The Double Silence (23 page)

‘Now we have two murders and one missing woman,’ said Jacobsson. ‘We have to be grateful that the media hasn’t yet found out about Valter Olsson. But I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.’

Kihlgård chewed pensively before he replied.

‘With every day that passes, I’m more and more inclined to think that Stina Ek has also fallen victim to the murderer.’

‘So we’re talking about a serial killer?’ Jacobsson sighed. ‘If that’s true, what do these three people have in common? OK, I know that Sam and
Stina belonged to the same circle of friends. But what about Valter Olsson? What the hell does he have to do with the case?’

‘You sure swear a lot,’ complained Kihlgård, giving her a disapproving look. He took out another handful of crisps made from genuine Swedish potatoes.

‘Let’s go back to the beginning. It feels as if it all started on Fårö. That’s where Olsson lived, and he was friends with Ingmar Bergman. That’s where Stina was last seen, and she was apparently on her way to Bergman’s house for some reason. It seems Bergman is the common denominator.’

‘What did Sam Dahlberg have to do with Bergman?’

‘He was a film director, so they shared a profession, which might not be an insignificant factor in the case. Sam was also an ardent fan of Bergman’s work. He’d seen all his films and read most of the books written about him. You’ve read the transcripts of the interviews with Sam’s wife, haven’t you? They even used to watch Bergman movies on Sunday mornings while they were having breakfast.’

‘Sure, but what does that really signify? There are plenty of people who like Bergman. Why should it have any connection with the murders?’

‘I have no idea.’ Jacobsson shrugged. ‘But maybe that’s the angle we should be taking. Something to do with the actors … Maybe Sam had a score to settle with some crazy celebrity.’

‘That seems like a long shot. Maybe we should focus more on the actual setting of Fårö – from a purely physical point of view. That’s where Sam, Stina and Valter were. And they all had some connection to Bergman. I’m starting to wonder whether Stina ever left Fårö.’

‘What if …?’ Jacobsson fixed her eyes on her colleague. ‘What if that’s where we should be looking? On Bergman’s property. What if Valter Olsson happened to find Stina out there and tried to get her to leave? What if a third person is involved?’

Kihlgård stared at her in astonishment.

‘A third person who killed both Stina and Valter. He drifted ashore in Latvia. So where in the world is Stina?’ he said.

Jacobsson didn’t reply.

She had stood up and was already heading for the door.

IT TOOK A
couple of hours to get Chief Prosecutor Smittenberg to issue a search warrant for Ingmar Bergman’s property.

Three police cars parked outside the gate. Two officers with dogs were also present.

Kihlgård and Jacobsson went first, accompanied by Valter Olsson’s sister. The gravel crunched under their feet. Erik Sohlman had asked to have the area cordoned off, just to be safe. Even if they didn’t find a body, it was best to take preventive measures. If the theory turned out to be correct, that Stina Ek and Olsson had been murdered in the vicinity, every piece of evidence would be crucial.

Suddenly they caught sight of the house between the trees. It blended in beautifully with the natural setting – a long, one-storey structure surrounded by a high stone wall that hid the property from view. So this was the world-famous director’s home, which had been kept private from outsiders all these years. Jacobsson couldn’t help feeling a little excited.

‘Bloody hell, it’s a long building,’ she exclaimed.

‘There you go again, swearing,’ said Kihlgård drily.

To reach the side facing the sea, they had to go through the gate next to the house. Jacobsson couldn’t help peeking in through the windows. First a long hallway. To the right a modest kitchen with pine cupboards and a table next to the window. A few simple chairs.

‘You’d think he would have indulged himself with something a bit more luxurious,’ said Jacobsson in surprise.

‘He was probably content to enjoy the luxury of being alone and left in peace. It’s a big house, after all. And look at the view,’ said Kihlgård with a sigh. ‘It’s not something that just anyone could afford.’

They went over to the veranda, which faced the sea. There they stood in silence for a moment, looking out at the horizon and the entire rocky shoreline.

Jacobsson peered into the library. The walls were covered with books, and in the middle stood bookcases holding rows of files and folders. It almost looked like a public library, with a ladder and everything. At the far end stood a beautifully designed office chair in black leather next to a desk.

‘So that’s where he sat, gazing out at the sea and writing. How bloody marvellous!’

