Bjorn Hansson from the National Criminal Police was the one who answered. “We’re working hard on that. Helena Hillerstrom moved to Stockholm when she was twenty, and it looks as if she never met Frida Lindh. Helena and Gunilla Olsson went to different high schools and middle schools and don’t seem to have had any interests in common. We haven’t been able to link Gunilla and Frida together, either. As everyone knows, Frida Lindh lived in Stockholm. Her real name was Anni-Frid, and her birth name was Persson. These things take time, and it’s not easy now that it’s summer. Every other person seems to be on vacation.”
“I know, I know,” said Knutas impatiently. “Keep digging into things and ratchet up the pace as much as possible. There’s no time to lose.”
After the meeting Knutas retreated to his office. He was furious at everyone and everything. He sat down at his desk. His shirt was sticking to him. Big patches of sweat had spread under his arms. He hated feeling so grubby. The heat they had all been longing for was already making him miserable. It made it hard to think, almost impossible to concentrate. More than anything, he would have liked to go home and take a long, cool shower and drink a couple of quarts of ice water. He stood up and pulled down the blinds. Police headquarters had no air-conditioning. It was considered too expensive to install, since it was needed on only a few days of the year. He was looking forward to the remodeling that was scheduled for the fall. He hoped they would have the good sense to install air-conditioning then. A person needed to be able to think, for God’s sake, in order to solve a difficult homicide case.
Finding the clothing was at least a step forward. He would go out to see the shack later on. Right now it was best to let the techs do their work undisturbed. He began leafing through the folders containing transcripts of the interviews. Three folders: one for Helena Hillerstrom, one for Frida Lindh, and one for Gunilla Olsson. He had an uneasy feeling that various things in the investigation had simply passed him by. His visit to Stockholm had proved as much: the interview with Helena Hillerstrom’s parents, the abortion that no one had mentioned before. What about the other interviews? He decided to go through all of the transcripts one more time, starting with the parents.
Gunilla Olsson didn’t have any, and they still hadn’t been able to reach her brother. He opened Frida Lindh’s folder. Gosta and Majvor Persson. Gullvivegrand 38 in Jakobsberg. He had planned to see them in Stockholm, but the discovery of the clothing prevented him from doing so. He started reading. The interview seemed to be in order, but Knutas still wanted to talk to the parents himself.
The phone was picked up after four rings. A faint female voice could be heard on the other end. “The Persson residence.”
He introduced himself.
“You’ll have to speak to my husband,” said the woman. Her voice was even fainter, bordering on inaudible. “He’s out in the yard. Just a minute.”
A moment later the husband picked up the phone. “Yes, hello?”
“This is Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas from Visby. I’m in charge of the investigation into the murder of your daughter. I know that you’ve been interviewed by the police, but I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
“Yes?”
“When did you last see your daughter?”
A brief pause.
The father replied in a toneless voice. “It was a long time ago. We didn’t see each other very often, unfortunately. Our contact with her could have been better. We last saw each other when they were moving. The children wanted to see us.”
Another pause that lasted a little longer.
Then the father spoke again. “But I spoke to her on the phone last week, when Linneas turned five. A man should be allowed to talk to his grandchildren on their birthdays at least.”
“How did Frida seem at the time?”
“She sounded happy, for a change. She said that she was starting to like living on Gotland. It was hard for her at first. She didn’t really want to move there at all. She did it for Stefan’s sake. Typical that she should end up meeting a Gotlander. She hated Gotland. Never wanted to talk about the time when we lived there.”
Knutas was speechless. He had a hard time taking in what the man on the other end had just said.
“Hello?” said the father after a few seconds.
“What did you say? You used to live on Gotland?” Knutas gasped.
“Yes, we moved over there to try it out, but we stayed only a few months.”
“What were you doing here?”
“I worked for the military and was transferred to the P18 regiment. That was a long time ago. In the seventies. We rented out our house here in Jakobsberg, but we didn’t like it there. Frida was especially unhappy. She kept skipping school and seemed completely changed at home. Impossible to deal with.”
“Why didn’t you mention this during the first police interview?” asked Knutas indignantly. He was having a difficult time checking his impatience.
“I don’t know. It was for such a short time, and so long ago.”
“What year did you live in Visby?”
“Let me see… Well, it must have been ’78. It was unfortunate for Frida. She had to change schools in the middle of the semester in sixth grade. We moved at Easter time.”
“How long did you live here?”
“We were planning to stay at least a year, but my wife developed cancer, and we wanted to move back to Stockholm to be near her family. We moved back home at the beginning of summer.”
“Where did you live?”
“Hm, what was the name of the street? It was a short distance outside the wall, at any rate. Iris something. Irisdalsgatan. That’s it.”
“So Frida went to Norrbacka School?”
“That’s right. That was the name of it.”
After he hung up, Knutas grabbed his cell phone and called Kihlgard, who told him that he was just about to enjoy some lamb chops at the Lindgarden Restaurant.
“Frida Lindh lived in Visby as a child.”
“What did you say?”
