thoughts that were tormenting her, making her tired and irritable in the midst of her grief. She had quarreled with Olle when she thought he was showing a lack of sympathy. She had screamed loudly at him and then thrown a carton of milk on the floor so that it splattered all over the kitchen-even up on the beams in the ceiling, as she discovered when she cleaned up the next morning.
The whole thing seemed like a nightmare, as if it hadn’t really happened. She picked up the remaining half- withered potted plants that stood on the windowsill. I’ll take them home and try to revive them, she thought.
She cast a glance at the clock. Almost nine. It was time for her to open the classroom door.
The children greeted her shyly as they poured in and sat down on their benches. Naturally they all knew that the murdered woman was their teacher’s best friend. Emma welcomed them and was touched to see the special effort they had made to look nice for the last day of school. Light-colored clothing and newly washed hair. Dresses and newly ironed shirts. Polished shoes and flowers in their hair.
Emma sat down at the piano.
“Are you ready, all of you?” she asked, and her pupils nodded. Then their bright children’s voices filled the classroom. The blossoming time has now arrived, they sang as Emma played the piano. Everything was in keeping with the traditions for the last day of school. Emma let her thoughts wander as they sang the verses she knew inside and out after all her years of teaching.
Ah yes, summer vacation. For her part, she had no expectations whatsoever. Right now it was just important to try to maintain her composure and not fall apart. She had to take care of her children. Sara and Filip. They had the right to a glorious summer vacation, and they were looking forward to everything the family would be doing together. Going for walks and swimming, visiting their cousins, taking an excursion out to little Gotska Sandon, and maybe a trip to Stockholm. How was she going to muster the energy for all that? Of course, the sense of shock would diminish. Her grief would seem more distant. But the loss of Helena was so painful. She wasn’t going to get rid of that feeling very easily. And how was she supposed to understand what had occurred? Her very best friend had been murdered in a way that happened only in movies, or far away, in some other place.
The date for the funeral had been set. It would be held in Stockholm. Tears rose in her eyes at the thought, but she pushed it aside.
Suddenly she noticed that the children had fallen silent. She had no idea how long she had been playing after the song ended.
As far as Johan was concerned, his time on Gotland was running out. At least this time around. He had spoken with Grenfors about how long it would make sense for him to stay on the island. The police had put a lid on everything having to do with the investigation. No new clues or stories seemed to have emerged. The boyfriend was in custody, and it was likely that he would be indicted. They still didn’t know why he was under suspicion. The news frenzy about the murder had waned, now worthy only of a few lines in the news reports. Today was Friday, and Regional News had no broadcasts on the weekends. The national news programs weren’t interested in keeping a reporter on site if there were no new developments. They decided that Johan and Peter should return to Stockholm the following morning.
Johan had several free days coming. First he was going to get the cleaning and laundry out of the way, then go visit his mother and spend some time with her. She was still grieving after his father’s death. He had died of cancer a year ago. The four brothers did the best they could to look after her, but Johan was the oldest, so it was only natural for him to assume the greatest responsibility. He would try to cheer her up, take her to a movie and maybe go out to eat. Then he was going to relax. Do some reading. Listen to music. On Sunday the Hammarby soccer team was playing AIK at Rasunda. His buddy Andreas had gotten them tickets.
He needed to go over to the newsroom to pack up his things, but first he decided to take a walk through town. A light, silent drizzle was making the streets wet. He didn’t bother with an umbrella. He turned his face up toward the sky, closed his eyes, and let the drops run down his cheeks. He had always liked rain. It made him feel calm. It had rained when his father was buried, and he remembered that the rain made everything feel better, more dignified and peaceful in some way.
On Hastgatan he saw her through the big glass window of the cafe on the other side of the street. She was sitting alone at a window table, leafing through a magazine. In front of her stood a tall glass containing what looked like a caffe latte.
Johan stopped, feeling indecisive. He had some time to himself before he had to meet Peter at the newsroom. Without knowing how he was going to approach her or what he would say, he decided to go in.
The cafe was almost deserted. He was struck by the trendy interior: nice high ceilings; straight-legged bar stools at the bar; shiny coffee machines. Baguettes were piled next to Italian cheeses and sausages. Enormous chocolate muffins were heaped on trays. A luscious-looking girl stood behind the cash register with her hair attractively arranged in a loose knot. Just like any other Italian cafe.
How incredible to find this kind of place in little Visby, he thought. Ever since the college had opened on the island a few years back, new businesses had sprung up, and the town had acquired a new life during the off- season.
Emma was sitting at the far end of the cafe. As Johan approached, she glanced up.
“Hi,” he said, thinking how ridiculous his smile must look. What was it about this woman that had such an effect on him? She peered at him inquisitively. Good Lord, she didn’t even recognize him! In the next instant her expression changed and she pushed her hair back from her face.
“Oh, hi. It’s you from the TV station. Johan, right?”
“Exactly. Johan Berg, from Regional News. May I join you?”
“Sure.” She put away her magazine.
“I’ll just get some coffee. Would you like anything?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
Johan ordered a double espresso. While he waited at the counter, he couldn’t help looking at her. Her hair was straight and thick, hanging loose. She wore a denim jacket over a white T-shirt. Washed-out jeans again today. Prominent eyebrows and big dark eyes. She lit a cigarette and turned to look at him. He could feel himself blushing. Damn it all.
He paid for his coffee and sat down across from her. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“No, I guess not.” She gave him a searching glance and took a drag on her cigarette.
“How are you?” he asked, feeling like an idiot.
“Not so good. But at least now summer vacation has started. I’m a teacher,” she explained. “Today was the last day of school, and this afternoon the school is giving a party for the children and their parents. I didn’t feel up to going. I’m just not feeling well. Because of Helena’s murder and all. I still can’t believe it’s true. I think about her all the time.” She took another drag on her cigarette.
Johan felt the same attraction to her that he had felt before. What he most wanted to do was to take her in his arms, to hug and comfort her. He repressed the impulse.
“It’s so hard to understand,” she went on. “That it really happened.”
She gazed absentmindedly at her cigarette, which she waved toward the ashtray, dropping tiny flakes of ash in it. “Mostly I think about who might have done it. And then I feel so furious. That someone has taken her away from me. That she no longer exists. Then I feel ashamed for having such selfish thoughts. And the police don’t seem to know what they’re doing. I don’t understand how they can keep Per Bergdal in custody.”
“Why not?”
“He loved Helena more than anything. I think they were even planning to get married. It’s probably just because of the fight that the police think he’s the murderer. Sure, it was unpleasant, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that he killed her.”
“What fight?”
“It was at the party, the night before Helena was found dead. Some of us went to Helena and Per’s house for dinner.”
“What happened?”
“Per got jealous when Helena danced with one of the guys, Kristian. He slapped Helena hard enough to draw blood, and then he punched Kristian, too. It was so stupid. They hadn’t done anything. They were just dancing like everyone else.”
“And this happened on the night before the murder?”
“Yes, didn’t you know about it?”
