Emma went upstairs and peeked into the bedroom. There he was, lying on his stomach on the bed, hugging a pillow. His eyes were closed, as if he were asleep. She lay down next to him and moved close. He didn’t answer right away. Then he put his arms around her and kissed her all over her face.
“I love you,” she murmured. “It’s just the two of us.”
Handwritten pieces of paper lay in a big pile on the desk in front of him. Some of them had numbers on them. Johan had written down everything he knew about the three murders. Then he started putting the puzzle together. First Helena. The party. The fight. The murder on the beach. The axe. The people at the party. Kristian. The boyfriend, Per.
He continued in the same way with the other two. When he was done, he put the pieces of paper into three piles. What is it that connects all three? he thought.
Frida Lindh met a man on the night she was out with her girlfriends. Why hadn’t he come forward? It could mean that he was involved in the murders. If he wasn’t out of the country, that is.
On a piece of paper he wrote Frida + a man, 30–35. Afterward the man goes up in smoke. Gone.
The neighbor woman Johan had talked to told him about a man in Gunilla Olsson’s house. He was also between thirty and thirty-five and attractive. On another paper he wrote Gunilla + man, 30–35.
When it came to Helena, she had flirted with Kristian at the party on the night before she was killed. He was thirty-five and good-looking.
On a piece of paper he wrote Helena + man, 35 = Kristian.
Kristian had been questioned by the police several times, and he undoubtedly had an alibi for the night of the murder; otherwise they would have taken him in. Still he was the most obvious suspect. Was he the one who showed up at the Monk’s Cellar on the evening Frida Lindh was murdered? If so, why didn’t any of the employees or anyone among the guests remember him? They ought to know him. Kristian Nordstrom worked abroad a good deal, but even so. He could have disguised himself, of course. But what could be Kristian’s motive?
He got up, crossed the editing room, and put on what must be his third pot of coffee that night. It was a quarter to midnight. He yawned, making an effort to think along new lines. What if he dropped Kristian? Then what was left? The police investigation in Stockholm. What did that mean? They were most likely following up on some new lead that he didn’t know about. He had tried to pump Knutas before they left, but without results.
Emma couldn’t think of anything else about Helena, either. Yet they had known each other since school.
A sense of longing came over him.
Emma. The image of her when they last met. The light in her hair as she sat there in the chair by the window, her face pale. Her very being enchanted him. Her power terrified and enticed him. He wanted to call her but realized that it was much too late.
He laid his head down on the pile of papers and fell asleep.
The young people left the party at its height. The Strand Restaurant in Nisseviken had been rented out for the evening, and the dance floor was packed with festively dressed teenagers. The music was turned up to the absolute maximum. In the bar, glasses were being filled, one after the other. The mood was one of wild exhilaration. It was the last night of the Midsummer holiday, and it was high time for a party, even though it was a Sunday evening.
Carolina giggled at Petter, who was holding her hand in his, leading her down toward the beach. “You dope, what are you doing?”
He headed past the beach huts that were rented out to tourists as cabins during the summer season.
“Come on, come here,” he said, kissing her on the throat.
Both of them were drunk. Happy, too. In just a few days they would have to part. Carolina was going to the States to study, while Petter’s eleven-month military service way up north in Boden was awaiting him. It was a matter of enjoying the time they had left.
They romped around on the beach, with Petter shoving Carolina ahead of him at the same time he kissed the back of her neck. His hand fumbled inside her clothes as their entwined bodies moved forward, away from the beach and any people.
It was close to three in the morning, almost daylight. Since several other couples would certainly be coming down to the beach, they wanted to find an out-of-the-way spot. When they came farther out on the point, they discovered a solitary fishing shack a short distance away.
“That’s where we’ll go,” said Petter.
“You’re crazy. It’s too late to go out there now,” protested Carolina. “Someone might be out there.”
“Let’s check!”
He took Carolina by the hand, and they ran across the stones at the edge of the shore.
They could see that the shack was deserted. It didn’t look as if it had been used in a long time.
“Perfect. Let’s go in,” said Petter.
A rusty lock was the only thing blocking their way.
“Do you have a hairpin?”
“Should we really do this?”
“Why not? We can stay here as long as we want without anyone bothering us.”
“What if someone comes?”
“Uh-uh. You can see that it’s all locked up. I don’t think anybody’s been here in years,” said Petter as he worked to open the lock with the hairpin. Carolina stood on her toes and tried to peek in through the single window at the back. A dark blue curtain hung in front of it, blocking the view. This is great for us, she thought, elated. Petter’s enthusiasm was contagious. This was really exciting.
Making love in an old, abandoned fishing shack.
“Okay, I got it.”
With a creak, the door opened. They peeked inside. The shack consisted of only one room. There was a wooden bench, a rickety table, and a chair. The walls were a filthy yellow and cold. An old calendar from the ICA supermarket hung askew on a hook. It smelled damp and stuffy.
Delighted, Petter spread out his hoodie on the floor.
They had been asleep for several hours when Carolina woke up because she needed to pee. At first she had no idea where she was. Then she remembered. Oh, that’s right. The party. The shack. She untangled herself from Petter’s arms and with some effort managed to get to her feet. She felt sick.
She tottered out of the shack and squatted down to pee. Afterward she washed herself in the clear, cold water of the sea.
She should wake Petter up. How were they going to get home? They were way out in the sticks. Shivering, she walked back to the shack. Petter lay stretched out on the floor with an old blanket over him.
The table was covered with a red oilcloth with coffee stains on it. A thermos stood on the floor. Even though the shack seemed to have been abandoned, Carolina had a feeling that someone had been here recently.
She was freezing after her hasty bath. The blanket covering Petter looked awfully thin. At the same time, she felt like lying down for a while longer. She would try to sleep a little, and maybe the nausea would pass. She looked around for something else to use as a cover and noticed that the bench had a lid that could be opened. She lifted it up. Inside was a bundle of clothes, or rather several bundles.
She took out one of the pieces of clothing and held it up. It was a shirt, and it had big patches of what looked like dried blood on it. Cautiously she began rummaging among the clothes. A dress, a top, a pair of bloody jeans, a torn bra, a dog leash. Her head started to spin. She shook Petter awake.
“Look, look inside the bench!” she urged him.
Petter got up, groggy with sleep, and looked at the clothes. “What the hell?”
He let the lid fall shut with a bang, took out his cell phone, and called the police.
MONDAY, JUNE 25
Gamla Stan in Stockholm looked a good deal like Visby. Knutas was always struck by that thought whenever he visited the capital. He enjoyed the atmosphere. Many of the beautiful buildings with masonry anchors on the facades and sculptures above the entrances were from the 1600s, when Sweden was a major European power and
