"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 Dahlén at the Wisby hotel. The manager of the Warfsholm, Kerstin Bodin, said that Dahlén is a family friend. Martina's family comes here once a year, and they always stay at his hotel. Of course, he's probably mostly a friend of her father, but it's still odd that she didn't at least stop by to say hello, don't you think? She's been on Gotland for more than four weeks, two of them in Visby. Why didn't
she contact him? The hotel is right downtown, for God's sake, just a stone's throw from the college."
"Have you talked to Jacob Dahlén?"
"Only on the phone. He's out of town."
"Maybe she did intend to contact him but hadn't gotten around to it yet. You know how it is when you're someplace where you know someone only superficially. And the course continues until the middle of August. Maybe she thinks she has plenty of time to look him up."
"Sure," Jacobsson conceded. "You might be right."
"By the way, where did she stay during those two weeks when she was studying theory in Visby?"
"The same place as all the others. Student dorms on Mejerigatan."
"Let's drive over and have a talk with the lodgers, also the landlord. Someone might have noticed something. I'll make the arrangements," said Knutas and reached for the phone.
Patrick Flochten was a stately man with dark brown hair that stuck out in all directions. Judging by the color of his complexion, the weather had been nice in the Netherlands. He wore glasses with black frames that looked expensive, and he had on a light linen suit. His handshake was damp and his expression tense as he sat down on the visitor's chair in Knutas's office.
"Martina's brother and I are, of course, beside ourselves with worry. I'd like you to tell me everything that led up to my daughter's disappearance," he said in perfect English. "Everything! "
Knutas, whose command of English was far from sufficient for conducting an interview, had already anticipated this problem. That was why he had asked Jacobsson to join them. She began by describing what the police knew so far about Martina's disappearance. Jacobs-son kept wondering why there was something familiar about the man sitting across from her. Maybe it was just that he and his daughter looked alike, judging by the photos that she'd seen of Martina.
"I'm familiar with Warfsholm. I've gone out to the hotel with the children for dinner several times when we've been here on Gotland. How could Martina disappear from there without a single person seeing her? There are cottages and people everywhere. Besides, the nights are so bright here; it never gets really dark."
"It was late at night when Martina left the others. The hotel guests were in bed asleep. She went to the bathroom around one o'clock, and by then almost everyone who had been to the concert had gone home. The few who were still awake were sitting in the bar."
"Didn't anyone see anything?"
"Apparently not, unfortunately. A full-blown search is under way, of course. We're using dogs and helicopters. A search party is also being organized today. The search area is gradually being expanded."
Jacobsson deliberately neglected to mention the divers. It sounded too horrible, as if they'd already given up hope of finding Martina alive.
"Could she have gone to the mainland?"
"There's no indication that she has left the island. We've checked the passenger lists with the company that operates the ferry service, as well as the airlines. In any event, she didn't travel under her own name. The front desk at the hotel holds on to the students' valuables for safekeeping, and nothing was missing—not her passport or her Visa card or the cash that she had stowed away."
Patrick Flochten gave both officers a look of despair. "It sounds as if you're assuming that she's been involved in some sort of crime."
Knutas and Jacobsson exchanged glances.
"Let's not rush ahead and assume the worst," Jacobsson urged him. "We have no idea what may have happened. Sometimes people disappear under the most peculiar circumstances, only to show up later without any sort of drama. That may well be the case here. We shouldn't forget that Martina has only been missing for a few days. Who knows? Maybe she fell head over heels in love, or something like that. Right now we need to take one thing at a time. First and foremost, we need to concentrate on finding her as quickly as possible. Has Martina ever disappeared before without letting anyone know?"
Patrick Flochten thought about that for a moment.
"Well, yes...She was sometimes pretty wild as a teenager. And yes, a few times she didn't come home at night, but not for several days in a row like this. And she's calmed down over the years."
"Does she use drugs?"
"Not that I've noticed. She may have tried them—that goes without saying—but she has never used drugs in the sense that I think you're implying."
"No other addiction problems or illnesses?"
"No."
"What's her relationship like with her boyfriend?"
"Good, as far as I know. They've been together for over a year, and it seems to be very stable. He's quite a bit older."
"Has she told you about some new man that she's met?"
"No, why would she do that?"
"Several circumstances indicate that she has a new relationship. A witness has also suggested that she may be in love with someone."
