turn.
Just as he had predicted, it wasn’t long before a creaking sound broke the silence, as if somebody were trying to prise open the window. Apparently using a crowbar. The wood gave way. Gloved fingers appeared, groping in the meagre light. They unlatched the second window.
Then a leg appeared, followed by another. A tall, large man dressed in dark clothing leaned in through the window and then landed on the floor only a few feet from Hugo. The man’s face was covered by a black knitted ski mask pulled over his head, with holes for his eyes.
Hugo pressed his body against the wall as best he could, hoping that this uninvited guest would move past without noticing him.
The suite was located in a corner of the hotel building, and the rooms within it were arranged in a circle. They were in the living room — the intruder could choose to turn left into the bedroom or go right into a smaller sitting room. For several moments the masked man stood motionless, and Hugo could hear his rapid breathing.
The darkness was intense. Silently he prayed that the man wouldn’t be able to smell his presence. Presumably he stank of both whisky and cigarette smoke. The man turned and for several terrifying seconds Hugo was convinced that his hiding place had been discovered. But then the stranger crept towards the bedroom doorway and was swallowed up by the dark.
Hugo backed away from the curtains, keeping his eyes fixed on the bedroom. Behind him was the sitting room, the entrance hall, and then the door to the hotel corridor. He could still make his escape. It seemed unreasonable to try overpowering such a beefy intruder. He wouldn’t have a chance. Thoughts whirled through his mind — he had no sense of time, he couldn’t even guess how many seconds had passed.
Just as he was considering throwing himself at the door, he felt someone grab his wrist. The lamp he was holding fell to the floor with a crash. He tried to yell, but no sound came out. As if he realized that it would do no good.
63
An air of listless dejection hovered over the morning meeting on Wednesday. Knutas thought it was ridiculous what a difference his announcement of Karin Jacobsson’s promotion had made to the general morale. Now Wittberg refused to sit next to her, and Norrby seemed to have developed an antipathy to everyone and everything. Earlier that morning Jacobsson had complained of the matter to Knutas when they had coffee together, wondering if it was really worth all the trouble. He understood how she felt, but he urged her to be patient. Given time, Norrby was bound to mellow, and even Wittberg would come round. Knutas assumed that Wittberg had ambitions and might even have expected the position himself.
It was impossible to satisfy everyone.
Right now Wittberg sat at the conference table looking sullen, even though Knutas happened to know that he was actually doing quite well. His girlfriend, who was no longer new, had moved in with him, and that seemed to be having a good influence. He was more alert and lively than Knutas had ever seen him before. So it was especially annoying that he should begrudge Jacobsson the promotion.
‘I’ve done some more checking on Rolf Sanden. You know, Monika’s lover,’ Wittberg began. ‘He does have an alibi for the night of the murder, but it’s not exactly watertight. His friend who says that they were together might be lying. Rolf Sanden likes to play the horses, and it turns out that he has big gambling debts. He owes a lot of people money.’
‘Is that so?’ Knutas frowned.
‘On the other hand, Monika Wallin claims not to have known anything about his gambling problem or the fact that he’s up to his ears in debt.’
‘OK, then that’s a possible motive. He’s also a former construction worker. With strong muscles, in other words.’
‘But isn’t he on disability leave?’ objected Jacobsson.
‘For a bad back, yes,’ Wittberg rebuffed her. ‘That doesn’t mean that he’s not strong.’
‘Even so,’ Jacobsson persisted, ‘do you really think he could hoist a body so high up if he’s having back problems?’
‘For God’s sake,’ said Wittberg with a sigh. ‘Surely you don’t think we should rule him out, do you?’ He shook his head as if that was the stupidest thing he’d heard in a long time.
‘Of course not,’ said Norrby. ‘Maybe he’s been faking the back problems to get on sick leave. That happens all the time. Or doesn’t anybody ever try to cheat the welfare system in your world?’
His voice was dripping with sarcasm. Norrby and Wittberg exchanged looks.
Without warning Jacobsson stood up so abruptly that her chair fell over. She stared at Wittberg with such fury that he looked both surprised and alarmed.
‘That’s bloody well enough of that!’ she exclaimed, fixing her eyes on her colleague. ‘What a petty, jealous, conceited idiot you are. That’s enough! Do you have such a sodding big ego that you actually begrudge me my promotion? We’ve worked together for years, Thomas — and I’ve been on the force twice as long as you have. Why are you so against me being the deputy superintendent? Tell me your reason right here and now — come on!’
Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Lars Norrby.
‘And you’re no better. Going around sulking as if I was the one who made this decision! If you have anything to complain about, talk to Anders, but stop whining and snapping at me like a child. I’m sick of both of you, and I refuse to put up with it any longer. So let’s drop it — do you understand?’
Jacobsson ended her furious outburst by picking up her chair and slamming it against the wall. Then she left the room. The door banged shut behind her.
Before anyone managed to say another word, Knutas’s mobile rang.
By the time he’d finished the conversation, he looked even more sombre.
‘That was the Wisby Hotel. Hugo Malmberg checked in yesterday morning. He attended Egon Wallin’s funeral and was going to spend the night at the hotel. But he didn’t check out today, and he wasn’t on the plane back to Stockholm. When the hotel staff went into his room, they found all of his belongings still there. The window had been prised open, and there were traces of blood on the floor.’
‘And Malmberg?’ asked Kihlgard.
‘Gone,’ said Knutas, reaching for his jacket, which was draped over the back of his chair. ‘Disappeared. They can’t find him anywhere.’
64
The Wisby Hotel was located on Strandgatan near Donners Square, close to the harbour. It was a beautiful and venerable luxury hotel. There was a noticeably uneasy mood in the lobby when Knutas, Kihlgard, Sohlman and Jacobsson all came through the door just fifteen minutes after the front-desk manager had notified the police that Hugo Malmberg was missing. After a brief greeting, the officers asked to see the room.
The suite was on the second floor. To the manager’s horror, Sohlman immediately fastened police tape to the door.
‘Is that really necessary?’ the man asked, sounding worried. ‘That makes it quite clear that this is a crime scene, and it will make our guests nervous.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sohlman. ‘It can’t be helped.’
He sounded as if he meant what he said. Ten years earlier a female night clerk had been murdered at the Wisby Hotel — it was one of only three unsolved homicides in Gotland’s history. The murder had attracted national attention, and the case had popped up in the news for years afterwards. Now and then it was still discussed on crime shows on TV.
Sohlman was the first to enter the suite, and he motioned for the others to wait. They crowded into the
