The Double Silence (21 page)

He put the groceries in the fridge and pantry. He was planning to cook himself a steak for supper. With potato wedges and red wine. For lunch he would have sliced meatballs and pickled beets on the famous flat bread that his parents made at their farm just a little further north, in Kappelshamn. He realized that it had been a while since he’d visited them. So he decided to drop by and have coffee with them tomorrow before he went back to town. But first he needed to get busy with the tedious task of repairing the roof. He made coffee and poured himself a cup. Then he set the transistor radio on the table outside so he could listen to the programme
Melodikrysset
while he was working.

He went out to the tool shed to fetch a hammer and nails, as well as the roof tiles that he’d bought some time ago. He leaned the ladder against the eaves, but then realized it was too hot for the clothes he was wearing. He went back inside to change his jeans and shirt for a pair of shorts and a polo shirt. He glanced at the thermometer in the kitchen window. Already 24 degrees centigrade, even though it wasn’t even ten o’clock. An area of high pressure was on its way from Russia, and it would probably park itself over Gotland and stay for weeks. He was hoping that would happen. Not so much for his own sake, since he didn’t enjoy really hot weather, but Lina and the kids did. Not to mention all the tourists, of course.

He put on the carpenter’s belt that Lina had given him for his birthday a few years back. He’d taken the hint, realizing that if he had the tools handy, he could just as well do the work himself instead of hiring someone. Several years ago he’d helped a good friend put on a tile roof, so he should be able to manage. He put the tiles on his shoulder and climbed up the ladder just as the theme song of
Melodikrysset
started playing. The next
second he heard the familiar voice of Anders Eldeman giving the correct answers from the previous week’s show.

When Knutas had climbed high enough up, he lifted off the tiles and set them on the roof. Then he nervously took a step away from the ladder. He’d always been a bit scared of heights. On trembling legs he carried the tiles up to the place on the ridge where the old tiles had blown away. He carefully knelt down, placing the tiles next to him. Only then could he enjoy the view. He looked out over the sea, glittering with sunlight, and the rocky shore; way off in the distance, near the harbour, he could see the
rauk
called Jungfrun, which was a landmark for Lickershamn. Suddenly he heard a clattering sound next to him. In a flash he saw that the tiles had started sliding down the roof. He reached out to grab them, but at that moment he lost his balance.

He didn’t even have time to think before he found himself tumbling down off the roof.

VALTER OLSSON’S HOME
was located in the middle of the woods. A blue gate near the narrow road was the only indication that someone lived in the vicinity. They parked outside the gate, struck by the silence that enveloped them. The only sound was the constant, soothing roar of the sea. Karin took a deep breath. How fresh the air was.

A one-storey wooden house painted brown stood in a clearing right above the water. A storage shed and an outdoor privy also stood nearby. Nothing fancy. A small piece of ground surrounded the cabin; a broom leaned against the front wall. No porch. Another small blue gate faced the sea.

Jacobsson lifted the hasp and stepped inside the gate; then she stopped among the trees to look down at the rocky shore. There she saw an old rotting boathouse that looked as if it might collapse at any minute. An upside-down rowing boat lay near the water’s edge; it was in disrepair and bleached from the sun. It clearly hadn’t been used for a long time. According to Märta Gardell, her brother kept his fishing boat inside the boathouse. Right now it was empty.

A few terns glided over the surface of the water. Jacobsson turned to peer with curiosity in the direction where she assumed Ingmar Bergman had lived. Cliffs; barbed wire ending out in the sea. The house must be beyond the next bend.

The cabin seemed deserted. A rusty old bicycle was parked outside. A few dirty and dented plastic containers lay on the grass. There was no real garden to speak of. The ground was barren, covered with stones, the only
vegetation a few juniper shrubs clustered together inside the stone wall that surrounded the property.

The door opened with a creak. Quietly Kihlgård pushed it further open so they could go inside. They were instantly struck by the view of the water. Straight ahead, at the other end of the cabin, was a row of windows. The small, cramped kitchen faced the other direction. There they saw a table and two chairs with floral-patterned cushions. Jacobsson guessed that it was Valter’s sister who had made them. The curtains had the same pattern. She felt a lump settle in her stomach. Life was so strange. Would it really finish in this lonely way? Was this all that was left at the end? Thoughts of Lydia flitted through her mind. She was interrupted when Kihlgård shouted from the bedroom.

