The realization was painful.
TUESDAY, JUNE 19
Knutas quickly greeted his colleagues as he entered the conference room, arriving out of breath and fifteen minutes later than all the others. He had overslept this morning. Kihlgard had called to wake him.
He sank onto a chair and almost tipped over the coffee cup that stood in front of him on the table. “So what have you found out about Hagman?”
Kihlgard was sitting at one end of the table with a cup of coffee and a huge open-face cheese sandwich on top of a plate that was much too small for it. Knutas stared at the sandwich in disbelief, thinking that he must have sliced the loaf of bread lengthwise.
“Well, we’ve found out a few things, all right,” said Kihlgard after taking a big bite followed by a gulp of coffee, making a loud slurping noise. “He worked at a high school called the Save School up to and including the spring semester of 1983. Then he left voluntarily, according to the principal, who is actually the same one they had back then. That was a lucky break for us,” Kihlgard said with satisfaction, and then took another bite of his sandwich.
The others in the room waited impatiently for him to finish chewing and swallow.
“The fact that he was having an affair with a student quickly spread, and it became an enormously difficult situation for Hagman. People started to talk, of course. As mentioned, he was married and had two kids. He took a job at a different school and moved his whole family to Grotlingbo. That’s in southern Gotland,” Kihlgard explained, as if he had forgotten that everyone in the group except himself was a Gotland native.
He glanced at his notes. “The school where he taught there is called Oja School. It’s near Burgsvik. Hagman worked there until he took early retirement two years ago.”
“Does Hagman have a police record?” asked Knutas.
“No, not even a speeding ticket,” replied Kihlgard. “But it’s true that he did have a love affair with Helena Hillerstrom. The principal confirmed it. All the teachers knew about it. Hagman resigned before the school had a chance to take any action against him.”
Kihlgard leaned back, holding his sandwich in his hand and looking around expectantly.
“Let’s go out and have a talk with him right now,” said Knutas. “I’d like you to come with me, Karin, all right?”
“Sure.”
“Would you mind if I came, too?” asked Kihlgard.
“No, not at all,” said Knutas, surprised. “You’re welcome to come along.”
Johan and Peter had finished editing a rather lengthy report about the mood on the island after the latest murder. They had conducted several good interviews: a nervous mother, a restaurant owner who had already noticed a drop in business, and several young girls who were afraid to go out at night. Even so, their editor wasn’t happy. That Max Grenfors. Never completely satisfied if a story didn’t take the exact form that he himself would have given it. What a son of a bitch, thought Johan. At least he had agreed to let them stay a few more days, even though nothing new had happened. There were still plenty of things to get done. Johan had scheduled another interview for tomorrow with Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas to find out the latest developments in the investigation.
The fact that Johan could stay on the island meant that he would have more opportunities to see Emma. If she wanted to see him, that was. He was afraid that he had scared her off by moving too fast. At the same time, a feeling of guilt was gnawing at him. She was married, after all. In spite of that, he thought about her practically all the time, saying her name out loud. Emma. Emma Winarve. It felt so right on his lips. He had to see her again. At least one more time.
He decided to take a chance. Maybe she was home and her husband wasn’t. She picked up after only one ring, sounding out of breath.
“Hi, it’s me. Johan.”
A brief pause.
“Hi.”
“Are you alone?”
“No, the children are here. And my mother-in-law.”
Shit.
“Could we meet?”
“I don’t know. When?”
“Right now.”
She laughed. “You’re crazy.”
“Can your mother-in-law hear what we’re saying?”
“No, they’re outside.”
“I have to see you. Do you want to see me?”
“I want to, but I can’t. This is insane.”
“Who cares if it’s insane. It’s fate.”
“How do you know I feel the same way?”
“I don’t. But I’m hoping you do.”
“Oh God, I really don’t know.”
“Please. Can you get away?”
“Wait a second.”
He heard her put down the phone and walk away. It took about a minute. Maybe two. He held his breath. Then she was back and picked up the phone.
“Okay, I can do it.”
“Shall I pick you up?”
“No, no. I’ll drive into town. Where should we meet?”
“I’ll meet you at the parking lot by Stora Torget. In an hour?”
“Okay.”
I don’t know what I’m doing, thought Emma when she hung up the phone. I’m totally out of my mind. At the moment, though, she didn’t care. It had all worked out much too easily. She told her mother-in-law that one of her women friends was depressed and couldn’t stop crying and that she had to go see her right away. “That’s all right,” her mother-in-law had assured her. She would take care of the children and make them pancakes for dinner. How awful, that poor woman. Of course Emma had to go. Her mother-in-law offered to stay all evening and even overnight if necessary. Olle wouldn’t be home until the next day.
Emma rushed off to take a shower. They had been out in the sun all day, so she was hot and sweaty, she explained, at the same time that warning lights were going off in the back of her mind. She washed her hair, rubbed scented lotion into her skin, and applied a few drops of perfume as she felt her heart pounding with excited anticipation. Swiftly she put on her best bra and a blouse and skirt. She kissed the children and said goodbye. She drew in a deep breath and promised to call later. By the time she sank into the driver’s seat she was starting to sweat again.
