Unseen (23 page)

It had been years since Gunilla had celebrated a Swedish Midsummer. This past winter she had returned to Sweden and settled in När after a decade abroad. When she was in art school she had met Bernhard, a wild, freethinking art student from Holland. She quit her studies and followed him to the Hawaiian island of Maui to start a new life in sunshine and freedom. There they had lived in a commune and worked on their art. Life was perfect. Then she got pregnant, and everything changed. Bernhard left her for an eighteen-year-old French girl who thought of him as a god.

Gunilla had come back home to have an abortion. She was depressed and had no friends, so she put all her energy into her work. Things had gone well. She had had several exhibits and sold a lot of pieces, and now things were rolling. Lately she had also acquired several new friends. Cecilia was one of them.

She was aroused from her reverie when the trumpeting of the geese got louder outside. Now she could hear them shrieking indignantly.
Shit
, she thought, not wanting to interrupt her work just as she was shaping the upper part of the pot. What was wrong with them?

She stood up halfway and peered out the window. The geese were crowding together out in the yard. Her gaze swept from one side of the yard to the other. She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She sat back down, resolving to finish the last two pots. She might be a dreamer, but she had always been very disciplined.

The geese were quiet now, and once again the rhythmic whirring of the wheel was the only sound.

She had her eyes fixed on the lump of clay in the middle of the wheel. The shape of the pot was almost done.

Suddenly she froze. Something was moving outside the window. Or someone. Like a shadow slipping past. Or was she imagining things? She wasn’t sure. She stopped working and listened, waiting without knowing for what.

Slowly she turned around on her chair. Her eyes surveyed the room. She looked toward the entrance. The door to the yard was slightly ajar. She saw a goose strut past. That made her feel calmer. Maybe it was just a goose.

She stepped on the pedal again, and the wheel began turning.

The floor creaked. Now she knew that someone was there. Her eyes caught sight of the mirror on the wall. Was that where she had seen something? Again she stopped her work and listened closely. All her senses were on alert. She eased her foot off the pedal. Automatically she wiped her hands on her apron. Another creak. Someone was in the room but wasn’t saying anything. The room was breathing danger. The thought of the two murdered women darted like a swallow through her mind. She sat totally still. Didn’t dare move.

Then she saw a figure in the spotted mirror on the wall.

She felt enormous relief. Her lungs released the air that they had been holding inside. She took a big breath.

“Oh, it’s only you,” she said with a laugh. “You really scared me.”

She smiled and turned around.

“You know, I heard a noise, and it made me think instantly about that lunatic who’s been killing women.”

That’s as far as she got before the axe struck her in the forehead and she fell over backward. As she fell, her arm pulled down the newly shaped pot that was warm from her hands.

FRIDAY, JUNE 22

When Gunilla didn’t answer the phone on Thursday evening or on the morning of Midsummer Eve, Cecilia started to worry. It was true that Gunilla sometimes seemed unusually naive and up in the clouds, but before, on those occasions when they had agreed to meet, she had always been punctual. Gunilla was also a morning person, and she had said that she would be leaving by eight. She had joked about waking Cecilia up with breakfast in bed, but Cecilia had just finished eating her Midsummer breakfast.

Why doesn’t she phone?
she thought. Gunilla had said she would give her a call last night. Maybe she had been working and then it got to be too late. Cecilia knew how that could happen. She was an artist herself.

Cecilia was already at the cabin in Katthammarsvik. She had arrived the night before, loaded down with food and wine. They were going to have herring and new potatoes for lunch and later grilled salmon burgers for supper. No dance floor, no party, and above all no other people. Just the two of them. They would drink wine and discuss art, life, and love. In that order.

She had made a little Midsummer pole that they could decorate with flowers and birch leaves. They would sit outside and eat, enjoying the peace and quiet. The weatherman on the radio had promised high pressure all weekend.

Where on earth was Gunilla? It was past eleven, and Cecilia had called several times. She had tried her house, her studio, and her cell phone.

Why wasn’t she answering? Maybe she had fallen ill suddenly, or even injured herself. Anything could have happened. Cecilia grappled with these thoughts in her mind as she worked on the preparations for Midsummer. When the clock struck twelve, she decided to go over to Gunilla’s house, fifteen miles away.

Cecilia got into her car with a growing sense of trepidation.

When she turned into the yard, all the geese were running back and forth, cackling hysterically. The door to the ceramics workshop was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and went in.

The first thing she saw was the blood. On the floor, on the walls, on the potter’s wheel. Gunilla lay on her back in the middle of the workshop, stretched out on the floor with her arms above her head. Cecilia’s scream caught in her throat.

Knutas’s eyes were filled with tenderness as he looked at his wife. He stroked her sunburned, freckled cheek. She had more freckles than anyone else he had ever known, and he loved every single dot on her. The sun was warming the ground, so the children could run around barefoot. The long table was set with the blue-flowered Rörstrand dishes, the napkins had been festively stuck in the glasses, and the silverware shone. Ceramic pitchers were filled with summer wildflowers: daisies, cranesbills, almond blossoms, and fiery red poppies. The herring was arranged on a platter: herring in mustard sauce and in aquavit, pickled herring, and his own homemade herring in sherry, which burned sweetly on the tongue. The new potatoes that had just been set on the table were steaming in their deep bowls, white and tender, with green sprigs of dill that brought out the sweet taste of summer.

The bread basket was filled with crisp bread, rye crackers, and his mother’s famous unleavened flat bread that could entice people to come to Gotland just for the sake of buying some of it. It was sold only at his parents’ farm in Kappelshamn.

He looked out at the yard, where the guests were decorating the Midsummer pole. It rose up, tall and stately, in the middle of the lawn. The children were eagerly helping.

