80
Johan was taken straight to Visby Hospital, where he was given a sedative until he could speak to a psychologist. The nurse had left his room, assuring him that she’d be back soon. In the meantime, Johan should lie down and take it easy. He felt empty and numb, as if he wasn’t really there. When the door opened again, it wasn’t the nurse who came in. Instead, he saw Emma’s face in the doorway.
‘Hi,’ he said, attempting to smile. Her expression was stony, her face swollen, and it looked as if all her features were in the wrong place: her eyes on her chin, her nose on her left temple. She had no mouth at all. Just a dry hole.
Emma didn’t respond to his greeting. She stood some distance away from the bed, staring at him with disgust.
‘You didn’t tell me about that photograph of you in the news office,’ she snarled. ‘You were tailing a man you assumed was a murderer, just because you thought it would be fun, without giving the least thought to us — me and Elin — or our safety. And now she’s gone. My Elin, my beloved Elin is gone, and it’s your fault. Your fucking fault. If you hadn’t been doing what you did, this wouldn’t have happened.’
Johan was shocked by this unexpected attack, and he tried to protest.
‘But Emma…’ he said weakly.
‘Shut up.’
She crept closer. Stood leaning over him, staring angrily into his eyes.
‘He came into my house, my house. When I was taking a shower, he was creeping around. He took my daughter and disappeared. Now all we can do is hope that the police get him to say what he’s done with her, and that my Elin isn’t dead. That she’s still alive.’
‘Yes, but-’
‘She’s eight months old, Johan. Eight months old! ’
She tore off her engagement ring and threw it at him.
‘I will never forgive you for this!’ she screamed.
She left the room, slamming the door behind her with all her might.
Johan sat there in the hospital bed, anaesthetized, annihilated, incapable of taking in even a fraction of what had just happened.
It was horrible, just too horrible.
81
The search for Elin continued non-stop out at the Snack campsite. Police dogs combed every nook and cranny: the cafeteria, the grocery shop, the reception building, the lavatories and shower booths. They didn’t find the child anywhere, and everyone feared that she had been killed and her body dumped somewhere. David Mattson’s car was found, but it provided no clues.
Reluctantly Kihlgard, who had come to the area with Wittberg, began to despair. If Elin had been hidden somewhere here, they should have found her by now.
As he stood looking at the Snack block of flats, an idea came to him. If David Mattson had been certain that the exchange would take place, he could have left the baby some distance away, pointed Johan in the right direction and then driven off in his car, which he’d parked next to the lavatory building.
‘Come with me,’ he shouted to Wittberg.
His colleague ran to catch up with him. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I just have a gut feeling,’ said Kihlgard. ‘Aren’t those time-share flats over there?’
‘Yes,’ said Wittberg, gasping for breath.
‘Does anybody live there in the wintertime?’
‘I assume so. They must pay for the weeks they want to be here, and I’d think that some people would want to live here year round.’
They headed up the slope to the block of flats, located in a lovely spot near the sea.
‘Do you think he hid her somewhere inside?’ asked Wittberg.
‘Why not? If he can get into Waldemarsudde, surely he could get into this building too.’
They found nothing suspicious in the area, but were soon joined by more police officers who took over the search.
Wittberg turned to Kihlgard. ‘Come on, let’s check over there.’
‘Where?’
‘There are some summerhouses up on the ridge. Maybe he broke into one of them.’
‘How far is it?’ asked Kihlgard doubtfully. ‘Shouldn’t we go and get the car?’
‘It’ll take longer to walk back and get the car than to continue up to the summerhouses. Come on.’ Wittberg began jogging up the slope.
‘Take it easy,’ Kihlgard panted. He had a hard time keeping up with the pace set by his younger colleague.
When they reached the top of the ridge, they found a small side road leading to a wooded area. The cabins were scattered among the trees, simple wooden structures on small plots of land. The area was deserted. They went in separate directions and started looking for signs that someone might have been there earlier in the day. It didn’t take long before Wittberg gave a shout.
‘Here, Martin. Come over here. I think I’ve found something!’
A yellow-painted cabin stood at the edge of the area, near the side road. Fresh tyre tracks were visible in the snow. They rushed towards the cabin. Suddenly Kihlgard started yelling.
‘Look, someone broke open the door!’
‘Yes, I see that, damn it,’ gasped Wittberg excitedly. ‘But what’s that?’
For one icy moment they both thought that the red patch in the snow was blood, but when they got closer, they saw that it was a tiny baby’s sock.
They were in the right place. Wittberg went first, tearing open the door. The hallway inside was dark and cramped, and there wasn’t a sound. When Wittberg later recounted the story to his colleagues, he described the feeling he had as ‘nightmarish’. He and Kihlgard hardly dared breathe, fearing what they might find. Their eyes scanned the rag rugs on the floor, the simple furniture, the clumsily painted pictures, the wall clock that had stopped at 4:45, and the pots of plastic flowers in the windows. The raw cold, the faint smell of mould and rat poison.
Wittberg was the first to enter the small bedroom with two narrow beds on one side. In a corner on top of one of the beds stood a dark-blue carrycot, shoved close to the wall.
Wittberg slowly turned around to look at his older colleague. Kihlgard calmly met his glance and nodded for him to proceed.
At that moment, Thomas Wittberg felt smaller and more insignificant than he’d ever felt before. For a second he shut his eyes, unable to remember ever experiencing such silence. He would never forget the moment when he leaned over the carrycot. The sight that met his eyes would change his life for ever.
There she lay. Under a blanket with a pink knitted cap on her head. Her eyes were closed and her face peaceful. Her little hands lay on top of the blanket. Then Wittberg bent even closer and listened to the most beautiful sound he could imagine.
The regular in and out of Elin’s breathing.
EPILOGUE
