He was taking a big risk by committing another murder. It might not have been planned, of course. Maybe it happened as a result of some sex game. Fanny appeared to be tied up in the photos. Maybe the killer had strangled her by mistake and then dumped her body in the woods.
There was another alternative. Maybe Fanny had become so difficult that he found it necessary to kill her. Maybe she was threatening to expose him, or simply wanted to end the relationship.
The strange thing was that no one had noticed anything-not a single person.
His heart lurched when he thought about the body in the woods. The faces of various people flashed through his mind. Fanny’s mother. How was she responsible for what had happened? Why hadn’t she paid more attention to her daughter? Fanny had been all alone with this problem. She had felt so bad that she had even tried to harm herself. She was only fourteen and still a child. Yet no grown-up had cared about her, not even her mother.
It was the same situation at school. Even though the teachers had noticed that something was wrong with Fanny, they did nothing. She was there, right in front of everyone’s eyes, but no one saw her.
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 20
As Knutas sat in his office drinking coffee, someone knocked on the door. Karin Jacobsson stuck her head in.
“Good morning! It sure is interesting how people can forget all about something and then suddenly remember the most important details.”
She dropped onto a chair across from him and rolled her eyes.
“That guy Jan Olsson from the stable called to say that Fanny had gone out to visit Tom Kingsley.”
“Is that right?”
“One time last fall Jan Olsson had to go over to Tom’s place to drop something off.”
“What did he drop off?” queried Knutas.
“He didn’t say,” Jacobsson went on impatiently. “But listen to this. Fanny’s bicycle was outside Kingsley’s house, and Olsson noticed that her jacket was hanging in the hallway.”
“Did he see her?”
“No. Tom didn’t invite him in.”
“Okay, that’s enough to bring Kingsley in. I’ll call Birger so we can get a search warrant for his house.”
Knutas reached for the phone to call the prosecutor.
“Sure, but there’s just one problem,” said Jacobsson dryly.
“What’s that?”
“Tom Kingsley has left. He’s on vacation in the States.”
“For how long?”
“He has to be back at work on Monday, according to the stable owner. But he booked an open-ended round-trip ticket and hasn’t yet made his return reservation. So we don’t know when he’ll be flying home.”
“We’re going in anyway.”
Tom Kingsley’s house stood in a wooded glade, not far from the racetrack. It was actually a summer cottage that he had been renting ever since he came to Gotland.
The road up to the house was not much wider than a tractor path. The police cars jolted their way forward. Knutas and Jacobsson were in the first car, with Kihlgard and Wittberg following behind. Prosecutor Smittenberg had immediately given the go-ahead to search the premises. Ordinarily, Tom Kingsley should have been notified, but no one knew where he was.
All the windows were dark. When they got out of the cars, it looked as if no one had been to the house in a while. The snow cover was untouched.
They had obtained keys from the landlord, whom Jacobsson had managed to locate during the course of the morning.
The ground floor of the house consisted of a small entryway and a living room on the right, with access to a cramped kitchen. The house was furnished simply but nicely: a dining table next to the window, a fireplace, and against one wall an old-fashioned wooden sofa with seat cushions covered with striped fabric. Between the kitchen and the living room was a woodstove. The kitchen, with windows facing the woods, was sparsely furnished: low kitchen benches, a pantry, an old electric stove, and a small refrigerator.
A narrow staircase curved up to the second floor, which had two small bedrooms and a hallway. It was neat and clean. Knutas lifted up the bedspreads. The bed linen had been removed and the mattresses underneath were worn. The police officers began methodically going through all the drawers and cupboards. Kihlgard and Jacobsson took the second floor, Knutas and Wittberg the first floor.
It wasn’t long before Wittberg shouted, “Come and look at this!”
With tweezers he was holding a piece of paper that looked like instructions of some kind.
“Do you know what this is?”
The others shook their heads.
“It’s instructions for taking morning-after pills.”
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21
The discovery of the pill instructions in the home of Tom Kingsley, combined with the fact that he had definitely denied having any sort of close relationship with Fanny, made the prosecutor decide to issue a warrant for Kingsley’s arrest in absentia. The fact that Fanny’s fingerprints were found on the instructions made the police even more convinced that Kingsley was the man they were looking for. After checking with the airlines, they determined that a week earlier he had flown to Chicago on SAS. The Stockholm police were informed, and employees at the SAS ticket offices were told to keep a lookout for Kingsley and to sound the alarm when he booked his return flight.
Knutas felt relieved, even though he didn’t know where Kingsley was. Now it was just a matter of waiting for his return.
In the meantime, he could take a much-deserved weekend to relax. Away from any kind of police work. He and Leif were going out to the Almlov family summer house in Gnisvard, on the coast about fifteen miles south of Visby, as they always did right before Christmas. He hadn’t been sure that he could actually get away this time because of the investigation. But a warrant had been issued for Kingsley’s arrest, and they couldn’t do anything else until he returned home. So Knutas had decided that it would be possible, after all. It was only a twenty-minute drive from Visby, and he could be reached by cell phone if anything happened.
