In some ways it felt as if she were living her life in a straitjacket, and she could never be rid of it. A corset tied tight with strings from the past. At long last she had decided that there was only one means of escape. She had to contact her daughter and find out who she was.
Finally she gave up any attempt to go back to sleep. She got out of bed, made a pot of strong coffee, and took a shower. After breakfast she decided to go out. It was a beautiful day, and she was restless with impatience. She thought about the circle of friends from Terra Nova. What was it about those people? Bergman seemed to be somehow connected everywhere she looked, but it was among the group itself that she’d find the answer. Two of them were dead, and none of the others seemed able to contribute any concrete information that might carry the investigation forward.
Jacobsson had been to Terra Nova only once after Dahlberg was murdered. She glanced at her watch. Eleven fifteen. The perfect time to take a bike ride out there.
Quickly she tied her shoelaces and left the flat.
When she reached the other side of the wall, she realized that she’d left her mobile back home on charge, but she resisted an impulse to turn around. People used to get along just fine without mobile phones, and she wouldn’t be gone long.
She passed Lindh’s big nursery and turned on to Norra Glasmästargatan. She pedalled slowly along the road, looking at the houses and gardens, each one more beautifully tended than the last. She stopped in the middle of the development, in the small car park. There she got off her bike, locked it, and looked around. The Dahlberg family home looked empty and dreary. Jacobsson walked around the cul-de-sac and then continued along the deserted street. Anyone who hadn’t left on holiday was probably spending the hot day at the seaside.
The police had done several interviews with the four people in the Terra Nova group who had survived the holiday trip, but without any significant results. For once the police had taken the unusual step of questioning the older children, too, asking them both about their parents’ activities and what they thought of the apparent harmony among neighbours in the area. Unfortunately, this hadn’t produced anything of interest. The colleagues, grandparents and siblings of those involved had also been interviewed. The more time that passed, the wider the investigative circle had been expanded from the core group. Maybe it’s time to broaden our approach beyond Terra Nova, thought Jacobsson. Maybe we should talk to people outside the inner circle. Maybe there’s somebody who wanted to become a member but was pushed aside. Somebody who was so upset by this that he or she wanted revenge.
It wasn’t unreasonable to think that those who remained might be threatened, but so far no one other than Andrea seemed to need police protection.
Jacobsson reached the end of Norra Glasmästargatan. The three couples involved in the case lived ridiculously close to each other in their houses on the small cul-de-sac. Andrea and Sam owned a large wooden house in the early-twentieth-century style; then came Beata and John’s house, which was the biggest and most ostentatious, built of white sand-lime brick; and finally the home belonging to Håkan and Stina, painted a pale lavender with blue trim around the doors and windows. The outbuilding was the same lavender colour. Jacobsson looked at the house, feeling great sympathy for Håkan. He had completely fallen apart after Stina’s body had been found, and he was still in the psychiatric ward of the hospital. He was willing to talk only to his children and his first wife, Ingrid. No one else seemed able to get through to him. The police interview would have to wait until his condition improved.
Next she thought about Beata and John. He was American, and she was a red-haired, long-legged Barbie doll who seemed absurdly naive. Jacobsson had met them before since they belonged to Emma Winarve’s social circle. Five years ago she had questioned them in connection with the murder of Emma’s best friend, Helena Hillerström, who had fallen victim to a killer. They had also been friends with Helena. What a strange coincidence, mused Jacobsson, but her thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping her on the shoulder. She gave a start and turned around to see a man in his forties with a Dalmatian puppy on a lead. The man looked friendly and agreeable.
‘Can I help you with anything?’
His hair was cut short and smoothed down with gel. He had a gentle yet manly face with high cheekbones, a distinctive jawline with the trace of stubble, and widely spaced eyes that were slightly slanted, which gave his face character. He had a sensitive mouth, which looked both resolute and tender in a way that made him seem unusually attractive to Jacobsson. His voice was dry and a bit gruff. She was surprised by her own reaction, feeling almost weak at the knees as she stood there. The puppy leaped around her, wagging its little tail. She squatted down and let the dog jump up and lick her face.
‘Oh, what a sweet little guy,’ she exclaimed. ‘How old is he?’
‘Nine weeks. I just got him.’
‘He’s fantastic. He really is. What’s his name?’
‘Baloo. Like the bear in The Jungle Book.’
Jacobsson stood up and looked at the man.
‘Do you live around here?’
‘Yes. Over there, in the last house. The yellow one.’
She saw a lovely wooden house with white trim set slightly back from the street. The property was surrounded by a tall lilac hedge.
Jacobsson showed him her police ID and introduced herself.
‘Karin Jacobsson. Police detective.’
‘Janne Widén. Photographer. I know who you are. I recognized you.’
Jacobsson noticed to her chagrin that her cheeks were hot. A grown-up woman, standing here and blushing.
‘Is that right? Well, I’m here with regard to the murders, you know. I was thinking of talking to some of the neighbours. Do you have a moment?’