‘Watch your language, Karin,’ admonished Kihlgård. ‘Now, if you’re done peeping in the windows, maybe we should get to work.’ He turned to the dog-handlers who were standing nearby. The dogs were panting and yapping and tugging at their leads, eager to start the search. When the two Labs were let loose, they immediately began sniffing at every centimetre of the property.

Suddenly both dogs set off for the sea and the fence that separated Bergman’s land from Valter Olsson’s. They jumped at the enclosure, barking like crazy. Officers came running from all directions. The dogs soon found a big hole in the fence, and they easily slipped through.

‘There’s something on the neighbouring property,’ said one of the dog-handlers. ‘Without a doubt. Over there on the other side.’

‘OK,’ said Jacobsson resolutely.

The police followed. At the water’s edge they found the upside-down rowing boat that Jacobsson had noticed on their earlier visit to Olsson’s cabin. The dogs dashed straight for the boat and continued to bark.

The two dog-handlers lifted up the boat and moved it away.

The dogs sat down nearby as the two officers began to dig. It didn’t take long before their shovels struck something, and slowly a decaying body came to light. Bloated and greenish-grey in colour, the skin had come loose in several places, and maggots were crawling all over the corpse. The
eyes were sunken and cloudy. The hair a shiny black. Jacobsson turned away and threw up in the water.

Kihlgård gloomily studied the dead woman, who was wearing only a skirt and bra. In spite of the sorry state of the body, there was no question about the victim’s identity.

‘So at last we’ve found Stina Ek,’ he murmured.

THAT AFTERNOON, THE
entire area surrounding Ingmar Bergman’s domain was cordoned off, and it didn’t take long before journalists began turning up on Fårö. Rumours spread quickly, and reporters from all over Sweden flew to Gotland. Later that evening the foreign press also began to appear, mostly from Germany, where interest in Bergman was especially strong, since he had lived in Munich for almost ten years.

Word got out that a murdered woman had been found on property belonging to Bergman. When the foreign reporters realized that the victim had actually been discovered on a neighbour’s land, their interest waned.

But the Swedish media was difficult enough to handle, and police spokesman Lars Norrby asked for help after only a few hours.

‘This is fucking sick,’ snapped Jacobsson to Wittberg as she hurried along the corridor of the Criminal Division, on her way to the late-night meeting of the investigative team. ‘We can’t even do our job because of all the media hysteria. Those journalists are nothing but a bunch of lunatics. We’re going to have to call in the armoured troops on Fårö to keep the reporters away.’

They’d already heard that the police officers on the scene were having a hard time keeping out curiosity-seekers. Wittberg merely shook his head as they entered the conference room. At that moment Knutas phoned Jacobsson, but she didn’t take the call. She’d ring him later, after the meeting was over.

‘All right. We now have a lot of things to discuss,’ she began, looking at
her colleagues gathered around the table. ‘We found the body of Stina Ek near Valter Olsson’s home on Fårö. Only twenty metres or so away from Ingmar Bergman’s property. The body was buried in the sand underneath an overturned rowing boat, so there’s no doubt about the fact that she was murdered. What we don’t yet know is when she was killed, but the ME will be able to determine that from the post-mortem. I’ve requested top priority for this case, and the ME has already flown over from the mainland. He’s on the scene right now, along with Erik Sohlman and the other crime techs. Stina Ek was last seen when she cycled past Arne Gustavsson’s farm on the afternoon of Saturday, the twenty-eighth of June. Sometime around three or four o’clock, after leaving her husband behind at the Slow Train Inn. An hour later she phoned him to say that she’d met a childhood friend. Then later that evening, as you know, he received a text message saying that she’d been called in to work.’

‘So she must have been killed after sending the text message – if she was the one who sent it, that is,’ said Wittberg. ‘But why did she lie?’

‘Why did she want to stay away?’ Jacobsson asked.

‘And why did no one besides this Arne Gustavsson notice her?’ interjected Kihlgård. ‘She was quite striking in appearance. Not somebody who could disappear in a crowd.’

‘Not a single witness seems to have seen her other than Gustavsson,’ Jacobsson confirmed. ‘And all indications are that she headed straight for Hammars, turned off the main road, and then took only side roads. Sheep are the only living things to be found out there.’

