The call came into Visby police headquarters at 1:02 p.m. Thirty-five minutes later, two police cars with sirens screaming pulled into Svea Johansson’s yard in Frojel. It took another five minutes before the medics arrived to take care of the old man, who was rocking back and forth on a chair in the kitchen. His older sister pointed out the wooded area where her brother had made the discovery.
Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas and his colleague Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson hurried on foot toward the patch of woods. They were followed closely by crime scene technician Erik Sohlman and four other officers with dogs.
On the path, before it reached the beach, lay the slaughtered dog in a ditch. Its throat had been cut, and one front paw was missing. The ground all around was spattered with blood.
Sohlman bent over the dog. “Hacked to death,” he observed. “The injuries seem to have been caused by a sharp-edged weapon, presumably an axe.”
Karin Jacobsson shuddered. She was a big animal lover.
A short distance away they found the mutilated body of the woman. They studied the corpse in silence. The only sound came from the waves breaking on the beach.
She lay there naked under a tree in the grove. The body was covered with blood, through which patches of skin could be seen, shining white. Deep stab wounds were visible on her neck, breast, and stomach. Her eyes were wide open, her lips dry and cracked. It looked as if she were yawning. A tight feeling of nausea settled in Knutas’s stomach. He bent over to look more closely.
The perpetrator had shoved a piece of striped cloth between her lips. It looked like a pair of panties.
Without a word Knutas pulled his cell phone from his inside pocket and called the forensic medicine division in Solna. He needed a medical examiner to fly over from the mainland as quickly as possible.
The first report on the wire service was typed in at 4:07 p.m. Information was scanty. VISBY (TT) A woman was found dead on a beach on the west coast of Gotland. According to a statement from the police, she was murdered. The police will not yet say how she was killed. All roads in the vicinity have been blocked off. A man is being interviewed by the police.
It took two minutes before Max Grenfors noticed the message on his screen.
He picked up the telephone and called the duty officer at the Gotland police department. He didn’t learn much more, except that the police could confirm that a woman, born in 1966, had been found murdered on the beach near Gustavs, the Baptist summer camp, in Frojel Parish on the west coast of Gotland. The woman had been identified as a resident of Stockholm. Her boyfriend was being interviewed by the police. The area was being searched with dogs, while the police were busy going door to door in the vicinity, looking for possible witnesses.
At the same moment, the direct line belonging to reporter Johan Berg rang. He was among those who had worked the longest in the newsroom. He had started in television ten years ago, and it was by chance that he became a crime reporter right from the start. On his first day on the job, a prostitute was found murdered at Hammarby Harbor. Johan was the only reporter in the newsroom at the time, so he was given the assignment, and that night it was the top story. Because of that, he had continued as a crime reporter. He still thought it was the most exciting area of journalism.
When the phone rang, he was engrossed in his story about the strike at Osteraker Prison, polishing up the wording on his computer screen. The piece was due to be edited soon, and everything had to be ready before he and the editor could start working to put together video footage, the script for the anchorman, and sound bites. Preoccupied, he picked up the phone.
“Johan Berg, Regional News.”
“They’ve found a woman murdered on Gotland,” rasped a voice in his ear. “She was butchered, apparently with an axe, and she had a pair of panties stuffed in her mouth. A real lunatic is on the loose.”
The man on the phone was one of Johan’s best sources, a retired police officer who lived in Nynashamn. After an operation for throat cancer, he had to breathe through a tube sticking out of his throat.
“What the hell did you say?”
“She was found today on a beach in Frojel, on the west coast.”
“How sure are you about this?” asked Johan, feeling his pulse quicken.
“A hundred percent sure.”
“What else do you know?”
“She was originally from Gotland but moved to the mainland a long time ago. To Stockholm. She was just over on the island to spend a few days with her boyfriend. He’s being interrogated right now.”
“Who found her?”
“Someone who happened to come past. An old fellow they’ve taken to the hospital. He’s probably suffering from shock. That’s all I know. You’ll have to check it out yourself.”
“Thanks. I owe you a couple of beers,” said Johan as he got up from his chair and then put down the receiver.
The relaxed mood in the newsroom was replaced by feverish activity. Johan reported what he knew to the editor, who quickly decided that Johan and a cameraman should take the first plane to Gotland. Someone else could put together the Osteraker story. Right now it was a matter of getting out there and being first on the scene.
Actually Max Grenfors was obligated to inform the managing editor at the big central desk, who was in charge of the news reports for the whole TV station, but that could wait. We’ll just get a little head start, he thought as he barked out orders. He moved down the top story on the priority list for the broadcast. Who cared about the finances of the Academic Hospital now?
Johan outlined what he knew to a female colleague, who hastily put together a script for the anchorman based on the existing information. She also prepared a telephone interview with the duty officer at the Visby police department, who was able to confirm that a woman had been found dead and that the police suspected murder.
It took only a few minutes before all the editors from the largest news programs at the state-owned TV station were swarming around the desk in the Regional News office.
“Why are you sending a reporter to Gotland? Is there something special about this murder?” asked the managing editor from the central desk.