As she drove out onto the road to Visby, she turned up the car stereo as loud as it would go and rolled down the window. She let the warm air of early summer sweep into the car and blow her feelings of guilt right out the window.
When she turned the car into the empty parking lot, she caught sight of him outside the state liquor store. He was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair was disheveled.
What happened next seemed so natural. They didn’t need to say a thing. They simply walked side by side along the street, and their steps took them automatically toward the hotel where Johan was staying, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Through the lobby, up the stairs, over to the door, and then they were inside. Alone for the first time in a private space. They still didn’t say a word. He took her in his arms the minute he closed the door. She noticed that he locked it.
Knutas drove fast along the road to Sudret. Karin Jacobsson and Martin Kihlgard were sitting in the back seat. They had decided to take county highway 142, which cut straight across the center of the island past Trakumla, Vall, and Hejde, then across the Lojsta heath, where the Gotland ponies live almost wild out on the moors. Jacobsson, who had worked as a guide in her younger days, told Kihlgard about the ponies, or the “forest rams”, as they were also called.
“Did you see the sign that said ‘Pony Park’? If you keep going in that direction for a few miles, you come to the part of Lojsta reserved for the ponies. They roam around out there in herds all year round and in all kinds of weather. There are about fifty mares and one stallion. The stallion stays for between one and three years, depending on how many mares he manages to impregnate. There are usually about thirty foals each year.”
“How do they get any food?” asked Kihlgard, with his eyes fixed on the corne
r of a candy bag containing gummy cars. He was trying to open it. Finally he gave up and tore off the corner with his teeth.
“Hay is brought in during the winter, but otherwise they eat grass and whatever the forest has to offer. They’re brought in to the vet a couple of times a year, to take care of their hooves, and the whole herd is rounded up each year for the pony competition in July.”
“What’s the point of having ponies if they just roam around outdoors all the time?”
“It’s to preserve the breed. The Gotland pony is Sweden’s only remaining domestic pony. Their lineage can be traced all the way back to the Stone Age. In the early twentieth century they were on the verge of extinction. That’s when people began raising them again, and now their numbers have swelled. Today there are a couple of thousand ponies on Gotland and at least five thousand in the rest of Sweden. They’re very popular as saddle horses, because they’re so small, only about four feet high at the shoulder-perfect for children, especially because of their temperament. They’re gentle horses, good workers with lots of stamina. They’re also great for harness racing. My brother has horses here. I usually go with him when it’s time for the competition. We meet early in the morning, a group of about thirty, and we help to round up the ponies. It’s a marvelous experience,” said Jacobsson, with a look of nostalgia in her eyes.
They continued chatting as they drove. Kihlgard offered to share his gummy cars, although most of them ended up in his own mouth. Jacobsson appreciated Kihlgard’s expertise as well as his good humor. She was also fascinated by his eating habits, which were quite interesting, to say the least. He seemed to be eating all the time, no matter what the hour. He usually had something in his mouth, and if he didn’t, he was either on his way to or from a meal. In spite of this, he wasn’t overweight. Maybe just a little stocky.
Knutas really had nothing against Kihlgard, but the man was starting to irritate him. He was so outgoing and congenial that he had quickly become very popular among the employees at police headquarters. That was fine, of course, but he did take a lot of liberties. Kihlgard had an opinion about everything, and he kept trying to meddle in the way Knutas was managing the investigation. Knutas had noticed how his colleague kept trying to insert little criticisms and slip in his own views. Even though he would refuse to acknowledge it, Kihlgard displayed something of a big-brother attitude. The police in Stockholm probably thought at heart that it was a step down to be an officer on Gotland. Did anything ever happen over there? It was true that most of the crimes on the island consisted of break-ins and drunken brawls that couldn’t compare with all the aggravated and complicated crimes that were committed in Stockholm. Anyone who worked in the National Criminal Police was, of course, a better and more skilled officer. There was a certain conceitedness about Kihlgard that shone through, in spite of the fact that he was supposedly such buddies with everyone. Under normal circumstances, Knutas didn’t think of himself as high-powered, but now he was starting to sense a battle for territory, and he wasn’t happy about it. He had decided to rise above it all and take a positive attitude toward his older colleague, though that wasn’t always easy. Especially since the guy was so stubborn about chomping on something at all times. And why did he get into the backseat with Karin? He was such a big man that he should be sitting up front. The two of them seemed to be having a great time back there. What were they whispering about? Knutas felt his irritation growing. His thoughts were interrupted when Kihlgard stuck out the candy bag with three pitiful gummy cars left in the bottom.
“Would you like one?”
The road wound its way through the interior of the island. Farm houses whizzed past, along with pastures filled with white cows and black sheep. In a farmyard three men were running around chasing a huge pig that had apparently gotten out. They drove through Hemse, then Alva, and finally Grotlingbo in the center of Sundret before they took the road heading for the sea and Grotlingbo Point.
They discussed what approach to take when they arrived.
