so she could focus on the job they were there to do. They searched the flat, looking for further leads. Boberg had collected extensive documentation about Andrea: newspaper clippings, photos, notes about the business she ran, but nothing that revealed where she might be right now. Jacobsson was just about to notify her colleagues when they heard a key turn in the lock.

  ‘Shit,’ hissed Wittberg.

  He shoved Jacobsson into the clothes cupboard and stepped in after her just as the front door opened.

  KNUTAS GOT INTO his old Mercedes and drove south towards Klintehamn. The traffic was light this early in the morning, even though the tourist season was at its peak. Gotland is actually more beautiful after the summer holidays are over, thought Knutas. Especially from mid-August to the end of September. The weather was often lovely, and the sea surrounding the island was quite warm. That was when the beaches were deserted and most inviting, and it was possible to walk through the streets of Visby without constantly bumping into other people.

  Waiting on the dock were about ten people besides himself. He didn’t know a single one of them; they were probably all from the mainland. Usually Knutas cursed the fact that he couldn’t remain anonymous. He’d been the police chief for so long that he knew everybody who lived on Gotland. Sometimes he put on a baseball cap and sunglasses just to avoid being recognized, as if he were a pop star.

  When the ferry docked in Norderhamn, Knutas was the first to disembark.

  He walked quickly along the stony path, grateful that he’d been wise
enough to wear comfortable shoes. He soon reached the bay where the group from Terra Nova had stayed.

  Everything seemed more real now that he was actually here. He could picture them swimming and relaxing together. He imagined the tension that must have existed at the thought of what they’d done at those parties only a year earlier.

  He continued past the cabins near the bay and headed up the steep stairs to the lighthouse. He met no one and assumed that most of the people were taking the obligatory tour of the island. He’d been given special dispensation so he didn’t have to participate.

  It was nice and calm at the top. Knutas paused for a moment to look at the original lighthouse, which was 18 metres tall and built of stones from the island where it stood. The house looked like a small castle that he’d once seen on a trip to France. The lighthouse on Stora Karlsö was not constructed in the usual form of a free-standing round tower. Here the tower was built into the house that had served as a residence for the lighthouse-keeper and his family. If it weren’t for the big lamps in the windows at the very top, it would have been hard to tell that this was actually a lighthouse.

  He made his way over to the first bird mountain and stood at the fence, gazing at the cliffs and the narrow ledges. All the birds had now left.

  He turned around and went on to the next bird mountain, which was some distance away. This was where Sam Dahlberg had been murdered. The sun was warm on his back, so he took off his jacket. It was almost eleven o’clock, and it was starting to get hot. Suddenly it occurred to him that it was almost exactly the same time of day when somebody pushed Dahlberg off the cliff. What a coincidence. He rounded the curve and the bird mountain was right in front of him. Eagerly he picked up the pace, keeping his eyes on the ridge. So that was where it happened. That was where Dahlberg had met his killer.

  Suddenly Knutas gave a start. Someone had appeared up there on the cliff edge, pausing to look out at the sea.

  He recognized her at once.

  WITH A MUTED bang the front door closed again. Someone locked the deadbolt and lifted the security chain into place. Sten Boberg was obviously meticulous about keeping out unwelcome visitors. If he only knew, thought Jacobsson. A brief cough, shoes being removed. A jacket hung up on a hook. Footsteps only centimetres away from where both police officers were hiding, standing close together in the small cupboard. Jacobsson was holding on to the back of Wittberg’s jacket so as not to lose her balance. A hanger was jabbing her in the back. Someone went into the toilet without closing the door, judging by the sound. Then the person flushed and came out again. Jacobsson poked her colleague, took out her gun, and motioned for him to step out. Wittberg raised his hand to stop her.

  ‘Let’s wait a moment,’ he whispered. ‘He might have Andrea.’

  Water was running from the tap in the kitchen. Saucepans clattered. Was he making tea? Creaking footsteps heading for the living room, and then the TV went on. Apparently he stood there for a moment, using the remote to surf the channels as one sound was replaced by another: thudding pop music, the babble of a newsreader, loud moaning from what sounded like a porn film. To Jacobsson’s relief, he quickly changed the channel to a sports report, and then music again. It sounded like movie music from some American drama. Footsteps went past again, going back to the kitchen. The clicking sound as a burner was turned off. Every little sound was audible through the thin cupboard door. Boberg seemed to be alone.

  At that moment Jacobsson froze. As she stood there with her nose against Wittberg’s back, she remembered that she’d taken off her jacket when they were searching the flat. It was lying on the sofa in the living room. Damn, she thought. Her mobile was in her jacket pocket.

  She murmured a silent prayer that he wouldn’t notice it. Her mouth was dry, and her heart was pounding so hard that she was afraid he’d hear it. The man went back to the living room. They immediately smelled smoke. Their first thought was that he’d lit a cigarette, but it didn’t take long before they realized it wasn’t the usual tobacco sold in the shops. Sten Boberg was sitting there smoking hash. So now he’s going to get high? thought Jacobsson with growing frustration. She poked Wittberg. It was too crowded for him to turn around. She ventured a whisper.

