"How well do you know Martina?" Knutas carefully studied the young woman.
"Not too well. We liked each other at once, and we had a lot of fun right from the start. The course began with two weeks of theory at the college in Visby, so we were in town all the time. Then Martina started going off on her own in the evenings. During the second week I hardly saw her at all."
"Did you share a room in Visby, too?"
"No, we all had our own dorm rooms, so we didn't keep tabs on each other the same way we do here. Since we've been here at Warfsholm, she's often gone off on her own. Her excuse is that she has errands to run or that she wants to meditate, but I don't believe it. She's not the type."
"Has she ever been gone for a whole night before?"
"One night last week she slept somewhere else. She claimed that she was going to meet some friends of her family in Visby. They usually come here on vacation."
"Do you know who they are? These friends?"
"No. I never asked her, and she never told me. I'm not from here, so I wouldn't know them anyway."
"Couldn't that be what's happened now? That she's simply visiting friends?"
"I don't think so. She would have called."
"If she has a boyfriend here, who could it be?" asked Jacobsson.
"I actually have no idea. I've been trying to figure it out, to see if there's something going on between her and someone in the group, but it's hard to tell because she jokes around with everybody."
"Why didn't you ask her?"
"I've tried, but she always changes the subject as soon as I bring it up."
"Who would she have an opportunity to meet other than the students in the course? You don't have contact with many other people, do you?"
"No, although there are other guests staying at the hotel and the campground nearby. And she might have met someone in Visby earlier."
When they stepped into the entryway of the youth hostel, they could tell at once that the building was a venerable old place, even though it had been remodeled. In the hall hung a bulletin board with instructions for everything from parties to fishing trips to the laundry room. From upstairs came the smell of toast, and subdued voices could be heard conversing. The room that Eva and Martina shared was on the ground floor, almost at the end of the corridor. It was long and narrow and cramped, with a window on one wall. A modest, iron-framed bunk bed stood on each side of the room, with barely enough space to walk between them. A sink with a mirror above it was fastened to one wall. Every nook and cranny was filled with clutter. A tape player stood on the wide windowsill along with bottles of hairspray, cosmetic bags, perfume, nail polish, bags of chips, and CDs. Clothing was either strewn about or hanging from the posts of the top bunks. Several books about the Viking Age signaled that archaeology students were staying in the room. Knutas gave up as soon as he stood in the doorway and saw all the mess. He let Jacobsson search the place on her own. There wasn't enough space for both of them anyway.
He sat down outside, actually lit his pipe for a change, and made a number of phone calls to see to it that the site was secured. He spoke to Erik Sohlman, who wanted to wait to do a technical examination of Martina's room. For the time being, they had no reason to suspect that a crime had been committed.
Meanwhile, Jacobsson did her search of the room. Eva had told her which side was Martina's, and Jacobsson began systematically going through the girl's belongings. Her toiletry case was there, containing her toothbrush and a pack of birth control pills, which revealed that Martina hadn't taken any pills since Friday, July 2-which was several days ago. If she had left voluntarily, she would have taken her toiletry case with her, thought Jacobsson as she opened the suitcase that had been shoved under the bed. In addition to clothing it held a number of books, an unopened carton of cigarettes, and some makeup. In a slot she found a photograph of a young man with dark hair and brown eyes. Jacobsson turned it over, but there was nothing written on the back.
She slipped the picture into her pocket so she could ask Eva about it later and then looked around the cramped room. There wasn't much else to search. Except for the bed, of course. Carefully she removed the floral-patterned cover. There was a rustling sound, and under the pillow she found a page torn out of a newspaper. She sat down on the edge of the bed and unfolded the page. It was an article from Gotlands Allehanda, which had done a story on the first excavation course of the summer. The article was about what the students would be doing and where they came from. A picture showed the excavation leader, Staffan Mellgren, and several of the students in action out in the field. Jacobs-son studied the article with surprise. Why would Martina keep it under her pillow?
That was where someone would usually keep something that was especially precious, maybe even hiding it there.
Staffan Mellgren was smiling broadly at the camera; the others could be seen in the background. He had to be twice as old as Martina. Jacobsson knew that Mellgren was married and had children. He was well known on Gotland because of his work at the college and at the archaeological excavations. Had they been seeing each other? Was he mixed up in her disappearance?
She hurried off to find Knutas.
Johan was awakened by a bang outside the window. With great effort he got out of bed and pulled aside the curtain.
The pastry shop across the street was getting its daily delivery. The bakery truck was parked in the narrow alley, and the driver was taking out boxes, which he loaded onto a hand truck. The owner of the pastry shop then took the hand truck and with a clatter disappeared through the back door. That meant that it couldn't be more than six in the morning. With a groan Johan went back to bed and pulled the covers over his head. The deliveries were made at six on weekdays, at eight on the weekend. He had learned that by now. If he had known in advance that this upheaval was going to take place every single morning, he would have made Swedish TV arrange for a different apartment.