Like the others, he had read only the wire report, but he had already heard that Regional News was sending a team to Gotland. Four pairs of eyes were staring inquisitively at Grenfors, who realized he had to tell them that the woman had been viciously attacked, probably with an axe, and that her panties had been stuffed in her mouth.
Since it was a slow news day in the world, all the editors reacted strongly. Finally a story that could save the broadcast! Everyone was aware that this was no ordinary murder, and they all began talking excitedly at once.
After some discussion, the managing editor decided that sending one reporter to Gotland was enough. They agreed that they had enough confidence in Johan Berg to make do with him until more details were known.
Johan was told to take along Peter Bylund, the cameraman he liked working with best. They would catch the plane for Visby that departed at 8:15 P.M.
In the cab on his way home, Johan felt a familiar sense of excitement at being in the middle of a story. The fact that a woman had been grotesquely murdered and all the horror associated with such an event took a backseat to his desire to find out what had happened and then file a report. It’s strange how a person reacts, he thought as the cab drove across Vasterbron and he stared out at the water of Riddarfjarden, bracketed by the city hall and Gamla Stan, the Old Town. You just have to put aside all the usual human emotions and let your professional role take over.
He thought back to the night in September 1994 when the passenger ferry Estonia sank in the Baltic Sea. In the days following that horrible disaster in which over eight hundred people lost their lives, he had rushed around like a madman in the ferry terminal in Vartan talking to family members, the employees of the Estline ship company, the passengers who had survived, the politicians, and the emergency response teams. He went home only to sl
eep, and then he was back on the job. While he was in the thick of things, he became familiar with all the stories people told him, but as if from a distance. He shut off his own feelings. The reaction came much later. The first bodies recovered and brought home to Sweden were taken in a procession from Arlanda Airport to Riddarholm Church in Gamla Stan for a memorial service before they were transported to their hometowns. When Johan heard a journalist reporting directly from the church on Radio Stockholm, speaking in a deep and somber voice, he broke down. He collapsed on the floor of his apartment, weeping torrents. It was as if all the impressions he had gathered appeared before him at the same time. He pictured bodies floating around inside the ship, people screaming, passengers getting stuck under tables and shelves that were being tossed around, the panic that erupted on board. He felt as if he would go to pieces. He shuddered at the memory.
Back inside his apartment, Johan realized what a mess the place was. He hadn’t had time to take care of all the chores lately.
His one-bedroom apartment on Heleneborgsgatan in Sodermalm was on the ground floor. From indoors you couldn’t tell that the waters of Riddarfjarden were right outside, since his apartment faced the inner courtyard of the building, but that didn’t bother him. He was quite happy with the central location, within walking distance of everything the city had to offer in the way of shops and restaurants. The green island of Langholm was also right at his doorstep, with its paths and big slabs of rock, perfect for sunbathing by the water. There was no better place to live.
At the moment his apartment was not in its best state. Dirty dishes were piled up on the kitchen counter, the laundry basket was overflowing, and several old pizza boxes were scattered around the living room floor. The classic bachelor pad. It smelled stuffy, too. Johan realized that he had half an hour to pack, but he had to clean up the worst of it. The phone rang twice while he was racing around the apartment, washing dishes, airing out the rooms, wiping off the table, throwing out the garbage, watering the flowers, and packing. He didn’t bother to pick up the phone.
The answering machine clicked on, and he listened to his mother’s voice, and to Vanja’s. Even though things had been over between them for more than a month, she refused to give up.
It was going to be great to get away. Far away from there, a solitary man hurries through the woods. His eyes are wild and fixed on the ground. He’s carrying a sack on his back. A black garbage bag. His hair is wet and hanging over his forehead. Now there’s no going back. Absolutely not. He’s agitated, yet at the same time his body is filled with an inner calm. He’s on his way to a specific spot. An explicit goal. Now the sea appears. Good. He’s almost there. That’s where the boathouse is. Gray and rotting. Marked by harsh weather. Storms and rain. Next to it lies a leaky rowboat. It has a hole in the bottom, which he’s going to mend someday. First he has to get rid of this baggage. He fumbles for a long time with the rusty lock. The key hasn’t been used in years. Finally it turns, and with a click the lock opens. At first he considers burying the contents of the sack. But why should he do that? No one ever comes here. Besides, he’s not completely ready to give up these things. He wants to keep them here. Accessible, so he can come back to look at them. Smell them. In the boathouse there’s an old kitchen bench with a compartment under the seat. He opens the seat. Inside are some old newspapers. A phone book. He empties the contents of the sack. Closes the seat. Now he’s happy.
Visby police headquarters is located right inside the ancient stone wall surrounding the town. It’s an uncommonly ugly building. A long rectangle with light-blue metal siding, it looks more like a fish cannery somewhere in Siberia than a police department in this beautiful medieval city. The building is called “the Blue Mound” by the locals.
Inside one of the interrogation rooms, Per Bergdal was leaning over the table with his face in his hands. The ashtray in front of him was full of cigarette butts, even though he didn’t usually smoke. His hair was standing on end, he was unshaven, and he smelled of old, sour wine.
