anything else in Helena’s past that you haven’t told us?”
“No,” said Hans Hillerstrom. “I don’t think so.”
“Nothing that happened recently, either?”
“No.”
Knutas wondered how the previous interviews with the couple had proceeded. How could it be that none of this had come out right from the beginning? He decided to discuss it with Karin later on. If all the interviews are equally incomplete, we’re going to have to do them over, every last one of them, he thought grimly.
His stomach was growling. It was time to leave. “Well, I think we’re done for now. Did Helena still have her own room in the house?”
“Yes, upstairs.”
“Could we take a look at it?”
“Yes, sure. The police have already gone over the room, but of course you can look at it if you like.”
Hans Hillerstrom led the way up the impressive staircase. The second floor had ceilings just as high as the rooms downstairs. They walked along a big, bright hallway and then through a sitting room where Knutas caught sight of a balcony and a flash of water. There were fireplaces everywhere.
Helena’s room was quite large. High mullioned windows faced out on the yard. It looked as if the room had not been used in a long time. An old-fashioned wooden bed with tall bedposts stood in one corner. Next to it was a white nightstand. Near one of the windows stood a writing desk, an old easy chair, and several bookshelves filled with books.
Hans Hillerstrom left them alone, closing the door behind him. They searched through the drawers, the shelves, and the closet without finding anything of interest. Suddenly Jacobsson gave a whistle. Behind a photograph of the summer house on Gotland, a slit had been made in the wallpaper. A photo had been slipped inside the rip.
“Look at this,” she said.
It showed a man on a big boat, a passenger ferry-presumably the Gotland Ferry. He was standing on deck with the wind blowing through his hair and the blue sky behind him. He was smiling happily at the photographer, and he had one hand in his pants pocket. It was without a doubt Jan Hagman, almost twenty years younger and forty pounds lighter than when they last saw him.
“Look,” said Jacobsson. “He has that silly look of delight on his face that only someone newly in love ever has. It must be Helena who took the picture.”
“We’ll take this with us,” said Knutas. “Come on, let’s go.”
It was a relief to leave that melancholy house and get out into the green of summer. The flower beds were dazzling, children were playing on the street outside the house, and in a yard a short distance away the neighbors were having a barbecue.
“We need to look into this story with Hagman a lot more closely. We have to check out his alibi again. He didn’t say a word about the abortion. Why was he keeping that a secret? But why would he want to kill Helena? From what I can see, he loved her. And why so many years later? Could he have been jealous? Did he see her with her new boyfriend and become seized by madness?”
“That seems highly improbable,” Jacobsson said. “And it’s been twenty years since they had that affair. Why would he kill his wife now? Why didn’t he do it back then, in that case?”
“That’s a good question. And how does this all fit together with the death of Frida Lindh? And Gunilla Olsson?”
“It may not have anything at all to do with Hagman,” said Jacobsson. “Maybe we’re on the wrong track. All the victims have ties to Stockholm. The murderer could just as well be over here somewhere.”
“You could be right,” said Knutas. “But it’s past seven, and my stomach is screaming. We’ll go see Frida Lindh’s parents tomorrow, and then we’ll check out the shop in Gamla Stan where Gunilla Olsson’s pottery was sold. Right now I want a strong drink and a proper meal. What about you?”
“That sounds wonderful,” said Jacobsson, giving him a pat on the shoulder.
Wittberg knocked on the door of Kihlgard’s office and stepped inside, out of breath.
“We’ve collated the answers to the question about who has asthma among all the people close to the victims. Look at this,” he said, placing the paper on Kihlgard’s desk. “These are the names of the people who either have asthma or suffer from some other respiratory allergy.”
Kihlgard read through the list, which consisted of about twenty names. Both Kristian Nordstrom and Jan Hagman were on it.
“Hmmm,” he murmured, and looked up at Wittberg. “I see that Nordstrom is an asthmatic. I’ve just heard from Knutas that he had a sexual relationship with Helena Hillerstrom after all.”
“No shit. Recently?”
“No, it was a few years ago. I want two officers to go out to see Hagman and two to see Nordstrom. Don’t call them ahead of time. I want to surprise them. Bring both of them in for questioning, and see that you bring back an inhaler from both of them, too.”
They were sitting facing each other at the kitchen table with cups of coffee in front of them. The children were still out in the country visiting their cousins. Olle had come home to Roma to talk to Emma. He seemed nervous as he looked at his wife across the table. At the same time, he couldn’t hide his frustration.
“What’s going on with you?” he began.
“I don’t know.”
He raised his voice. “You’ve been completely unreachable for several weeks now. Ever since Helena died. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated tonelessly.
“Goddamn it, you can’t just keep saying you don’t know,” he flared up. “You don’t want me to hug you or touch you. We haven’t had sex in I don’t know how long. I try to help you by talking about Helena, but you don’t want that. You don’t give a shit about me or the kids, and every five minutes you’re going off to town and leaving my mother behind as a babysitter. What’s going on? Have you met someone else?”
“No,” she said quickly, hiding her face in her hands.
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think?” he shouted. “You’re not the only one suffering, you know. I knew Helena, too. I also think it was horrible, what happened. I’m in shock, too, but you only think of yourself.”
Suddenly she exploded.
“All right!” she screamed. “Then to hell with it all. Let’s just get divorced. We don’t have anything in common any-more anyway!” She jumped up and dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door.
“Nothing in common!” he bellowed. “We have two children in common, for God’s sake. Two young children. Don’t you give a damn about them, either? Don’t they mean anything to you?”
Emma sat down on the lid of the toilet and turned on the faucets full blast so she wouldn’t have to hear Olle’s shouting. She pressed her fingers against her ears. She was totally at a loss. What should she do? It was unthinkable to tell him about Johan. Not now. She just couldn’t. At the same time that she was mad at Olle, she was plagued by a guilty conscience. She felt trapped. After a while she turned off the water and sat down on the toilet lid again. Just sat there for a very long time. Her life was in chaos. Someone had killed her best friend. It might even be someone she knew. The thought had crossed her mind, but it was just too awful to be true.
What did she know about the people around her? What dark secrets were hidden behind the closed doors in people’s homes? The murderer had shattered all sense of security in her life. What did she have to fall back on?
Then she started thinking further. There was one person in the world she trusted completely, and that was Olle. If there was anyone who had ever stood by her, it was him. He always had time to listen; he got up in the middle of the night to make her tea if she was having nightmares; he took care of her when she was pregnant. He cleaned up her vomit when she had the stomach flu, and he wiped her brow when she gave birth to their children. He loved her when she cried, when her nose was running, when she was sick with chicken pox or had her period. Olle. What on earth did she think she was doing?
Resolutely she stood up and rinsed off her face. There was total silence on the other side of the door. Cautiously she opened it.
He wasn’t there. She went into the living room. He wasn’t there, either. It was dead silent in the house.
