Unseen ak-1

by Mari Jungstedt

  “Mostly Helena’s childhood friends. Emma and Olle Winarve, as I mentioned, and our neighbors Eva and Rikard Larsson. Helena has known them for a long time. A friend named Beata and her husband, John, the Dunmars. They’ve been living in the States, so I’ve never met them before. And the guy named Kristian, who made me so mad. He’s single, and Helena has known him a long time, too. I think they were really into each other for a while.”

  “What do you mean by ‘into each other’?”

  “Well, I think they might have slept together a few times. Helena denied it, but I have a feeling I’m right.”

  “Do you think that might be your jealousy talking?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “How long have you and Helena been together?”

  “Six years.”

  “That’s quite a long time. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Why haven’t you gotten married or had kids?”

  “I’ve wanted to for a long time. Helena was more reluctant. She started her studies rather late, and she wanted to work some more before we had a family. We were thinking of getting married, though. We talked about it.”

  “Were you unsure about the relationship? Since you were so jealous?”

  “No. I don’t know. It was getting better and better. It’s been a long time since I got so mad. Yesterday it all just exploded.”

  “Do you know whether she’d had a falling-out with anyone here on the island? Anyone who disliked her?”

  “No, she was the sort of person that everyone liked.”

  “Do you know whether she’s ever received any threats?”

  “No.”

  “Were you friends with anyone else here on Gotland, other than the people who were at the party?”

  “Just with some of Helena’s relatives. Her father’s sister, who lives in Alva, and a few cousins in Hemse. Otherwise we usually kept mostly to ourselves. We came here to relax, you know… and to get away from all the stress back home… and then something like this has to happen.”

  He could hardly speak.

  Knutas could see that there was no reason to continue for the time being, and he stopped the interview.

  When Anders Knutas had concluded his interview with Per Bergdal, he went to his office for a few minutes to think and reflect. He sat down heavily in his old desk chair, which was worn shiny. It was made of oak and had been with him all these years. It had a high back, and the seat was covered in soft leather. Gently he spun around, rocking the chair a bit as he leaned against the back. The chair seemed to have become molded to his body over the years. He did his best thinking while sitting in that old chair.

  Knutas, who was the head of criminal investigations in Visby, was always careful to set aside time like this. It was especially important whenever there was a lot of drama surrounding him. Like today. His long experience with the police had taught him to pay attention to every impression at the beginning of an investigation. Otherwise it was easy, in all the fervor, to overlook things that might turn out to be important or even crucial to solving the case. He started filling his pipe.

  In his mind he went back over the impressions he had brought back from the murder scene. The bloody body. The panties in the mouth. The slaughtered dog. What did the macabre scene tell him? It was difficult to say whether the murder been planned or not, but there was no doubt that it had been committed in extreme rage.

  The medical examiner had arrived by plane from Stockholm in the afternoon. He was already out at the site. Knutas decided to go out to the murder scene the next day, when things should be significantly calmer.

  He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Karin Jacobsson stuck her head in. “Everyone’s here now. Are you coming?”

  “Of course,” said Knutas, and stood up.

  There were twelve police detectives in Visby. At the moment most of them were out at the site in Frojel, working to gather statements from witnesses and secure any evidence at the crime scene. Knutas and his closest colleagues were meeting with the prosecuting attorney, Birger Smittenberg, to go over what should be divulged to the media and what they should hold back for the time being. They were all sitting around the worn pine table in the conference room, which was right across from Knutas’s office. The room had glass walls facing the corridor, so it was possible to see everyone who went past, but at the moment the thin yellow cotton drapes were drawn.

  Knutas sat down at the head of the table and looked attentively at his colleagues. He liked this group. Karin Jacobsson was his closest associate and best sounding board, a smart, short, thirty-seven-year-old woman with brown eyes who lived alone. Next to her sat Thomas Wittberg, ten years younger and a very capable detective, especially with regard to his interrogation techniques. Somehow he always managed to get more out of the people they interviewed than anyone else. Lars Norrby, divorced, had two sons who lived with him. Almost six foot six, he was a pleasant man with a very proper appearance, perfect for dealing with the press. Erik Sohlman, the technician of the group, was energetic and temperamental, close to being hot-tempered. Birger Smittenberg, the hardened chief prosecutor of the Gotland district court, was originally from Stockholm. He had married a singer from Gotland, having fallen in love with both her and the island, and had now lived here for twenty-five years. Knutas had always thought they received excellent cooperation from him.

  “Just a brief discussion right now,” said Knutas as he started the hastily organized meeting. “We’re putting all our efforts into the homicide investigation, but at the same time, unfortunately, we have to deal with the press. They’ve already started calling, both from here, the local media, and from the mainland. It’s incredible how fast news like this travels.” He shook his head. “I always wonder how that happens. At any rate, we’re not going to divulge the victim’s identity, even though the press will find it out sooner or later. We’ll tell them that all indications point to homicide, but we won’t give them any details. We say nothing about the dog, the panties, or the hacking wounds. We say nothing about a possible murder weapon. We reveal nothing about any leads. This is probably going to make the reporters call all sorts of people here at the department, trying to get more information. Refer everyone to me or Lars. Nobody is to say 89 anything. Nothing at all. Okay?”