He hadn’t seemed very surprised when the police knocked on the door. His girlfriend was missing, after all. They decided at once to bring him in for questioning.
Now he was sitting here, holding a cigarette with trembling fingers. Hungover and miserable. Apparently also in shock.
Although it’s actually impossible to say whether that’s the case, thought Detective Superintendent Knutas as he sat down on the other side of the table. Regardless, Bergdal’s girlfriend had been found murdered, he had no alibi, and he had visible scratches on his neck, arms, and face.
Karin Jacobsson sat down on a chair next to Knutas. Silent but alert.
Bergdal raised his head and looked out the only window in the room. A hard rain was pelting the windowpane. The wind had picked up, and on the other side of Norra Hansegatan, over by the parking lot, sections of the stone wall near Osterport could be seen. A red Volvo drove past. For Bergdal, it seemed so far away that it might as well have been on the moon.
Anders Knutas adjusted the tape recorder on the table, cleared his throat, and pressed the record button.
“Interview with Per Bergdal, the boyfriend of murder victim Helena Hillerstrom,” he said in an authoritative voice. “The time is four ten on the fifth of June. The interview is being conducted by Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas, and the witness is Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson.”
He cast a somber look at Bergdal, who was slumped forward, staring down at the table. “When did you discover that Helena was missing?”
“I woke up just before ten. She wasn’t in bed. I got up, but she wasn’t in the house, either. So I thought she must have gone out with the dog. She usually takes the first walk with Spencer in the morning. I’m a sound sleeper, so I didn’t notice when she left.”
“What did you do?”
“I lit a fire in the woodstove and made breakfast. Then I sat down and drank my coffee and read yesterday’s paper.”
“Didn’t you wonder where she was?”
“When the eleven o’clock news came on the radio, I started thinking it was strange that she hadn’t come back yet. I went out on the porch. You can see all the way to the water from our house, but today there was a thick fog, so I could see only a few yards. Then I got dressed and went out to look for her. I walked down to the beach and called, but I couldn’t find her or Spencer.”
“How long did you look for her?”
“I must have been out there at least an hour. Then I thought that maybe she’d returned to the cabin in the meantime, so I hurried back. The house was still empty,” he said, and his voice faded out. He hid his face in his hands.
Anders Knutas and Karin Jacobsson waited in silence.
“Are you ready to continue?” asked Knutas.
“I just can’t believe she’s dead,” Bergdal whispered.
“What happened when you got back to the house?”
“It was still empty, so I thought maybe she’d gone to visit some friends of ours nearby. I called them, but she wasn’t there, either.”
“What are their names?”
“Their last name is Larsson. Eva and Rikard, her husband. Eva’s an old friend Helena has known since childhood. They live year-round in a house a short distance from ours.”
“Did they have any idea where she might have gone?”
“No.”
“Who answered the phone?”
“Eva did.”
“Was her husband home, too?”
“No, they own a farm, so I guess he was out working.”
Bergdal lit yet another cigarette, coughed, and then took a long drag.
“What did you do next?”
“I lay down on the bed and thought about various places she might have gone. Then it occurred to me that she might have fallen and hurt herself. Maybe she couldn’t get up. So I went out looking for her again.”
“Where?”
“Down at the beach. The fog had lifted a little. I saw her footsteps in the sand.
I also searched in the woods, but I didn’t find her. Then I went back home.”
His face crumpled. He started crying, quietly, without moving. The tears poured out, mixing with snot, but he didn’t notice. Karin didn’t really know what to do. She decided not to disturb him. He took a couple of gulps of water and regained his composure.
Knutas continued the interview. “How did you get those marks on your neck?”
“What? Oh, these?” Embarrassed, Bergdal touched his hands to his throat.
“Yes, those. They look like scratches,” said Knutas.
“Well, you see, we had a party last night. We had invited some friends over. Helena’s friends, actually. We ate dinner and partied and had a good time. Everyone drank a little too much. I have a problem with jealousy. Well, sometimes I get really jealous, and that’s what happened last night. One of the guys was coming on to Helena when they were dancing.”
“In what way?”
“He was grabbing her, a little too much… several times. I was drunk, and it made me see red, to be quite honest. I pulled Helena outdoors in back and told her what I thought of it all. She got mad as hell. I guess she’d drunk too much, too. She screamed and flew at me, and that’s when I got these scratch marks.”
“Then what happened?”
“I hit her. I gave her a slap, and then she ran into the bathroom and locked the door. I’ve never hit her before,” he assured them, giving Knutas a pleading look. “Then Kristian came out to talk to me. He’s the one she was dancing with, and I slugged him, too. He didn’t have a chance to strike back, because the others intervened. Then everything calmed down, and they all went home.”
“What did you do next?”
“Helena’s best friend, Emma, and her husband, Olle, were still there. Olle made sure that I got into bed, and he must have stayed until I fell asleep. I don’t remember anything else until I woke up this morning.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about all this right from the start?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was at the party?”
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