55.
Maria was standing in front of Henrik wrapped in the hotel’s blue-and-white–striped cover, looking at him with half-closed eyes. She had slept a long time. She must have taken two of those tablets they got from the doctor.
He didn’t want to sleep. He never wanted to sleep again. He wanted to keep watch. Over Ellen, over himself, and over Malin and Axel. He would become a new person, a different person. A knight who never slept, who fed on air and lived for his daughter and the memory of his son, the memory of his woman. Malin and Axel. The ones who would never return.
He would be like the shores of Fårö. He would be sea, wind, and stone. He was already halfway there and the reasonable voice that whispered that he was going crazy was getting weaker and weaker.
“You have to tell me that this happened, otherwise I’ll think I’ve been dreaming,” said Maria hoarsely.
Her voice disturbed him in his almost euphoric sorrow. Maria was struggling to keep her eyes open. They were pulsing toward him, now narrow slits, now a black demanding gaze.
He kept silent.
“You have to tell me that this happened,” she said again, coming a few steps closer to him.
Henrik glanced over his shoulder. Ellen was sitting in front of the TV but he had no idea whether she was following the program or simply sitting and staring into the screen with her ears on full alert.
He took a step toward Maria so that they were standing very close to each other.
“It did—” he started, but then his voice got stuck in a rasping resistance.
He took a couple of deep breaths and tried again.
“It did happen.”
The blinking eyes became quiet.
“It did happen,” he repeated. “They’re gone.”
He couldn’t take any more. No more than that was needed.
He saw how Maria’s eyes became glassy. Then the tears ran over. Sobbing and struggling for air she raised her arms toward him. The cover she had held firmly with her hands fell to the floor. She looked like a helpless, confused child who had woken up from a nightmare. She threw her arms around him and pressed her head against his chest. He held her and felt how the crying made her skull hop against his chest.
It did not feel very knightly, standing there holding onto his half-naked sister-in-law in a medium-class hotel with a view of Visby harbor, but it would have been even less knightly not to do it.
How could they have ended up so wrong? Were they bad people, unscrupulous? He wanted to ask Maria, but realized that this was not the right moment to talk about it. Time had come to an end. He looked out over the sea. There was always an end, even though you imagined the opposite. Now he was there.
September 5
I know that I’m an idiot who fritters my days away thinking about you. I return to the best memories and to the ones that hurt the most. Which often are one and the same. Remembering the best almost hurts more than remembering the worst.
The first time you made me come, and I am swept away, don’t understand what is happening to me. It’s like the first time ever, my own experimenting thirteen-year-old fingers under the covers, and I think that something is wrong, that the world is ending, that I’m going to die.
The first time you come into me and, moaning, you whisper my name.
Then your closed face when you’ve said that there’s no point in continuing. As if it were some damned law of nature that we can’t be together. The worried wrinkle between your eyes as if I’m only a nuisance. An obstacle on the road. A road to a goal that I’m not part of.
Stubbornly I return there. The worst that causes pain and the best that causes even more pain. Stubbornly.
Now the drugs don’t work. They just make you worse. I mortify myself, but I get no closer to God—ha ha.
I come to the fantasies. When I fantasize it’s never about you, only about me. Always the same: that I am hanging in a big tree outside your house so that I’m the first thing you catch sight of when you come out in the morning. And if I’m feeling really bad: that I’m lying in a black plastic sack on the floor in the trash room and cutting up my arms. I cut deep into the arteries along the forearms, not amateurishly right across the wrists. In a couple of minutes I’m dead. There is no way back. Not even if a neighbor happened to come in right then to throw out the trash is there any chance for me. I am irretrievably lost. So nice not to feel anymore. And I have made it as easy as possible for those who will clean up after me. Did not even get blood on the floor.
I am ashamed. Don’t believe for a moment that I am not ashamed of these thoughts.
56.
Fredrik entered the interview room. It was in the middle of the corridor with direct connection to the jail. Stina Hansson was already waiting in the room along with the attorney who had been called in for her. Roger Lindell was one of Gotland’s most experienced criminal defense attorneys. He was approaching sixty but there was still more blond than gray on his head. The closely trimmed full beard that decorated his powerful jaw was gray and red. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and a light blue shirt that was open at the neck.
Göran had held an initial interview with Stina Hansson as soon as she arrived in Visby. He had explained that on reasonable cause she was a suspect in the murders of Malin and Axel Andersson. She denied the crime.
Fredrik greeted Stina Hansson and Roger Lindell and set down the bundle of papers he had brought with him. He noticed how Stina Hansson’s eyes widened when she caught sight of the black-and-white pictures that happened to end up at the top of the pile.
“What? Were … where did you…”
She looked at him with flaming cheeks.
Fredrik cursed his carelessness. It was poor tactics to let her see the pictures this soon.
