‘Well, he’s here all right,’ said Fogestam glumly. ‘But I’m afraid you’re too late. Simon Hammar is dead.’
Knutas’s jaw dropped.
‘We just got the call. He fell out of a fifth-floor window. Landed on Kornhamnstorg here in Gamla Stan. The square that faces Slussen, you know? We’ve got a huge problem on our hands at the moment. Traffic is at a standstill, and a big crowd has gathered in the square. We haven’t even removed the body yet. It looks like murder. There are signs of a struggle in the flat. I can call you back later. But why are you looking for Simon Hammar?’
‘His mother was murdered here on Gotland just a few hours ago. She was poisoned with cyanide, just like Viktor Algard at the conference centre.’
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’
A PARALYSING SENSE of inadequacy settled over Knutas as he put down the receiver after talking to Kurt Fogestam in Stockholm. The police seemed to be always one step behind. By all indications, Mats Andersson had first murdered his mother and then his brother. Had Simon known that he was the killer and threatened to expose him? Was that why he’d been silenced? It sounded as if Simon’s death had come suddenly, the result of anger. Knutas reasoned that if a murder were premeditated, this would not be the preferred modus operandi. Mats Andersson seemed to crave an audience, yet not to the extent that he wanted to get caught. Surely it would be almost impossible to toss a man out of a fifth-floor window in the middle of Stockholm without being seen. And Simon must have put up a lot of resistance; he was both tall and muscular. Unless he was first drugged or poisoned, of course. But why throw him out of the window? Couldn’t Mats have killed him with cyanide, just as he’d killed his other two victims?
Another puzzling element was the fact that the murderer had been able to leave the building and vanish without getting caught.
Knutas didn’t think for a minute that the perpetrator would have purposely chosen to make things so difficult for himself. No, the decision to kill Simon must have been made in great haste.
Was it even possible for the same person to have committed the two murders within only a few hours of each other? He did a quick calculation in his head. The flight between Stockholm and Visby took only thirty minutes. A taxi ride from Bromma airport in Stockholm to Gamla Stan took about the same amount of time.
Knutas wondered again what the motive could have been for killing Simon. Was Mats in the process of murdering all of his half-siblings? Or had he already done so? Andreas Hammar lived alone out in the country, and his body might easily go undiscovered for days. Suddenly Knutas was filled with dread.
He jumped up, grabbed his service weapon, and then knocked on Jacobsson’s door.
‘Get in touch with Stockholm!’ he shouted to Rylander as they rushed out of the station. ‘Make sure the sister on Vato has police protection. ASAP!’
Silent and grim-faced, Knutas sat in the passenger seat as Jacobsson stomped on the accelerator, racing south. Mikaela had told them that Simon and Mats were in the habit of having lengthy, heart-to-heart talks. Simon had told his sister how much these conversations meant to him, and what a support Mats had been. Was this what had prompted the murders? Andreas Hammar wasn’t answering his phone and Knutas’s anxiety grew. Mats couldn’t possibly have reached the sheep farm after killing Simon, but he could have gone out there earlier.
Jacobsson sped towards Hablingbo, screeching around the curves. The siren was on and the other cars on the road obediently got out of their way. Knutas’s mobile rang again. It was Inspector Fogestam.
‘Anders, I have to tell you that we’ve decided this wasn’t a homicide after all. We assumed it was because several chairs had been toppled. But now we’ve found more than one suicide note. And several reliable witnesses have independently confirmed that they saw Simon Hammar jump from the window.’
‘Really? What do the notes say?’
‘There are four of them. They were on the mantelpiece, addressed to different people.’
‘Who?’
‘One for Veronika, one for Katrina, one for Daniel, and one for Mats.’
‘Could you fax them over to us as soon as possible? Have you read them?’
‘Yes. I’ve had a quick look at them. Simon writes that he’s sorry for doing what he’s about to do, but he sees no other option. The letter to his mother is quite nasty. He seems to be blaming her for the fact that he can’t bear to live any longer. Apparently her demands were so great that he couldn’t take it any more.’
‘And now she’s dead too. She died at just about the same time, damn it.’
‘Yes. It’s terrible. I’ve got to go. But I wanted you to know what we found out.’
IT WAS DARK by the time Jacobsson parked in front of the farm in Hablingbo. The yard was deserted. No barking dogs. Not a soul in sight. The red pick-up that Andreas had driven the last time they visited him was gone. Knutas glanced at his watch. It was ten fifteen.
Cautiously they approached the house. No one seemed to be at home, and no lights were on. Knutas crept up on to the porch and tried the door. It wasn’t locked. With their guns drawn, they slowly made their way from room to room, but they soon realized that the house was empty.
The gravel crunched under their feet as they walked around the side of the main building. As they searched the property, more police vehicles turned up.
The officers gathered in the yard and then split up to continue the search. Knutas and Jacobsson got back in the car to drive over to the lambing shed and the pasture where they had previously interviewed Andreas while he was weighing the sheep. Maybe that was where they would find him, together with Mats. Knutas fervently hoped that they wouldn’t arrive too late.
They turned on to the road, which was cloaked in darkness, and headed for Havdhem. There were no streetlights and very few buildings. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of lights shining from a distant farm. They drove in silence, as if they were both expecting the worst.
‘Do you remember where to turn?’ asked Knutas.
‘Yes. It’s right up ahead.’
Jacobsson turned on to the narrow gravel road, but they hadn’t gone more than a few hundred yards before a flock of sheep blocked their way. Karin was forced to stop the car.
‘What the hell is this?’ she said with a sigh.
More and more sheep came crowding on to the road. All of them were bleating loudly. The sound grew to a deafening cacophony. With their open mouths and blank stares, they looked ghostly in the glow from the car headlamps. Jacobsson honked and tried to inch the car forward, but the sheep refused to budge. They surrounded the vehicle, pressing against it, as if the vehicle were their only refuge.
‘What do we do now?’
‘It can’t be that far to the lambing shed,’ said Knutas. ‘Let’s get out and walk.’
JOHAN SAT IN the waiting room outside the intensive care ward at Visby Hospital. He hadn’t yet been allowed to see Emma. A nurse had offered him something to drink, but he found himself barely able to speak. His body felt anaesthetized; his mind was empty. He just sat there, utterly still and staring at the floor. He didn’t want to move until they came out and told him that Emma was going to be OK.
Suddenly the door to the waiting room opened. Johan didn’t even lift his head to see who came in.
Somebody sat down on the chair next to him.
‘How’s she doing?’
He recognized the voice, but hadn’t expected to see him here. It was Emma’s ex-husband Olle.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know anything.’
The clock on the wall was ticking monotonously. The minutes plodded along. Both men, who were the fathers of Emma’s children, sat next to each other in silence and waited, not knowing what to expect.
Olle drummed his fingers on his leg. Johan stared at his veined hands. The ring finger which, for so many years, had worn a wedding ring given to him by Emma. Those hands that had held Emma, changed the nappies of their two children, cooked meals and built the house in Roma. In the past such thoughts had always made Johan feel angry or jealous. But this time he felt a strange sense of solidarity. Emma was important to both of them. He would never be able to erase the years that Olle and Emma had shared. And why should he? The faces of Sara and Filip flitted through his mind. This was their father sitting next to him, burying his anxious face in his hands. Johan closed his eyes.
Neither of them spoke.
BODIES EVERYWHERE. WHITE, woolly, bulky, warm. And all those eyes. Hundreds of eyes staring at him. He saw nothing in their expressions. And yet there was something reassuring about them. They were clustered