As for preparing for Christmas, he had done everything that was expected of him-the traditional buying of the Christmas tree with the children, and all the grocery shopping and cleaning that he had done together with Lina. Late one evening he had made his own pickled herring in a sherry sauce, as he always did for the Christmas and Midsummer holidays. During his lunch hour he had run out to buy Christmas presents and had actually managed to buy everything, wrap all the gifts, and compose the traditional rhymes to go with them.
Now he was ready for his reward. Two days of solitude eating good food and doing some fishing-interests that he shared with Leif.
He hurried home after work on Friday afternoon and packed a bag with clothes and his fishing gear. It had been snowing all day. The snowplows had been working nonstop to make the roads passable. Knutas couldn’t remember the last time it had snowed so much on Gotland. If only it would stick around until Christmas.
In the car on their way south he felt himself relaxing more with every mile they put behind them. They were playing Simon and Garfunkel full blast. The wintry landscape slid past outside the windows, with expanses of white fields and an occasional farm.
A beautiful layer of snow covered the yard when they arrived.
It’s actually silly to call this place a summer cabin, thought Knutas. It’s more like a manor house. The typical Gotland-style limestone house from the mid-nineteenth century was impressive with its whitewashed walls, pitched roof, and smooth gables. During that era bigger houses were being built on Gotland to keep pace with the increasing prosperity in the countryside. This house had no less than seven rooms and a kitchen, divided into two wings. The farm also had a boathouse that was used as a storeroom and food cellar. Next to the house stood a sauna, only a few yards from the dock where Leif’s fishing boat bobbed up and down all year-round.
The place was rather isolated. The nearest neighbor lived a couple of hundred yards away.
“I can j
ust imagine how cold it is in the house,” Leif warned his friend when he opened the heavy, creaking front door.
“It doesn’t feel so bad,” said Knutas as they stepped inside. He carried the bags of food out to the kitchen and started putting away the provisions. “But I suppose it will seem worse if we sit still.”
“I’ll turn on the electric heat and make a fire in the fireplace, but it will take a while to get rid of the dampness.”
Several hours later they sat at the table with plates of roast beef and potatoes au gratin that smelled of garlic, along with a bottle of a robust Rioja wine. It had been a long time since Anders Knutas had felt so good.
“How many times have we done this? Is this the fifth or the sixth year? This year it seems even more necessary than usual.”
“Yes, I think we both needed to get away,” Leif agreed. “There’s been a hell of a lot to do at the restaurant. The worst is when there are problems with the staff. One of my best waitresses had a miscarriage and had to go to the hospital. Then another waitress had to go to Stockholm because her mother died. And to top it off, I caught one of the bartenders stealing from the till. All within a couple of weeks. And as usual, these kinds of situations always happen at the least convenient time. Right now we’re up to our necks in Christmas reservations. It’s lucky I have such a superb chef, otherwise I’d never be able to handle all this. He can fix pretty much anything. I actually offered to stay home this weekend, but he persuaded me to go. I was thinking we could postpone this to some later date,” he added apologetically.
“I’m glad we didn’t. Tell him thanks from me.” Anders took a sip of his wine. “At least you should be happy that the restaurant is doing so well. It’s always full of people, and it’s been like that ever since you opened. I don’t know how you do it.”
“So what about you? How’s it going with the investigation?”
“Good. We finally seem to be on the right track.”
“What a nasty business.”
“It’s been damn tough. When we know that a murderer is on the loose and we’re blindly fumbling around, not being able to make sense of things… it’s frustrating.”
“So you’re not doing that anymore? Blindly fumbling around, I mean?”
“No, I’m convinced that we’re close to solving the case. You know that I can’t discuss any investigations with you, but this much I can tell you: I think we’re very close now.”
“Is it someone you’ve suspected for a long time?”
“No. Actually, someone completely unexpected has turned up.”
“So why haven’t you caught him?”
“Enough questions, Leif. You know I can’t answer them.”
Leif held up his hands. “Of course. Would you like some more wine?”
They spent the rest of the evening playing chess in front of the fireplace. And they opened another bottle of Rioja.
It turned out to be a late night. They didn’t get to bed until after midnight. Anders was given one of the upstairs bedrooms. The room was simply but beautifully furnished. The limestone walls were rough and bare. The slate roof was supported by heavy timbers. A wide wooden bed with a white flowered bedspread stood along one wall, and next to it were three country chairs painted blue. A little window with a deep recess faced the sea. The rhythmic sound of the waves lapping against the shore lulled him to sleep.
When he awoke, he had no idea how long he had slept. It was pitch dark in the room. He couldn’t understand what had awakened him. He lay still with his eyes open and unseeing in the night, listening for sounds that weren’t there.
He reached out his hand and turned on the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed. It was three ten in the morning.
His mouth was dry, and he needed to go to the bathroom.
