Born 14 September 1983 at 7.16 a.m. in Visby hospital. Hanna Elisabeth von Schwerin. Karin stopped breathing and just stared at the name: von Schwerin. Of all the God-awful names.
Karin was a confirmed supporter of left-wing politics; she detested everything that had to do with ultra-conservative and right-wing beliefs. But her own daughter, Lydia, had the ultimate aristocratic surname. The room slowly began to spin. It couldn’t be true. There was nothing worse. She pictured a blonde young woman with a pageboy hairstyle and pearl necklace, her blouse tucked into a straight black skirt, wearing nylon stockings and pumps. Pink lipstick. Living in a big flat in the Östermalm district of Stockholm. Right-wing opinions, a manor house in Skåne and skeet shooting. She couldn’t imagine anything more terrible. The class difference alone would create an insurmountable barrier between them.
She pictured herself ringing the doorbell of her daughter’s place, wearing her tracksuit jacket, jeans and Converse trainers. Her daughter’s supercilious expression. You’re supposed to be my mother? Ha!
Karin stared at the name for a long time, speechless as thoughts whirled through her mind.
THE RAIN PATTERED on the roof. Beata, Andrea, John and Håkan were playing cards and reading in the lodge’s common room as they waited for Sam to return.
‘Where the hell can he be?’ Andrea gathered up the cards after the second round and peered out of the window, even though the visibility was non-existent. It was impossible to see down to the shore any more. ‘OK, that’s enough. I’m going to go look for him.’
‘You can’t go out in this weather. Isn’t he answering his mobile?’ said Beata, not taking her eyes off the page of the paperback book that she was reading.
‘No, the coverage out here is really lousy,’ complained Andrea. ‘I tried to phone the kids too, but it’s not working.’
‘Same with me,’ said Håkan. ‘I haven’t been able to contact Stina. She hasn’t texted me or answered her mobile since we got here. The kids haven’t either,’ he muttered.
‘The chief ranger said that the coverage is erratic on the island. So while we’re here we apparently can’t count on getting in touch with the outside world. That’s what he told us as soon as we came ashore,’ said John. ‘It’s no use even trying our mobiles. And I think that’s just as well, by the way. It feels damn great to be free of those wretched things for a while.’
‘I agree in principle, but I have to admit that it would have been nice if they were working at the moment. It seems strange that Sam has been gone so long. And in this horrible weather. Did he take anything with him to eat? He must be hungry by now.’
‘Maybe he met somebody with a big lunch box,’ Beata joked, rolling her eyes and poking Andrea in the side. ‘Maybe he’s having his fill right now, of one thing and another.’
‘Very funny.’ Andrea gave her an annoyed look. ‘As soon as the rain stops, I’m going out to look for him. It’s not a big island, after all.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Beata amiably. ‘The rain is already letting up. While we’re waiting, we can get changed.’
At decisive moments, Beata always came through. Andrea smiled gratefully, reminded why they were such good friends, in spite of everything.
They went over to their respective cabins and changed into outdoor gear and wellingtons. As if on command, the rain stopped and the clouds dispersed so they were able to set off. The path around the island was hilly, and the ground was uneven. The rocks were slippery, and it was muddy after the day’s downpour.
‘How long do you think it takes to get round the whole island?’ asked Andrea as they walked towards the restaurant and café.
‘I read in the brochure that it’s six kilometres in circumference, but I’m sure it’s much shorter if we stick to the walking path. It’ll probably take us an hour, tops. He must have taken shelter from the rain somewhere. There are tons of caves on the island. He’s probably sitting inside of one of them, moping. I think we should search along the shore. But we can’t actually go out on the beaches, because they’re all closed to tourists.’
‘There’s no real reason to think that he’d be down near the water,’ Andrea objected. ‘He could just as well have gone to a valley in the centre of the island.’
‘In any case, Sam is fully capable of taking care of himself. And besides, he’s only been missing since this morning.’
‘You’re right.’ Andrea laughed, feeling a bit embarrassed. ‘I know it’s probably ridiculous to get so worried. But I’m thinking about his diabetes. He’s not good about eating regular meals, and sometimes he forgets to take his insulin with him. I’m afraid that he might have passed out. But I’m the nervous type, as you well know. Sam is always teasing me for acting like such a mother hen with the children. And whenever he doesn’t come home at the time he promised, I can’t help imagining the worst.’
They went into the restaurant and asked around, but no one had seen Sam since the previous evening. As they came back outside, the sun broke through the clouds. After that, the temperature quickly rose. They checked the pirate cave, which the guide had shown them during the sightseeing tour they’d taken the day before. Then they continued along the walking path, calling Sam’s name and searching the bushes and thickets. They looked for him among the boulders along the sea, at the bird mountain, and in the valleys. They even went all the way out to the lighthouse. Sam was nowhere to be found. And not one of the people they asked had seen him. In the meantime, the afternoon ferry had left the island. Many of those who had spent the past day on Stora Karlsö had now gone back to Gotland, while new tourists had arrived to take their place.
They sat down on the lighthouse steps.
