The Double Silence (32 page)

He continued past the cabins near the bay and headed up the steep stairs to the lighthouse. He met no one and assumed that most of the people were taking the obligatory tour of the island. He’d been given special dispensation so he didn’t have to participate.

It was nice and calm at the top. Knutas paused for a moment to look at the original lighthouse, which was 18 metres tall and built of stones from the island where it stood. The house looked like a small castle that he’d once seen on a trip to France. The lighthouse on Stora Karlsö was not constructed in the usual form of a free-standing round tower. Here the tower was built into the house that had served as a residence for the lighthouse-keeper and his family. If it weren’t for the big lamps in the windows at the very top, it would have been hard to tell that this was actually a lighthouse.

He made his way over to the first bird mountain and stood at the fence, gazing at the cliffs and the narrow ledges. All the birds had now left.

He turned around and went on to the next bird mountain, which was some distance away. This was where Sam Dahlberg had been murdered. The sun was warm on his back, so he took off his jacket. It was almost eleven o’clock, and it was starting to get hot. Suddenly it occurred to him that it was almost exactly the same time of day when somebody pushed Dahlberg off the cliff. What a coincidence. He rounded the curve and the bird mountain was right in front of him. Eagerly he picked up the pace, keeping his eyes on the ridge. So that was where it happened. That was where Dahlberg had met his killer.

Suddenly Knutas gave a start. Someone had appeared up there on the cliff edge, pausing to look out at the sea.

He recognized her at once.

WITH A MUTED
bang the front door closed again. Someone locked the deadbolt and lifted the security chain into place. Sten Boberg was obviously meticulous about keeping out unwelcome visitors. If he only knew, thought Jacobsson. A brief cough, shoes being removed. A jacket hung up on a hook. Footsteps only centimetres away from where both police officers were hiding, standing close together in the small cupboard. Jacobsson was holding on to the back of Wittberg’s jacket so as not to lose her balance. A hanger was jabbing her in the back. Someone went into the toilet without closing the door, judging by the sound. Then the person flushed and came out again. Jacobsson poked her colleague, took out her gun, and motioned for him to step out. Wittberg raised his hand to stop her.

‘Let’s wait a moment,’ he whispered. ‘He might have Andrea.’

Water was running from the tap in the kitchen. Saucepans clattered. Was he making tea? Creaking footsteps heading for the living room, and then the TV went on. Apparently he stood there for a moment, using the remote to surf the channels as one sound was replaced by another: thudding pop music, the babble of a newsreader, loud moaning from what sounded like a porn film. To Jacobsson’s relief, he quickly changed the channel to a sports report, and then music again. It sounded like movie music from some American drama. Footsteps went past again, going back to the kitchen. The clicking sound as a burner was turned off. Every little sound was audible through the thin cupboard door. Boberg seemed to be alone.

At that moment Jacobsson froze. As she stood there with her nose against Wittberg’s back, she remembered that she’d taken off her jacket when they were searching the flat. It was lying on the sofa in the living room. Damn, she thought. Her mobile was in her jacket pocket.

She murmured a silent prayer that he wouldn’t notice it. Her mouth was dry, and her heart was pounding so hard that she was afraid he’d hear it. The man went back to the living room. They immediately smelled smoke. Their first thought was that he’d lit a cigarette, but it didn’t take long before they realized it wasn’t the usual tobacco sold in the shops. Sten Boberg was sitting there smoking hash. So now he’s going to get high? thought Jacobsson with growing frustration. She poked Wittberg. It was too crowded for him to turn around. She ventured a whisper.

‘What the hell should we do?’

Before her colleague could answer, the volume on the TV soared. Voices thundered through the flat, revealing that the music they’d heard before was definitely from some American film. Jacobsson froze. Why had he turned up the volume so loud?

For several minutes they stood there in confusion, unable to guess what was happening beyond the cupboard door. Wittberg tried to take out his mobile but rammed his elbow into a hanger. Jacobsson grabbed the hanger just as silence fell over the flat again. Suddenly they heard the door to the cupboard being locked from the outside. Then came the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor.