"Really? That's odd. She's usually so open about things like that. We have no secrets from each other." Patrick Flochten's expression grew wary.
"We know that you regularly come here on vacation and that you usually stay at the Wisby hotel—is that right?"
"Yes. I've known the owner for a long time. Jacob Dahlén. We're business acquaintances, and we've also been friends for many years."
Tears welled up in Patrick Flochten's eyes, as if he suddenly remembered that his daughter was missing.
No one said anything for a moment.
"What kind of work do you do?" Knutas asked.
"I'm an architect. I run an architectural firm in Rotterdam along with a partner. We also own several development companies, including one here on Gotland."
"Is that right? Which one?"
"Our firm helped design the new condos at Södervärn, and we're involved in the big hotel project that's being planned."
"The one at Högklint?"
"Exactly. I designed the hotel, and we're also investors."
Jacobsson suddenly remembered where she had seen Patrick Flochten before. One of the local newspapers had done a story about the project and included the name of the architect along with his picture. She now recalled that his children were also mentioned. It was reported that his late wife had been from Gotland.
"So you're going to be working over here a good deal?"
"I would think so."
"But you've been here a lot before?"
"Yes. During the past year I've spent a great deal of time in Visby." His voice faded away. Patrick Flochten hid his face in his hands.
"Maybe that's enough for now," Knutas interjected. "Is there anything else you would like to know?"
"Yes," replied the man tonelessly. "Where can I start searching?"
When Emma woke up in the morning, it took a moment before she realized that she was back home again after giving birth. The tenderness in her abdomen reminded her of what she'd been through. The sunlight coming through the curtains rested on the face of her newborn baby as she lay there, so very small, surrounded by pillows and covers. Emma turned onto her side and placed her hand gently on the tiny, downy shoulder poking out from under the knitted shirt.
The baby's face was a blotchy red. Emma looked for signs of herself and Johan in their new daughter's features. He was going to drop by for a while before work. She wanted to see him, and yet she didn't.
The silence in the house was palpable; it gave her a feeling of unreality. Under normal circumstances there would have been a lot of commotion from the children and the dog, but now the links to the past had been broken; the traditions no longer existed. It was frightening not to know how the rest of her life was going to proceed. She still hadn't gotten used to the fact that Sara and Filip also lived somewhere else. Right now she longed for them and didn't want to wait until the next day to see them, as planned. After that they were going abroad on vacation with Olle for two weeks.
The divorce had been worse than she could have imagined. The fact that in the end she decided to have the baby, even though she and Olle had agreed to try saving their marri
age, had at first made him furious. Over time he had realized that he had no other choice but to accept her decision, even though it made a divorce inevitable. Like two automatons they had filled out the papers and taken care of practical matters. He had moved into an apartment, and suddenly she was living alone in a big house with the children there only every other week.
As her belly got bigger and bigger, Olle had become more and more difficult. The slightest little thing could erupt into a problem, anything from how they were going to split up the Easter holidays to who should buy shoes for Sara or drive Filip to soccer practice. Everything had to be thrashed out ad nauseam. It felt as if Olle wanted to punish her. In his eyes she saw accusations and wounded pride.
At first Olle wanted to be so strong. The practical matters had to be handled in the most adroit manner, almost as if he were trying to make the divorce as gentle as possible for himself when he was faced with the fait accompli. But when almost everything had been worked out and decided, and the train started rolling in a new direction, his emotions finally caught up with him. To deal with his own pain, he shifted all the blame and responsibility onto her. He refused to have anything to do with the puppy that he had bought for her in an attempt to patch up their marriage. Fortunately one of Emma's women friends had taken care of the dog while she was in the maternity ward.
She had no plans for the summer. The children would be staying with her for a few weeks later on, but first they were going abroad with their father. He had rented a house in Italy for two weeks, along with a friend who was also a single parent. They were going to fly to Nice, rent a car, and stay in an Italian mountain village. If only he'd thought up fun things like that when we were married, she thought enviously. Now he decides to be creative and full of ideas.
Johan had mentioned that he wanted them to go somewhere together. Right now it felt impossible.
Through the bedroom window she caught sight of him as he came walking up the garden path. In his hands he was holding a paper bag and a bouquet of flowers. He noticed her in the window and smiled and waved.
The Inner Circle (aka Unknown) Page 10
