The commission that she was trying to finish had taken weeks of intensive labor. It would bring in a nice sum of money that should last her through most of the winter. She had decided to grant herself a few days off during the Midsummer holiday. She was going to enjoy the time in peace and quiet with Cecilia, one of her artist colleagues who also lived alone. They had known each other only a few months. They met at an art exhibit in Ljugarn over Easter and quickly became good friends. Now they were going to spend Midsummer Eve at Cecilia’s cabin in Katthammarsvik.
It had been years since Gunilla had celebrated a Swedish Midsummer. This past winter she had returned to Sweden and settled in Nar after a decade abroad. When she was in art school she had met Bernhard, a wild, freethinking art student from Holland. She quit her studies and followed him to the Hawaiian island of Maui to start a new life in sunshine and freedom. There they had lived in a commune and worked on their art. Life was perfect. Then she got pregnant, and everything changed. Bernhard left her for an eighteen-year-old French girl who thought of him as a god.
Gunilla had come back home to have an abortion. She was depressed and had no friends, so she put all her energy into her work. Things had gone well. She had had several exhibits and sold a lot of pieces, and now things were rolling. Lately she had also acquired several new friends. Cecilia was one of them.
She was aroused from her reverie when the trumpeting of the geese got louder outside. Now she could hear them shrieking indignantly. Shit, she thought, not wanting to interrupt her work just as she was shaping the upper part of the pot. What was wrong with them?
She stood up halfway and peered out the window. The geese were crowding together out in the yard. Her gaze swept from one side of the yard to the other. She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She sat back down, resolving to finish the last two pots. She might be a dreamer, but she had always been very disciplined.
The geese were quiet now, and once again the rhythmic whirring of the wheel was the only sound.
She had her eyes fixed on the lump of clay in the middle of the wheel. The shape of the pot was almost done.
Suddenly she froze. Something was moving outside the window. Or someone. Like a shadow slipping past. Or was she imagining things? She wasn’t sure. She stopped working and listened, waiting without knowing for what.
Slowly she turned around on her chair. Her eyes surveyed the room. She looked toward the entrance. The door to the yard was slightly ajar. She saw a goose strut past. That made her feel calmer. Maybe it was just a goose.
She stepped on the pedal again, and the wheel began turning.
The floor creaked. Now she knew that someone was there. Her eyes caught sight of the mirror on the wall. Was that where she had seen something? Again she stopped her work and listened closely. All her senses were on alert. She eased her foot off the pedal. Automatically she wiped her hands on her apron. Another creak. Someone was in the room but wasn’t saying anything. The room was breathing danger. The thought of the two murdered women darted like a swallow through her mind. She sat totally still. Didn’t dare move.
Then she saw a figure in the spotted mirror on the wall.
She felt enormous relief. Her lungs released the air that they had been holding inside. She took a big breath.
“Oh, it’s only you,” she said with a laugh. “You really scared me.”
She smiled and turned around.
“You know, I heard a noise, and it made me think instantly about that lunatic who’s been killing women.”
That’s as far as she got before the axe struck her in the forehead and she fell over backward. As she fell, her arm pulled down the newly shaped pot that was warm from her hands.
FRIDAY, JUNE 22
When Gunilla didn’t answer the phone on Thursday evening or on the morning of Midsummer Eve, Cecilia started to worry. It was true that Gunilla sometimes seemed unusually naive and up in the clouds, but before, on those occasions when they had agreed to meet, she had always been punctual. Gunilla was also a morning person, and she had said that she would be leaving by eight. She had joked about waking Cecilia up with breakfast in bed, but Cecilia had just finished eating her Midsummer breakfast.
Why doesn’t she phone? she thought. Gunilla had said she would give her a call last night. Maybe she had been working and then it got to be too late. Cecilia knew how that could happen. She was an artist herself.
Cecilia was already at the cabin in Katthammarsvik. She had arrived the night before, loaded down with food and wine. They were going to have herring and new potatoes for lunch and later grilled salmon burgers for supper. No dance floor, no party, and above all no other people. Just the two of them. They would drink wine and discuss art, life, and love. In that order.
She had made a little Midsummer pole that they could decorate with flowers and birch leaves. They would sit outside and eat, enjoying the peace and quiet. The weatherman on the radio had promised high pressure all weekend.
Where on earth was Gunilla? It was past eleven, and Cecilia had called several times. She had tried her house, her studio, and her cell phone.
Why wasn’t she answering? Maybe she had fallen ill suddenly, or even injured herself. Anything could have happened. Cecilia grappled with these thoughts in her mind as she worked on the preparations for Midsummer. When the clock struck twelve, she decided to go over to Gunilla’s house, fifteen miles away.
Cecilia got into her car with a growing sense of trepidation.
When she turned into the yard, all the geese were running back and forth, cackling hysterically. The door to the ceramics workshop was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and went in.
The first thing she saw was the blood. On the floor, on the walls, on the potter’s wheel. Gunilla lay on her back in the middle of the workshop, stretched out on the floor with her arms above her head. Cecilia’s scream caught in her throat.
Knutas’s eyes were filled with tenderness as he looked at his wife. He stroked her sunburned, freckled cheek. She had more freckles than anyone else he had ever known, and he loved every single dot on her. The sun was warming the ground, so the children could run around barefoot. The long table was set with the blue-flowered Rorstrand dishes, the napkins had been festively stuck in the glasses, and the silverware shone. Ceramic pitchers were filled with summer wildflowers: daisies, cranesbills, almond blossoms, and fiery red poppies. The herring was arranged on a platter: herring in mustard sauce and in aquavit, pickled herring, and his own homemade herring in sherry, which burned sweetly on the tongue. The new potatoes that had just been set on the table were steaming in their deep bowls, white and tender, with green sprigs of dill that brought out the sweet taste of summer.
The bread basket was filled with crisp bread, rye crackers, and his mother’s famous unleavened flat bread that could entice people to come to Gotland just for the sake of buying some of it. It was sold only at his parents’ farm in Kappelshamn.
He looked out at the yard, where the guests were decorating the Midsummer pole. It rose up, tall and stately, in the middle of the lawn. The children were eagerly helping.
His sister and brother had come with their families. Both his parents and parents-in-law were there, along with some neighbors and good friends. It was a tradition for him and his wife to give a Midsummer party at their summer house.
Something was tickling his hand. A ladybug was crawling up toward his wrist. He brushed it off. This Midsummer celebration was a badly needed break from the murder investigations, especially since he didn’t feel that they were making any progress. It was frustrating not to be getting anywhere while at the same time the perpetrator might be planning his next murder. We need to go farther back in time, thought Knutas.
He had discussed this with Kihlgard. His colleague clearly had his own theory: He seemed convinced that the perpetrator was someone the women had met quite recently, yet he hadn’t succeeded in producing any concrete proof. On the other hand, the good inspector from the National Criminal Police didn’t hesitate to comment on the work of the Visby police. Kihlgard had an opinion on everything, from petty little routines to their interrogation