Afterward he paused next to the window. He could hear the sea, but it seemed very calm. There was a light on in the boathouse. Strange. Was Leif out there at this hour? Maybe he had forgotten to turn off the light.
The snow gleamed white in the darkness, and the glow from the outdoor lights cast long shadows. Nothing was going on, so he went back to bed.
It took a long time before he fell asleep.
The days had passed and Johan hadn’t heard a word from Emma. He had been back in Stockholm almost a week, since nothing new had occurred on Gotland that would warrant a trip to the island. At least nothing that he knew about. The police were being very tight-lipped. He had tried to put the pressure on Knutas several times, but he hadn’t gotten anything useful out of him. Experience told him that they were close to catching the perpetrator. The police always reacted the same way when an investigation entered a sensitive stage. They all just clammed up.
He was longing for Emma terribly, but she refused to talk to him. Maybe a solution was near on more than one front. Oh, just let it happen, he felt at the same time. Bring on the shit, so we can get this over with once and for all. He was tired of all the worrying and all the planning for a future with Emma. Wondering how he would manage on Gotland, as a stepfather, as a man with responsibilities. Cooking pasta and reading good night stories and blowing noses and balancing things among Emma, her ex-husband, the kids, the in-laws; birthday parties, deciding where to spend Christmas Eve, and feeling torn between Stockholm and Gotland. And, to be honest, how much fun would it be to take over a family that already existed? He was a romantic who dreamed of getting married and eventually becoming a father. For Emma, none of it would be for the first time.
Marrying again, having children again. Did she even want to have children with him? They had never talked about that. Why hadn’t they?
It was probably just as well that they put an end to things, once and for all. He might meet some girl in Stockholm who didn’t have a broken marriage and kids as baggage. Then it could be a magical experience for both of them. Everything would be so much simpler-just the fact that they could live in Stockholm, close to their families, their work, and their friends. The conditions for having a successful and good life together would be so much better. Why make life more difficult than necessary? It was hard enough to make a relationship work. Did he also have to hassle with other people’s children and ex-husbands? No thanks.
But there was just one hitch. Emma was the one he wanted.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22
On Saturday morning Anders woke up when Leif knocked on the door and barged into the room.
“Wake up, sleepy-head! It’s eight o’clock and breakfast is ready!”
Groggy with sleep, he sat up in bed. Leif was looking shamelessly frisky.
“I’ve already been out to chop wood. It’s glorious weather. Just have a look outside,” he said, nodding toward the window.
Anders turned his head. To his great surprise, he saw the sun gleaming over the expanse of the sea, which was blue and relatively calm.
He had almost forgotten how beautiful the view was. When they arrived the day before it was already dark.
“Incredible! I’ll be right down.”
He took a quick hot shower. What a luxurious summer house this is, he thought as he admired the lovely tiled wall.
Breakfast was on the table when he came downstairs to the kitchen: a real Gotland loaf of rye bread, butter, cheese, liver sausage, ham, salami, and vegetables. The aroma of strong coffee was spreading through the kitchen. A fire was crackling in the fireplace.
Anders appreciated Leif’s sense for food, and he dug in with a good appetite.
“What service,” he said, grinning at his friend, who was sitting on the other side of the table, studying a nautical chart.
“Tomorrow it’s your turn to make breakfast. I was thinking that we should take the boat out, since it’s such good weather. A light wind and forty-one degrees.”
“It’s great to see sunshine in the middle of December. That’s a real treat.”
“Did you sleep well?”
Anders hesitated for a second. “Like a rock. How about you?”
“Same h
ere. I always sleep well in the country.”
Anders cleared the breakfast dishes and packed up his gear. He was looking forward to the fishing trip.
Two days left before Christmas. Anticipation was shining in the children’s eyes. At the same time, she found herself as far away from the idyllic family scene and the serenity of Christmas as she could get. She woke up in Viveka’s guest room, feeling sick. The pregnancy probably wasn’t the only reason. It had been a late night. She and Viveka had consumed a lot of wine and stayed up talking half the night.
She might as well go ahead and drink wine. She no longer needed to think about the well-being of the baby. She had made up her mind, but she wasn’t able to get an appointment for an abortion until after Christmas. She was going to have to spend the entire holiday noticing the clear signs of her pregnancy. A constant reminder of the child growing inside of her.
She still hadn’t dared talk to Johan. She didn’t want him to influence her decision. Of course it was selfish, but she didn’t see any other option. She had chosen to lock him out. She had distanced herself from him completely and refused to speak to him on the phone. She defended her actions by telling herself that it was sheer self-preservation. It was lucky that he had gone back to Stockholm. That made things a little easier. To see him now would be disastrous. And she had to think about the children she already had.
They had decided to celebrate a completely normal Christmas, with the whole family together. To visit relatives and friends and do everything they usually did. She would just have to suffer through the nausea as best she could. She had only herself to blame, and Olle didn’t seem to be the least bit sorry for her. There wasn’t a trace of the sympathy he had exhibited when she was pregnant with his own children.
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