  A murmur of agreement was heard.

  “I’ll send out an internal memo with instructions after this meeting,” said Norrby. “A basic ground rule will be in force: Keep the reporters at a distance. They’re going to pounce on you, both in town and here. Don’t tell them a thing.”

  “By the way, I’d like us to meet in my office right after the press conference to compare notes,” Knutas continued. “Make sure you get something to eat to tide you over. We’re going to have to work all night. I’ve also contacted the National Criminal Police. They’re sending down a few men tomorrow. This is all going to take a lot of time and resources if we don’t catch the killer quickly.”

  Even though it was horrible that such a grisly murder had been committed, he felt a fluttering of excitement in his stomach. He recognized that tingling sensation. A kind of anticipation at being able to seize hold of something solid. What should he call it? Taking pleasure in his work? It was a paradox that he couldn’t explain, not even to himself.

  Maybe it was his form of motivation.

  It was still light out when the plane landed at Visby Airport just after 9:00 p.m. The cab ride into town went fast, since the airport was less than two miles north of Visby.

  “That’s some thick wall!”

  Peter had never been to Gotland before.

  “It was built in the thirteenth century,” Johan told him. “It’s more than two miles long, and one of Europe’s best preserved ring walls. You can see how many towers it has. Soon we’ll be driving through Norderport, the north gate, to get to our hotel. There are several archways. The big ones are named for the points of the compass: Osterport, Soderport, and
Norderport. There has never been a Vasterport, because to the west is the sea and Visby Harbor.”

  He pointed out the window.

  “That’s St. Mary’s Cathedral. It’s also from the thirteenth century.”

  Its three black towers loomed against the sky.

  Luckily they had been served dinner on the plane. They stopped at the hotel just long enough to drop their suitcases and then headed straight for police headquarters, where the press conference was going to be held at 10:00 P.M.

  In the cab Johan scribbled out a report from what he had learned so far. They would edit the piece at the local television offices, which still existed even though the Gotland editorial operation of Swedish TV had been shut down six months ago. The old equipment was still there and at their disposal, for the time being at least.

  Inside police headquarters, people were dashing up and down the corridors. The air was vibrating with excitement. Several journalists and photographers from the local media were already there: Radio Gotland and the newspapers Gotlands Tidningar and Gotlands Allehanda.

  Johan and Peter briefly greeted their colleagues, and then it was time to go into the room where the press conference was being held. Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas and Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson sat down at the head of the table.

  “Welcome,” said Knutas, clearing his throat. “We’ve found the body of a woman on the beach known as Gustavs, in Frojel Parish. For those of you who are not from these parts, it’s located on the west coast of Gotland, approximately twenty-five miles south of Visby. The body was discovered by a passerby today around lunchtime; to be more precise, between 12:30 and 12:45. The victim was born in 1966. She was originally from Gotland, but her family moved away from the island and settled in Stockholm fifteen years ago.”

  Knutas took a drink of water and glanced down at his papers. “The woman was on Gotland with her boyfriend, spending a few days at the summer house that her family still owns here on the island,” he went on. “This morning she went out to take her dog for a walk, and at some point during that walk, she was murdered.”

  “How was she murdered?” asked the female reporter from Radio Gotland.

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that,” said the superintendent.

  “What type of weapon was used?”

  “I can’t comment on the investigation.”

  “How can you be so sure that she was actually murdered?” asked a reporter from Gotlands Allehanda.

  “The wounds sustained by the victim can only have been caused by another person. The cause of death has not yet been ascertained, but we assume that the woman’s death was homicide.”

  “Was she subjected to sexual assault?” asked Johan.

  “It’s too early to comment on that.”

  “Are there any witnesses?” asked the representative from Gotlands Tidningar.

  “We’re in the process of interviewing a large number of people who live in the area or in some other way had contact with the victim during the final days of her life. The police are very interested in receiving any tips from the public. If anyone saw or heard anything unusual at the site or in the vicinity during the last twenty-four hours, or if anyone thinks he has other information that might be of use in our search for the perpetrator, he should contact the police immediately.”

  “How do you know that only one person was involved?” asked the local radio person.

  “Of course, we don’t know that for sure,” replied Knutas, a little annoyed.

  “She was staying at her summer house with her boyfriend. Is he a suspect?” asked Johan.

  “The boyfriend has been questioned by the police. He’s suffering from shock and is currently in Visby Hospital. At the present time he is not a suspect. The interview with him will continue tomorrow morning. This afternoon and evening, the canine unit searched the area, and officers have been going door to door to locate any possible witnesses. We will be continuing with these efforts. Now I think that’s all we have to tell you at the moment. Are there any further questions before we adjourn?”

  The superintendent answered the journalists’ questions as best he could. There wasn’t much else to say.