‘What should we do? I’m really starting to get worried now,’ said Andrea. Her voice quavered a bit.
Beata looked concerned. She took a big gulp of water from the bottle that they’d brought along and glanced at her watch.
‘Three fifty. Where could he be?’ She took out her mobile. ‘I’m going to ring John and find out if Sam has turned up there.’
‘But do you think it will really—’
That was all Andrea managed to say before Beata angrily stuffed her mobile back in her belt bag.
‘Dead as a doornail, of course. Shit. Come on, let’s make another round. We haven’t checked the other bird mountain way over there.’
‘What other bird mountain?’
‘The one that’s beyond the others. There’s another cliff back there. With lots of guillemots, but it’s not as accessible, so nobody makes an effort to go there. It wouldn’t surprise me to find him hunched over his easel and painting away. He probably forgot all about the time.’
Andrea’s face lit up. ‘That would be so typical of Sam. He always wants whatever is unobtainable. Anything that feels exclusive.’ She patted Beata’s arm. ‘Thanks for coming with me, Beata. You’re a real friend.’
They started walking along the road but didn’t meet a single other person. Steam rose up from the damp ground. Up ahead towered the other bird mountain, but so far they could see no guillemots on the slope.
They stepped off the path and continued towards the cliff. They heard sounds that told them of the birds’ presence; their shrieks rose up to the sky. They rounded a promontory and suddenly the whole scene opened before them. Row upon row of black female guillemots were crowded together, their tiny chicks barely visible beneath their protective wings. Beata pointed to the top.
‘Look at that. There’s something up there,’ she shouted eagerly.
‘Where?’ Andrea turned to look at her friend.
‘There. On the other side of the slope, just below the crest. Do you see it?’
‘That looks like Sam’s backpack.’
They ran back to the path and followed it up the other side of the bird mountain. The backpack was lying in the grass just below the plateau.
Both women began yelling Sam’s name in unison.
They turned to look in every direct
ion. Beata went as close to the edge of the cliff as she dared and looked down. The drop was so steep that it took her breath away. Birds were everywhere. All those birds and the terrible din they were making added to her dizziness, and she had to step back. She sank down on to a rock. Now a trace of annoyance was apparent in her voice.
‘Where the hell can he be?’
Andrea shook her head.
‘I don’t understand.’
Beata gave her a solemn look.
‘We need to ring the police. What if he fell into the sea?’
KNUTAS HAD JUST left police headquarters and started to walk home when Karin Jacobsson called him.
‘Two people have disappeared on Stora Karlsö. One of them is the film director Sam Dahlberg. He’s been missing since this morning, and no one knows where he might have gone. His wife is worried sick.’
‘What happened?’
‘Apparently there’s a whole group out there. They arrived yesterday morning and are staying in cabins. When his wife woke up this morning, Sam Dahlberg wasn’t in bed, and she couldn’t find him anywhere. Then she noticed his backpack with his painting gear was missing. He’s an artist too, you know. She assumed that Sam had gone out somewhere to paint, but by afternoon he still hadn’t turned up even though a storm had moved in. So she started getting worried. That was when she and a friend went out to look for him.’
‘And?’
‘They found his backpack and a portable easel near the top of a cliff. Evidently there are several slopes that serve as breeding grounds for the guillemots, and not just where the tourists tend to go. This was a rather remote area, beyond the famous bird mountains. It looks like Dahlberg was planning to paint, but then something happened. Maybe he fell off the cliff. Or he might have his own reasons for staying away. What do I know?’
‘Has anyone checked out the beach?’
‘No, they’ve just started doing a systematic search for him. The thing is that he’s diabetic, so his wife is very worried that he hasn’t taken his insulin.’
‘And there’s no chance that he might have left the island?’
‘First of all, we have to ask why he would do that when he’s on a holiday trip with good friends. But if, against all odds, he did leave, it wasn’t by taking the regular boat. The ferry made two separate departures from the island during the day, and Dahlberg wasn’t on board either time. The captain knows him well, and he swears that he would have noticed.’
‘You said that two people were missing, is that right?’
‘Yes. A windsurfer also seems to have disappeared. A twenty-six-year-old man from Stockholm named Jakob Ekström. He arrived yesterday and rented a room in a hostel in the village. He’s supposed to be there for three days. The last time the people staying in the next room saw him was last night, but a witness from the hostel saw him surfing off Hienviken this morning. Nobody has seen him since. The manager of the hostel phoned and sounded worried.’
‘You and Wittberg will have to go out to the island. How fast can you get there?’
‘I talked to the coastguard, and they can get us there in an hour. We leave from Klintehamn.’
BERG LEANED BACK against the sofa cushions in the living room at home in Roma. He was bored. Elin was at the day nursery, and Anton was having his afternoon nap. Emma had gone to see a friend in Visby.