‘Absolutely. I just need to give Baloo some water. He’s dying of thirst in this heat. Would you like to come over and have a cup of coffee?’
Jacobsson hesitated for a few seconds. But why not? She might find out something important. And that’s why she was here, after all. To meet people in the area who weren’t connected to the group of friends.
‘OK.’
They went through an iron gate between the lilacs. A grey sports car was parked in the drive. The man led the way around the side of the house. At the back was a wooden deck and a lawn facing the woods. There the lilac hedge continued, shielding the garden from view.
‘How lovely,’ said Jacobsson, and she meant it.
‘Thanks. Have a seat. Would you like coffee or something cold to drink, or both?’
‘I’d like something cold. Water would be fine.’
Jacobsson sat down in one of the armchairs on the terrace. A large umbrella provided shade from the sun. The puppy was trying hard to jump on to her lap. Janne Widén quickly returned with a tray holding a carafe of iced water and two glasses. He set down a bowl for the dog, who eagerly began lapping up the water.
‘How long have you lived here?’ asked Jacobsson as she raised the frosty glass to her lips.
‘Over ten years.’ He gave her a crooked smile. ‘Just like everybody else, I moved here when the development was newly built. Back then I had a wife and kids, and we thought this place was perfect. Unfortunately, the marriage didn’t last. We got divorced five years ago. The children moved with my wife to the mainland.’
‘But you chose to stay here?’
‘I have my business here, and I love this house, in fact the whole neighbourhood, even though it might not seem like anything special to an outsider. But it has a particular atmosphere that makes it hard to move away.’
‘Atmosphere?’
‘Yes, a sort of community spirit, or whatever you want to call it. Everyone helps everyone else, and we all care about each other. You’re never alone unless you want to be. I thought that was especially nice after I got divorced. I was used to having a house full of kids and their friends, and suddenly it was empty. The children wanted to live with my wife when she moved in with her sister,
who runs a kennel. The kids love dogs; they always have. Baloo is from there too. I try to see them as often as possible, of course. I’m a freelance photographer, so I can set my own schedule.’
Jacobsson was surprised by the man’s candour. She hadn’t asked about his personal life. She took a couple more sips of her iced water.
‘This sense of community spirit that you mentioned seems to work well around here.’
The man sitting across from her laughed.
‘Well, some people show more community spirit than others.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m referring to that group over there in the cul-de-sac – because I assume that they’re the ones you’re interested in. And they’ve always been rather extreme.’
‘In what way?’
‘A lot of us think that they’ve gone a bit overboard. They do everything together and always check with each other before making a decision. Almost as if they have to apologize if they want to have dinner with someone outside the gang, or if one family books a trip without consulting the others first. They just really seem to go too far.’
Widén had an inscrutable expression on his face that Jacobsson couldn’t read.
‘What are you thinking of? Is there something else that I should know?’
‘They’re pleasant enough, but it’s a really closed circle. They don’t allow anyone else in.’ He paused for effect. ‘I think they have a lot of secrets.’
Jacobsson was instantly on the alert.
‘What do you mean? What kind of secrets?’
‘About a year ago there was a rumour circulating. Well, it was actually more than just a rumour. Everyone was talking about it.’
‘About what?’
‘People said that the group was interested in … hmm … special arrangements. Whenever they had parties together, they would exchange partners with each other. Swinger parties.’
Jacobsson nearly choked on the water she was drinking. She could hardly believe her ears.
‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I can be without having been to those parties myself. And I just remembered how the rumour got started. It was on a Sunday, and one of them who’d been at the party, Beata Dunmar, was talking to another young woman here in the neighbourhood who’s not part of the group. Her name is Sandra. Beata told her that they’d exchanged partners. Someone had seen a film on TV in which all the neighbours put their house keys in a basket and then took out one at random and went home with whoever the key belonged to. She said that’s what they’d done on Saturday night.’
‘Do you know who participated in these parties?’
‘Sam and Andrea Dahlberg, Stina and Håkan Ek, Beata and John Dunmar. Plus a couple who don’t live here any more.’
‘What’s their name?’
‘Sten and Monica. They lived here for less than a year, but I think they somehow managed to worm their way into that group. For some reason they were allowed in.’
‘What do you know about them?’
‘Not much. They lived over on Bryggargatan, and they didn’t have any children, as far as I know. They moved away after only a year.’
‘What’s their last name?’
Widén paused to think.
‘Hmm … I’m sorry, but I can’t remember. But I’m sure the others would know.’
‘How long did these sorts of parties go on?’
‘I think there were actually only a few of them. I don’t think it worked out. I heard that the parties got out of hand and somebody was jealous … All I know is that something happened, and then they stopped.’
Jacobsson stared in astonishment at the man sitting on the other side of the table. She tried to make sense of what she’d just heard. This was an entirely new lead that cast a different light on the investigation. Could this be the explanation for the murders? The next step was to get hold of the couple that had moved away and then interview the rest of the group again. None of them had ever said a word about swinger parties. Jacobsson stood up and was about to thank Widén when he held out his hand.