  ‘What the hell should we do?’

  Before her colleague could answer, the volume on the TV soared. Voices thundered through the flat, revealing that the music they’d heard before was definitely from some American film. Jacobsson froze. Why had he turned up the volume so loud?

  For several minutes they stood there in confusion, unable to guess what was happening beyond the cupboard door. Wittberg tried to take out his mobile but rammed his elbow into a hanger. Jacobsson grabbed the hanger just as silence fell over the flat again. Suddenly they heard the door to the cupboard being locked from the outside. Then came the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor.

  Boberg was in the process of blockading the door.

  He’d found their hiding place, so there was no longer any need to remain silent.

  ‘Police!’ shouted Wittberg. ‘Open up!’

  ‘I’m sure he knows who we are,’ hissed Jacobsson, who was still wedged in behind her colleague. ‘My police badge is in my jacket, which I left on the sofa.’

  No answer. Just more scraping and thudding.

  Wittberg threw himself against the door, which abruptly gave way, and both officers tumbled out of the closet, only to see a man’s back disappearing through the door. They ran down the stairs after him and out on to the street.

  Just as they came outside, they saw the man they were chasing vanish around the corner.

  ‘Let’s split up,’ said Jacobsson. ‘You go after him, and I’ll cut him off on the other side.’

  They headed off in different directions. Jacobsson dashed around the dilapidated building and came out on a narrow side street.

  She slowed down and then cautiously proceeded forward. Looking in all directions, she didn’t dare shout to Wittberg, for fear of warning Boberg.

  She crept along the side of the building. Suddenly she heard a crunching sound behind her. Abruptly she spun around. For a second she saw his face. It was not Janne Widén. She felt a momentary relief before she was shoved to the ground. She heard Wittberg yelling.

  ‘Halt!’

  Then silence. Jacobsson cautiously raised her head. Wittberg was standing in the deserted street, pointing his gun at the man whom she assumed was Sten Boberg. For a moment it seemed as if everything stopped. No one spoke; no one moved. Then the man slowly raised his hands in the air.

  It was over.

  KARIN JACOBSSON BEGAN the interrogation as soon as they arrived at police headquarters with Sten Boberg. Wittberg insisted on being present in the role of witness.

  Boberg’s face was white, and he seemed very nervous as he was led into the interview room in the basement. Jacobsson switched on the tape recorder and then studied the man sitting in front of her. He had classic features and wavy, ash-blond hair. His eyes were an unusual deep blue. Dark eyebrows and long, thick lashes. A real dreamboat, actually. But his eyes kept shifting, and he was constantly licking his lips. Jacobsson estimated his age to be about forty. He was tall and muscular, dressed in jeans and a navy-blue tennis sweater.

  ‘Tell me about your relationship with Andrea Dahlberg.’

  Boberg cleared his throat and again licked his lips.

  ‘We met a year ago when I moved to Terra Nova with my girlfriend of the time. We met Andrea, her husband, and some other neighbours, and we spent a lot of time with them. But we didn’t live there for long. Monica and I split up, and we moved away.’

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with Andrea?’

  ‘Good. Actually, it was fantastic.’ Boberg rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  ‘We know about the swinger parties you had. Was there anything in particular that happened between you and Andrea in connection with those parties? Did you meet at other times too?’

  ‘No. I wanted to, bu
t …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘She insisted that it was all just a game. That it was OK at the parties, because everybody else was doing it too. But she didn’t want to see me at other times.’

  ‘So you didn’t have sex outside of the parties.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even once?’

  Sten Boberg shook his head.

  ‘Then how were you able to take pictures of her?’

  ‘I brought my camera to one of the parties. She was in some of the pictures. Then I secretly took other pictures of her.’

  ‘What’s your relationship with Andrea today?’

  ‘I love her, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.’

  ‘And you feel so strongly about her that you’d be willing to kill her husband?’

  The man on the other side of the table met her eyes. He suddenly seemed perfectly calm.

  ‘No. I didn’t murder anybody. I’ve just been trying to get in touch with Andrea.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have found a better way to do that than spying on her in the middle of the night and taking a lot of photographs in secret? You could have phoned her, for example.’

  ‘I did that, but she didn’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘Why not, if the two of you have such a good relationship?’

  ‘There were problems. I’m sure you know all about it. Monica was jealous, and everybody in the group got upset and wanted us to leave. I tried to forget Andrea, but then I found the cardboard box with those photos of her, and all of the feelings came flooding back. I tried to contact her again, but I knew that she was afraid of what her husband would think. I thought that if I went out there, we might run into each other, but I didn’t want to scare her, so I started by just watching her.’

  ‘And you also took pictures, right?’

  ‘Yes.’