His sister and brother had come with their families. Both his parents and parents-in-law were there, along with some neighbors and good friends. It was a tradition for him and his wife to give a Midsummer party at their summer house.

Something was tickling his hand. A ladybug was crawling up toward his wrist. He brushed it off. This Midsummer celebration was a badly needed break from the murder investigations, especially since he didn’t feel that they were making any progress. It was frustrating not to be getting anywhere while at the same time the perpetrator might be planning his next murder.
We need to go farther back in time
, thought Knutas.

He had discussed this with Kihlgård. His colleague clearly had his own theory: He seemed convinced that the perpetrator was someone the women had met quite recently, yet he hadn’t succeeded in producing any concrete proof. On the other hand, the good inspector from the National Criminal Police didn’t hesitate to comment on the work of the Visby police. Kihlgård had an opinion on everything, from petty little routines to their interrogation methods and the way they conducted their investigative work. He had even complained that the coffee from the headquarters vending machines was too weak. Ridiculous, all of it. Right now the important thing was to focus on the hunt for the killer.

Not today, though. He needed this break, a few hours of congenial socializing with family and friends. He was even planning to get loaded. The homicide investigation could wait until tomorrow. Then he would urge the team to search further back in the past of the victims.

A sense of unease came over him, but it vanished when his wife brought out the frosty bottles of ice-cold aquavit and set them on the table. He felt a rumbling in his stomach. He sliced off a piece of ripe Västerbotten cheese and quickly stuffed it into his mouth before ringing the old cowbell they always used to announce that it was time to eat.

“Come and get it, everybody,” he shouted.

After the guests had helped themselves from the platters, they all raised their glasses of aquavit, and Knutas welcomed everyone by making a toast to summer.

Just as he put the glass to his lips, the cell phone in the inside pocket of his jacket started ringing. Reluctantly he lowered his arm.

Who the hell would be calling me now, in the middle of the Midsummer holiday?
he thought angrily. It could only be someone from work.

His summer house was way up in Lickershamn, in the northwestern part of Gotland. The murdered Gunilla Olsson’s house was in När, in the southeast. It would take Knutas an hour and a half to drive there.

It was just after one in the afternoon, and it was the warmest Midsummer in many years. The thermometer said that it was eighty-four degrees. Along the way he picked up Karin Jacobsson and Martin Kihlgård in Tingstäde, where Karin’s parents lived. She had invited Kihlgård to their Midsummer celebration.

The other group members from the NCP had gone home to Stockholm for the holiday. Kihlgård had stubbornly insisted on staying on the island. After all, something might happen.

“This is exactly what we needed,” he said in the car as the summer landscape, covered with flowers, rushed past the windows. “Something new had to happen before we could make any progress. We were at a complete standstill.”

Kihlgård had consumed both herring and aquavit, and alcohol fumes enveloped him as he talked. Knutas’s face turned white as chalk. He pulled over to some trash cans standing along the road and came to an abrupt stop. He jumped out of the car, tore open the back door where Kihlgård was sitting, and hauled him out.

“How can you sit there and say that? Are you out of your mind?” he yelled.

Kihlgård was so flabbergasted that he didn’t know how to react. Then he got defensive.

“What the hell are you doing? I’m right, you know. Something had to happen, for God’s sake, because we weren’t getting anywhere.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” bellowed Knutas in reply. “How the hell can you stand there and say that it’s a good thing a young woman was killed by some deranged lunatic? Are you off your rocker, too?”

Jacobsson, who was still sitting in the car, now got out to intervene. She grabbed hold of Knutas, who had a firm grip on Kihlgård’s shirt collar. Two buttons had flown off somewhere.

“Are you both crazy?” she shouted. “How can you act like this? Don’t you see that people are watching?”

Both men backed off and turned their glaring eyes toward the road. On the other side was a farm, and a group of people, all dressed up with flower wreaths on their heads, were staring at the police car and the angry men.

“Oh, shit,” said Knutas, and pulled himself together.

Kihlgård straightened his clothes, gave the audience a little bow, and climbed back into the car.

They continued on in silence. Knutas was furious, but he decided it would be best to leave this discussion until a later time. They were all undoubtedly feeling the frustration of failing to capture the killer.

Jacobsson was now sitting in the front passenger seat. She didn’t say a word. Knutas could tell that she was mad.

To avoid listening to Kihlgård’s muttering, Knutas turned on the radio. Then he rolled down the window. Another murder. This was terrible. One more woman. Axe wounds and panties in her mouth. When would it all end? They had gotten nowhere. On that point he had to agree with Kihlgård. He began mentally preparing himself for the sight that would soon greet him. He glanced to his right. At Karin. She was sitting there in silence, looking straight ahead.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“We have to catch this guy. Now,” she said resolutely. “This is going to scare people to death.”

The police had already cordoned off the area when they arrived at the farm. Sohlman and his colleagues were busy securing evidence.

They parked the car in the gravel-covered yard and then hurried up the steep stone steps. When they entered the studio, all three of them instinctively recoiled. Blood was splattered on the walls, the floor, and the shelves. The sweet, nauseating smell of the corpse made them hold their hands up to their mouths. Jacobsson turned around and threw up on the steps.

“Goddamn it all,” Kihlgård managed to say. “This is the worst I’ve ever seen.”

The woman’s naked body lay on the floor, bathed in blood. The deep wounds on her throat, abdomen, and thighs gaped wide open in the sunlight. With a great effort, Knutas forced himself to walk over to the body. It was true: In her mouth was stuffed a pair of white cotton panties. Jacobsson appeared in the doorway again, leaning on the doorframe. The police officers surveyed the scene, feeling powerless.