“That’s right. She lived here for a few months when she was in the sixth grade. Her father was in the military, and he was stationed in Visby.”
“When was this?”
“It was in 1978. In the spring. She went to Norrbacka School, and they lived on Irisdalsgatan. That’s in the same neighborhood as Rutegatan, where Helena Hillerstrom lived. This could be the breakthrough we’ve been looking for.”
“You’re right. I’m leaving now.”
“Good.”
It didn’t take long before the police determined that Gunilla Olsson had attended the same school. Frida Lindh was a year younger than the others, but she had started school at the age of six instead of seven. The police soon found the common denominator. The three murdered women had all been in the same sixth-grade class.
The weather seemed to be turning out the way the meteorologists had predicted. The sky was a threatening grayish black, and moving in from the west was a dark cloud cover that looked as if it held plenty of rain. Emma was standing at the bow of the car ferry, watching the island of Faro come closer. The ride across the sound took only a few minutes, but she wanted to breathe in the sea air and enjoy the view. Faro was her favorite place. She wasn’t the only one drawn to this wild, bare island with its limestone sea stacks and long, sandy beaches. In the summer it was swarming with tourists.
Ten years ago, her parents had enormous luck when they bought the stone house up by Norsta Auren, a beach that stretched for several miles. A family friend knew the woman who wanted to sell the place. She would sell it only to someone from Gotland. Usually the few houses that were up for sale went to affluent Stockholmers. Many celebrities escaped to the island to find some seclusion-actors, artists, and politicians, not to mention Ingmar Bergman, who lived here year round. Without hesitation, her parents had moved out here from Visby. They had never regretted it for a second.
Emma stopped at the Konsum supermarket on the way to pick up some
last-minute provisions. She glanced at the headlines for the evening papers as she went inside the store. Both of them had a big picture of the latest murder victim. The photo showed a woman about her own age with long dark hair in braids. Now they were publishing her name and a picture, too. Emma bought both papers. In the car she scanned the articles. A woman viciously murdered, just like the others. A sense of uneasiness filled her stomach. When she reached the house, she would read the papers in peace and quiet. She drove fast, taking the road to the northern part of Faro. At the four-way stop near Sudersand, she turned left. She pulled in at the local bakery, where she always stopped when she was going to visit her parents. She chatted with the girls behind the counter. She knew everyone here.
The sky was growing darker.
When she turned off onto the last bumpy section of road and headed toward the sea where the house stood, she discovered a red Saab behind her. A lone man was at the wheel. A pair of binoculars lay on the dashboard. Must be a birdwatcher, she thought. The point near her parents’ house was a popular haunt for ornithologists. When she parked outside the house, she saw the man turn around and drive back the way he had come. So that’s it, a birdwatcher with no sense of direction, she thought.
Emma had just shut the door behind her when it started to rain. As she put down the grocery bags in the hallway, she saw a flash of lightning outside the window. Thunder rumbled, and the rain began pounding on the tin roof. Because of the storm, it was very dark inside.
The house smelled stuffy. Her parents had already been away for a week. She went out to the kitchen and cautiously tried to open a window, but the strong wind made it impossible. She set the bags on the kitchen bench and started filling up the cupboards. Good thing she had brought food, since there wasn’t much in the house. Her parents were planning to be away for a long time. They would be traveling through China and India for three more weeks. After they both retired several years ago, they had taken one long trip each year.
Emma unpacked. First she would put all the food away in the kitchen, then put clean sheets on the double bed in her parents’ room. She was looking forward to Johan arriving. To spending a whole evening and a whole night with him. Eating dinner and breakfast together.
Her emotional life had been a roller coaster over the past few days. One minute she wanted to continue her secure life with Olle; the next she was ready to leave everything for Johan. It was true that she was in love with Johan, but what did she really know about him?
It was easy to fall in love in the summer, and the fact that they had to meet in secret undoubtedly added some spice to it. He didn’t have to take any responsibility. He lived alone, had no children, and only had himself to think about. Of course it was easy for him. She had a whole family to consider, especially the children. Was she really prepared to destroy their whole life just because she was in love with someone else? How long would that love last?
Emma pushed these thoughts aside. She turned on the radio for a little music and then went upstairs to make the bed. She felt heat wash over her as she thought about what they would be doing in that bed later on.
Rain was pelting against the panes, but she couldn’t resist opening the window to let in some fresh air. Up here it was better. The bedroom window faced the woods.
When she was through arranging things, she made some coffee, sat down at the kitchen table with a cigarette, and looked out.
A low stone wall surrounded the house. Looking over it, she had a clear view of the sea, which surged up and down in the wind. Here the beach was quite narrow. It grew wider the farther out you went on the point. At the very end, where the beach was widest, people often sunbathed in the nude. Many times she herself had run naked out into the sea, shrieking with joy, her voice drowned out by the roar of the waves.
Maybe we can go skinny-dipping tomorrow morning, she thought, before Johan has to go to work. If only the weather would improve.
Viveka had promised to come for lunch the next day. Emma didn’t want to be alone.