  Johan Berg from Regional News decided to hold back any mention of the axe wounds on the woman’s body or the panties in her mouth. For the time being, he was clearly the only one who knew about them.

  When the press conference was over, he went up to Anders Knutas for an individual interview. First Johan asked the obvious questions about what had happened, what the police were doing now, and what evidence they had found. Then he asked quite bluntly, “What conclusions have you drawn from the fact that she suffered multiple wounds, presumably from an axe?”

  Anders Knutas gave a start.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The killer murdered her with an axe or some type of similar weapon, hacking her body multiple times. He also stuffed her panties in her mouth. What does that signify?”

  Knutas glanced around self-consciously, looking both left and right, as if hoping for help from his colleagues. The bright glare of the camera shone in his face, blinding him.

  “I know from a reliable source that these facts are true,” Johan persisted.

  “That’s not something I can confirm,” snapped Knutas, shoving aside the microphone.

  “Switch off the camera,” Johan told Peter. He took hold of the superintendent’s arm and said to him, “I know that it’s true. Wouldn’t it be better if you confirmed the information?”

  Knutas gave Johan a stern look. “I can neither confirm nor deny what you’ve said, and I advise you to withhold such speculations for the time being. We’re dealing with a murderer, and what we need to concentrate on right now is catching him as soon as possible and nothing else,” he bellowed. “And I expect you to respect that.”

  His voice was sharp as an awl, and it was easy to see what he thought of journalists as he turned on his heel and strode off down the corridor.

  For Johan and Peter, Knutas’s reaction was sufficient confirmation that their information was accurate. The question was how much of it they should make public.

  Johan called Max Grenfors from the cab on the way to the TV offices where the story was going to be edited. Even though he thought Grenfors was a slave driver of an editor, Johan trusted his journalistic judgment. After a brief discussion, they decided not to divulge the information about the victim’s panties being stuffed in her mouth, out of respect for her family. On the other hand, they did choose to report that the murder weapon was most likely an axe.

  In the late-night news broadcast, Swedish TV was the first to report how the murder had been committed. The feature story began with images of police headquarters, then a map showing the scene of the crime. Next, Johan appeared on the screen.

  “Here at police headquarters in Visby, a press conference was held a short time ago. The police confirm that a woman was murdered, but they are being quite reticent about the circumstances surrounding the death. The police will not yet say how the woman was killed. According to information provided this evening to Regional News from a very reliable source, she was killed with what is believed to be an axe. Multiple wounds were sustained on various parts of the body. It is not yet known whether she was subjected to sexual assault, but the woman was naked when she was found. Her clothes are still missing. The body will be sent to the forensic medicine division in Solna for autopsy. In spite of an intensive search of the area with dogs, which continued all afternoon and evening, at this time the police have no clues as to the killer’s identity.”

  This was followed by a brief interview with a pale and resolute-looking Knutas, before the story concluded with what little was known about the murdered woman.

  It turned out to be a long workday for the Visby police. The light June night facilitated their work down at the beach area. They kept on knocking on doors until late in the evening. At the same time, those who had been dinner guests at the home of Helena Hil
lerstrom on the previous evening were brought in to be interviewed. Except for Kristian Nordstrom, who had flown to Copenhagen to visit his parents. The police had contacted him, and he was supposed to fly back to Visby early Thursday.

  By the time the most important interviews had been conducted, it was close to one in the morning. Earlier that evening Knutas had called home and told his wife, Lina, that he would be late. As usual, she was very understanding and asked him if she should wait up with a cup of tea for him. Reluctantly he had declined her offer. He didn’t know how late he would be.

  Now, as he walked home through the streets of Visby, he regretted his decision. It would have been pleasant to sit down for a while and talk about his impressions of the day. It always did him good to share his thoughts with his wife. She would often come up with a new way of looking at things because she was not part of the investigative work. Many times she had turned his thoughts to new avenues that helped him to solve a case. Knutas felt a twinge of warmth in his heart. He loved her above all else. Except for their children, of course. Their twins, a boy and a girl. Petra and Nils. This summer they would be twelve.

  When he got home, he looked in on them. They still shared a room, but in the fall they would each have their own. He was in the process of remodeling the study into a bedroom. The study would be moved down to the basement. They used it so seldom, anyway.

  The children were sound asleep, breathing calmly. He left the door to their room slightly ajar and went to his own.

  Lina lay stretched out across the whole double bed with her arms above her head. Look how much room she takes, he thought. She always did everything with the greatest enthusiasm. Whether she was sleeping, eating, working, laughing, or making love, she did it with such zest. She truly threw herself into life. No matter what she did, she did it properly. If she was baking, she never made do with just one batch. No, she had to make two hundred cinnamon rolls. When she did any major grocery shopping, she gave the impression that a war was on the way, and she always cooked too much food, so the freezer was full of leftovers. That was one of the things he loved about her, her sensual vitality. Right now she was sleeping heavily, wearing a long orange T-shirt decorated with a big flower. Her hair was ruffled, her cheeks rosy. Her arms were sprinkled with freckles. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known.