plane for Visby that departed at 8:15 P.M.
In the cab on his way home, Johan felt a familiar sense of excitement at being in the middle of a story. The fact that a woman had been grotesquely murdered and all the horror associated with such an event took a backseat to his desire to find out what had happened and then file a report. It’s strange how a person reacts, he thought as the cab drove across Vasterbron and he stared out at the water of Riddarfjarden, bracketed by the city hall and Gamla Stan, the Old Town. You just have to put aside all the usual human emotions and let your professional role take over.
He thought back to the night in September 1994 when the passenger ferry Estonia sank in the Baltic Sea. In the days following that horrible disaster in which over eight hundred people lost their lives, he had rushed around like a madman in the ferry terminal in Vartan talking to family members, the employees of the Estline ship company, the passengers who had survived, the politicians, and the emergency response teams. He went home only to sleep, and then he was back on the job. While he was in the thick of things, he became familiar with all the stories people told him, but as if from a distance. He shut off his own feelings. The reaction came much later. The first bodies recovered and brought home to Sweden were taken in a procession from Arlanda Airport to Riddarholm Church in Gamla Stan for a memorial service before they were transported to their hometowns. When Johan heard a journalist reporting directly from the church on Radio Stockholm, speaking in a deep and somber voice, he broke down. He collapsed on the floor of his apartment, weeping torrents. It was as if all the impressions he had gathered appeared before him at the same time. He pictured bodies floating around inside the ship, people screaming, passengers getting stuck under tables and shelves that were being tossed around, the panic that erupted on board. He felt as if he would go to pieces. He shuddered at the memory.
Back inside his apartment, Johan realized what a mess the place was. He hadn’t had time to take care of all the chores lately.
His one-bedroom apartment on Heleneborgsgatan in Sodermalm was on the ground floor. From indoors you couldn’t tell that the waters of Riddarfjarden were right outside, since his apartment faced the inner courtyard of the building, but that didn’t bother him. He was quite happy with the central location, within walking distance of everything the city had to offer in the way of shops and restaurants. The green island of Langholm was also right at his doorstep, with its paths and big slabs of rock, perfect for sunbathing by the water. There was no better place to live.
At the moment his apartment was not in its best state. Dirty dishes were piled up on the kitchen counter, the laundry basket was overflowing, and several old pizza boxes were scattered around the living room floor. The classic bachelor pad. It smelled stuffy, too. Johan realized that he had half an hour to pack, but he had to clean up the worst of it. The phone rang twice while he was racing around the apartment, washing dishes, airing out the rooms, wiping off the table, throwing out the garbage, watering the flowers, and packing. He didn’t bother to pick up the phone.
The answering machine clicked on, and he listened to his mother’s voice, and to Vanja’s. Even though things had been over between them for more than a month, she refused to give up.
It was going to be great to get away. Far away from there, a solitary man hurries through the woods. His eyes are wild and fixed on the ground. He’s carrying a sack on his back. A black garbage bag. His hair is wet and hanging over his forehead. Now there’s no going back. Absolutely not. He’s agitated, yet at the same time his body is filled with an inner calm. He’s on his way to a specific spot. An explicit goal. Now the sea appears. Good. He’s almost there. That’s where the boathouse is. Gray and rotting. Marked by harsh weather. Storms and rain. Next to it lies a leaky rowboat. It has a hole in the bottom, which he’s going to mend someday. First he has to get rid of this baggage. He fumbles for a long time with the rusty lock. The key hasn’t been used in years. Finally it turns, and with a click the lock opens. At first he considers burying the contents of the sack. But why should he do that? No one ever comes here. Besides, he’s not completely ready to give up these things. He wants to keep them here. Accessible, so he can come back to look at them. Smell them. In the boathouse there’s an old kitchen bench with a compartment under the seat. He opens the seat. Inside are some old newspapers. A phone book. He empties the contents of the sack. Closes the seat. Now he’s happy.
Visby police headquarters is located right inside the ancient stone wall surrounding the town. It’s an uncommonly ugly building. A long rectangle with light-blue metal siding, it looks more like a fish cannery somewhere in Siberia than a police department in this beautiful medieval city. The building is called “the Blue Mound” by the locals.
Inside one of the interrogation rooms, Per Bergdal was leaning over the table with his face in his hands. The ashtray in front of him was full of cigarette butts, even though he didn’t usually smoke. His hair was standing on end, he was unshaven, and he smelled of old, sour wine.
He hadn’t seemed very surprised when the police knocked on the door. His girlfriend was missing, after all. They decided at once to bring him in for questioning.
Now he was sitting here, holding a cigarette with trembling fingers. Hungover and miserable. Apparently also in shock.
Although it’s actually impossible to say whether that’s the case, thought Detective Superintendent Knutas as he sat down on the other side of the table. Regardless, Bergdal’s girlfriend had been found murdered, he had no alibi, and he had visible scratches on his neck, arms, and face.
Karin Jacobsson sat down on a chair next to Knutas. Silent but alert.
Bergdal raised his head and looked out the only window in the room. A hard rain was pelting the windowpane. The wind had picked up, and on the other side of Norra Hansegatan, over by the parking lot, sections of the stone wall near Osterport could be seen. A red Volvo drove past. For Bergdal, it seemed so far away that it might as well have been on the moon.
Anders Knutas adjusted the tape recorder on the table, cleared his throat, and pressed the record button.
“Interview with Per Bergdal, the boyfriend of murder victim Helena Hillerstrom,” he said in an authoritative voice. “The time is four ten on the fifth of June. The interview is being conducted by Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas, and the witness is Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson.”
He cast a somber look at Bergdal, who was slumped forward, staring down at the table. “When did you discover that Helena was missing?”
“I woke up just before ten. She wasn’t in bed. I got up, but she wasn’t in the house, either. So I thought she must have gone out with the dog. She usually takes the first walk with Spencer in the morning. I’m a sound sleeper, so I didn’t notice when she left.”
“What did you do?”
“I lit a fire in the woodstove and made breakfast. Then I sat down and drank my coffee and read yesterday’s paper.”
“Didn’t you wonder where she was?”
“When the eleven o’clock news came on the radio, I started thinking it was strange that she hadn’t come back yet. I went out on the porch. You can see all the way to the water from our house, but today there was a thick fog, so I could see only a few yards. Then I got dressed and went out to look for her. I walked down to the beach and called, but I couldn’t find her or Spencer.”
“How long did you look for her?”
“I must have been out there at least an hour. Then I thought that maybe she’d returned to the cabin in the meantime, so I hurried back. The house was still empty,” he said, and his voice faded out. He hid his face in his hands.
Anders Knutas and Karin Jacobsson waited in silence.
“Are you ready to continue?” asked Knutas.
“I just can’t believe she’s dead,” Bergdal whispered.
“What happened when you got back to the house?”
“It was still empty, so I thought maybe she’d gone to visit some friends of ours nearby. I called them, but she wasn’t there, either.”
“What are their names?”
“Their last name is Larsson. Eva and Rikard, her husband. Eva’s an old friend Helena has known since childhood. They live year-round in a house a short distance from ours.”
“Did they have any idea where she might have gone?”
