summer season hadn’t been worth much so far. Yesterday’s sunshine had been a welcome change, but now the clouds were back.
Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg were now in place in Stockholm. Jacobsson had called him earlier in the day. They were very busy interviewing people who knew Helena Hillerstrom, and they would most likely have to stay a few more days. Knutas missed Karin whenever she wasn’t at the station. Of course, he was on good terms with the others in the group, but there was something special between him and Karin. They had found it easy to talk to each other from her very first day with the Visby police, after she had spent several years as a trainee in Stockholm. It wasn’t long before he had the utmost confidence in her. In the beginning, when they were getting to know each other, Knutas thought for a short time that he was in love with Karin, but it was just then that he met his future wife and fell instantly in love with her.
Karin Jacobsson did not have a boyfriend, as far as Knutas knew. Even though they worked so closely together, she rarely talked about her personal life.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Johan and Peter finished editing and sent off the interview with Emma Winarve. It took ten minutes for Grenfors to call. He praised them for the story, which was going to be shown on all the news programs that evening. Even so, Grenfors, who was never completely satisfied, wanted them to talk to the neighbors in the area as well. The murder had occurred right in their own backyard, after all, he said.
“But we’ve already been out there and talked to the old lady in Frojel,” Johan objected. His voice crackled with displeasure.
Peter was sitting in an armchair, watching him.
“Channel Four had the neighbors on their noon broadcast,” the editor pointed out.
“And so we have to include them, too?” said Johan, annoyed.
“You have to admit that it’s good to talk to anyone who happens to live in the neighborhood of a murder scene.”
“Sure, but I don’t know if we can make it in time for the evening news.”
“Try,” Grenfors urged him. “If nothing else, we can use it for later programs.”
“Sure thing.”
They left immediately, driving down toward Klintehamn once again, and then in the direction of Frojel. It was still only two days since the murder. Johan thought it felt like a lot more time had passed. It’s actually incredible how much a person can get done, he thought.
They stopped at the first farm after the turnoff to Gustavs, a red house and a barn with a chicken coop. The hens were scratching the dirt inside a pen, cackling merrily. A dog came running up to them, wagging its tail. Obviously not much of a watchdog.
They rang the bell. A woman opened the door at once. She had curly blonde hair and an alert expression on her face.
“Yes?” She gave them an inquisitive look.
A long-haired cat rubbed affectionately against their legs. They could hear children’s voices inside the house.
Johan introduced Peter and himself. “We’re out talking to people who live around here. Because of the murder, you know. Did you know the woman who was killed?”
“No, I can’t say that I did. Of course we knew who the family was, but we didn’t spend any time with them.”
“What do you think about what happened?”
“It’s terrible that something like that could happen here. I certainly hope they catch the person who did it as quickly as possible. It’s so upsetting. I can’t stop thinking about it. And the children, well, I’m keeping a close eye on them. We have five.”
The woman called to her children, then closed the front door and sat down on the single bench on the porch. She pulled out a can of snuff, pinched off a piece, and stuck it under her lip. She held out the can to Johan and Peter, but both of them declined the offer.
“There’s one thing I happened to think about last night. The police were here earlier, asking about things. They talked mostly to my husband. Last night when I couldn’t sleep, it popped into my head.”
“What was that?” asked Johan.
“I have a hard time sleeping, so I lie awake a lot at night. Last Monday night I heard a car turn down our street outside. There are never any cars going past here at night, so I thought it was odd. I got up to see where it went, but when I looked out, I couldn’t see anything. As if it had been swallowed up by the earth. And it’s strange because the road continues down toward the sea. I just had to go out and have a look. When I opened the front door, I heard it again. Then it went past our house. The street curves just outside here, so I never managed to see what kind of car it was.”
“Did you notice anything else?”
“I noticed the sound. The engine sounded… what should I say… it sounded older somehow. It didn’t sound like a new car.”
“Could it have been one of your neighbors?”
“No, I asked all the neighbors today, just because I thought it was strange that someone was out driving past here in the middle of the night. But no one had been out, and besides, I know what all my neighbors’ cars sound like.”
“How many of you live around here?”
“Well, there’s us and the veterinarian who lives on the next farm. Then there’s the Jonsson family, who are farmers and own the fields you see all around here. They have a big farm on the left side of the road a little farther down, past the veterinarian. And then there’s a family with children, the Larssons, closest to the water on the right-hand side.”
“Do you know what time it was when you heard the car?”
“I think it must have been around three.”
“Have you told the police about this?”
“Yes, I called them this morning. I went over there to be interviewed earlier today.”
“I see,” said Johan. “Could we ask you a few questions on camera?”
After a little coaxing, the woman agreed. The rest of the people who lived in the area firmly declined.
Yet Johan reluctantly had to admit that Grenfors had been right. It was a good idea to go out and interview the neighbors.
Once again they sat in the newsroom and spliced together a two-minute story that was sent over to Stockholm five minutes before the main news broadcast, to their editor’s great satisfaction.
Kristian Nordstrom arrived at the police station at precisely five o’clock in the afternoon, as agreed. He looks good, Knutas observed as they shook hands. He had decided to hold the interview in his office, with Detective Inspector Lars Norrby present.
“Would you like some coffee?” asked Norrby.
“Yes, please. With milk. I came straight from the airport, and the coffee on the plane tasted like cat piss.”
He brushed his hair back from his forehead and leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg of his elegant trousers over the other. He smiled a bit tensely at the superintendent, who got out a tape recorder and placed it on the desk in front of them.
“Do we really need that?”
“Unfortunately, it’s necessary,” said Knutas. “I hope it doesn’t bother you too much.”
“Well, it’s just a little distracting.”
“Try to pretend it’s not there. As I said on the phone, this is a purely routine interview. We’ve talked to everyone who was at the party except you. That’s why you’re here.”
“I see.”
Norrby returned with the coffee, and then they could begin the interview.
“What were you doing on June fourth, meaning on the second day of Whitsun?”
“As you already know, I was having dinner with my old friend Helena Hillerstrom and her boyfriend, Per Bergdal. Helena and I have known each other for many years. We went to school together.”