Boberg was in the process of blockading the door.

He’d found their hiding place, so there was no longer any need to remain silent.

‘Police!’ shouted Wittberg. ‘Open up!’

‘I’m sure he knows who we are,’ hissed Jacobsson, who was still wedged in behind her colleague. ‘My police badge is in my jacket, which I left on the sofa.’

No answer. Just more scraping and thudding.

Wittberg threw himself against the door, which abruptly gave way, and both officers tumbled out of the closet, only to see a man’s back disappearing
through the door. They ran down the stairs after him and out on to the street.

Just as they came outside, they saw the man they were chasing vanish around the corner.

‘Let’s split up,’ said Jacobsson. ‘You go after him, and I’ll cut him off on the other side.’

They headed off in different directions. Jacobsson dashed around the dilapidated building and came out on a narrow side street.

She slowed down and then cautiously proceeded forward. Looking in all directions, she didn’t dare shout to Wittberg, for fear of warning Boberg.

She crept along the side of the building. Suddenly she heard a crunching sound behind her. Abruptly she spun around. For a second she saw his face. It was not Janne Widén. She felt a momentary relief before she was shoved to the ground. She heard Wittberg yelling.

‘Halt!’

Then silence. Jacobsson cautiously raised her head. Wittberg was standing in the deserted street, pointing his gun at the man whom she assumed was Sten Boberg. For a moment it seemed as if everything stopped. No one spoke; no one moved. Then the man slowly raised his hands in the air.

It was over.

KARIN JACOBSSON BEGAN
the interrogation as soon as they arrived at police headquarters with Sten Boberg. Wittberg insisted on being present in the role of witness.

Boberg’s face was white, and he seemed very nervous as he was led into the interview room in the basement. Jacobsson switched on the tape recorder and then studied the man sitting in front of her. He had classic features and wavy, ash-blond hair. His eyes were an unusual deep blue. Dark eyebrows and long, thick lashes. A real dreamboat, actually. But his eyes kept shifting, and he was constantly licking his lips. Jacobsson estimated his age to be about forty. He was tall and muscular, dressed in jeans and a navy-blue tennis sweater.

‘Tell me about your relationship with Andrea Dahlberg.’

Boberg cleared his throat and again licked his lips.

‘We met a year ago when I moved to Terra Nova with my girlfriend of the time. We met Andrea, her husband, and some other neighbours, and we spent a lot of time with them. But we didn’t live there for long. Monica and I split up, and we moved away.’

‘How would you describe your relationship with Andrea?’

‘Good. Actually, it was fantastic.’ Boberg rubbed the bridge of his nose.

‘We know about the swinger parties you had. Was there anything in particular that happened between you and Andrea in connection with those parties? Did you meet at other times too?’

‘No. I wanted to, but …’

‘But what?’

‘She insisted that it was all just a game. That it was OK at the parties, because everybody else was doing it too. But she didn’t want to see me at other times.’

‘So you didn’t have sex outside of the parties.’

‘No.’

‘Not even once?’

Sten Boberg shook his head.

‘Then how were you able to take pictures of her?’

‘I brought my camera to one of the parties. She was in some of the pictures. Then I secretly took other pictures of her.’

‘What’s your relationship with Andrea today?’

‘I love her, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.’

‘And you feel so strongly about her that you’d be willing to kill her husband?’

The man on the other side of the table met her eyes. He suddenly seemed perfectly calm.

‘No. I didn’t murder anybody. I’ve just been trying to get in touch with Andrea.’

‘Couldn’t you have found a better way to do that than spying on her in the middle of the night and taking a lot of photographs in secret? You could have phoned her, for example.’

‘I did that, but she didn’t want to talk to me.’

‘Why not, if the two of you have such a good relationship?’

‘There were problems. I’m sure you know all about it. Monica was jealous, and everybody in the group got upset and wanted us to leave. I tried to forget Andrea, but then I found the cardboard box with those photos of her, and all of the feelings came flooding back. I tried to contact her again, but I knew that she was afraid of what her husband would think. I thought that if I went out there, we might run into each other, but I didn’t want to scare her, so I started by just watching her.’

