completely dark. The pictures clicked into view as Knutas talked. Most of those present had a hard time keeping their eyes on the images, occasionally having to turn away in revulsion.
“According to the preliminary statement from the ME, she received a greater number of blows than the other two women. The wounds are also of a different nature than on the previous victims. In this case, the killer acted with even greater ferocity. He wildly hacked at the whole body. It’s difficult to say what type of axe was used. The wounds are ragged, and some of them penetrated quite deeply. None of the blows were aimed at the sexual organs. There is nothing to indicate that she was raped. Just like the other victims, she had a pair of panties in her mouth. The murder weapon was not found, but we did find something on site that may have come from the killer.”
Pictures of the asthma inhaler appeared on the screen.
“This is an inhaler used by asthmatics,” said Knutas. “It was found in the yard, outside the pottery workshop. The victim did not suffer from asthma, nor did her friend. Of course it could have come from someone else, a neighbor or an acquaintance. We’re continuing to knock on doors in the vicinity. There are fingerprints on it, which we’re in the process of analyzing, to see if we can find a match in police records. So far nothing else of interest has been found at the crime scene. As for the victim’s background, she was originally from Visby. Twenty years ago her family moved to Ljugarn. For the past ten years Gunilla Olsson lived in Hawaii, on the island of Maui, to be more precise. She came back here just last January and bought that farm in Nar, presumably using the money that her parents left her. They died in a car accident six years ago. You may remember the incident. Outside Larbro a minibus collided with a sedan, and five people were killed. It was winter and very slippery. Two of the fatalities were children.”
The local officers murmured as they recalled the accident.
“Well, at any rate, Gunilla Olsson’s parents were in the passenger car,” Knutas went on. “Her parents’ name was Brostrom. Gunilla changed her last name to Olsson when she came of age. That was her mother’s maiden name. Evidently she and her parents did not get along. Any questions?”
“Do we know that she was killed inside the workshop?” asked Wittberg.
“Yes. All indications are that the workshop was the scene of the murder.”
“Do we have anything new about a possible connection between the previous victims?” asked Norrby.
“Well, let’s see. Kihlgard?” Knutas gave his colleague an inquiring look.
“Hmm. The group that’s been in Stockholm has come up with quite a bit. Both of them lived in Stockholm. Frida lived there all her life, and Helena for the past twenty-two years. The latest address for both of them in Stockholm was in Sodermalm. They actually lived only a stone’s throw from each other. Helena Hillerstrom shared an apartment with her boyfriend, Per Bergdal, on Hornsgatan, and Frida Lindh and her family lived on Brannkyrkagatan. They had no friends in common, but there is one point of connection. Both were registered members of a Friskis amp; Svettis gym. There’s a branch in Hornstull where both of them worked out. Helena Hillerstrom used to go there on Thursdays and Saturdays, while Frida Lindh usually went on Mondays and Wednesdays, and occasionally on Saturdays. They might have met each other there. We’ve talked to people at the club and shown them pictures of the victims. Both of them were recognized. We’ve interviewed all the Friskis managers, both male and female. Nothing out of the ordinary has turned up so far. None of them has any contact with Gotland, except that most of them have been here on vacation, of course.”
“Well, that’s not much to go on,” Sohlman said dryly.
“We still think the killer may be in Stockholm, and that’s where a connection can be found,” Kihlgard continued, unperturbed. “Gunilla Olsson also went to Stockholm several times this spring. A shop in Gamla Stan sold her work.”
“I agree that it’s possible the killer could live in Stockholm,” said Jacobsson. “If that’s the case, the question is: Why did he murder them here on Gotland?”
“No matter what,” said Knutas, “we have to do some more digging into this. I’m thinking of going to Stockholm tomorrow. The NCP and the Stockholm police are working on the case, of course, but I want to go over there myself, at least for a couple of days. I suggest that you come with me, Karin.”
“Sure,” she nodded.
“Good. Kihlgard, you’re in charge for the time being. Someone has to check up on what Jan Hagman and Kristian Nordstrom were doing during the Midsummer holiday. How much of their background have we checked? And what’s their connection to Stockholm? We need to dig deeper into all of it, and right away. Norrby and Wittberg can work on that. I don’t trust that Hagman in the slightest. I also want to take another look at the circumstances surrounding his wife’s death. There’s something fishy about it. Right now it’s a matter of working around the clock. We can’t let the killer strike again.”
SUNDAY, JUNE 24
By the next day, Knutas and Jacobsson were in Stockholm. They grabbed a cab to take them from the airport to police headquarters on Kungsholmen. The sun was scorching. It was almost eighty-six degrees, and as they approached Norrtull the traffic got much worse. The air was shimmering with heat and exhaust fumes. Knutas was always fascinated by the incredible snarl of traffic every time he came to the capital. Even on a Sunday in the middle of summer, the cars were just creeping along.
They drove across Sankt Eriksbron, passed Fridhemsplan, choked with traffic with its countless red lights, and turned down Hantverkargatan to head toward Kungsholmtorg.
He had always thought there was something very imposing about Kungsholmen, with the county council building, the city hall, and the courthouse all in one place. He recalled that someone had once told him that the courthouse was built by the architect who was the runner-up in the competition to see who would build Stockholm’s city hall at the beginning of the twentieth century. The winner was Ragnar Ostberg, but in second place was Carl Westman. He was the one who designed the courthouse on Scheelegatan. In Knutas’s eyes it was just as splendid as city hall. Behind it stood police headquarters. They were supposed to have a meeting in the old building, a handsome yellow structure surrounded by a lush park.
What a difference from our sheet-metal box, thought Knutas as they huffed and puffed their way up the grand stone staircase in the heat. They had taken off their jackets. Knutas glanced with envy at Jacobsson’s bare legs. She was wearing a skirt for a change.
It was calm inside police headquarters on this Sunday after Midsummer. A few people were scattered around in offices, working. It was evident that vacation time had started.
In a room that had a view of the park, they met with the police chief and a group from the NCP.
Right after the meeting they had lunch in a nice restaurant across from the courthouse. Then they went with Detective Superintendent Kurt Fogestam to the residential area in Sodermalm where Helena had lived. The house stood almost at the end of Hornsgatan, very close to the water and venerable Liljeholmsbadet, with its floating bathhouse, built on pontoons out in the water. There had been frequent threats to tear it down, but so far it was still standing.
On the corner of Hornsgatan and Langholmsgatan stood the Friskis amp; Svettis gym. That’s where she went to work out, thought Knutas. Maybe that’s where she met the killer.
The apartment was on the top floor. There wasn’t room for all of them in the rickety elevator. Much to the relief of the stockier men, Jacobsson offered to take the stairs. It was a run-down building. Through one door they could hear pop music, through another the faint clinking of a piano. What are people doing indoors on a brilliantly sunny summer day? thought Karin.
Per Bergdal, still on sick leave from his job, opened the door after a couple of rings. They hardly recognized him. He was suntanned and looking healthy. His hair was cut short, and he had shaved.
He greeted them solemnly. “Come in.”
The interior of the apartment was in sharp contrast to the shabby entryway. It was big and bright with high ceilings and beautiful parquet floors that shone in the sunlight. If you leaned to one side to look out the window, you could see the glittering waters of Arstaviken. Extending out from the living room was a big modern kitchen with a refrigerator-freezer and stove hood made of stainless steel. Decorative tiles arranged in a pattern covered the walls. Knutas noticed a fancy blender. A long counter with bar stools on both sides separated the kitchen from the