Wrapped up in the warm covers, he lay there thinking about Emma and their newborn child. He had spent nearly the entire weekend over at the hospital. He wasn't allowed to sleep there, since it was already overcrowded, and Emma had to share a room with two other women who had just given birth.
The delivery of their baby was the biggest event of his life so far. The experience of becoming a father was more overwhelming than he could have imagined.
His mother and youngest brother had flown over from Stockholm on Saturday. She could hardly contain her joy at becoming a grandmother. Her first grandchild. Ever since the death of Johan's father a couple of years ago, her life had been very lonely. Johan had always been close to his mother, and he knew that she missed him now that he was working on Gotland. In his role as the eldest son, he had largely functioned as a replacement for his father after his death.
With the birth of the child, Johan realized that everything was going to be different. From now on he had to make his own family his first priority. He had suddenly become a family man with all new responsibilities. He found the thought both appealing and frightening.
The head office in Stockholm had sent flowers, but Grenfors expected Johan to be back at work right after the weekend. He had been assigned to cover the island, and they had agreed that he would wait to take any paternity leave until fall. He now regretted that decision. All he wanted to do was spend time with his new family.
The insistent buzzing of his cell phone interrupted his ruminations. I really need to change the ringtone, he thought as he flew out of bed to grab the phone from under his clothes, which were piled in a heap on the chair. He now paid attention to his phone in a whole different way. Emma might be calling him.
Instead the call was from Niklas Appelqvist, one of the few personal friends Johan had on Gotland. Even though Niklas was ten years younger, they enjoyed each other's company, mostly because they shared an interest in sixties rock 'n' roll. Johan had gotten to know the young archaeology student a year earlier, in connection with a murder case. Niklas lived in the same building as a ne
wspaper photographer on a disability pension who had been found murdered in the basement. Niklas had helped Johan by giving him a number of tips during the investigation. When Johan moved to the island, they started spending time together.
"Hi, how're things going?"
"Fucking great," Johan managed to say. He cleared his throat and wearily sat down. "I became a father on Friday."
"Really? That's great! Congratulations! Boy or girl?"
"A girl," said Johan, feeling himself smile.
"Did everything go all right?"
"Well, it was a little dramatic for a while, but she got here just fine. So beautiful. Eight pounds two ounces, and twenty inches long."
"Wow. How's Emma?"
"Good, although she's really tired, of course."
"We need to celebrate this." Niklas sounded enthusiastic. "Let me take you out for a beer tonight."
"Thanks, but I can't. I'm going to bring Emma and the baby home from the maternity ward. Maybe another time."
"Okay. By the way, I heard about something that might interest you."
"What's that?"
"A girl who's studying archaeology has disappeared. She's taking an excavation course at the college. Students from all over the world come here to work on a dig during the summer."
"How long has she been missing?"
"Since Saturday night. They're really upset about it over at the Warfsholm youth hostel where she's staying. Apparently she disappeared after the Eldkvarn concert on Saturday, and no one has seen her since. I know a girl who's helping out with the course, and she just told me about it."
"Do you have someone visiting you this early?"
"You mean this late."
"What's her name?"
"The girl who disappeared or my visitor?"
"The one who's missing, of course."
"Martina something or other." Johan could hear Niklas murmuring to someone in the background. "Martina Flochten. She's from the Netherlands."
"Flochten," repeated Johan. "How old is she?"
"Young. Twenty-something."
"Okay. Thanks."
Shit, what bad timing. There was nothing he would rather do than go over to see Emma and the baby, but he was the only TV reporter on the island. The story of a missing girl had to be checked out, even though the whole thing sounded a bit vague. He called the hospital, and according to the nurse who answered, Emma and the baby were fine. Both were asleep at the moment. They had stayed at the maternity ward longer than planned because the breast-feeding hadn't started the way it should.
His concern must have been audible in his voice, because the nurse assured Johan that it was completely normal and nothing to worry about: The breast-feeding would undoubtedly proceed as it was supposed to within a few days. He wondered if this was how his life was going to be, now that he'd become a father. Constant worry about all sorts of things.
It was eight forty-five. He phoned Knutas but was told that the superintendent would be busy all morning, and no one could or would say anything about the missing young woman. He took a shower, shaved, and gulped down a cup of coffee and ate a piece of toast. Then he called Pia. She could pick him up in fifteen minutes. They decided to drive straight out to the Warfsholm hotel and youth hostel.
The hotel consisted of a late-nineteenth-century wooden building painted yellow, with a lovely tower. It stood on a headland overlooking the sea. On one side of the building was an idyllic sandy beach. Beyond it could be seen the bird sanctuary at Vivesholm, where the spit of land stuck straight out into the water. On the other side of the building was the harbor, which, with its silos and wind-power station, formed a sharp contrast to the beach.
When Johan and Pia got out of the car in the parking lot, they discovered a police car. Two uniformed officers were walking along the beach and talking to families with children. The news team went down to the water and admired the view of the nature preserve on the islands of Big Karlso and Little Karlso.
"What's that?" asked Johan, pointing at something that was sticking out of the water just beyond the harbor entrance.
