He looked at his watch. In his mind he was probably already at home with a glass of Christmas beer in front of the TV.
“I’ll just call…” said Tilda.
Her five days of leave were also approaching, but she still didn’t want to let go of Henrik Jansson.
She got in the car and called Henrik Jansson’s boss for the second time that day. He told her that Henrik’s boathouse was at Enslunda.
That was south of Marnas, quite close to Eel Point.
“I’ll drive you back to the station,” she said. “Then I can call in at Enslunda on the way up. I’m sure he won’t be there, but at least I can check.”
“I’ll come with you, if you want.”
Torstensson was a nice guy and his offer was no doubt serious despite the Christmas stress, but she shook her head.
“Thanks, but I’ll call on the way home,” she said. “If Jansson’s there, I’ll bring him back here and ruin his Christmas. Otherwise I’ll go home and wrap presents.”
“Drive carefully,” said Torstensson. “There’s a snowstorm coming, you do know that?”
“Yup,” said Tilda. “But I’ve got snow tires.”
They drove back to the station. When Torstensson had gone inside, Tilda swung the car around and was just on her way out of the parking lot when the door opened again.
Mats Torstensson was waving at her. Tilda wound down the window and stuck her head out.
“What is it?”
“You’ve got a visitor,” he said.
“Who is it?”
“Your tutor from the academy.”
“Tutor?”
Tilda didn’t understand, but she parked the car and went into the station with Torstensson. Reception wasn’t manned. The Advent candles flickered in the windows, and most of the police officers on the island had already started their Christmas leave.
“I caught her,” said Torstensson.
He was speaking to a broad-shouldered man who was sitting in one of the armchairs in the waiting room. The man was dressed in a jacket and a pale gray police sweater, and smiled with satisfaction when Tilda walked in.
“I was in the area,” he said, getting up. He held out a big present wrapped in red paper. “I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas.”
It was Martin Ahlquist, of course.
Tilda kept the mask in place and tried to smile.
“Hi, Martin… same to you.”
Her lips quickly stiffened, but Martin’s smile grew even broader.
“Would you like to go for a coffee?”
“Thanks,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’m rather busy.”
She did accept the present, however (it felt like a box of chocolates), nodded to Mats Torstensson, then went out into the parking lot.
Martin followed her. She turned around; now she no longer had to pretend to look pleased.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“What do you mean?” said Martin.
“You keep on calling me… and now you turn up here with a present. Why?”
“Well…I wanted to see how you were.”
“I’m fine,” said Tilda. “So you can go home… home to your wife and children. It’s almost Christmas Eve.”
He just kept on smiling at her.
“It’s all arranged,” he said. “I told Karin I was staying over in Kalmar, and I’d be home early in the morning.”
For Martin everything seemed to be about practical problems-keeping the lies in some sort of order.
“You do that, then,” said Tilda. “Take yourself off to Kalmar.”
“Why would I do that? I can just as easily stay over here, on Oland.”
She sighed and walked over to her car. Opened the door and threw Martin’s present on the back seat.
“I haven’t got time to talk now. There’s a guy I have to bring in.”
She closed the door before he had time to reply. Then she started the engine and pulled out of the station’s parking lot.
Soon she saw a blue Mazda pull out behind her.
Martin’s car. He was following her.
On the way north from Borgholm she wondered why she hadn’t been more determined in her efforts to get rid of him. She could have spat and yelled-perhaps he would have understood those signals.
By the time Tilda reached the eastern side of the island, it was half past three. The daylight was almost completely gone; the sky was dark gray and the silently falling snow had changed and become more intrusive. The snow had become aggressive, she thought. The flakes had stopped whirling around aimlessly in the air and were grouping for attack. They hit the front of the police car in dense flurries, clinging to the windows.
She turned off onto the narrow track down toward Enslunda. Martin’s Mazda was still a little way behind her.
In the glow of the headlights, Tilda could see that there were several tire tracks in the snow ahead of her, and when the track ran out fifty yards or so from the sea she expected to see at least a couple of parked cars.
But the little turning area was completely deserted.
There was nothing there but a mass of fresh tracks in the snow-tracks left by heavy shoes or boots, running back and forth between the tire tracks and one of the boathouses. The snowflakes were already beginning to cover them.
The Mazda had pulled in and stopped behind her.
Tilda put on her police cap and pushed open the driver’s door against the wind.
It was bitterly cold and desolate here at the edge of the Baltic. The cold and the emptiness made the entire coast feel menacing. The waves were rolling in, and had begun to break up the covering of ice offshore.
Martin got out of his car and walked over to Tilda.
“This guy you’re going to bring in… is he supposed to be out here?”
She just nodded. She would have preferred not to speak to him.
Martin started to walk purposefully over to the boathouses. He appeared to have forgotten that he was a tutor and no longer a police officer.
Tilda said nothing, she just followed him.
A rhythmic thudding could be heard as they drew closer-the door of one of the boathouses was banging to and fro in the wind. Almost all the footprints in the snow seemed to lead to this particular building.
Martin opened the door and peered in. “Is this one his?”
“I don’t know…I suppose so.”
Thieves are always afraid of other thieves, Tilda thought. They want good locks on their own houses. If Henrik Jansson had forgotten to lock up here, then something unforeseen must have happened.
She went over to Martin and peered into the darkness. There was a workbench, some old nets and other fishing tackle and tools along the walls, but not much else.
“He’s not home,” said Martin.
Tilda didn’t reply. She went inside and bent down. Small shiny droplets could be seen on the wooden floor.
“Martin!” she shouted.
He turned his head and she pointed at the floor.
“What do you make of this?”
He bent down. “Fresh blood,” he said.
Tilda went outside and looked around. Someone had been injured, possibly shot or stabbed, but they had still been able to leave the area.