He tried to repair the damage by turning the bundle with the nude photos and papers upside down. Besides the printouts from Malin’s food blog, he had found printouts from GotlandsResor’s presentation of Henrik and Malin’s house and from Henrik’s own website. In addition two newspaper clippings: the interview with Malin and Henrik in Gotlands Allehanda and a feature about the Kalbjerga house in Elle Decor.
“Did you search my apartment?”
The thought seemed to be completely foreign to her.
“We have conducted a house search, that’s correct. Where investigations of serious crimes are concerned, unfortunately normal consideration has to take a backseat.”
“But I have nothing to do with this crime,” she said in a shaky voice.
“That’s what you say, but there is a good deal that suggests the opposite.”
Stina Hansson abruptly opened her mouth but could not get out a protest. She stared right into Fredrik’s shirtfront with wild eyes.
“I would like to know what you were doing on the fourth of June.”
“The fourth of June,” she repeated. “Why is that? That was three months ago.”
“Yes. And I would like to know what you were doing that day.”
She still looked doubtful, as if he was toying with her.
“The fourth of June … what day of the week was that?”
“It was a Thursday,” said Fredrik.
“I see,” she said hesitantly and looked away. “I guess I was working.”
“According to your employer you took the day off.”
The indifferent expression disappeared.
“Exactly, it was then. It’s not so easy to keep track of every single day after the fact like this,” she said quickly.
“No, of course not,” said Fredrik. “But on that particular Thursday you were off work.”
“Yes, Friday, too.”
“Why was that?”
“No particular reason. I just felt like it. I’d been working a lot and the weather was nice, so I decided from one day to another. We have a few people who can come in if someone gets sick, so that was no problem.”
“From one day to another? What does that mean exactly?”
“Mean?�
�� said Stina.
Fredrik sensed hostility in her voice.
“I mean, when exactly did you decide to take the day off?”
“The day before. And that was when I asked Gabriella. My boss, that is.”
“So you got a long four-day weekend,” Fredrik noted.
Stina nodded.
“What did you do during this time off?”
She thought about it.
“On Thursday I was at the beach a couple of hours.”
“Wasn’t it cold in the water?”
“I didn’t swim. But it was a very nice day. I lay there and read, brought coffee with me.”
“But there can’t have been many people there?” said Fredrik.
“No, I was probably alone, as I recall. Maybe someone walked past.”
“Anyone you know?”
“No.”
No one who could say that she really had been there, thought Fredrik.
“Were you at the beach in Fårösund?” he asked.
“No, it was in Valleviken.”
“I see. That’s a ways to go.”
“It’s not really that far,” said Stina. “And I did have the day off.”
“And the rest of the day?”
“I didn’t do that much. I think I did some shopping on the way home, then I made dinner and kept on reading. I had a book I was really into.”
“What book was that?”
“What do you mean?”
Why didn’t she just answer the question? Did she need time to think of a title?
“You said that you were really into it. Then you must remember what book it was, right?”
“The Ice Princess by Camilla Läckberg,” she said curtly.
That was probably what everyone in Sweden was reading, so it could be true, but less convincing for just that reason. If he were to ask what it was about. No, she could have read it on the train to Uppsala. Her “What do you mean?” was more interesting than a reference to the plot. He let it go.
“But on the way home from the beach you did some shopping. Or you’re not sure of that, either?”
“Yes, I did some shopping.”
Stina coughed and looked at the mirror glass into the adjacent room.
“Is someone sitting in there?” she said with a nod toward the mirror.
“No,” Fredrik said truthfully.
Stina sighed quietly and briefly met his gaze before she looked away in another direction. Fredrik steered her back to the interview.
“Where did you shop?”
“At the Bungehall grocery store,” she said.
“Did you pay cash or with a card?”
“Uh … cash, I think.”
“So you spent all of Thursday by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“What about on Friday, did you see anyone then?”
“No, not exactly. Probably said hello to someone on the street. On Saturday I visited a friend and had coffee.”
“Have you been in Uppsala at any time?”
She was silent for a moment, but then shook her head.
“No.”
“You have no connection there? Relatives or friends who live there?”
“No. Maybe I know a few people who studied there, but no one who still lives there.”
“Maybe, or do you?” he said.
“I know a few.”
“Can I get their names?”
Stina gave Fredrik names and addresses, which he wrote down. Her tone of voice suggested that she thought this was a little silly. There was a short pause while Fredrik wrote down the last address. The ballpoint pen rustled faintly against the paper.
“May I go home when this is over?” Stina asked.
Suddenly she sounded anxious.
“You know that you’ve been taken into custody, Stina. Göran Eide explained to you what that entails, didn’t he?”
Her eyes became glassy, but she blinked it away.
“Yes, yes,” she said.
“In any event, I’ll soon be done with the interview,” he said, smiling at her.
He reached for the printouts he brought with him and spread them out across the table.
“These are from Malin Andersson’s food blog and from Henrik Kjellander’s website.”