‘It was nice to meet you. I’d love to see you again, if you’re interested.’
Surprised, Jacobsson reached out to take the business card he wanted to give her.
‘Call me, if you like.’
He smiled at her, and in his eyes she saw genuine appreciation. She couldn’t help smiling back. It had been a long time since a man had shown any interest in her. She could hardly remember what it felt like.
Moving a bit unsteadily, she left Janne Widén’s back garden.
AS JACOBSSON WAS walking to work on Monday morning, she got a phone call from Wittberg. She could tell from his voice that he had something important to tell her.
‘I was out at Svaidestugan last night. You know, that orienteering place in Follingbo. In the sauna I met a guy who told me something very interesting.’
‘Really?’
‘Just listen to this. He works as a chef in town and does a lot of running in his free time: ordinary running and orienteering. One evening in May he went out after work to go running. It was late, after ten o’clock, so he chose the route that has electric lights since it was dark. Well, as dark as it gets in May – dusk at any rate. After jogging almost the whole route, he was on his way back when he discovered a couple having sex in the woods, right above the marshy area up there near Svaide.’
‘And?’ Jacobsson was wondering what this had to do with the investigation.
‘At first he just heard some strange sounds in the dark. He thought it sounded like somebody was sick or needed help. A woman was crying and whimpering. But when he got closer, he saw a couple a short distance away from the path. There was a full moon, so he could see them quite clearly. A naked woman tied to a tree, and a man having sex with her. At first glance, he thought she was being raped, so he was about to rush forward to rescue her. But then he realized that even though she was … making a lot of noise, and bound, she was actually enjoying it. Apparently she was wearing a blindfold too. So then he just kept on running. The couple never saw him.’
‘What’s so interesting about all of this, other than that he had a different sort of running experience that day?’ asked Jacobsson, yawning.
‘He saw their car. It was a purple Corvette.’
‘And?’
‘Don’t you remember? Andrea Dahlberg’s sports car. We talked about how cool it was. It’s a purple, or plum-coloured Corvette.’
‘Oh, that’s right.’
‘And this guy even remembers that the registration on the number plate started with “O”.’
Jacobsson uttered a sigh of relief. It would be child’s play to find a purple Corvette with a number plate starting with ‘O’ on the small island of Gotland. Finally something was happening in the investigation.
‘Did he give you a description of the couple?’
‘It all happened so fast, but he recalls that the man looked very fit, without being a hunk. That’s all he could say about him. The woman was thin and apparently had dark hair. And he recalls that she had small breasts.’
Jacobsson frowned. So that ruled out Andrea Dahlberg. It was impossible not to notice that she wore a size-C cup. Had someone borrowed her car?
‘What about their age?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘He guessed thirty-five or forty.’
‘OK. The meeting starts in fifteen minutes. I’ve also got some news to report.’
A feeling of anticipation hovered over the meeting of the investigative team. A good deal of new developments had surfaced. Both Kihlgård and Sohlman were present. Lars Norrby wasn’t there, but that was no great loss. Wittberg was in the process of checking out the few Corvettes to be found on Gotland. They had convened in the usual conference room. Jacobsson raised her eyebrows at the sight of two chocolate cakes on the table, decorated with French flags.
‘Is it somebody’s birthday?’ she asked her colleagues as they took seats around the table.
‘To
day is Bastille Day in France,’ Kihlgård told her solemnly. ‘And I think that’s worth celebrating. Help yourselves.’ He motioned for everyone to take a piece of cake.
Jacobsson smiled to herself. Celebrating this particular holiday with Kihlgård had practically become a tradition at police headquarters in Visby. She strongly doubted whether a comparable celebration of the Swedish independence day ever took place at a police station in France.
After everyone had taken a piece of cake, Jacobsson began by telling them about the couple that had been seen near Svaidestugan, and the car that was parked nearby.
At that moment Wittberg stuck his head in the door.
‘We’ve found the car. Guess who it belongs to?’
‘I’m not going to guess,’ replied Jacobsson with ill-concealed impatience.
‘It’s just as we thought. Andrea Dahlberg.’
‘OK,’ said Jacobsson, picking up her phone. ‘Let’s bring her in.’
Then she reported on the wild parties that the group of friends had evidently indulged in only a year ago.
Everyone stared in surprise at their boss. Even Kihlgård stopped eating.
‘Swinger parties? Good Lord,’ exclaimed Wittberg. ‘Do people really do that sort of thing? And right there in those fancy houses in Terra Nova? Imagine that – it’s actually sort of cool.’
‘Maybe so,’ said Jacobsson. ‘But so far this information is just based on rumours. Our first priority is to conduct new interviews and find out if there’s any truth to it. I don’t know how many times we’ve asked these damned Pollyannas – and I’m actually starting to get really fed up with them – whether there’s anything else we should know about their relationships. Even though two members of their group have fallen victim to a murderer, they’ve all been as quiet as mice. I’m going to be bloody pissed off if these rumours are true.’
The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7) Page 21