Listlessly he looked around the messy room. He really ought to tidy things up and vacuum, but he couldn’t make himself get up from the sofa. He switched on the TV and aimlessly surfed through the channels. Reluctantly he was forced to admit that the life of a stay-at-home dad was already starting to wear on him. He was unbearably tired of dust balls, dirty dishes and unmade beds. His life seemed to revolve entirely around feeding Anton, changing his nappy and getting him to take a nap, as well as taking him out in the pram, comforting him when he cried, feeding him again, changing him again, and finally putting him to bed for the night. That meant that he and Emma had a maximum of one or two hours to themselves before, dead tired, they fell into bed around 10 p.m.
Johan took an apple out of the fruit bowl and apathetically looked through the selection of newspapers on the table before settling on Gotlands Allehanda. He found himself looking at the obituaries, and one name in particular caught his interest. Erik Berg. The same name as his father, who had died of cancer a few years back. Johan still missed him terribly and thought about him every single day. He had been very close to his father, maybe because he was the oldest son. He was sad that his father hadn’t lived long enough to see the birth of his children, Elin and Anton.
As the eldest of five brothers, Johan had been forced to take on a great deal of responsibility when his father died; in a sense he’d taken over the role of family patriarch. His mother had been devastated, and Johan had had to handle all the practical matters. He was also expected to be available whenever his mother needed consoling. No one had thought about Johan’s own needs. He hadn’t either. Now his mother had a new man in her life, and everything had been going well lately, considering the circumstances. But Johan still missed his father.
He leafed backwards through the newspaper. For some strange reason he had started reading the papers from back to front ever since going on paternity leave. Maybe it’s a sign that I’m living in an upside-down world these days, he thought.
A double-page spread was devoted to the question of what was going to happen to Ingmar Bergman’s home on Fårö now that the director had passed away. There had been all sorts of speculation during the past year. Apparently a Gotland entrepreneur was now prepared to invest in the project in order to transform the property into an artists’ retreat – primarily for screenwriters and authors who could stay there for short periods and find inspiration for their writing. At the same time, the abandoned school near the Fårö church would be turned into a Bergman Centre, with exhibitions about the acclaimed director’s life. The article included a number of theories and assumptions as to what would become of Bergman’s property, which was estimated to be worth millions.
Johan’s newspaper reading was interrupted by a brief cry from the baby’s room. He was painfully aware that the sound would shortly erupt into loud wails. Daily life was calling. As usual.
IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time the coastguard boat approached Stora Karlsö. Those on board saw at once that something was happening. Members of the Home Guard and a host of volunteers had gone out in their own boats to help look for Sam Dahlberg and Jakob Ekström. A search on land had also been organized, and everyone staying on the island had joined in. The shore of the small harbour below the island’s only restaurant was teeming with people. It was a matter of making full use of the time before it got dark. They still had a few hours.
The fact that Sam Dahlberg suffered from diabetes and might have forgotten his insulin provided a possible explanation for his disappearance. He might have simply passed out somewhere.
But the police were puzzled to hear that a windsurfer had gone missing at the same time.
The boat pulled into dock, and Wittberg and Jacobsson were immediately greeted by a guide who was going to direct the coastguard vessel to the beach below the bird mountain where Dahlberg’s backpack had been found. Everyone feared the worst: that he had fallen from the cliff and landed on the rocks below. The chances of surviving that sort of fall were infinitesimal.
Jacobsson asked the coastguard crew to wait for her. Then she and Wittberg disembarked and headed for the building that housed an information desk and restaurant. A group of people had gathered there to listen to instructions from the island’s chief ranger. When he was finished, everyone moved off in different directions, and he motioned to the two police officers.
‘Hi. I’m glad you’re here. Things are a bit chaotic.’
They shook hands.
‘Is Andrea Dahlberg around?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘Could we talk to her?’
‘Of course. I think she’s in the restaurant. Come with me.’
They followed the
chief ranger, who headed for the entrance, taking long strides as if he didn’t want to be stopped by anyone. The restaurant was empty except for two people sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. The woman had her face buried in her hands. The tall man was patting her arm, trying to console her.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ said Jacobsson. She introduced herself and her colleague Wittberg. ‘Could we talk to you for a moment?’
The man excused himself and left. Andrea Dahlberg was trembling. She hugged her torso, rocking gently back and forth.
‘I’m terribly worried.’
‘I understand,’ said Jacobsson sympathetically. ‘But please try to answer our questions. It’s important. We want to find Sam as quickly as possible.’
‘Of course,’ whispered his wife. ‘I’ll try,’ she added and cleared her throat.
‘When did you last see your husband?’
‘Yesterday when we went to bed.’
‘What did you do in the evening?’
‘We had been out catching baby birds with a group of friends, and after that we were all so wired that nobody wanted to go to bed. We sat outdoors in front of one of the cabins where we’re staying and drank wine while we looked at the sea.’
‘Did you and your husband go to bed at the same time?’
Andrea nodded.
‘When was that?’
‘Around three in the morning, I think.’
‘Did you both fall asleep at once?’
‘Yes, I think so. At least I did.’
‘Is it possible that Sam got up after you were asleep?’
Andrea looked bewildered.
‘Sure, yes. I suppose so.’
‘Would you have noticed?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’m a very sound sleeper.’
‘So it’s possible that he might have disappeared sometime in the middle of the night?’
The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7) Page 9