He pushed forward another paper along with the clippings from Gotlands Allehanda and Elle Interior.
“And this is from GotlandsResor. The page where their house is presented. The article from Gotlands Allehanda was printed in August. All of it was found at your home.”
Fredrik fell silent and waited for a reaction. Stina did not say anything. Her eyes moved slowly between the pages.
“You have collected a good deal of material on Malin and Henrik.”
Stina swallowed.
“Is it the case that you’ve thought quite a bit about Henrik and about how he was doing with Malin and his family on Fårö?”
Stina looked at page after page as if she was seeing them for the first time.
“Is that so?” Fredrik tried again. “What do you really think about this?”
He nodded at the pictures.
Stina Hansson leaned slowly over the table and hid her face in her hands as if she did not want to see any more. Roger Lindell briefly met Fredrik’s eyes before he turned toward his client.
“Stina? If you want we can break off the interview,” he said.
“No,” she mumbled from behind her hands.
She relaxed her palms, supported her forehead against her fingertips.
“Do you think I’m nuts?” she said. “Maybe I am. I don’t know,” she mumbled from behind her hands.
Fredrik was uncertain whether she had turned to him or to her attorney, but then decided that it was to him.
“Was it not the case that you were in Uppsala that Thursday you were off? You were there and visited someone and then you got the idea to rent Henrik’s house, which you had seen on the Internet. Or had you already planned it before you went there?”
She must have because her name was not on the ferry passenger list.
Stina Hansson peeked out from between her hands and let them slowly sink down to the table.
“What? Was that why you asked about Uppsala?”
“Stina. Tell us now.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I have nothing to do with this. I know I don’t have an alibi, but I live alone and I don’t have many friends. Excuse me, but that’s my life.”
She sighed heavily and turned away, but suddenly turned back again when she met her own gaze in the mirror glass.
“Stina,” said Fredrik. “You’ve been together with Henrik Kjellander, you have no alibi for the fourth of June when Henrik’s house was booked in Uppsala, you have been observed outside Axel’s day care…”
“I’ve explained that.”
“You have no alibi for the day when Ellen was taken away from the school, but by chance you were at home in Fårösund that day. You are blond, have a white car, and you have no alibi for the evening when Malin and Axel were murdered, your shoe size is seven and a half, which matches the print in the hall…”
He pushed the bundle of papers to the middle of the table.
“And you have snooped in Henrik’s and Malin’s lives and preserve old memories, pictures of you and Henrik together.”
Stina looked silently at the pile of pictures and clippings. There was twitching below her left eye.
“That’s a strong chain of circumstantial evidence. Don’t you think so?” said Fredrik.
“You don’t have to answer that,” said Lindell.
He leaned toward Fredrik.
“This is a chain of circumstantial evidence, but that’s also all it is. There is not a single piece of technical evidence or a witness statement that points to Stina.”
“The shoe print,” Fredrik reminded him.
“The size possibly agrees, but Stina doesn’t own any shoes with soles that match the print, you know that. And Ellen Andersson could not point her ou
t during the lineup.”
Fredrik did not answer. He had no desire to sit and debate with the attorney. Too many things were missing to be able to go to court, he realized that, as well, but the investigation of Stina Hansson had only begun.
57.
After Fredrik turned Stina Hansson over to the jail guard, he took a break and bought a mineral water and an apple. He took a couple of large gulps on the way to his office and tried to collect himself for the next interview. He was starting to feel that he had been going all day. That he had slept too little.
There was something in what the attorney said. There was no technical evidence, not one witness. Considering how many circumstances there were that spoke against Stina Hansson, it was almost strange that they had not found any concrete evidence.
Fredrik sank down behind his desk, leaned back, and closed his eyes. After a minute he had fallen asleep. He dreamt that he was back in Stina Hansson’s apartment, rooting through the medicine cabinet, pulling out drawers, bagging up dirty laundry.
He woke up with a jerk and looked toward the doorway with a guilty conscience. No one there. He looked at the clock. He could not have slept more than a couple of minutes.
Energized from his brief nap, Fredrik reached for the bottle and emptied it. He set it down on the table and caught sight of Stina’s printouts from Malin Andersson’s food blog. He had searched for potential perpetrators in the comments field of the blog posts, but what was there to say that the worst comments weren’t already edited out even before they appeared on the site?
He inserted his card into the reader and brought the computer to life. He searched online for a switchboard number for Coop, picked up the phone, and dialed the number. After some wrangling he got hold of a website technician. He quickly explained what he was looking for and was transferred again. A saucy melody invaded the receiver while he waited.
The melody stopped and he got a response from Anna Jones, who spoke in a barely noticeable British accent. He explained once again what this concerned.
“Yes,” she said, “we sift out comments that are obviously unpleasant or have no connection to the content on the site.”
“So those comments are never published at all?” Fredrik asked.
The Intruder Page 23
