‘Can you tell us what’s going on?’ asked Johan, looking down at Andrea’s cuffed hands. Pia was unabashedly filming, without even considering asking for permission. As usual.
‘Nothing that I can discuss at the moment. I’m sorry, but I can’t comment.’
‘Why is Andrea Dahlberg under arrest if the perpetrator has been caught?’
Knutas stopped abruptly to stare at Johan.
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg arrested a man on suspicion of murder just a couple of hours ago.’
Then something happened that no one could have expected. Before Knutas or any of the other police officers could react, Andrea leaned forward and looked Johan right in the eye.
‘I’m the one who killed them. It was me.’
Then she continued moving forward, keeping her gaze fixed on the façade of the building.
THE PLANE LEFT at two in the afternoon. Karin had a window seat, so she watched as the flat Gotland landscape disappeared far below. About a week had passed since the murder drama of the summer had finally been resolved – and what a commotion there had been. Two potential perpetrators had been arrested almost at the same time, with a disappointing result for Jacobsson. She and Wittberg had been on the wrong track. It turned out that Sten Boberg was a stalker, but he’d had nothing to do with the killings.
Andrea Dahlberg had confessed, and technical evidence had also been provided by the crime lab. They discovered that the skin underneath Stina Ek’s fingernails had come from Andrea. So the game was over, and now they were just waiting for the arraignment.
Andrea would have to undergo a psychiatric examination. Karin couldn’t help feeling sorry for the woman. Life was a labyrinth, and the human being was such a fragile creature. She found it hard to judge anyone. I’m really too soft-hearted to be a police officer, she thought, looking out of the window as the plane rose through the cloud cover.
Now she was on her way to see her daughter. When Karin thought about that, she felt her stomach churn. She was glad the plane was only half full so she had the row to herself. She needed to retreat for a while. She’d decided to meet with Hanna von Schwerin face to face, but without phoning her in advance. She’d just have to wait and see how things went. Knutas was the one who had helped her make up her mind. He had offered support and encouragement all along. She pictured his face in her mind and couldn’t help feeling both admiration and a bit of envy because he was the one who had actually caught the murderer.
The plane landed at Bromma Airport outside Stockholm, and Jacobsson headed straight for the taxi queue. She hadn’t bothered to bring along any luggage. On the way she switched on her mobile and discovered a text message. It said: Saturday 8 o’clock at Packhuskällaren? Interested? Hugs from Janne. Karin smiled and replied: Sounds great.
She got into a cab.
‘I’m going to Wollmar Yxkullsgatan 51,’ she said, noticing that her voice quavered. If Hanna wasn’t at home, she’d just wait outside. It didn’t matter how long it took.
The cab stopped in front of a grand red-brick building with a beautifully carved door. Karin paid the fare and got out. Her heart was beating twice as fast as normal. Through the glass panes in the door she could make out a gold nameplate engraved with the names of all the residents who lived in the building.
Hanna von Schwerin lived on the fifth floor, which meant that her flat was at the very top. Karin wondered if it faced the street. She backed up a few metres and peered at the façade from the opposite pavement. A beautiful, ornamental wrought-iron balcony covered nearly half the width of the building on the top floor. Was that her flat? Karin assumed that it must have cost several million Swedish kronor. Her courage sank. How would this all end?
She walked back across the street and over to a small café. She sat down at a table nearest the door and ordered a caffè latte and a glass of water. She lit a cigarette, preparing herself for a long wait. She’d brought along some newspapers, which she absent-mindedly leafed through as she sat there. An hour passed. Then another. Several times the door opened and various people came and went. An elderly couple, a young man, a father with a baby in a pram. No one who could possibly be Hanna von Schwerin.
Karin needed to use the toilet, but she was afraid of missing her daughter. For a long time nothing happened, and she began to lose hope. What if Hanna was out of town?
It was past five o’clock when the front door opened again. First she saw the dog. A big, shaggy mongrel that was tugging at its lead. The next second a young woman appeared. She looked to be about twenty-five. Karin stared, holding her breath. She was just as short as Karin, with tousled dark hair under a cap that said ‘Fuck You’ on it. A hoodie, jeans and trainers.
‘Come on, Nelson,’ she said to the dog, which had spotted Karin sitting at the nearby table and had come over to say hello. Karin leaned down to let him lick her hand. And then she couldn’t help it – she started to cry.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Hanna, who hadn’t noticed Karin’s tears. ‘He loves people.’
Karin raised her head, with tears still streaming down her face.
Hanna’s smile vanished. At first she looked surprised.
‘Oh, what’s wrong …?’
Then her voice faded. Her gaze quickly took in Karin’s face. The young woman froze.
Karin looked at her daughter. There was absolutely no doubt.
Hanna even had a little gap between her front teeth.
KNUTAS WAS SITTING at his desk, filling his pipe. The corridor outside his office was quiet. It was past midnight. He had stayed on at headquarters to go through all of the paperwork that had piled up while he was on sick leave. It felt good to put that whole depressing murder case behind him. It was time to move on.
Besides, there were plenty of other things that required his attention. In spite of his good intentions, the whole summer had now passed and he hadn’t yet decided what to do about Karin. A feeling of guilt kept nagging at him, and he couldn’t stand it any longer. If only that double murderer, Vera Petrov, could be found, he thought. Then everything could be looked at in a new light – it could be worked out. But so far that hadn’t happened, and there was no indication that an arrest was imminent. The police still had no idea where in the world Petrov and her husband, Stefan Norrström, might be. The international authorities were looking for her, but most likely she was staying put in one place. And as long as she stayed away from Sweden and didn’t draw attention to herself, she would probably remain free.