Wittberg ran his fingers through his blond mane.

‘How did she happen to end up at Valter Olsson’s place?’

‘Either the perpetrator found her there, or if they ran into each other near Bergman’s house, Stina may have tried to flee through the neighbour’s property. Maybe she was being chased. Or else she was killed on Bergman’s property and then her body was dragged next door, even though that’s a long way. The question is: Who was in the vicinity at the same time Stina was there?’

‘Well, it happened during the Bergman festival,’ said Wittberg. ‘So plenty of people could have been out there.’

Jacobsson was interrupted by the ringing of her mobile. When she saw that it was Sohlman, she took the call.

The others seated around the table watched her in silence as she listened to the crime tech. When he was done with his report, she turned to her colleagues.

‘That was Sohlman. They’ve found blood on Bergman’s veranda and on the wall of the house facing the shore. And one more thing. In a nook of the veranda they found a top and a thong, neatly folded. They seem to be Stina’s size.’

‘So they weren’t just tossed there?’ asked Kihlgård. ‘They were folded up, nice and neat?’

Jacobsson nodded.

‘What about the bicycle? Have they found it?’

‘No, they haven’t.’

Kihlgård looked thoughtful. He took a banana from the fruit platter on the table, peeled it slowly, and then said: ‘Maybe Stina Ek contacted someone. She must have been ecstatic about finding Bergman’s house. What would you do in that sort of situation?’ Kihlgård waved the banana in the air as he went on. ‘You’d want to share the experience with somebody. So she phoned someone. The question is: Who? And why did she take off her clothes? Apparently she did it voluntarily. It was planned.’

‘Her husband?’ suggested Wittberg. ‘Maybe she was bold enough to want to have a tryst out there.’

‘Or … could it have been someone else?’ suggested Jacobsson. ‘Someone she was having an affair with? Sam Dahlberg, for instance? He was such a Bergman fanatic. Maybe that was something they shared.’

‘What if he was the one? Who went out there, I mean. Where was Andrea Dahlberg at that time?’

Jacobsson leafed through her notes.

‘She was at the Bergman Centre in the late afternoon. That’s where she ran into an old friend from school. They had coffee together, so she wouldn’t have noticed if her husband slipped away. He could probably have been away for at least a couple of hours without drawing attention.’

‘Have we talked to this childhood friend?’ asked Kihlgård.

‘It’s been very difficult to get hold of her,’ Jacobsson admitted, noticing to her chagrin that her face had turned crimson.

‘Do we know this person’s name?’ Kihlgård patiently went on.

‘Andrea Dahlberg couldn’t remember her name, and she found it embarrassing to ask. Of course we’ve gone through the class lists from Andrea’s school years in order to pinpoint this person. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have any school photos from that time. That would have made it easy.’

‘Because I think it’s really strange,’ Kihlgård stubbornly continued. ‘On that afternoon Stina Ek meets an old friend from her school days – or from middle school, to be more specific – and the two of them go to a restaurant together. Then at almost exactly the same time Andrea Dahlberg runs into a childhood friend and they have coffee together at the Bergman Centre. Doesn’t it seem a bit odd?’

‘Who provided us with this information?’ asked Prosecutor Smittenberg.

‘Both Håkan Ek and Andrea Dahlberg.’

‘Håkan and Andrea – the spouses of the two murder victims,’ muttered Kihlgård. ‘Quite a coincidence.’

‘Yes, you might say that,’ replied Jacobsson. ‘Let’s stay with Andrea Dahlberg for a moment. She contacted the police over the weekend after she received that phone call from an unknown man who was apparently right outside her door. We need to check up on that. I want us to knock on more doors in the neighbourhood and talk to people who live in Terra Nova, to find out if anyone saw anything suspicious. Evidently Andrea has felt someone watching her for quite a while. Up until Friday night, she had dismissed it as just her imagination. But not any more. We’ve asked her to stay with a relative or a good friend for the time being, but she refused. At least the children are staying elsewhere.’

‘Did she recognize the voice?’

‘No. The person who called seemed to be disguising his voice.’

‘I went out there to talk to her, and she was really upset. But she had no idea who the person could be,’ said Kihlgård. ‘And none of the neighbours had noticed anything unusual.’