'And we might ask ourselves why he didn't drive up to the hotel parking lot. Clearly he didn't want to be seen,' said Knutas.
'It seems that she has some sort of secret relationship,' said Jacobsson, 'and it wouldn't take much to conclude that he had something to do with her disappearance. Whether she went with him voluntarily or not.'
'It couldn't very well be voluntary,' Norrby objected. 'Otherwise why hasn't she called?'
'Everyone is speculating that she's been kidnapped,' Knutas said. 'We can only hope that nothing worse has happened to her. What kind of car was it?'
'The witness knows nothing about cars. He doesn't even have a driver's license. This much he could say: it was an ordinary blue sedan, and it didn't look new.'
Jacobsson turned to Knutas.
'What color car does Mellgren drive?'
'No idea, but we'll find out, of course.'
'Has the man ever seen her at any other time?'
'No, just that once.'
'Which way did they drive off?'
'The car headed toward the main road.'
'I don't suppose he got the license plate number?'
'No.' Norrby gave them a little smile. 'We're not that lucky.'
'I want to talk to this witness as soon as possible.'
'He lives and works in Klintehamn, so that should be easy to arrange.'
'Good.'
The phone rang, and Knutas answered. There was a roaring in the receiver, and it took several seconds before Knutas understood that it was Martina Flochten's father on the line. In stumbling English, Knutas did the best he could to answer the anxious father's questions. They agreed to meet the following day, when Patrick Flochten would arrive in Visby to take part in the search for his daughter.
The door was locked when he tried the handle. He got out the key and unlocked it. Everything looked the same as when his parents were alive: The bureau in the hall was just as brightly polished now as it was back then; the kitchen clock was ticking off the seconds with the same regular clacking sound; the Chinese plates hung in the same place on the wall where they had hung all those years; even the paper towel holder on the table was the same. He went into the living room and silently looked around. It was different from other Swedish living rooms, above all because there was no sofa. Everyone else had a sofa, but in their house there had never been one. A sofa was meant for socializing, something to sit on while you relaxed in front of the TV. There was no sofa here because that would have been an impossibility. A sofa presented the risk that they might sit so close together that their bodies touched, and that was a sin. Most things that were fun were sins. They had no TV because it was a sin. They never listened to music on the radio because it was a sin. Comic strips and party games were sins, along with laughing on Sunday. Although there wasn't much risk that anyone in that house would laugh on a Sunday. There was little chance that anyone would ever laugh at all. He couldn't recall ever seeing his father or mother smile even once. Their home was marked by silence and seriousness, prayer, discipline, and punishment.
It had taken him time to muster the courage to drive out here, but each time he did, he lost a little more of the guilt and shame that he had felt since childhood. The influence of his parents was slowly being erased.
He had come up with the idea a few months earlier. It would be the ultimate betrayal of his parents, the fact that they were going to hold their meetings here. This was the first time, and he was full of anticipation. He'd made all the preparations, down to the last detail. He went into the next room and opened a big cupboard. He took out the figures one by one, holding them carefully before lining them up on the table in the living room. This was where it would happen, right here and nowhere else. When he was done, he stuck his feet into his wooden clogs and went out. Inside the barn was a door that led to a storage room. That's where the bowl was. He went to get it, carrying it cautiously because the contents were precious. It was now going to be put to use; next time it would be even better.
He went to stand at the window and looked out. The evening sun colored the sky red, and it was so warm that they'd be able to conduct a number of the exercises outdoors. No one would see them or notice what they were doing.
The sound of an engine interrupted his thoughts, and the next instant a car appeared around the curve, a car that he recognized. How nice that he had arrived first. Maybe they'd have time to talk and settle a number of things. They had been more and more at loggerheads lately, and their differences of opinion had grown deeper, which concerned him. Now that they had come so far, he didn't want any monkey wrench in the machinery.
The power battle between them had been going on for a long time. It had to end. The moment was fast approaching when the whole situation would become untenable. He had always believed that they shared the same commitment, but lately he'd been forced to see that this wasn't the case. He hoped that the other man's reluctance was based on things that wouldn't play a major role in the long run. He hoped that he would be able to convince him that there was only one way and that the wheel had already started to turn. They were under way, and now there was no going back.
TUESDAY, JULY 6
The following day was the first cloudy day in two weeks. Knutas arrived at work early. It was no more than seven fifteen when he entered police headquarters and said hello to the duty officer. They chatted for a moment, as they always did before Knutas continued up two floors to the criminal investigation division. He got himself a cup of coffee and leafed through the local morning papers.
It wasn't long before Jacobsson, who was also an early-morning person, stuck her head in the door.
'Good morning,' she greeted him. 'Would you like some coffee?'
'No, thanks. I've already got some.'
She looked tired.
'How are things?' Knutas gave her a searching look.
'Okay, but I hardly slept last night.'
'Is that because you were worrying about Martina Flochten?'
'That was one reason,' she said curtly and then took a sip of her coffee.
She had a very particular way of letting him know that he shouldn't ask any more questions.
'Have you come up with any ideas?' he asked instead.
'Not exactly, but I've been thinking about that car.'
'And?'
'She apparently got in the car of her own free will. She had arranged to meet the unknown man, so he's clearly someone she got to know here on Gotland. But why be so secretive? Of course, she does have a boyfriend, but he's back home in Rotterdam. If she wanted to have a little fun over here, he at least wasn't going to notice.'
'What are you getting at?'
'There must be something strange about the man she met. If they're having, or had, a love affair, why keep it under wraps? Well, there are two reasons why they might want to hide it. Either he's married or else there's something about him-maybe he's a teacher or has some connection with the course-that makes it a sensitive issue for them to be together.'
'Or both,' suggested Knutas.
'Exactly. Staffan Mellgren seems the most likely candidate, of course, but it could also be someone else. I've checked on the color of his car, and it's not blue. It's a silvery gray. Either he used someone else's car, or he's not the one that Martina met. The students spent two weeks studying theory in Visby before they started on the actual excavation work here. During that time they had several different teachers. Plus they evidently went out and partied almost every night. Martina has had all sorts of opportunities to meet someone.
'Another thing I think is strange is that she didn't contact the family of Jacob Dahlen at the Wisby hotel. The manager of the Warfsholm, Kerstin Bodin, said that Dahlen is a family friend. Martina's family comes here once a