‘Look at this.’

Kihlgård was standing next to the bed, holding a photograph in his hand. Jacobsson stood on tiptoe to peer at an old black-and-white photo, probably taken sometime in the 1960s. Bergman, wearing a beret and polo-neck sweater, was standing on a rock near the sea with his arm around a lean-looking man clad in a vest and peaked cap. Both were suntanned and smiling at the camera.

‘This must be him,’ said Kihlgård. ‘Valter Olsson. They certainly look like they were good friends.’

‘They certainly do.’

‘The bed seems to have been recently made. But it’s impossible to tell when it was last used.’

Jacobsson sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, feeling discouraged.

‘What should we do?’

‘First we’ll search the cabin, and then we’ll have a look at the boathouse down by the water. I’m afraid that since his boat is gone and he hasn’t been seen for a whole week, we have to expect the worst. He may have drowned when he was out fishing.’ Kihlgård got out his mobile. ‘I’ll ask the others to find out if a rowing boat has come ashore anywhere along the coast. If so, we’ll soon have our answer.’

Jacobsson stared up at her colleague from under her fringe.

‘Don’t you think this is all a bit strange? First Sam Dahlberg is found dead on Stora Karlsö a couple of days after he’s been here on Fårö to attend the Bergman festival. Then Stina Ek disappears from the island during the same week while taking a bicycle ride. And now another man is missing. And who does he happen to be? Bergman’s closest neighbour. I don’t think it’s just a coincidence. There must be a connection.’

Kihlgård nodded pensively.

‘I’m sure you’re right. The question is: What on earth does Ingmar Bergman have to do with all of this?’

KNUTAS LOOKED AROUND
the room. The hospital smells prickled his nose. Cautiously he turned his wrist, grimacing with pain.

Fortunately his neighbour had been able to take him to accident and emergency after he fell off the roof. He was feeling dazed and gratefully accepted a painkiller and a glass of water from a nurse who came into the room. She gave him a smile.

‘So how’s it going?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Knutas. ‘I feel sick. My wrist hurts. My head does too.’

‘You have a bad concussion, and your wrist is broken. It was a nasty fall. Considering the circumstances, you’re doing well.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Twelve ten. We’ve phoned Lina, and she’s on her way.’

Everyone knew Lina. She’d worked at the hospital for fifteen years.

‘We need to put a cast on your wrist. We’ll do that later this afternoon.’

‘Will I be able to go to work?’ asked Knutas worriedly.

‘That’s for the doctor to decide, but I think you’ll probably need to stay home for a week at least. A serious concussion is nothing to muck around with. There can be complications if you don’t take it easy. But it was lucky that it was your left hand. You’re right-handed, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. Could I make a phone call?’

‘Of course. Would you like your mobile?’

‘Yes, please. But first I’ve got to use the toilet.’

‘Let me help you.’

With great effort he sat up and put his feet on the floor. At that moment his head started to spin, as if someone had struck him.

‘How are you doing?’ asked the nurse, holding him by the arm.

Knutas sighed. It seemed very unlikely that he’d be back at work on Monday.

THE FLAT WAS
situated in a row of dilapidated buildings with external walkways built sometime in the 1960s.

At the moment no lights were on in any of the windows. No one seemed to be at home. That suited him perfectly.

He unlocked the front door and entered the hall. Since he had just stepped in from outside, he noticed how stuffy it smelled. He walked through the living room, which was furnished with a white leather sofa, a coffee table with smoked glass and gilded feet, and a bookcase made of cherry. A porcelain Dalmatian adorned one corner of the room. The blinds were drawn, hanging drearily in front of the window and blocking the view of the building on the other side of the street. Just the way he liked it. He didn’t want to be aware of the world outside. Not now. He needed to concentrate on what was ahead. He had to prepare. He went into the bedroom, where the bed was still unmade, and pulled out the drawer of the nightstand to get the key to the locked room. In addition to the kitchen the flat consisted of three rooms, but he used only two of them on a daily basis. The empty room was intended for special purposes. He turned the key in the lock. It was pitch dark inside, with a faint aroma of incense. The fragrance called up memories for him, and if he stayed inside for any length of time, he almost felt dizzy – from both desire and yearning. He had meticulously furnished what he called the Red Room – although it had nothing to do with Strindberg’s novel of the same name.