‘And you also took pictures, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘A lot of pictures. The fact is, you took a perverse number of photographs. We also have statements from witnesses who saw you sneaking
around in her garden, and you were even bold enough to enter her house.’

Jacobsson was taking a gamble. The police knew only that a man had been seen sneaking around, but they didn’t know whether it was Boberg.

He hid his face in his hands for a moment.

‘Yes, but it was only because I wanted to see her. Be close to her.’

‘Where is Andrea now?’ Jacobsson finally asked him.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘When did you last meet her?’

‘The day before yesterday.’

‘Where was this?’

‘Here in Visby.’

‘How did you happen to meet her?’

‘I’d been trying to contact her for a long time, but she refused to talk to me. Finally I managed to get hold of her, so I lied and said that I knew who had killed Sam and Stina. I thought that would make her want to see me. She was really shocked and wanted to know who it was. But I said we had to meet, and I would only tell her in person. So she agreed to meet me the following day.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘We had coffee together and talked. No more than half an hour. Then she left.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘I tried to talk some sense into her, but it didn’t go very well.’

‘Talk some sense into her? What do you mean by that?’

Suddenly the man on the other side of the table got angry. He rose halfway out of his chair.

‘Nobody, not even Andrea, can deny how good the two of us were together. There was a special chemistry between us, something you find maybe once in a hundred years; the odds are maybe one in a million that you get to experience something like that. She gave herself to me. Do you understand? Totally and completely! I could do whatever I wanted with her, and I mean anything. But somebody like you can’t possibly imagine
what that’s like. I tried to get her to remember what we’d had together – when things were good, and before the others intervened and ruined it all. They sabotaged everything for us; they put ideas into Andrea’s head and made her lose confidence. So I was trying to get her to realize that it’s the two of us now. Sam’s dead. He doesn’t exist any more, so there’s nothing standing in our way.’

He sank back on to the chair. Jacobsson had listened without changing expression.

‘Was that why you killed him? To get him out of the way?’

Boberg sighed heavily.

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Where is Andrea now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So your meeting didn’t turn out the way you’d hoped?’

‘You might say that.’

‘How did you react when she wanted to leave?’

Boberg threw out his hands.

‘What was I supposed to do? She was suddenly in a big rush. I said that I’d be in touch again soon, and she just nodded. Then she was gone.’

‘And you haven’t seen her since?’

‘No.’

‘And you have no idea where she might be?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘OK.’

Jacobsson ended the interview.

‘Can I go now?’

‘No, you’re staying here.’

Prosecutor Birger Smittenberg decided during the course of the afternoon to arrest Sten Boberg, on suspicion of murdering Sam Dahlberg, Stina Ek and Valter Olsson. But one question kept reverberating through Jacobsson’s mind.

Where was Andrea Dahlberg?

I WILL NEVER
forget that terrible day. When I told Mamma what I’d heard at the parsonage, she fell into despair. But at least she believed me and immediately rang the pastor. We went over there together; Mamma demanded that I go along. He looked nervous when we came in, as if he knew. We sat in his office, and Mamma confronted him with what I’d said, without any attempt to disguise what she meant. He started shaking, trembling all over and sweating profusely. Almost as if he were the guilty party.

‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ he apologized. ‘Lennart told me about it in confidence, and as a pastor I’m obliged to remain silent, no matter how awful that may sound. I have a pact with God, and it’s something that I cannot break.’

I cast a sidelong glance at Mamma. She looked furious.

‘A pact with God? Are you out of your mind?’ she snapped. ‘You knew about this for all these years, but you never said anything? You just pretended nothing was going on? You and your wife have been to our house for dinner, sat there with our whole family, including Emilia. And you’re talking to me about a pact with God?’ she repeated, hardly able to stay seated. Her expression was thunderous, and she was spraying saliva on the pastor’s polished desk. I had never seen Mamma so angry before. Her knuckles were white as she held on to the edge of the desk. ‘How could you possibly not say anything? You knew what Emilia was being subjected to, but you never intervened. You’re just as guilty as he is. May you burn in hell!’