“No.”
“Who answered the phone?”
“Eva did.”
“Was her husband home, too?”
“No, they own a farm, so I guess he was out working.”
Bergdal lit yet another cigarette, coughed, and then took a long drag.
“What did you do next?”
“I lay down on the bed and thought about various places she might have gone. Then it occurred to me that she might have fallen and hurt herself. Maybe she couldn’t get up. So I went out looking for her again.”
“Where?”
“Down at the beach. The fog had lifted a little. I saw her footsteps in the sand. I also searched in the woods, but I didn’t find her. Then I went back home.”
His face crumpled. He started crying, quietly, without moving. The tears poured out, mixing with snot, but he didn’t notice. Karin didn’t really know what to do. She decided not to disturb him. He took a couple of gulps of water and regained his composure.
Knutas continued the interview. “How did you get those marks on your neck?”
“What? Oh, these?” Embarrassed, Bergdal touched his hands to his throat.
“Yes, those. They look like scratches,” said Knutas.
“Well, you see, we had a party last night. We had invited some friends over. Helena’s friends, actually. We ate dinner and partied and had a good time. Everyone drank a little too much. I have a problem with jealousy. Well, sometimes I get really jealous, and that’s what happened last night. One of the guys was coming on to Helena when they were dancing.”
“In what way?”
“He was grabbing her, a little too much… several times. I was drunk, and it made me see red, to be quite honest. I pulled Helena outdoors in back and told her what I thought of it all. She got mad as hell. I guess she’d drunk too much, too. She screamed and flew at me, and that’s when I got these scratch marks.”
“Then what happened?”
“I hit her. I gave her a slap, and then she ran into the bathroom and locked the door. I’ve never hit her before,” he assured them, giving Knutas a pleading look. “Then Kristian came out to talk to me. He’s the one she was dancing with, and I slugged him, too. He didn’t have a chance to strike back, because the others intervened. Then everything calmed down, and they all went home.”
“What did you do next?”
“Helena’s best friend, Emma, and her husband, Olle, were still there. Olle made sure that I got into bed, and he must have stayed until I fell asleep. I don’t remember anything else until I woke up this morning.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about all this right from the start?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was at the party?”
“Mostly Helena’s childhood friends. Emma and Olle Winarve, as I mentioned, and our neighbors Eva and Rikard Larsson. Helena has known them for a long time. A friend named Beata and her husband, John, the Dunmars. They’ve been living in the States, so I’ve never met them before. And the guy named Kristian, who made me so mad. He’s single, and Helena has known him a long time, too. I think they were really into each other for a while.”
“What do you mean by ‘into each other’?”
“Well, I think they might have slept together a few times. Helena denied it, but I have a feeling I’m right.”
“Do you think that might be your jealousy talking?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“How long have you and Helena been together?”
“Six years.”
“That’s quite a long time. How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Why haven’t you gotten married or had kids?”
“I’ve wanted to for a long time. Helena was more reluctant. She started her studies rather late, and she wanted to work some more before we had a family. We were thinking of getting married, though. We talked about it.”
“Were you unsure about the relationship? Since you were so jealous?”
“No. I don’t know. It was getting better and better. It’s been a long time since I got so mad. Yesterday it all just exploded.”
“Do you know whether she’d had a falling-out with anyone here on the island? Anyone who disliked her?”
“No, she was the sort of person that everyone liked.”
“Do you know whether she’s ever received any threats?”
“No.”
“Were you friends with anyone else here on Gotland, other than the people who were at the party?”
“Just with some of Helena’s relatives. Her father’s sister, who lives in Alva, and a few cousins in Hemse. Otherwise we usually kept mostly to ourselves. We came here to relax, you know… and to get away from all the stress back home… and then something like this has to happen.”
He could hardly speak.
Knutas could see that there was no reason to continue for the time being, and he stopped the interview.
When Anders Knutas had concluded his interview with Per Bergdal, he went to his office for a few minutes to think and reflect. He sat down heavily in his old desk chair, which was worn shiny. It was made of oak and had been with him all these years. It had a high back, and the seat was covered in soft leather. Gently he spun around, rocking the chair a bit as he leaned against the back. The chair seemed to have become molded to his body over the years. He did his best thinking while sitting in that old chair.
Knutas, who was the head of criminal investigations in Visby, was always careful to set aside time like this. It was especially important whenever there was a lot of drama surrounding him. Like today. His long experience with the police had taught him to pay attention to every impression at the beginning of an investigation. Otherwise it was easy, in all the fervor, to overlook things that might turn out to be important or even crucial to solving the case. He started filling his pipe.
In his mind he went back over the impressions he had brought back from the murder scene. The bloody body. The panties in the mouth. The slaughtered dog. What did the macabre scene tell him? It was difficult to say whether the murder been planned or not, but there was no doubt that it had been committed in extreme rage.
The medical examiner had arrived by plane from Stockholm in the afternoon. He was already out at the site. Knutas decided to go out to the murder scene the next day, when things should be significantly calmer.
He was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Karin Jacobsson stuck her head in. “Everyone’s here now. Are you coming?”
“Of course,” said Knutas, and stood up.
There were twelve police detectives in Visby. At the moment most of them were out at the site in Frojel, working to gather statements from witnesses and secure any evidence at the crime scene. Knutas and his closest colleagues were meeting with the prosecuting attorney, Birger Smittenberg, to go over what should be divulged to the media and what they should hold back for the time being. They were all sitting around the worn pine table in the conference room, which was right across from Knutas’s office. The room had glass walls facing the corridor, so it was possible to see everyone who went past, but at the moment the thin yellow cotton drapes were drawn.
Knutas sat down at the head of the table and looked attentively at his colleagues. He liked this group. Karin Jacobsson was his closest associate and best sounding board, a smart, short, thirty-seven-year-old woman with brown eyes who lived alone. Next to her sat Thomas Wittberg, ten years younger and a very capable detective, especially with regard to his interrogation techniques. Somehow he always managed to get more out of the people they interviewed than anyone else. Lars Norrby, divorced, had two sons who lived with him. Almost six foot six, he was a pleasant man with a very proper appearance, perfect for dealing with the press. Erik Sohlman, the technician