Knutas stood up with a heavy sigh and went over to the window. He opened it to let the warm night air sweep into the room. He lit his pipe and exhaled smoke into the darkness.
The murder investigation had taken a toll on him, as usual. The whole story about Andrea Dahlberg’s past was so sad. The tragedy that had struck her family. Her father’s betrayal. And the pastor’s too. Then, as an adult, she had experienced the same sort of betrayal all over again. She had truly believed that she had everything she could possibly want, but it turned out to be an illusion.
And Ingmar Bergman had wound up in the middle of the whole case. Actually, he didn’t have anything to do with the investigation, but there did seem to be parallels between his depictions of people and the individuals whom Knutas had encountered while investigating the homicides this summer.
Knutas was reminded of a picture that hung on the wall in the Dahlberg home. It was a big, black-and-white movie poster for the Bergman film Persona. It showed the actresses Bibi Andersson and Liv Ullmann in a tender pose, with their faces close together. Next to the poster was a small card with a quote from the film: Can you be one and the same person, at exactly the same time? I mean, be two people? That quote sums up this whole sodding case, he thought.
Knutas took one last puff on his pipe, then he tapped out the embers and put it away in his desk drawer. It was time to go home.
Just then his phone rang. He cast a glance at the clock on the wall.
Twelve forty-five. Who would ring at this time of night?
There was a crackling sound on the phone and someone rattled off a string of words in a foreign language. It sounded like Spanish. Then he heard a voice that he recognized.
‘Hi, Anders. It’s Kurt.’
Kurt Fogestam, inspector with the Stockholm police. They’d known each other for a very long time.
‘I’m here on holiday in Las Terrenas in the Dominican Republic.’
‘Did you say the Dominican Republic?’
‘Yes, and wait till you hear this. Do you know who I just saw get into a car outside the hotel?’
‘Who?’
‘Stefan Norrström.’
Knutas sank on to his chair. His head was spinning. Vera Petrov’s husband. So the tip they’d received earlier from the tourist was correct after all. They’d dismissed the information because the man had been drunk and the photograph was too blurry to make a conclusive identification. But had he really heard right?
‘Who did you say?’
‘Stefan Norrström, Vera Petrov’s husband. I’m certain it was him. But I didn’t see the number plate and I couldn’t follow him. I was coming back from the beach, on foot, with my wife, and I caught sight of him just as he got in the car. At first I wasn’t sure, so I ran towards the street and got a good look at his face as he drove past. I’m a hundred per cent positive. It was him.’
Acknowledgements
This story is entirely fictional. Any similarities between the characters in the novel and actual individuals are coincidental. Occasionally I have taken artistic liberties to change things for the benefit of the book. This includes Swedish TV’s coverage of Gotland, which in the book has been moved to Stockholm. I have the utmost respect for SVT’s regional news programme Östnytt, which covers Gotland with a permanent team stationed in Visby.
The locations used in the book are usually described as they actually exist in reality, although there are a few exceptions.
Any errors that may have slipped into the story are mine alone.
First and foremost, I would like to thank my husband, journalist Cenneth Niklasson, for his support, love, and encouragement.
Special thanks to:
Magnus Frank, detective superintendent with the Visby police
Martin Csatlos, the Forensic Medicine Laboratory in Solna
Ulf Åsgård, psychiatrist
Lena Allerstam, journalist SVT
Paola Ciliberto, managing director Film på Gotland
Balkan Kalka, tour guide Fritidsresor
Mani Maserrat-Agah, film director and owner of Café Cinema
My thanks to everyone at Albert Bonniers Förlag who helped with this book, especially my publisher Jonas Axelsson and my editor Ulrika Åkerlund – your support is invaluable.
A big thanks to Gilda Romero and my agents Joakim Hansson at Nordin Agency and Emma Tibblin, Poa Strömberg and Jenny Stjärnströmer at Stilton Literary Agency.
And thanks to my designer, Sofia Scheutz, for the wonderful cover on the Swedish edition.
And of course I want to thank my beloved children, Rebecka and Sebastian, who are the greatest gifts in my life.
Mari Jungstedt
Stockholm, April 2009
www.marijungstedt.se
www.jungstedtsgotland.se
About the Author
Mari Jungstedt is one of the most successful crime fiction authors in Sweden, and has sold over three million copies of her books worldwide. Barry Forshaw writes that her Inspector Knutas novels are ‘among the most rarefied and satisfying pleasures afforded by the field’. This is her seventh novel set on the island of Gotland and featuring Knutas.
Mari lives in Stockholm with her husband and two children.
Also by Mari Jungstedt
Unseen
Unspoken
Unknown
The Killer’s Art
The Dead of Summer
Dark Angel
For more information on Mari Jungstedt and her books, see her websites at www.jungstedtsgotland.se and www.marijungstedt.se
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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A Random House Group Company
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First published in Great Britain
in 2013 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Mari Jungstedt 2009
English translation copyright © Tiina Nunnally 2013
Mari Jungstedt has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448154067
ISBN 9780857521477
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Table of Contents
Cover
About the Book
Dedication
Epigraph
The Double Silence
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Mari Jungstedt
Copyright
The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7) Page 27