What did they know about Jan Hagman? Very little, actually. He had taken early retirement, and he was a widower as of a few months ago. He had two grown children. And he was interested in young girls, or at least he had been.
“Did he have anything going on with other students?” asked Jacobsson.
“Not that we know of, but of course he might have,” said Kihlgard.
Four big wind power stations dominated the bare landscape at Grotlingbo Point. Low stone fences lined the road that led straight out to the sea. The special type of Gotland sheep that stayed out in the pastures all year round, with their thick coats and curving horns, were grazing among the scruffy juniper bushes, the windblown dwarf pines, and the huge boulders that were scattered about. Hagman’s farm was almost at the very end of the point, with a view across Gansviken. It was easy to find among the few houses that stood out there. Since Jacobsson had been there before, she gave directions.
They arrived unannounced.
The name HAGMAN was on the homemade mailbox. They parked in the yard and got out. The farm consisted of a run-down, white-painted wooden house with gray trim and corner posts. It had undoubtedly been a fine house at one time, but now the paint was peeling.
A short distance away stood a large barn that looked as if it might collapse at any minute. So that’s where his wife hanged herself, thought Knutas.
As they approached the house, he glimpsed a movement behind the curtains in one of the second-floor windows. They climbed the steps to the partially rotting porch and knocked. There was no doorbell. Three times they had to knock before the door opened.
A man who was much too young to be Jan Hagman stood in the doorway. He gave them an inquiring look. “Yes?”
Knutas introduced himself. “We’re looking for Jan Hagman,” he said.
The man’s friendly expression gave way to alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing serious,” Knutas said in a soothing tone. “We just want to ask him a few questions.”
“Does it have to with Mamma? I’m Jens Hagman. Jan’s son.”
“No. This is about something else entirely,” Knutas assured him.
“I see. Well, Jan is out chopping wood. Wait a second.” He turned around and pulled out a pair of wooden clogs that he slipped on his feet. “Come with me. He’s out back.”
As they rounded the side of the house, they could hear the rhythmic blows of an axe. The man they were looking for stood bending over a chopping block, seeming to be intently focused. He raised the axe and brought it down. The blade sliced through the wood, which split in half and fell to the ground. The man’s thick hair fell over his face as he worked. He was wearing shorts and a cotton shirt. His legs were hairy and already very tan. The muscles in his arms bulged when he brought the blade down. Big patches of sweat spread across his shirt.
“Jan! The police are here. They want to talk to you,” yelled the son.
Knutas frowned, thinking that it was strange for the son to persist in calling his father Jan.
Jan Hagman lowered the axe, then set it aside. “What do you want? The police have already been here once before,” he said, sounding surly.
“This isn’t about your wife’s death. It’s about something else,” said the superintendent. “Could we go inside and sit down?”
The tall man gave them a guarded look without saying a word.
“Let’s do that,” said the son. “I can make some coffee.”
They went inside the house. Knutas and Jacobsson sat down on the sofa while Kihlgard sank into an armchair.
They sat in silence, looking around. It was a gloomy room in a gloomy house. A dark brown wall-to-wall carpet lay on the floor. The walls were covered with dark green wallpaper. Paintings clustered thickly on three of them, mostly scenes of animals in a winter landscape: deer in the snow, ptarmigans in the snow, elk and hares in the snow. None of the officers was any sort of art connoisseur, but they could all see that these paintings were hardly of t
he same caliber as a work by Bruno Liljefors, for example. The fourth wall was devoted to guns of various types. To Karin Jacobsson’s horror, she noticed a stuffed green parakeet sitting on a perch on top of what looked like a handmade lace doily on the side table.
The house had a silent, oppressive atmosphere, as if the walls were sighing. Heavy curtains with intricate tie-backs blocked most of the light from the windows. The furniture was dark and ungainly and had seen better days.
Just as Knutas was wondering how he was going to get himself out of the sagging old sofa without asking for a hand up, Jan Hagman appeared in the room. He had changed into a clean shirt but had the same surly expression on his face. He sat down in an armchair next to one of the windows.
Knutas cleared his throat. “We’re not here with regard to the tragic death of your wife. Ahem… And of course we’re sorry for your loss,” said Knutas, coughing again.
Now Hagman was giving him a hostile stare.
“This has to do with a different matter,” the superintendent went on. “I assume that you’ve heard about the two women who were murdered here on Gotland. The police are working their way back in time, to investigate the backgrounds of the women. It has come to light that you had a relationship with one of them, Helena Hillerstrom, in the early eighties when you were working at Save School. Is that true?”
The oppressive atmosphere in the room became even more intense. Hagman’s expression didn’t change.
A long silence followed. Kihlgard was sweating and fidgeting, making his chair creak. Knutas waited, keeping his eyes steadily fixed on Hagman’s face.
Jacobsson was longing for a glass of water. When the son came into the room carrying a coffee tray, it felt as if someone had opened a window.
“I thought you might want some coffee,” he said stiffly, and he set down on the table his tray with the cups and a plate of store-bought jam cookies.
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