He switched on the ceiling light and went in. The purple-coloured carpet was soft under his feet; the walls were inviting with their warm,
rustred colour. It was the biggest room in the flat, and was most likely intended to be the living room. He had placed the water bed in the centre, and the ceiling was covered with mirrors. In each corner stood a pillar sprayed gold and topped with a scented candle and incense burner. The opposite wall was papered with photos of her. Naked on the bed, seminude in the garden on the other side of the hedge, fully dressed with the children outside the Coop Forum.

He was going to bring her here, and they would re-experience what they’d once had. It would be even better than before. If only he could manage to persuade her, if only she would allow him near her again, then she would realize it was here she belonged. In the Red Room. With him and no one else. And now he had taken a definite step closer to his goal. A very important step. Pleased and filled with confidence he opened his bag and took out another stack of photos.

Then he began tacking them up on the wall, one after the other.

JACOBSSON AND KIHLGÅRD
decided to have lunch at the Kuten restaurant, which was right across from where the ill-fated Terra Nova group had stayed.

Kihlgård looked astounded as Jacobsson pulled into the small car park near the road and stopped next to an old American Ford Falcon. They could hear fifties rock music as soon as they got out of the car. Playing on the restaurant jukebox was Little Gerhard’s big hit, ‘Buona Sera’.

‘What a place!’ he exclaimed. ‘It takes me right back to the fifties.’ He pointed at a sign above the entrance. ‘What an original name for a restaurant.
Kuten
,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t that mean seal pup?’

Jacobsson shrugged.

‘I have no idea.’

Inside the restaurant a genuine French chef was busy making crêpes. Kihlgård exchanged a few words with him in his native tongue. They ordered lunch and managed to find a free table. It was stifling inside, and Jacobsson felt a band of pressure on her forehead.

‘I can tell we’re in for a thunderstorm before tonight.’

As soon as the food appeared, they both fell silent. Kihlgård was so preoccupied with his fragrant crêpe filled with salmon that he couldn’t talk. Only when his plate was empty did he feel like conversing.

‘That was fantastic,’ he said. ‘Don’t you agree? So crisp. And what flavour! You can tell that the chef is a real expert.’

‘Yes, but it’s incredibly rich.’ Jacobsson put down her fork. She’d eaten only half of her crêpe.

‘A real Frenchman, too,’ Kihlgård went on with satisfaction. ‘You can always tell when something is genuinely French.’

Kihlgård’s weakness for France was well known, and a couple of years earlier he had told his colleagues that he had a French boyfriend. Jacobsson assumed that they were still together. She and Kihlgård liked each other on a professional basis, but they almost never talked about anything personal.

She studied her colleague, unable to ignore his hungry glances. Swiftly she shoved her plate over to his side of the table.

‘I’m done. Have the rest if you like.’

Kihlgård looked like a child on Christmas Eve.

‘Really? Thanks.’

After lunch they found their way out to Arne Gustavsson’s place. He ran a farm in Hammars and lived close to Valter Olsson’s cabin. They declined the offer of coffee since they were starting to run out of time. A dog barked from an enclosed dog run. They sat down in the yard, and Gustavsson told them how Stina had ridden past on her bicycle a week ago, on Saturday afternoon.

‘Do you recall what time it was when you saw her?’

‘It was sometime after three o’clock, but no later than four. I’m afraid I can’t be more exact than that.’

‘How did she seem?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘I didn’t see much because she was going so fast. She rode past my house, with my dog barking after her. I think she wanted to get away as quickly as possible. My dog can seem a bit scary.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I called after her, trying to get her to stop, but she just kept going. Then she disappeared.’