She stood up and roamed through the house. It had been a long time since she had visited her parents. She didn’t really have much contact with them. There had always been a certain distance between them, even when she was little. She had always felt as if she needed to achieve something to make them happy, and of course they had been pleased whenever she made a nice drawing, got all the answers right on a test, or performed well at a gymnastics tournament. The distance between Emma and her parents had not diminished any over the years, though, and by now it was impossible to bridge. She found it so difficult to act natural in their company. She usually felt guilty because she didn’t call or visit them enough. At the same time, she thought that since they were retired and had oceans of time, they could show a greater interest in coming to visit her. They could help out with the children, maybe take them on an outing or go to Pippi Longstocking Land, which the kids loved. She and Olle seldom had time for that. Whenever her parents finally did come to visit, they would sit glued to the sofa and expect to be waited on. They would often make comments about how messy things were in the house or say that the children needed haircuts. It was exhausting, but she couldn’t see any way to change the situation. Her parents wouldn’t stand for any criticism, and if she ever challenged them, they just became defensive. It always ended with her father getting mad.
The living room looked the way it always did. A sofa with floral upholstery and an antique table from one of the countless auctions that her parents loved to go to. The fireplace probably hadn’t been used in a while. It had been neatly swept clean. She was pleased to find firewood in a basket next to the hearth.
The wooden stairs up to the second floor creaked. She went into the guest room, which she and her sister, Julia, counted as their own. This was where they always slept when they visited their parents, staying among the things that they had left behind when they moved out.
She sat down on the bed. It smelled even more stuffy in here, and dustballs had collected in the corners.
The bookshelves that covered one wall were filled with books. Her gaze swept over the spines. Kitty, The Five of Us, Children 312, the horse books about Britta and Silver, Kulla-Gulla, and her mother’s old childhood books. She pulled one off the shelf and giggled at the language and the cover. It was a drawing of a slender young woman with red lips and a kerchief just about to hop into a sports car with a dark, Kendoll kind of man at the wheel. Obstacles to Love was the sensational title.
That might very well apply to me, she observed dryly.
She found a thick stack of well-thumbed issues of Starlet and The Story of My Life. Emma smiled to herself when she recalled how she and her sister had devoured them, discussing the gripping fates that befell these young girls. On another shelf stood a row of old photo albums. For a long time she sat looking at pictures from her childhood. Birthdays, riding camp, last days of school. With her friends at the beach, at a barbecue on a summer evening, and with her mother and father and Julia at Grona Lund amusement park in Stockholm. Helena was in a lot of the pictures, too.
There they were: as thin eleven-year-olds at the beach; when they were thirteen at a class party, wearing far too much eyeliner; and then in the choir, neatly lined up. Happy girls who loved horses and went to riding school. Dressed in white for confirmation. Ladylike and glittering in long dresses for their senior prom.
Her eye fell on a stack of old school yearbooks. She pulled one out and looked up the class that she and Helena had belonged to.
CLASS 6A it said at the top. Below was a photo of the school, the principal, and their teacher, then photographs of their classmates, each with a name underneath. How young we were, she thought. Some were childish-looking, with round, rosy cheeks. Others were pale, with bored expressions. A few had the early traces of a teenager’s complexion. Some of the girls wore makeup, and the downy upper lips of some of the boys bulged faintly from the snuff they used. She looked at herself, at the very bottom of the page, since her m
aiden name, Ostberg, came last in the alphabet. And Helena. So sweet, with her dark hair hiding half her face. She was staring straight into the camera with a solemn expression.
She moved her index finger from one picture to the next. Ewa Ahlberg, Fredrik Andersson, Gunilla Brostrom. Her finger stopped on the blonde girl with a shawl around her neck, peering at the photographer from under her bangs.
Gunilla Brostrom. She had just seen that face on a grown-up. It was the woman in the newspapers. The same Gunilla who had been murdered. Emma dashed down to the kitchen to get the evening papers. It was definitely her. Back then she had blonde hair, but it was the same face. She had forgotten about Gunilla. They hadn’t been especially good friends.
Both Gunilla and Helena had fallen victim to the same killer.
In the next second, when it became clear to her what they had in common, she felt as if she had been struck on the head.
Anni. Where is Anni-Frid? She must be Frida… It couldn’t be true. Her eyes searched through the faces… Why wasn’t Anni there? Oh, that’s right, she didn’t arrive until the spring. From Stockholm. Then they moved back. We called her Anni, even though her name was Anni-Frid, thought Emma. She realized that it must be the same person.
All three in the same class. Now she was the only gang member left.
The girls who belonged to the gang weren’t all friends. She and Helena were best friends, of course, but then that oddball Gunilla joined in along with the newcomer, Anni. Something made the four of them decide to gang up together and torment him. It didn’t go on for very long, maybe a few months. It started rather innocently, just a little teasing and some shoving. Then it got worse and worse. They egged each other on. Everyone took part, but Helena was the one who took the lead. It was really the only thing they had in common: persecuting him. Maybe Gunilla and Anni saw the harassment as a way of being friends with her and Helena, who were considered the tough girls at school. Maybe it was their way of being included in the gang.
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