"That's the wreck from a freighter, the Benguela, that went aground out there. It must have been at least twenty years ago now."
"What happened?"
"The freighter was coming from Sodertalje, on its way to Klintehamn. The accident happened in the winter. I think it was early morning. It was foggy, with a strong wind, and the vessel went aground so hard that they couldn't get her to budge."
"What about the crew?"
"I think they all made it, actually."
"Why hasn't she ever been salvaged?"
"There was something about a loophole in the law that meant the shipping company couldn't be held responsible, and the owner didn't feel he could afford to have the boat towed away. That's why it's still there."
"Incredible." Johan shook his head.
"Yes, isn't it? You used to be able to see a lot more of the boat. She seems to be rusting apart. It won't be long before she completely disappears below the surface."
For the time being they decided not to bother the police officers and walked up to the hotel entrance. They had made an appointment to meet with the manager, Kerstin Bodin. She was a slender, dark-haired woman who gave them a smile but looked tired.
They sat down in the outdoor section of the restaurant, with a view of the harbor. Pia didn't have the patience to sit still, so she went off with her camera.
"This is so unpleasant," said Kerstin. "Of course, it's not certain that anything awful has happened to her, but what if it has? I'm terrified that they're going to find her drowned out there. It's impossible to say what happened. She was apparently very drunk when she left."
"Do you know Martina?"
"We've talked a good deal. I've had more contact with her than with many of our guests. She's extremely nice. A very happy and open sort of girl. Her mother's from Gotland, you know. Martina has been to the island quite often."
"Where is her mother from?"
"Hemse. Both her mother and her grandparents are dead now, and Martina told me that she doesn't have any other relatives on Gotland. But she usually spends a week here every summer, on vacation."
"Do you know where she usually stays when she's here?"
"From what I understood, her family usually stays at the Wisby hotel. Apparently there's a special suite that they always reserve. She told me that her father knows the owner."
"I see. What's his name? Or her name?" Johan quickly added, realizing that he was in fact sitting across from a female hotel manager.
Kerstin smiled. "His name is Jacob Dahlen. We were in the same class in middle school."
"Maybe that's where Martina is."
"I don't think so," said Kerstin, shaking her head. "If so, why hasn't she called anyone? Surely she would know that everyone is worried."
"Yes, you're right," Johan agreed.
The link to the hotel owner in Visby was interesting. He would follow up on it later.
Kerstin took her cell phone out of the pocket of her linen shirt and punched in a number. When someone answered, she got up and went over to the railing that surrounded the restaurant area. She hopped up to perch on the railing as she talked. Sitting there and dangling her legs like that, she looked like a young girl. Johan instantly started thinking about his newborn daughter. In a few years she would be able to sit like that.
Kerstin came back to the table. "Jacob Dahlen doesn't know anything," she said. "He was shocked. He said he didn't even know that Martina was on Gotland."
Because of the photo torn out of a newspaper that Jacobsson had found under Martina's pillow, they decided to drive farther south to Frojel, which was about six miles from Warfsholm. They wanted to have a talk with the excavation leader, Staffan Mellgren.
At the church Knutas turned off from the main road and parked outside the former school building, which now contained a cafe and a small exhibition space with a display about the excavations.
A lad
der led down to the dig area, and as they approached, they saw Mellgren walking among the students, who were hard at work. The ground had been divided into rectangles that were about a foot and a half deep. In several of the pits, portions of skeletons could be seen, along with other objects that Knutas had a hard time identifying. On a long table in the middle of the area lay folders, maps, and plastic bags marked with various labels. Mellgren had stopped and was writing some notes in a folder. He looked up when Knutas and Jacobsson greeted him. A tall, athletic man with thick, dark brown hair with a touch of gray, he had to be in his forties, Jacobsson guessed. His eyes were an intense brown, and she concluded that he was good-looking- more attractive than in the photos she had seen.
"We'd like to talk to you about the disappearance of Martina Flochten," Knutas began.
"Of course. Just a minute," said Mellgren. He turned to a younger woman in the next pit, asked her a question that they couldn't hear, and jotted down some illegible squiggles.
There were objects inside the plastic bags on the table-bone fragments or tools. Jacobsson exclaimed with surprise when she saw a bag containing a silver necklace and another with silver coins.
"What are you going to do with all this?" She turned to Mellgren, who now seemed to have finished writing his notes.
"Every item we find is documented." He gestured to the ground behind them. "These spaces are called pits. We divide up the ground to facilitate both the excavation and the documentation. The items we find are placed in a bag on which we record the exact location and time of the find, in which pit and at what depth. When the workday is over, we lock up everything in those carts you walked past on your way here. Later the material is taken to our office at the college, where it's sorted and examined. Finally it ends up in the Antiquities Room for storage."
"Could we sit down somewhere and talk?" asked Knutas.
"Of course."
Mellgren led them to a corner of the excavation area where there was a plastic table and a few simple chairs.
"How long have you been digging here?" asked Knutas after they sat down.
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